(or, Inhale… Exhale… a Handful of the Heartfelt) Well, fellow Men Alive! and miscellaneous Friends – Finally, I find myself culminating a year of served heartfelt handfuls of labored-over fruits of truths pursued. With a relaxed glance backwards, from the sizzling top to the savory bottom, I survey what I’ve stolen that has succored me read more..
Well, fellow Men Alive! and miscellaneous Friends –
Finally, I find myself culminating a year of served heartfelt handfuls of labored-over fruits of truths pursued. With a relaxed glance backwards, from the sizzling top to the savory bottom, I survey what I’ve stolen that has succored me – sometimes in juxtaposing the buoyancy of joyfulness with the heaviness of heartache simply in forsaking the superfluous in a culture of clickbait and quick fixes. I’ve handed myself over to an oft-humbling bumbling to pluck pride in persistently naming experiences and perceptions in exceptionally etcetera-oriented prose and poesies that but sample life’s fullness. And, lo and behold! I proclaim that this passion project – this idea of a peculiar Eden – has been very, very good for me. Ingenuous from its genesis, with feeble flops and steep drops into a definiteness-dependence, this identify-forging has found me in a frustratingly cathartic knowing of myself within a wider context – expanding my capacity to lift myself and loved ones up. To detect dawn coming out of dusk, and light as being in harmony with darkness – not feasibly, but fully.
As I re-root myself on an eve of intention-setting, I ponder on how I’m to re-route, settled in the promise of further establishing community. It remains my deepest hope that you’ve felt supported – nudged gently toward a sense of the goodness in living and the graciousness in loving yourselves to envelop the whole of humanity. I appreciate you, sweet partners in beauty-seeking and truth-finding, as you’ve located love with me – sustaining this know-nothing as he’s lumbered upon everything during this particular era that has had me reclaim my inner child, by way of an ability too long abandoned, mainly to express my enraptured self. God. We truly are connective creators, collective mediators – hosting heaven and earth, birthing form from the void, we breathing creatures of life amidst this suffocating dread of death. And we represent our repressed selves, and ones forgotten – colorful and so, so alike. How I revere you all as you’ve returned to me here in this corner of the blogosphere.
And as I ferry my feelings and reasonings from my aerie to you – above the grid-lock, below the clouds – I meditate more and more on this cultural competition. In part, my monthslong unraveling has been as marked by revulsion as revelry as this shunning of masterstroked monoliths for superstructures of glass that rupture this stunning skyline in a one-upmanship of defined, short-sighted height rather than refined, longstanding enhancement has me wondering if my time in Hell’s Kitchen is a private forty days and nights in the wilderness. Tempted again to defect I, again, reflect on where I come from and why I’m hither and not yon. As severely as I long for a space safe from industrialist squandering, I’ve discovered myself enjoying an engagement with these scourges as suggestions of a putting away of any immediate personal power in exchange for this fierce faith in future prospect. From my temporal vantage point, as this port view begins to be blighted just to the left of Liberty, I enmesh new distresses with old redresses tinted with hints and glimpses of remembrances and ruminations to eventually reveal themselves. Appalled by cautionary cranes, I practice self-compassion, and recollections that appear to pain me are played with in clichés in this uncontained niche of word-wagering. From a seven-year-old me who unremittingly reminisced with a “Mom, remember when I was four…?” to a boy at twelve who was bullyingly blamed for backend-grabbing a girl at Bible camp to a man of seventeen who began singing “Jesus Loves Me” as a mea culpa for a guy twice his age licking his nipples – as he tickled them and titillated me –
Yes, I’m reminded of my resplendent innocence at two, three, four. From radiant dreams I dreamed of a witch surveying the ceiling for my mother and I, who huddled on the floor, underneath the bathroom sink, and a static man who emerged from the TV to search the cupboards, hovering above me, as I hid in plain sight beneath the kitchen table whilst my half-brother and soon-to-be stepsiblings watched silently… to sweeping, unsleeping memories of Oatmeal and Sally, two heads with beehive hairdos below my bed, the womanly whispering of “raspberries” in my ear in the backyard of “the peach house,” and invisible arms pulling me up as I confoundedly cried “Mom!” afore gravity pushing me down to the dredged bottom of Burt Lake, single-handedly for that force to lift and lead me to clear-headedly call “Tammy!” to alert one of a sea of mothers to come running to my rescue. But perhaps my earliest anamnesis is of expiring “I love you, I love you, I love you very much!” patently with the latent belief that my repetitive chorus belonged to the tintinnabulation of ‘80s synth pop as I propped myself higher in the high seat in front, alongside my father, as he traversed US Highway 131 from the delicious deciduousness of southwestern Michigan to its lower peninsula’s fascinatingly conifer-defined northern tip –
“I love you, I love you, I love you very much!” I glowingly exhaled. My teeny Adam’s apple bobbed up and dropped down as I looked out the window in a tremendous receiving of others as blatantly as I gave of myself. This sensitivity – that careless awareness – as I named what I noticed. “A car!” I inhaled. “The sun!” I reflected, as it had by now risen from the east to an azure zenith. Still a novice to the brightened skyway as it met the light-leavened heavens, my paternal guide at my passenger’s side, I bursted with a love for all that is human as I bounced my head back and forth against the midsection of the front seat, out of a belted impression of safely free-falling as I rode a lifelong theme of receptiveness in approaching my pa’s gray-painted abode with shock and trust of the known and unnamed –
Little Adam James Martin allowed himself to be led in big faith from the ecclesiastically ecstatic everyday of Mommy’s to godless getaways with Daddy up north, identifying trees of all kinds as they morphed along the way as I trampolined my fragile frame transversely. And as tender two thrust itself upon three, I harbored an arborous ideal while eavesdropping amid an atmosphere I sensed threatened as did four as it forced itself on me with this fondness for knowledge seeming to make the awesomely snaky awfully snacky. And the implicitly forbidden mattered to me insomuch as it dwelled inwardly – an orientation of spirit to a world, wide and whole. And as four transformed into five to transfix me at six with what increasingly at seven I would come to do, I did honor what came before in order to agree to what was to follow. But as the first star burned brightly in the tinkled sky I went from asking, “Are we there yet?” to answering “Petoskey!” then “Alanson!” then “Brutus!” sprinkled with the panoptic, optimistic, “I love you, I love you, I love you very much!”
Love is an attitude, not the initial charge. I work myself up to turn myself onto this land as it meets the sea as I get off on going overboard on this blog. Life is best when destined for a greatness of gratitude, an inhabiting of a man’s humanness – that barges through a civilization of inhibiting cynicism to understand this magic on the margins, inside the mundane. Now, in the center of my being, here in the Capital of the World, I flail in foraging as I fail to fall in with an appellative for myself that encapsulates my contra-resolution to encounter revolution in the middle of my own worthiness in a fashion that rallies this calling for pace, space, and surrender. From crying “Gee!” with glee, Adam James caves into an “Amen!” from Him (not Elohim!) for All Men who were once boys of ambiguous dispositions, inescapably exposed to euphoric epiphanies of an individualized trailblazing in a society of symbol, figure, status, and tail-chasing.
Routinely a loner with a boner, with you I’m lonely no longer in this wonder-working of healing hands and holy holes – fingers in mouths and anuses, scrotums lingering on surfaces and penises lodging in crevices. Daily – gaily! – I build the backbone to sanction an infinitude of falling, heavenly bodies to shine on the fortuitous failures sanctified in “Man Alive!” Succumbing to a pleasure that finishes and rests in togetherness – not wresting with uneasiness, but laid out in uncertainty, in playfulness. This is how the painful is rendered prayerful as I recognize that He is as much Adam as I am Him and we breathless creations sidestep the faithlessness of subscribed-to otherness in an unnameable unknowableness that transcends itself, suffering in bouts of sprouted spurts. How in loving one another we sensationally comprise all of mankind – yea, sentience altogether! We pair of guys tap into our able selves to tip into a paradise of canes that top any misconception of separateness.
I cheerfully – queerfully! – manifest a fresh perspective of the globe’s oldest profession as I prompt men from the cock blockage of a chockablocked day-to-day existence of exactitude whilst a mess of intensities stream through my consciousness… unfolding the passion-fueled ”Simply Addicted” sequences farther into Nepal’s massage parlors onto lush lands that lay beyond, climaxing on the sacred Ganges River… tracking the ”Post-Travel Processing” episodes into Europe and the Middle-East, from America back to Africa to South Asian vagabonding it all toward a Shiva-filled finale. Heady and frisky in bed, we risk the realization that any fear of being unlovable – unloved – is in reality our apprehension of loving without reservation. So, bone from my bones and flesh of my flesh, we entrust our stupor-fallen selves one to another to faithfully summon fate to be taken by one another in a sexual evolution of not evading our being made one brother from another.
Tired of trying to furnish a worthwhile wandering at my desk, and wired for the spiritual expansion of social exploration, I grow in going from an urge for plugged-into poetic license – blissed out on key-punching in hourslong surges – to allowing the pressure to be off by blessedly surrendering to my surroundings, solely to arrive at myself. To make the man I am awake by way of a collapsing of the weekly wonted, unashamedly putting on the day only to wear it ‘til the night comes. Desiring a deflection –
From this singular sunset of the every-Friday blocked-off entry, I realize that the real fall is in forgetting ourselves, in forgoing our own sensations as we vacantly compare to compete with each other in this vulgar conformity of the status quo and the constrictiveness of stati likes. And in this period of anger, confusion, and elation, I make out that right to the right of Freedom, twin towers will soon take out the remainder of this harbor view, and I drearily prepare my dreamy self to accept what I’ve read said, “So the last shall be first, and the first last.” For I believe every word heard, preaching and grasping it now from both sides. And I am recommitted to cooperation and collaboration. To contribution. To draft a plan of service that will predictably crack apart in fits and starts, as I’m crashing this undertaking merely to resume it in bits and parts.
We reside within a transformative time, and I’ve attempted to illuminate the current climate with comforting constants of penetrating substance accented by sprightly soundsynthesizing – to be broken down to break through, woken up to a communal wonderment at living. Man. Doubtlessly, it’s been the dependability of this deep-end diving that has revived a desire to delight in the city I’ve decided to spend this span of vibrant aliveness in. So as Joni croons on my cloud speaker, I’m beckoned by a swelling song outside my window to take action in stupefaction – to be the Man I Am That I Am That I Am becoming through these misgivings to an out-and-out thanksgiving for capitulation halfway of horror and hunger. To not be stuck in a self-imposed structure, to be led astray to sumptuously fallen-into wisdom – alone and with the like-minded and similarly-spirited amidst the simulacra of all that is a Big Apple ripe for a little sampling as I demand to appellate simply to be startled by grace, to touch on transcendence.
Freely, flagrantly, and everlastingly! That’s how I choose to welcome myself. That’s how I forgive those who’ve trespassed against me. That’s how I live authentically. And in this apocalyptic epoch of subtleties surfacing, I consider any acolyte a verifiable equal – vulnerable, upended in openheartedness. And as I enter the last year of my early thirties, and this certain seventh day, I seek to cater to innate cravings to create, boundlessly, anew to belong to myself as informed by my sort. [So pardon the upcoming seven-weeklong wiggle room (for the ideation of an epitomized creation), and anticipate the fiftieth gift to be a special delivery sure to surprise on Christmas morning (as always, generously genuine and wildly childlike). Until then, I’ll be reveling in this effusive effervescence, ever present in the epicenter of this high-rising upheaval of humankind in an epic venture of personalized proportions as I profess – over and over and over – “I love you and you and you very, very, very much!” (Not lastly, but firstly!)]
A Sampled Adam
PS – As we accord love to others to be the very thing itself, likewise, there are several ways you can blow me away for my birthday:
2.) Share your favorite entries on social media and elsewhere.
5.) Reach out anytime to give advice, provide ideas, or ask questions.
Thanks – so very, very much! ☺
If your world is enlarged by my website's content, please consider making a donation or supporting my latest passion project.