Breathing: Power Overlooked

Sometimes I forget to breathe. I often catch myself holding my breath as if I were in some grade-school contest to see who doesn’t pass out first. Or who does pass out first. I can’t quite remember the rules.
Breathe, Cooprider.

Well past 100 on the 405 loop, all I’m thinking is that the steel separators are a little sketchy and this particular curve will undoubtedly one day result in either a hefty ticket or permanent toe tag but I hold my line and it all smooths together nicely. All the while not drawing a single breath.
Breathe, Cooprider.

Finding myself in a crowded room thrust solo into the throes of networking groups of go-getters all intertwined yet divided like chatty, smiling galaxies tightly holding drinks and trying to hold attention. My anxiety hits a peak and I stand, surveying the landscape as to find the shortest distance between my shoes and the nearest cocktail, or better yet a familiar face to pretend to be excited about. All the while not exhaling once.
Breathe, Cooprider.

This human has upset me. Whether it’s a ridiculous argument with a colleague or some emotional meltdown brought on by a woman who knows my buttons, or maybe an extraordinarily rude individual who was itching to be publicly reprimanded, these moments sometimes literally steal my breath. Through rage and impulsive frustration my body just ceases to take in oxygen.
Breathe, Cooprider.

A kiss. A hold of a hand, a moment in a crowd with the right single woman, a glance across a room or a hard gaze 6 inches away, there are times when my brain and body relinquish to the moment and sometimes I just forget to breathe.
Breathe, Reid.

Do exercises, do whatever it takes to remind yourself to BREATHE.

You’ll live longer. You’ll definitely think clearer, feel more powerful and be way more smarterer than the person who never thinks about it.

Breathe…or die.

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8, 9, 10

1: nothing about anyone is pathetic.

2: being happy consists of small moments of satisfaction strung together through the peaks and valleys of everyday life.

3: find what makes you unhappy and rid that behavior/environment/people from your everyday.

4: faking anything is poor advice. you can put on a happy face through a bad mood during the day but nighttime is where it’ll catch up to you. if you want to live a lie, so be it. lots of people do it. if you want to live a life, bite the bullet so you can taste the dessert. it’s much more rewarding.

5: are you not intelligent and insightful? beautiful and educated? your worth is far beyond that of many of your contemporaries, you’re absolutely badass. you CANNOT forget that. ever.

6: ask yourself what you want. what things make you smile? what ideas or ambitions make you “happy”? concentrate on what brings you pleasure, not the fact or reasons you’re unhappy.

7: we all have certain chemical imbalances that dictate our day. some days i feel like the leading role in a superhero movie. some days i don’t leave the house because the thought of having to interact with strangers terrifies me. so i hunker down and draw the blinds hoping tomorrow will be better.

it’s silly, but it’s life. my life. our lives. gregarious and enthusiastic, shy and quiet. fun and sorrowful, up and down, smart but a lot of times not so.

8:

9:

10:

Keep NW While I Convertibally Roadsterize

Look up. The phenomena of groups of people simultaneously looking down and thumbing their phones is almost so normal that I’m beginning to feel like a monkey in a zoo of  shackled humans.

I was politely informed that it would be in my best interest if I stopped going to my favorite coffee shop and pizza joint. How dare I walk the street on which I was raised, how dare I permeate and somehow soil the good names of those who are more concerned with me than with the sanctity of their own sacred institution…how dare I.

Keep NW. Keep Nob Hill, Westover, Goose Hollow, Burnside, Everett and Vista, I hereby surrender all land, delis, venues and avenues that have been laid claim to by the most advanced level of melodrama to ever walk this tree-lined neighborhood. Keep the tourists, traffic and transients. Keep the lifestyle, the drinks and the drugs, the nights of emptiness despite the money spent, keep NW, you’ve earned it (I mean, burned it).

Let it be known. I’m kicking rocks, hookerfish.

Can we protect Russell, please?

Can we eek into the playoffs, please?

Cubs? Really? Cool. (Go Mets).

The beauty and violence of suicide will always both weigh on me and lighten my step because those I’ve known who have chosen that path still stroll aimlessly inside my soul. Everyday.

I miss smoking cigarettes.  A lot. Waking up, reaching over and lighting a Marlboro before even opening both eyes, resting the ashtray on my chest and watching it rise up and down with each drag, cursing the hot sting of burning ash that always flaked onto my bare skin.

There was a day where I would spend all my money on intangible things and during the hangover/comedown I’d rue the decisions I had made with my dividends. Then there became a day when I would spend all my money on objects, things, random stuff and I would still not satiate the emptiness in my belly that usually a new pair of shoes would fill. These days I understand the term “sock away” because most my dough now gets stuffed into an actual sock. Not on a bottle or a bag, not on toys or couture. Not on anything…except maybe something for a girl. Maybe.

Have you seen this? Heard of this? It’s tea. It’s amazing. I’m sold. The industry in which I work sometimes shocks me with its ingenuity.

Kissing is the singly most underrated and underappreciated action two people can perform. The smell of hair and skin, breath and auras, laundry and product, all determine the aftertaste of a passionate embrace.

One day I’m going to bomb around in a little two-seat, convertible roadster, my white silk scarf will billow furiously behind me as my lady and I careen through the hills like happy bats out of hell and I will then surely be satisfied with how things in my life have turned out. Only then.

Random Acts of Rambling Both Nurturing and Damaging

I’m smooth today. A good razor makes the sun just float down my flesh like warm water along the skin of a baby softened by a dusk in July.

This past summer in my city was relentless in its heat and wickedness, an unbelievable onslaught of asphalt swelter that drove us all towards whatever wetness we could sniff out. Now in the midst of autumn the blue sky has become a true stranger in a land known for soft overcast and since up is now down and right has become wrong, no rule left holds water or carries weight.

There is no better friend than one that tells you you’re truly being foolish.
There is no better enemy than one that continues to behave purely foolish.

Is it yet established that Tool is one of the greatest bands in the world but one of the worst live shows in the universe?

My fanciest camera was stolen today. Though machinery can be replaced, the images on that memory card cannot be and that’s a far larger tragedy than the fact that some sad-sack douche bag lifted one of my most prized possessions. The crummy feeling of helpless violation is a nasty thing to try to shake off.

Why does texting stress me out? Why do I feel compelled to immediately answer and if I don’t the weight of anxiety presses my shoulders into a forlorn slouch that can only be remedied by me thumbing over my phone, appeasing each message with some obligatory vacuous  reply?

Purely rhetorical.

Wordy Birdy

The beauty of relationships is that without them we’re just beasts, foraging for some lost purpose, aimless and alone. We must always be reaching out, pulling close, drifting away, or never letting go, the time we share with those who fuel us is invaluable. Every man, woman and child I’ve ever known, loved or loathed has shaped me into the mad, passionate, strange creature I am today. Methinks my thanks is owed to all those whose paths I’ve soiled, graced, endured, or have been enlightened by.

Still. Distilled and ill, waking abrupt like a plane into a hill.

Still. Searching for answers in a poem, picture or pill,

no solace in the silence of this day as it fills

this one wild moment where it’s love or be killed.