Everyone is Living Life For the First Time by Jordan Eve Morral

For a long time, I’ve been telling myself that “everyone is living life for the first time.”

To me, the thought justifies my uncertainty, deepens my understanding of others, and reminds me that I should not fear the future or the decisions I must make for myself, by myself.

Remembering that the majority of the world’s population is well under 50 years of age–and still living for the first time despite their accumulated experiences–awakens my own confidence and feelings of abundance. It helps me recognize the potential that is left unused by nearly every person that has ever lived. It is a recollection that shows me that I should have no fear of judgement or fear of pursuing something that is not seen as acceptable or a societal norm. Like, literally, no one knows what they’re doing. They may pretend to have their life under control, or they may think they know the key to existence, but really, they’re just going through life in a way that has been dictated to them since childhood. But, they, like you and me, can unlearn their childhood conditioning and pursue LITERALLY ANYTHING because no one has the right to tell them not to. It’s their first and only life, and they must live it the way they want.

And the same goes for you. So, please, for the sake of everything fleeting and beautiful, read this blog post, and then do something wonderfully unconventional for yourself.

Why fear judgement? It is pointless and holding you back.

Even if people had a valid reason for judging your actions, choices, behaviors–which they never will, by the way–they can never truly judge you in relation to your experiences, upbringing, current situation, etc., so you must not let their opinions bother you. A lot easier said than done, I know, trust me. But there is also the fact that they are likely dissatisfied with their own lives and will die never having pursued anything that truly brought them feelings of joy or freedom. So really, you can’t feel bad for yourself and any negative things being said about you. You can only feel bad for the unhappy human who comforts themself by speaking poorly of another person.

Okay, another scenario. Maybe no one is even noticing what you are doing in your little corner of the world. While this is probable, you likely feel self-conscious and begin to convince yourself that your every move is being watched anyways. Completely untrue; people have their own things going on and do not spend their every moment analyzing you. However, if this were the case, why should that bother you? All it means is that you are brave enough to do something different than the masses. They watch you because they are intrigued and maybe even jealous of your open individuality.

If you are doing something that has never been done before–or something that comes with a negative stigma–it is helpful to think of yourself as a pioneer in whatever domain you are pursuing. There have been pioneers in every major religion, for example, and now those religions have millions of followers. But to get that point of popularity, there had to be some people who were mocked, outcasted, and even martyred before the others could see, accept, and then openly welcome these new ideas. Fortunately for us, most of society has advanced in such a way that we won’t be sacrificing our lives when we chase unconventionality.

No one really knows what they’re doing.

In case you haven’t noticed, every single person around you is pretending they know what they are doing. They try to make it seem like they have figured out how to fulfill their life’s purpose and that they have no doubts whatsoever about the process of getting there. But, really, they have not the faintest clue what’s going on… And that’s okay.

Everyone has uncertainties, even on a day-to-day basis. Should I quit my job? Am I with the right person? Is this how I want to spend the rest of my youth? The rest of my life? You get the gist. The future spans in so many directions, but the average person plays it safe and follows in the footsteps of their parents. If not that, they watch their peers and get in line. No choices are their own. It’s sad, really, that no one knows how to think for themselves any more. These days,“free-thinkers” refers to a minority, and that just isn’t right.

And, when we do have inspirations and epiphanies and messages from the divine, it’s embarrassing how few of us act on them. We waste so much time doubting ourselves and not taking advantage of our health and capabilities that we end up doing nothing at all. In instances like these, we need to remember that there is no right way of doing anything. We must tell ourselves to get up, stop rotting, and take action. Explore our passions, show our unconventionalities, and make progress towards something substantial that is not rooted in tradition.

What even are societal norms and why do people follow them?

There are too many ways to answer this question, but, ultimately, the average human is a coward. And I don’t mean this as an insult. Simply put, we all have a fight-or-flight instinct. And, naturally, most of us choose to flee from the unfamiliar. In moments of stress, fighting seems to be the less safe option and no risk ever worth it.

So, if all we ever do is run back to our comfort zones, of course little progress is made in the way of discovering new territories. We revert back to the ways of our ancestors. Or more commonly, the approval of our family and friends. Yes, the people closest to us may be the ones keeping us stagnant. It’s nothing they do or say, exactly. Rather, it is what we are afraid of them doing or saying if we choose to pursue something outside of the realm of ordinary and acceptable. However, once we recognize this truth, it becomes easier to fight this mindset and break free of the voices holding us back. You are not here to be understood but to understand yourself.

Don’t forget to watch the clouds and talk to the trees.

So, this is the part where you have all these grand ideas in your head. You visualize yourself emerging from the safety of an underground bunker and into the light of every glorious thing you have ever wanted. Good for you. Now, you must chase these things, show yourself as a new person, and break free of every convention you have ever believed or hid behind. It will be hard, at first, but once you truly understand that there is not a single human who is better than you and there is not a single person in your life who has the right to judge you, you will be free.

We have endless possibilities to break the rules, challenge stigma, and enter into our highest states of being. But, with this, we must never forget where we’ve come from. While there is no one who will ever be better than, you will also never be better than them. They may be further behind you in figuring out they have the freedom to decide their own lives without outside influences, but they are human too. Ground yourself in cloud watching and tree talking. All of us are made up of the same soil we stand on. For that very reason, we must develop understanding for others but also live our brief lives on our own terms.

Jordan Eve Morral

Ars Longa Vita Brevis

Juan de Valdés Leal was a Catholic,

a devout believer in the four

last things: Death, Judgement,

Heaven and Hell, as illustrated

by his paintings, the postrimerías.

Acutely aware of the brevity of life,

and that Man’s faith and works

would be weighed in the balance

to determine whether he entered

Heaven or was condemned to Hell,

he also adhered to the idea that

Ars longa compensated for Vita Brevis,

so, his canvas entitled In ictu oculi

shows a skeletal, hollow-eyed Death

standing on the right gazing at us.

The fingers of its right hand

are touching the adage In ictu oculi

to snuff out the flame of life.

A coffin is tucked under its left arm,

while its left hand clutches a scythe

that has raked over the baubles

of earthly glory: a tiara, a crown,

books of science, rich vestments,

the accoutrements of high office.

Death’s sinister foot presses on a globe:

mortality is the great leveller.

Life is over in the blink of an eye,

but the art of Valdés Leal lives on.

Tony Dawson

An Imagined Final Conversation at Polhoegda, near Oslo, 1930 by Michael Bloor

On June 17th 1896, a bizarre encounter occurred in Franz Josef Land, in the Arctic wastes. Fridtjof Nansen (1861-1930), the Norwegian scientist and arctic explorer, met Major Frederick Jackson (1860-1938), the leader of a British arctic expedition. Their meeting was an incredible piece of luck: Nansen and his companion, Johansen, had left their ship, the Fram, more than a year previously to try and reach the pole, and were presumed – by Major Jackson and the general public – to have died. They had, in fact, survived an arctic winter on walrus blubber and polar bear meat, but would surely have perished eventually had it not been for that chance meeting. Nansen later wrote that both gentlemen raised their hats and said ‘How do you do?’ Nansen and Jackson each went on to lead extraordinary lives.

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The Sunday Drifter: The D Can Still Levitate

(All images by The Drifter)

“Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me / I’m not sleepy and there is

no place I’m going to.” – Bobby D.

Since the enigmatic being who sometimes calls himself “The Drifter” shall turn 59 years of age in two days from today, and has already had a stroke (FULLY recovered at every level), he wishes to prove that he can still levitate.

The evidence for this amazing fact is included in the photos which come with this column.

If anyone tries to sue him over the reliability of this, the Drifter is prepared to act as his own attorney, call himself as a witness, and testify with his hand upon a stack of Bibles that no AI nor anything like AI was used in the creation of these pictures nor have they been messed with in any way whatsoever.

Many have said that Rembrandt, Vincent, and Frida painted themselves so often because they couldn’t afford models etc. etc. etc.

The Drifter does not believe that for a moment. (Not everything can be explained by money or the lack of it.)

The Drifter believes these great artists painted themselves so often because they believed Jesus when Jesus said: “The kingdom is within you.” And also when he said (joyfully): “Take up your cross and follow me!”

The good life is not waiting somewhere up around the bend; it is not on a billionaire’s yacht; it cannot be found on the “dream coasts” exclusively; and it does not involve material possessions, of any kind, at all.

Jesus really meant what he said.

“The KINGDOM is WITHIN YOU.”

Or: “THE kingdom IS within you.”

You too (if you try to) can (of course) levitate.

In your very own way.

The Drifter

Penned in Blood: A Valentine by Dale Williams Barrigar

William Carlos Williams, famous

local doctor, spark plug

of his landscape, set of wheels

for his community, delivering

babies among sexy

poor people who couldn’t,

or wouldn’t,

always pay, and some of them

I loved a little too well, and one of them

I loved,

much too well.

Herman Melville, harpooneer

of Moby Dick, became an Inspector of Things

with no visible promotions

for nineteen years.

But I was working

by the seashore, near the sailor

who broke my heart, which usually

made me feel better, because,

by now, I was

the mystical mariner, and the sea

was in my eyes

wherever I was.

Miguel de Cervantes, who wrote

and was windmill-tilting

Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, Dapple, Rocinante, and

Dulcinea, gorgeous, beautiful Dulcinea,

the most perfect love,

romantic angel,

with such a long pen,

was a tax collector on horseback

for too many years.

People would throw things at

us.

And I wondered

how I had become

this.

I said to myself,

“How have I become

this

weary, sad-eyed, wine-soaked,

broken-hearted old soldier

with a bad hand from that long-forgotten

sea battle no one seems to remember

but me.

Next, I was a slave,

captured by pirates.

Later writing many

chapters of my only, endless

book while locked up

in their jail.

For something I probably didn’t do

and don’t remember

if I did do it.

Because someone stuck up

was down

on my energy.

As a noble Roman said somewhere, in jail

being where

more than one good book has been

penned.

For love.

In blood.”

Troubadours By Dale Williams Barrigar

Two teens talking

around the turn table

in 1983

A.D.:

“Maybe they were just unseen,

trouble-making vehicles

for bringing new, pure and cool,

lasting, low, good, flute-like hill tunes of old

to the people’s plains.”

“The trenchant word that well stings the eyes

of the soft heart from the eternal, hidden streams

at earth’s core.”

“Sometimes…”

“So soothing to a needy few…”

“Law man, doctor, debtor or fake, banker,

horse-back tax collector or user nurse, draftsman

or driver, musician, druggist, jailed, and jailor,

sailor, librarian, book thief, art thief, drunkard

delivery dude, public urinator…”

“Traveling teachers of all kinds blood humming

the Underground Railroad songs of another America

across a Missouri of the modern musical mind…”

“All the black and white rappers, sax, trumpet,

Charlie Parker, guitar player,

and she, she, she.”

“Was a Wichita piano player who landed in East St. Louis

on the dime

and somehow she died

on the morphine line.”

“My Christian Science

Fiction

Kiowa

Cowgirl who always pushed it

just a little too far!”

“On purpose!”

“Rise from the provinces, be normal enough

most of the time but always

further along.”

“And she seemed too young.”

“And that was the end of her one,

good song.”

Crime Fiction By Dale Williams Barrigar

Even if you

tell yourself you

don’t want to become a writer,

the truth is

you will have to become a hardboiled romance writer

of a different kind.

(There is more than one kind

of everything).

And what you will have to write

is your own life

(if you want to save

your own soul).

Or think of writing your life

as your own endless film trip

(not strip)

you are making, tragicomic.

Where work is play

and the play is your work

and you are usually more

of an antihero.

And you get to take all the things

you have been handed

by Life.

And create the script, and fall

in love.

And so you nurture it, love it, write it down.

Hide it under your bed

(when you have one), fix it when it

needs fixing.

Know it’s good at heart, in its heart, and keep it

that way.

Let it go.

But don’t ever let the it of it go.

Send it and get it sent

straight back at you

by the greatest editor

ever known

demanding ever more

difficult

and life-enhancing

corrections.

Life of an American Word Scholar: For the Incarcerated Writer, Future, Past and Present By Dale Williams Barrigar

“And I may dine at journey’s end

With Landor and with Donne.”

– William Butler Yeats

1: Now at the end and you know it.

2: Then, you find the stub of old pencil in a pants pocket.

3: And because you looked like a worn-out poet in some lights to a certain lonely soldier, she came on delicate tip-toes and gave you toilet paper, through the bars, with her long, deadly fingers, wearing nothing at all.

4: So now you blow her another kiss and wave her fondly away so you can begin to scrawl with your long, strong, starving hand.

5: Like the black, reaching, screeching, raven-filled tree branches at the shuddering culmination of earth’s last winter’s tale in the occupied village above your mind.

6: “…Not the end,” you write.

7: And you write it again and again.

A Nightly Poet Struggles to Say Goodbye to His Drama Queen Then Says It By Dale Williams Barrigar

Baby, this is not my choosing but I

got to go now and I

cannot be

put by

nor set aside for later.

Lady, I’ve got to go now, I’ve got to run,

I don’t know why or where, really,

and I definitely

do not have any idea

what the new road will be

holding.

But I got to fly

like a fucking arrow back then.

And I’ve got to go now, so I can fly again.

I was allowed to fly, back then, with the Word,

on the back of the laurel

wren, and in only this I cannot be, I will not be

put by.

Sweet Honey-pie, I’ve got to go now but no, I do not know

what you’ll do now

nor how you’ll get by.

I will be undone by all of this I know,

Female Deer, my

Dearest.

Now and far more later too, some day or suddenly.

And the road, it’s too long.

And the price of this midwestern song

is a red wheelbarrow

of sorrow.

Actress please stop

sighing

and don’t start

crying.

And try to remember me

in your prayers.

But not in your dreams of tomorrow

because life is still beautiful

but we

are the fallen sparrow.

Hemingway By Dale Williams Barrigar

(Image provided by DWB)

During the last fifteen

years of my life, when my mind

was mostly in Michigan even though

I wasn’t, I saved

way more small animals from my yard in Cuba

or Idaho than I killed any large ones somewhere

out in a field, whether sea fields or waving grain ones.

And nobody knows it.

I even took a hurt mouse to bed one time for a small spell.

A hurt mouse I found Faulkner the Cat about to kill.

When my wife was out all night making too many bad choices

again.

Took him to bed with me and fed the injured little fellow,

warm milk out of a bottle

drip by drop.

My own bottle there at hand on the nightstand by the Bible,

King Lear, rapier, dagger, tomahawk, paper airplanes,

pencils.

And the mouse got better.

And I, the great Hemingway, never reported any of this to the papers.

But the next day I was up for breakfast and wrestling

with grouchy circus lions down at the pier

to impress them, and got my arm

torn for my troubles

again.

At one point, the mouse sat on my chest

and he looked me right in the eye

almost as if to whisper, “Thank you.”

And he may have whispered

thank you.

I had a Juan Gris painting of a black Latin guitar player

above my bed back then.

In 1946, after she was gone for good,

when I predicted

rock and roll to Paco down here by where

the boat used to be and he,

he agreed with me.