Level Up/The Plateau

I don't know what to do with my excess energy these days. I learn something new everyday, I train, I sleep well, eat well and do the things that I want to do. What the fuck is the source of this energy? Wait, I'd rather know what to do with it. Redundant question: What do I do with my excess energy? It's a tad frustrating.

I had a friend some time ago (or some guy/girl I knew. I think he was a friend) tell me that excess energy, when it becomes frustration, is a sign that you are unfulfilled. I didn't agree with them whole-heartedly at the time, and I don't really now, but maybe there is something to that. Why be frustrated if you're doing the things that make you feel strong or relaxed? The thing is: I feel like I'm doing the right things, the things I'm good at, but I still have this irritating knot in the center of my brow. I wonder why that is?

I'm less inclined to believe it's a case of being unfulfilled. It feels more like a need to level up, so to speak.

I need to improve. It's a positive anxiety. For as long as I can remember, I was steadily improving in everything I did. I've come to a pretty pronounced slow-down.

The feeling must be the plateau, the inevitable place you get to where progress evens-out and your gains are not as dramatic. I'm not going for arrogance here, but I am a stranger to the plateau. I work hard and train and research and listen to those greater than me in order to improve and be better than I was five seconds ago. I've always gained quickly and regularly. Redundant statement: I'm new to the plateau.

I so badly want to exist in an RPG (role playing game). Hello, my name is Andrew and I am a nerd. I say this due to many things, mostly the leveling up, the tangible representation of immediate growth and change. I'm impatient and improvement hungry. I wonder if that's because I play video games, or why I do.

There are services that work for people, many of which I've tried, that attempt to replicate role playing elements (fitocracy and habit rpg for example). They're great. But I want a real life rpg.

The plateau doesn't exist in as black and white form in said genre. When you hit max level or even just get into a rut mid-game, you can go do side-quests and collect loot and etc (yes, I see the allegory for life. I know. I'll get back to work in a minute, but I'm bitching for now. Catharsis and all that).

I'm stoked as all hell for google glass or some facsimile to allow for ARG (augmented reality gaming). I hear we're getting holograms from microsoft in little over a fortnight... Also this lady >





Who I'm pretty sure is ending up like the following on your various electronic devices:

I vote sexy hologram lady over something vaguely hal-like, but maybe that's just me. 2001...go watch it. You'll understand why. Also, I'm pretty sure she calls you chief. Which is just cool. Let me be clear: I by no means have dom/sub fantasies, military relationship fantasies in which you break rank or anything. I also have no problems with, and have a huge love for, badass titles. Again: nerd.

If I could live in a semi-fantasy world where I could slay a goblin and collect the spoils of my conquest, I would. If I could blacksmith talons of a great dragon or artifice magical items for me and mine, I would. The Matrix? Not such a bad idea! Maybe less human farming though (or none...none is good). The holo-deck would be better, obviously.

The world we live in is beautiful, endlessly inspiring... but I want to shoot a fireball out of my hand! Don't you?

Imagine rolling down the street in your Honda and... what's that I see above? A level 12 harpy? Well shit and shazaam! You take aim with the flat of your palm, mutter some incantation (or not) and then BOOSH! A gem falls, or maybe a pinion, perhaps a reward screen pops up with your well-gotten gains in loot!

You'd better believe that the second something resembling the Full-Dive (http://swordartonline.wikia.com/wiki/FullDive) exists, I'm dropping my life-savings into it and riding that virtual adventure for all it's worth.

Until then, I will go on a walk, listen to my soundtrack (today it's Con Bro Chill http://conbrochill.com/), do my day job, dance, try to relax and... You know, I'm writing this and it leads me here: Maybe the plateau isn't so bad!

I had never thought about this before, but could the plateau be a place for you to take stock of where you are? A mental break from the uphill growth section of your life that allows you to process and evaluate said process? Fuck! That's good stuff right there!

Maybe it's a place that you can walk softly and test out your new abilities/knowledge in a safe environment within before taxing yourself further.

I realize that many of you have probably already come to this conclusion. You're awesome. It's new for me.

The plateau can allow you to rest. Holy sweet mother of all that's grand and beautiful. I like that. Rest. The plateau can be your vacation. It can be your escape from your self-imposed regimen that we all take too seriously at one point or another.

Well then. I have nothing left to say. I am satisfied. I still would like to live in a more nerd-based, rpg inclined universe, though. Yeah... that'd be cool.

In a World of Living Dreams - short story

A man woke up and fell out of bed and kept falling. There was no floor. Turns out he'd been sleeping in the clouds and the thing he thought a bed was little more than cumulonimbus.

No big deal.

The man fell but only until he got the hang of flying. It didn't take long. He saw a bird do it, and if a fucking seagull could do it then he sure could! He wasn't sure what to do at first. It had been a while since he'd flown last. He'd thought he was on pavement, only to find that wide open blue was above and all other things were below. This was scary and pretty darn rad. He grew wings for good measure, figuring that people would think it was weird that he had none and yet was flying.

The air felt wondrous over and under his wings and awful on his face. His eyes were chapped within moments and his ray-bans did little more than up his sex appeal. He approved.

Being practical, he flew to The Kingdom of World's Edge. There he met a tinker. Her name was Mack. She fashioned goggles for him out of raw, viscous joy. They were black leather with rainbow colored lenses; practical with a touch of whimsey. He stood in super-hero pose. He looked good. He felt strong. He asked Mack to join him in the sky but suddenly she was gone. There was a knock at her hourglass shaped door. The man went outside where he found Mack aloft on her own wings made of a tinker's dreams. She smiled, arms crossed. He smiled and went after her.

Around noon things were getting rumbly in their tumbly. They'd both wanted to see New Empire. They shot over land and sea, faster than you and me, hungrier and hungrier than could be.

A wise monk was there to meet them and greet them, a golden cap on his head. He moved like rubber and had the strength of kings and knew ten thousand things. He also hated rhymes. It was on principal more than anything. He actually liked the sound of such things but the idea of words slavishly tying to one another for the sake of entertainment seemed wrong and unnatural. All of his words were asymmetric, and as he spoke: great columns of earth and wood rose up around him.

Hunger eventually came back up, between the three, and so the monk split the ground with his heel and revealed a valley of waterfalls and hanging homes where the Happy Folk lived. He called this home. It was a suburb and was pretty darn nice, as far as magical valleys go. His wife and child stood on the balcony of their seven story home next to the largest slices of pizza the Man and Mack had ever seen.

They ate together and shared stories. The Man and Monk had known one another a decade and so they recounted their adventures in the Land of Kings. The talked of the Lake of Sapphire, the daily feast, the People's House and the tale of the Great Misunderstood, Misplaced Messenger. Monk's wife sang songs, because that was her name. She sang about the Southern Stride and their adventures in the town called Thousand Year. Two weeks in Thousand Year was one-thousand years everywhere else. Except for Saturdays. Those were standard. But they were always accompanied by a party filled with song and dance and twice as much wine as any one person could handle.

Monk and Song and Child stayed behind. Man and Mack hugged, then waved and thanked their hosts.

Long past sundown and heavy filled with food and stories, which you know are thrice as heavy as food (stories, I mean), the two sought a place to lay their heads. The Man realized that he'd been in a cloud his whole and therefor a bed wouldn't be out of the question, though it was dull. Mack decided to build them a place to rest. They thought, though not for long, and snapped her fingers. She removed her spell-scribed spanner and donned a warm smile. In the lack of light, Man could see she glowed ever so faintly and gently with a smile on. It soothed him.

Mack tapped spanner to tree and an inn was born, staff and all. She tapped the grass and bread fluffed from the earth. It was marble rye, Man's favorite. She tapped the stream that trickled and it became music. The man cried at this, a tear or two. He didn't know he was, of course, and it was through excited laughter, so it was a happy cry, to be clear. Lastly, Mack tapped them both, and their wings fell away in vapor and then dew, their clothes became stardust and then changed again.

He wore a fine suit built from midnight, she: a dress of moonlight. The stream played beautiful music and they danced. They were quite good! The sun eventually began to rise. By that time, they'd danced all night and had fallen asleep, Mack on his shoulder, Man resting his head on Mack's. They didn't talk because they didn't need to. They didn't dream because they didn't need to.

They awoke to the smell, by the smell, of good things cooking. A young green dragon brought them a plate of things they craved. They ate. Mack decided to leave the inn where it was and not tap it away. Others would want that same comfort, she figured.

While over the Center Kingdom, the Fire King offered Mack a place in his kingdom, a new shop, a new adventure. She couldn't say no. She dealt in dreams, survived on stories and craved adventure, after-all. Man was sad, but only for the briefest of moments. She was happy and so he was happy for her. He said he'd visit. He would. He went on. She stayed. Before leaving, Mack gave Man a tiny mirror. She held a similar one. If you fogged the mirror with your breath, could write messages to another person who held a mirror just like theirs. They kept in touch.

Over the Sunrise Coast, the man found his sisters three. They were long sense dancing and wondered where he'd been. He told them about his morning and they all contemplated growing their own wings. The eldest made wings of sound, the youngest made wings of light, the middle made teal wings of healing water. The four danced. They found like minded others and challenged them to duels and games of chance in the sky. The Eldest began speaking of wonderful things that the others had not yet thought about. She taught them these things and more, more and more. A full days adventure and then some had caused Man's bones to ache, so the Middle healed them. The Youngest stood by his side and they made one another laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh. Together they were powerful.

As the sun fell into its own sleep, the lot of them, now hundreds strong, returned to Man's home in the Rain Song Forrest. He thought of sleep but it seemed boring. So he didn't. Instead, he wished and dreamed. The magic of the Rain Song mixed with his imagination and gave form to his hide-away. It was a castle made of wood, grown from the trees themselves. From the castle flowed water onto the forrest floor that was sapphire blue, because that's how he remembered it. The rains fell harder, fat drops that soothed his nerves the happier he got. He knew that not everyone liked the rain, so he ushered everyone inside his home.

Inside, he and his Sisters Three made a grand feast from simple things and they fed their own until they were fat. They gave them drink that loosened the strings on stories and they all shared their adventures.

Rocket had slain a great beast made of glass. Siegrid had bent gravity because she could and wowed a crowd of ten thousand. The Brothers Neon, who wore armor of brilliant light, had heard tale of great peril and profound sadness in the Eastern Wastes, a living shadow of hate. With their army they removed the shadow with ease and renamed the land Joy, after one of their wives.

The night had come and most ventured home with kind wishes and thanks. Those who were too tired or drunk stayed behind, as the Man and Sisters Three had insisted. The castle grew beds for them and the rain played their songs above their heads to ease them into dreams.

The Man was alone on his balcony, a smile on his face and his hand in the rain. He was happy. Like his family, he survived on stories and craved adventure. He'd had both and then some. He was tired, exhausted, practically asleep on his feet.

He thought of his friends who hadn't been at their feast and smiled wider. They were far, but felt near. He felt a warmth in his chest and savored it.

Something vibrated in his pocket and startled him. It was the mirror. There was a message being scrawled in the fog that appeared. He smiled. It read, "Sweet Dreams."

He slept. And he dreamed. Not because he needed to. Because he wanted to. Because his life had grown beautiful and dreaming was what he did very well. Because when he awoke he would weave these dreams into reality for himself and his family, his friends and strangers.

He fell asleep with a smile, and woke with a smile, greeted by another day filled with love and endless adventures.

Make Time, Give a Fuck and Deal with Shit

Willpower is a currency that you have only so much of daily. Popular phrase is "fucks," as in: "Leroy had zero fucks to give that day."

Let's say you start your day with 100 standard-galactic fucks (warning, there is math, though basic, and that is NOT the man you married). In your mind, let fucks be represented by a shiny platinum coin (the shape is up to you). Everything you do that costs energy/effort costs fucks.

You wake up fully rested, 100 fucks in pocket. You make breakfast (in theory), shower (unless you're disgusting), brush your teeth etc. Your morning routine and all that, if you have one. For most people this is a minimal effort. Let's call it 5 fucks. You now have 95.

Most of us have a 9 to 5er (I don't), so we bolt off there. I'ma skip the majority of your theoretic day because what you do with your time is your damned business. But you do look good in that black shirt and beanie, Mr. Marsh. Mmmmm. Yes.

A workday takes a lot out of you. I say that because it's true. Even if you... scratch that. ESPECIALLY if you are so lucky as to have a job in your passion or one that fulfills you. But let's go off of the assumption that your 9-5 is just there to pay the bills and so forth. It's a huge chunk of your day, your effort, and as the average person is awake but 16 hours a day, it costs a large bit-o-fucks just to work. It's a fourth of your day, never mind if you don't sleep too well or miss breakfast, so we're calling it at least 40-50 fucks depending on how you feel about it. It costs more the more effort you put in AND the more tedium you feel. So we're down to roughly 45 fucks, possibly less. Not so bad.

Again, if you are not rocking a salt-mill bread and butter kinda job, this does not apply to you. It may cost you less, but generally will cost you much more as you will no doubt spend more energy because you... well, give a fuck about it. To be clear, I'm not writing this about you though. You're awesome. Good job landing your dream gig. Everyone else is awesome too, but in a more nose to the grindstone  because you have to kind of way. Moving on.

45 fucks. It's not a ton, but there's still enough to do something. Hit the pub, relax at home, do your sport, create something, try to have sex, learn something, it's all good, and some of these things invigorate folks. Let's take into account that the average you and me does a thing. Things cost fucks. Pick your favorite, it's going to cost you at least 20 fucks. (generalizations are fun)

You now have 25. What does that mean? You have 25 out of 100. 25% of your starting willpower/energy/effort worth expending. Lots of people, especially me, forget that there are consequences when you start getting to the end of your willpower. By 25, you're already pretty exhausted. You rocked a job and a hobby all the live long day. Most people call it a night and head home with their loved ones or do the solo thing. Either way, even that costs willpower. If you have a calm situation, it's a teeny cost of let's say: 5 fucks. But if you are like so many and have a family or at least a significant other, you've gotta be at least a little ON for them. It's at least 10 fucks. AT LEAST.

So now we're down to 20 or 15 fucks. Here's when things get incredible, people watching wise. Appropriately, the lower your willpower, the less willing to deal with shit you are. Shit and fucks do not mix. Shit is not the things you've elected to do. It's fighting, it's bills, it's cleaning when you don't want to, it's simply the things you don't want to experience. Shit drains you. Shit is where we all get into trouble. We overextend our willpower and get into the red, the negative.

(cue 1950's slides, announcer voice and woodwind heavy music) When you spend more than your allotted willpower, you experience such things as depression, misplaced anger, fatigue, restless sleep, joint pain, headache and or muscle aches, confusion, decreased cognitive function and so on.

This is burn-out. Welcome to where most everyone you know lives. The average person vastly over-extends themselves into burnout. At that point, you play catch up.

If you're only getting 100 fucks a day, but you've put yourself into the red, let's say -15 fucks, you start the next day with only 85 fucks. Doesn't seem too bad, right? Then another day, and another and so on happens. Eventually you're so far in the hole that the serious versions of the afore mentioned problems happen. Sickness, clinical depression, violent outbursts, profound sadness and so on.

SHITTY THING (also a huge generalization): The average person starts with 100 fucks, but can drop almost twice that much before they lose their mind or die. You can exist in this hole for the remainder of your life and never realize where you're at. Also, you CAN raise your fucks to 150 in theory, but it usually takes having the perfect life you've always wanted, and even then, most folks only have so much excess energy every once-in-a-while. Having a daily 150 is rare.

You CAN do things to try and recover the fucks you spend in your every day. Grab a pint, that's like... 5 fucks (that's A pint, maybe TWO, not a bender. Benders cost fucks. Lots of fucks). Go to the spa! It'll give you like 20 fucks! Laugh, cry, experience emotion. It's healing! Cathartic! Releasing emotions, negative or positive, is a very good thing and will give you a variable but valuable raise in fucks.

Most importantly, learn to manage your time. Doing too much? Always in the red? Stop doing something! Knock one thing off and see how you feel. I guarantee you'll breathe a tad easier. We are still simple creatures, we humans. On the real, we should have a job and a close nit friend group on the average and a hobby just based on our attention span. It's a solid trio. Work pays the bills (food and shelter), hobbies fulfill your creative/destructive needs (control), and friends provide pretty much everything else (the tribe).

Most folks (me too more than I want to admit), think that there is something missing from their life, a cog or spring that would help their life run smoother or more efficient. Sometimes this is true. Maybe you do need a new job or a hobby that drives you or a wife/husband/paramour/buddy/animal to fill the void. Maybe that's true. More than likely, you are tired, depressed, unfulfilled because you don't appreciate what you have.

In general, it is easier to destroy than it is to create. I think it's funny that it's so hard for most people to drop activities/jobs/relationships with that in mind. But that's a whole different post/two hour long uplifting seminar and/or weekend conference. That's assigning worth and meaning and attachment and that's for later.

It's hard sometimes. No judgement. I load myself down with tasks, jobs and blah blah blah and come out the other side depressed. It feels like I spend 200 fucks a day sometimes. When you really get down to it, most of us will die after around 80 years. It sucks. It terrifies me. So there is no real reason to keep latched to something that would make harder that precious little life you've got. I need to remind myself sometimes that there are always other jobs, other hobbies, other friends and other loves.

Make time for yourself and you'll find that dealing with shit isn't so difficult, that you have more fucks to give and, jokes aside, you'll find that you are happier. That's the dream, really, isn't it? To be happy? To enjoy what time you've been given? Focus on that, the things that make you happy. Spend more time, more fucks, on those things.

I (a little)

I want connection. I feel that's a fairly commonly sought-after something. I feel that everyone wants to be connected, hence the popularity of the internet which I have no idea how to use to its fullest.

I woke up this morning craving conversation or new ideas or some-such. I had work to do and a parking meeter to pay, so that came first. Parking paid, work done and washed, my craving switched into full nervousness.

I get here a load more than I would like. I'm nervous or stressed or befuddled, confounded, dumb-struck a great much of the time. It happens when  I think too much or lay sedentary.

I do a great deal, many many things of various this and that. I spend my time well, though some would say too much. I have this drive, an overriding need to do something. I need to learn, to practice, to grow, to do something. Most people do, I would think. I would like to think.

I run on adrenaline and don't really know how to recharge. I would love to be taught how to relax. How to calm my mind and not stress, not de-stress but just not stress.

I'm very unskilled in the art of everyday breathing. I hold my breath whenever I'm idle. My chest is often tight from anxiety. Not negativity, mind you, but I get that feeling of anxiousness when there's "nothing to do" and you have all the energy in the world to get it done.

I need to learn. It helps me forcibly relax. Something new makes something calm overcome the wad of nerves that usually binds in my diaphragm, crunching and squeezing together my insides. Too dramatic, I feel, but it's fairly accurate. I usually have this knot of nerves, everyone does, of stress tension right below my sternum.

I can control it, if I have ample time to do so. I sit or lay down and I focus on the spot and I breathe and visualize the knot becoming water and flowing out. I can usually get it done in a few minutes. It actually feels like my entire body breathes for the first time. It's pretty cool.

I have big dreams. I also have big road-blocks in motivation at times. When it's more than "at times" and it becomes "at always," I rarely do any work on said dreams. I clutter. I think most people do, when they feel stopped. They sit and collect as they try to find that missing piece, as if that missing piece were the compass to the right path or a key to door number 2 where destiny awaits.

I waste my time, according to other blogs. I spend time doing things that are not inherently helpful or productive. I also don't agree with these opinions. I do think that I could spend my time differently, but that falls under the "duh-epiphany" or "everyday-epiphany" or "No-Shit-epiphany." Some examples include: "I really should take the trash out today." "Today I put all of my laundry away and it really did make the place cleaner." "How have I not been exercising my whole life? I feel great!" "I'm going to pay these past due bills!" There's nothing wrong with everyday-epiphanies. Nothing at all. They are the tiny victories that lead you to the big actual-epiphany. Usually that big one is HOW you are ACTUALLY wasting your time (caps-lock = important). The big one, though, has been on your mind for a while. It's just scary.

I am afraid of the big things. I've done a whole lot of living for one man, or three for that matter. Disappointments never stop disappointing. Easy, right? The bad stuff never stops feeling bad. Good thing that the good stuff never stops feeling good. A flat tire will almost always be an inconvenience. But a raise or a first kiss will almost always make you happy.

I am happy, albeit slowed down these days. It's an easy fix in practice. The slow part, not the happy part. Being happy is pretty easy too, though. You just have to do things that make you happy. Pretty easy. Like running? Take a jog. Like a clean house? Clean. Examples done. It's easy to understand and do.

I've been using this phrase to end my classes lately: Have the best day you've ever had. I like the sound of that. Sometimes I add: Be yourself and make the world a better place. Also sounds good. I don't think I've ever got better advice than that. One of my old teachers said it all the time. I think he was paraphrasing Gandhi (be the change you want to see in the world), but I liked how he said it. Trying to be someone else is stressful, also impossible. Whatever you do, you'll still be yourself. I want to be Justin Timberlake. I dance well, I can sing-ish, I act and I copy his style as best I can in the ways I can. Still not him. You can only be yourself, which is pretty great, I think! If you can only be yourself, than no one can take that away from you either. I like that.