The Small Hours

Rob SaysLeave a comment
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The small hours are brief and out of focus.

The nerds and know-it-alls over at Free Dictionary define the small hours as: “the early hours after midnight,” “the hours immediately after midnight, the wee hours,” and “midnight or 1 a.m. to dawn, when the numbered hours are ‘small.'” These definitions got me to wondering what’s the difference between the small hours and the witching hour, so I had to go and look up that one too:

The witching hour or hours, according to the geeks over at Wikipedia, is “….between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m., corresponding with a 3 a.m. peak…” So more or less, basically the same thing.

The first time I ever heard of the term, “the small hours,” was a cover song that Metallica did on their Garage Days Rerevisited E.P. back in the day. The song has a weird sounding, yet fairly cool intro. Look it up on the interwebs sometime, or if you’re like me, bust out your old cassette player and pop it in and give it a listen.

Why am I going on about the small hours? Because I’ve always considered the small hours to be between 2 and 4 am, when the majority of people are asleep. When I first heard of the term small hours, I was 18 or 19. The internet wasn’t around yet, at least not like it is now. Cell phones were luxury items, and pagers were just becoming a thing. The majority of the jobs in the area where I lived were not 24/7 operations. People actually slept. And if you were a young hellion like me, that was the hours when I was usually up and on the prowl.

I miss those days of being able to walk the streets and not see a single car, except for one, which was the cop on patrol, and so you went into the shadows to avoid detection. I miss knowing that for the most part, I was the only one awake at those hours. The world seemed smaller and yet bigger because of this. Maybe you’ll understand this, maybe not. I miss summer at 3 am, when the heat of the day is long gone, but it’s still warm and you walk in black socks or barefoot to stifle the sounds of your feet. There’s a ninja move for you right there. Black socks or barefoot or go home.

One of my most poignant memories of the small hours was sleeping in bed with my girlfriend at that time, being deep asleep and then feeling her foot brush mine under the covers as she moved and changed position. It woke me slightly, just barely enough to register that she was there and that she had moved. I remember stroking her foot and ankle with my foot and almost drifting completely back to sleep, until her foot started playing “footsie” with mine. She wasn’t awake either, that not awake, not deeply asleep state. Her foot sliding up and down my calf and my shin, and before we both knew it, it was on. Cue sexy 70’s porno music.

And when we had finished, I remember looking with blurry vision at the clock. It was 3:45 am. The small hours. Nobody else had been awake at that time. Hell, both of us had barely been awake. After the sex was over, we didn’t even bother getting out of bed. We just wrapped ourselves into each other and went back to sleep. Not a slow drift either. More like dropping straight into a coma from a cliff. Neither one of us had said a word to the other while our bodies were intertwined, I think we barely opened our eyes during that moment.

Nowadays, nobody sleeps anymore. There are people up at all hours of the day. If I was to go out prowling the neighborhood like I did when I was younger, I would not only be dodging multiple cars, but people wandering around as well. I could do it, my stealth skills are still on point, but I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to have to dodge cops, drunks, and other assorted weirdos if I don’t have to. I want to be able to walk down the middle of the road, and feel like I’m the only living person on the planet.

In my younger days, I could be awake at 2 or 3 am and not hear a single car going by. Just the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees. Last night I could hear neighbors coming and going. Where the fuck are people coming from and going to on a Sunday night/Monday morning? Seriously people, don’t you have jobs? Don’t you have to be up to go to work? But that is the point, today a lot of jobs are 24/7 and flex scheduling and all of that.

The small hours have gotten even smaller. The small hours have lost their potency.

I want to climb up on my roof and stare at the city lights from afar. Then I want to lie back and look at the stars. The only thing that is missing is you. I need you to come with me and be a witness to it all. Witness the small hours with me and by our sharing it, maybe expand those hours again and bring back their potency. It would almost be perfect. Just gotta get rid of that asshole driving his car.

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Say Hello To The Night…

Rob Says1 Comment

lost-boys

Lost in the Shadows. Lost Boys. It ain’t just a movie anymore.

Decent vampire flick from back in the day, but I’m not talking about vampires. I’m talking about Men today, young and old alike, that are lost. So many lost men. Going down one maze after another, chasing both real and imaginary carrots to become, what? Anything? “A Real Man?”

You’ve sat at the knee of every woman of importance, and some that are not, for most if not all, of your lives. Asking, begging, demanding them to tell you what to do. How to be a Man. How to get the girls. How to be successful. How to have a quality life. How to be happy. How to… And the list goes on. And the women don’t know. And they sometimes, unintentionally for the most part, lie to you.

All the popular media, movies, music, and television shows, they lie to you as well. School lies to you and indoctrinates you. And most of the Men who you think knows something, well they are either absent, or they are just as lost and confused as you. Your religion lied to you somewhere too.

And one day, you got on the internet and started searching, looking for answers. You found some dudes on a social media platform like Twitter who seemed to know what the fuck was going on, so you started following them and doing what they told you. Same with the women, you started following them as well and doing what they told you to do too. The glossy photos, the well written pieces, you swallowed it all. Just like the kool-aid that the mainstream media sold you. And then the discrepancies started showing up. You found out people weren’t who they said they were. What they said and what they did didn’t match up. Do as I say, not as I do. Maybe they are just in it for a quick buck. Maybe they want something else from you, another agenda of theirs.

All you wanted was to know what to do, how to be.

I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you.

“What is the meaning of life? What do I do?” To do whatever you want. You get to decide. It’s up to you, because nobody gives a shit. That’s the good news.

“How do I do that?” You have to burn first. You have to fuck up and fall down, because nobody gives a shit. You have to trust and be betrayed. You have to be let down. You have to listen closely and pay attention. Those with an agenda of any sort will ultimately out themselves, but you have to listen and you have to take chances. Sometimes you’ll take some really bad advice from some straight up con artists, and sometimes it will be from someone who means well, but honestly, that advice just wasn’t for you.

The people in your life, your friends, your family, your co-workers, society at large, they all want you to “stay on the plantation,” or “get back on the plantation.” Why wouldn’t they? They are just as enmeshed, they are just as enslaved for the most part. Be a good plow-horse, be a good provider, “Man up and (fill in the blank here).” “A real man (fill in the blank here.) And if you don’t, (insert whatever guilt, shame, and fear tactics here.)

Somehow, some way, you found yourself here, reading this right now. Maybe you follow me on Twitter. Maybe you’re on my newsletter. Maybe you found me on YouTube one day. I don’t know how you got here, but here you are. Welcome. Glad you made it.

Maybe everything I’ve said so far, you already knew. Old news and all of that, right?

So here’s the deal:

Your life is your own. Stop looking for someone to tell you what to do, and decide for yourself what’s in your own best interest for you. You’re going to rock the boat. You’re going to fuck up and fall down. You’re going to burn. You’re going to piss people off. You’re going to be guilted and shamed. You’re going to lose friends and loved one’s over your choices. You may even be ostracized and cast out of your group, your community, your clubs, or whatever social venues you inhabit. You’re going to be the villain. You may even lose your job over it. And if and when you decide to follow your own internal compass, you’ll be doing it alone. I cannot and will not hold your hand, because you have to burn and I don’t give a shit. That’s the bad news.

You learned how to walk at some point while you were growing up. I imagine you didn’t get it right on the first try. I imagine you fell down a lot and ended up with some bumps and bruises, maybe even some stitches and scars. And yet you learned how to walk and you survived. Same for figuring out what you want and what life, your life, means to you.

Wanna bang ho’s and be a bachelor your whole life? Fine, do that. Wanna wife a woman up and have a gaggle of kids? Fine do that. Wanna go be a hermit and live on the mountain in a log cabin, far away from civilization, hunting, hiking, and living off the land? Knock yourself out.

Whatever you do, go do that. Just make sure that whatever it is you want to do, it’s actually what you want to do and not someone else’s idea. Think for yourself. Be willing to take risks, because risks are mandatory and required. You’re gonna have to burn.

There are no magic pills. There are no quick fixes. There are no short-cuts. There’s no easy way to do it and no easy way out. You’re going to have to do shit over and over again until you get it. Repetition. Trial and error. Don’t get caught up or hung up on the results, just play around with it. You’ll get discouraged. You’ll get disillusioned. You’ll get tired. You’ll even get bored sometimes. Welcome to it. Welcome to life. Welcome to the rest of your life.

Take chances and fall down. Skin your knees. Be willing to burn it all down and start over again. Because fuck it, you only live once.

Stop apologizing for your own existence. Stop walking on eggshells. Stop being a pussy. Stop waiting for the “perfect moment.” It doesn’t exist. Stop waiting on God to give you a “sign.” Maybe this is that sign? Fuck it, I don’t know, I’m not you. Stop with all the personality tests, systems, and magical bullshit telling you what’s ideal for you. Stop tiptoeing around other’s because you might offend them. Guess what? You will. There, I took the suspense out of it for you.

Last thing:

If someone says something that makes you feel good, like a quote, or a platitude? That’s a narcotic. You feel good, you copy it down, put it on the wall, regurgitate it back to your friends and family, get a pat on the head and you get a cookie for being a good boy. And you end up right where you are now. How’s that working out for you bud? Things that make you uncomfortable, piss you off, anger you, and agitate you? That’s where the money shot is. That’s what you should probably be paying attention to.

I know I just shit all over platitudes and quotes, but I do have one for you to mull over and think about:

“Yours isn’t to find yourself. You’re not lost. You’re right here. Yours is to create yourself.”

So fucking create yourself. Or don’t. Either way, nobody gives a shit.

Welcome to the rest of your life.

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Kiss A Little Longer..Stay Close A Little Longer..Hold Tight A Little Longer..

Rob SaysLeave a comment

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“I don’t know how you guys get time to write. Takes me forever to write shit down.” – A Friend of mine talking to me on Twitter.

The thing is, once writing makes you her bitch, it’ll flow. You won’t be able to type fast enough to keep up with it. So you’ll get a voice recorder app, or an actual voice recorder to snag those ideas out of the ether. You’ll start carrying a notebook around with you and a couple of pens or pencils. Write that shit down man. If you really become hardcore about it, you’ll get a program or an app or something that will teach you how to type if you don’t know how. Or it’ll help you get really fast if you do. Gotta keep up with that shit in your head. You think faster than you type, always have and always will, but you’ll try and keep up, and you’ll fail. But you’ll keep at it anyway. Because that mistress, she’s such a ball-busting, slave driver of a bitch, she’ll keep cracking that whip. And the more she does, the more you will love her. Your thoughts get sharper, cleaner, more refined. The mental orgasms you have, and you’ll have them, when you complete a piece. That’s the shit baby. That’s the money shot.

And the tension that you create inside yourself when you’ve started something, but you haven’t worked on it, or finished it? That is a sweet suffering, a beautiful agony of your own creation. Sometimes I sit on something just to stew in it and suffer, but to get back to it is like drinking a glass of iced water when you’ve been wandering the desert for weeks on end. It’s like getting a woman aroused and seeing her panties getting wet.

You don’t get the time to write. You make the time to write. Because eventually you have to. It becomes a release. A catharsis. It is its own orgasm.

Reading is and has always been enjoyable to me. Now though, now there’s another element to it. I not only read to be entertained and to educate myself, but I read to sample nuances of other writers. It’s like wine tasting. You take a sip, swish it around in your mouth, and usually you’re supposed to spit it back out. Reading has become like that for me these days. I sample a writer, especially for their humor and I take it in and savor it. Only instead of spitting it back out, I swallow it down. Just like how I do wine tasting now that I think about it. I didn’t realize that you weren’t supposed to drink all the wine that you tasted, to me, wine tasting is a fun way to get really fucked up if that is your goal. Reading and then writing is kind of like that too, minus the hangover.

Lot of guys in the Twitterverse yammering on about procreation so that you have your “legacy.” Apparently in their world, that’s their mission. Wife a woman up, bang out a bunch of kids, save western civ, and boom! There’s your legacy.

Here’s a question for you though, some food for thought if you will:

What if your kids turn out to be pieces of shit? What if they don’t like you and want nothing to do with you in your old age? They don’t owe you an obligation just because you brought them into the world. What if in your declining years, your kids shuttle you off to a rest home, never to be seen again until your funeral? And then it’s off to the attorneys to fight over the pickings left behind, like vultures circling carrion. Didn’t think that could be your legacy did you?

You spent your life creating your legacy only to find out that your legacy doesn’t give a fuck about you. And two generations later, you’re forgotten anyways. Your great grandchildren, if there are any, barely remember you. And your great great grandchildren? You’ll be lucky that they even knew you, let alone of you. I’m not trying to be cynical here, it’s just the truth. It’s just reality.

If your mission is to leave a legacy behind, what better way than to write it down. Hell, half of the Bible is nothing but a recording of births. Why not do the same thing? You want to leave a legacy behind for future generations to enjoy, why not write a book or a blog? Why not put your thoughts down, even if you think they are boring and insignificant. Those thoughts and feelings might be insignificant to you, but what about to whoever ends up reading them? What is insignificant to you is profound to another. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure and all of that.

This is my legacy. This is what I leave behind. Sometimes boring, run of the mill, and yes even insignificant. At least for me, it’s my way of saying, “I am. I’m here. I was here.” I still get traction on posts that I wrote over a year ago when I decided to get serious about this. God knows why, but they do. I still get comments and e-mails about them, thanking me for writing them. They helped somebody out there, out. Good enough for me.

And if I ever have kids, this will be something that I’ll leave behind for them to remember me by. Warts and all. Maybe I’ll compile these posts into a book and put it on my shelf with the others that I hold near and dear. It could make an interesting conversation piece at least. “You wrote a book?” “Why yes, yes I did.”

If I end up with kids, and those kids have kids, and I give them this blog, or some form of book from it, and those kids read it, at the minimum they’ll probably say, “Grandpa was a weird fucker.” Yes, my 5 year old grandkids and great grandkids will swear.

And if I don’t have kids, so the whole grand and great grandkid thing will be a moot point? Somebody somewhere will find this and read it, eventually. And they will say the same thing, because they swear too.

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