How do you find your passion?

 

I'm asking, I seriously don't know.

If you came here for an answer wrapped with a bow, I'm sorry, but you won't find it. While I haven't found it and I'm not even sure I would know it if I stepped in it, what I have discovered thus far in my search is that it is not a thing. It is not a: person, place, job, title, bank account, lifestyle, hobby, or any of the other dozen or so places I've looked.

It would seem that a passion is in porn terms; what gets you off.

The thing about it is that there can be many things that get you off and those things may change over the years. It is situational, but not necessarily a sum of its parts. Passion can be a bit of moving target in that respect. The high you get from doing something, that dopamine response, is what I believe to be an indicator of one of your passions. It isn't so much the thing you're doing, as it is how doing that thing makes you feel. However, doing other things can also make you feel the same way. This is where is gets interesting and hard.

You might notice that you like working with people and helping them and decide to volunteer at a community center. This may, at first, seem to be the perfect fit for you and that you have found and are actively working in your passion. But over time, things change. You can't quite put your finger on it. You're helping people and that used to be enough and now it isn't. That's the problem with Dopamine, it's a drug, and like any drug you need more of it to get that initial high.

Or you just need more doses in shorter instances.

Perhaps helping people isn't actually your passion? Maybe if you analyze what it is specifically that you liked about working with people you might find something else was hiding in the weeds. In the beginning, helping may have meant teaching. As time went on, there was less of this. If you examine the down time to see where the spikes occurred, you might find out that when you really got energy from helping was when you were helping by teaching. This doesn't mean you should become a teacher; it just means that you leveled up. You sharpened a finer point. Narrowed things down a bit to identify what it is more specifically that gets you off.

Equating passion with money is probably not the place to start. I don't believe that assigning a financial value here works because it can too easily take focus away from what is important and lead to misdirection. The payoff I'm looking for is not something that can be valued in terms of money. It's more than that. Chasing the money as I and many have found doesn't lead to fulfillment and is usually temporary. The money sooner or later will not be enough. Much like a relationship based on sex and physical attraction, eventually you get old and saggy and there better be something else supporting the relationship or it will evaporate.

Be aware of dopamine distractions as well. It comes in many forms and can just as easily misdirect you as money can. I've found that if there is an element to the dopamine fix that also energizes you, this might be an indication that this particular source is more potent and true than for example a "like" on social media.

So that's all I got for now. It's what I've managed to learn since I've been researching this and going through it personally. No answers, just more questions it would seem, but hopefully some clarity. I find that being able to name or define a problem is the first step in trying to figure out a solution. One more thing, passion may not be related to creativity or humanity. Most things out there point in one of these two directions and I'm not convinced that they are the only options. We need more than artists and humanitarians. Though I wonde

The Answer is Popcorn Control

The sports media and the NBA news has been dominated this last week with the issue of safety concerning NBA players. A Philadelphia fan dumped popcorn on Russell Westbrook as he left a playoff game with an injury so severe, he had to leave the game, but apparently not severe enough that he couldn't physically go after the fan. Westbrook, a well-defined athlete at Six foot three and two hundred pounds, had to be physically restrained by several other large men from tearing into the stands to confront the fan. The pain of his injury was clearly no match to that of his ego.

The fan in question has not only been banned from all NBA games, but also banned for life from all events at the Wells Fargo Center. The pain of this punishment grows with time and will no doubt peak with the fan's absence later this year when Ricky Martin comes to town. This is a verdict that is not doled out without grave deliberation. The assassination attempt is still under investigation as authorities have yet to determine if the popcorn was buttered. As we all know, the butter used on popcorn is anything but natural and evidence of the man-made substance would lead to additional charges of a-salt with a chemical weapon.

One ex-player that did not want to be identified, but had ties to the Philadelphia based basketball team was quoted as saying,

Now I know that he's supposed to lead by example and all that, but he's not shoving that aside like it don’t mean anything he was shoving team personnel aside. He knows it’s important, he honestly does but we’re talking about popcorn. We’re talking about popcorn man. We’re talking about popcorn. We’re not talking about the playoffs. We’re talking about popcorn. When you come to the arena, and you see him play, you’ve seen him play right, you’ve seen him get slightly hurt enough to leave the game, but we’re talking about popcorn right now.

He brings up an interesting point, that while under all our noses, has gone thus far unaddressed by the league, the media, and the nation. I'm talking of course about popcorn control. The National Popcorn Association (NPA) has had lawmakers in their pockets for far too long. Right now, I can go up to a concession stand in any arena in America and just buy popcorn. Just like that! No background check, no identification, and no waiting period. What's worse is that there is no age limit in most states. Kids can not only buy this popcorn in arenas, but also at convenience stores, street vendors, and even in schools.

For years some progressive communities have been able to protect the children through dentists, who put the fear of god (and their parents) into kids with braces. Experts say it has done little since the street value is so high and the taste so addictive. The movie industry has been quiet about the issue as well since they are seen as proponents of violence on the big screen, but only while you eat popcorn not pour it in a threatening manner. I was unable to have anyone from Hollywood respond to questions about popcorn regulation as they were to0 busy practicing make-believe and telling people how to vote.

We must think of the children. We must push for popcorn control.

Who Am I

 Report

Listen
be curious
write
what do you know
to know is to question
everything
skepticism
cynicism
deadline June fifteeth

Teams are forming
sides are chosen
no place for us
here or there
figure it out
you had a year
what do you fear

Dimensions

 

The space between dimensions opens and closes without warning. Reality is fluid and only visible through the filter of time.

Transcendence

The room smelled like sex, musty and damp with the faint, but distinct sent of latex. There was a trail of clothes leading to the bed, which is torn apart. The room had a yellow glow from the morning sun beaming through the curtains, burning off the night’s dew on a spider web outside the window and baking the spunk into the sheets.              

She was still asleep, partially covered and spread across the bed. Her thong hung off the nightstand where it landed the night before. A half a glass of wine tattooed with lipstick sat next to an overflowing ashtray, the butts also marked with the same shade, her shade, strawberry-melon. She said she was going to quit, but then again, she’s said many things. I carefully step over a bottle of lubricant and picked up three condom wrappers, I threw them in the garbage with the others.             

I pushed some clothes off a chair and sat down, peering out the window at the day ahead. She looked so content, satisfied even, stretching, she rolled over, a white trail crusted on the side of her cheek, starting at her mouth, and running back to her ear. I told myself it was drool.            

The covers gently fell along the curves of her body as if meticulously laid out by the trained eyes of a photographer shooting a boudoir scene. This isn’t the first time we’ve been here; in fact, it was the third time this week. Things were getting out of control; actually, they had long been out of control. I steal one her smokes, fucking menthols. The room seems different from this angle as if only memories in some flashback like you see in movies, hazy and fuzzy. She looks good in this light, considering how messy she is after last night.  It is surprising, she is not very attractive, I mean she is not ugly, but she isn’t beautiful either.  If you saw her on the street, you’d probably wouldn’t even notice her.  Although, for her age some would say she’s attractive, maybe even a M.I.L.F.             

This is my routine at least three to five times a week.  The room looks the same only the details change.  Different brands of condom wrappers, the trail of clothes cataloging the pattern in which she was undressed, the wine is sometimes beer, or iced tea depending on the mood the night before.  The sheets and the stains change, evidence of the position in which climax was achieved.  Under a black light, her sheets must look like army camouflage, each pattern a different erotic story like snowflakes of DNA, no two alike or from the same donor for that matter.               

She opens one eye and gives me a look, “how long have you been up?” “Only an hour,” I say.  She checks the alarm clock and rubs her eyes.  She says,” did you eat?” I reply, “no, I’m not hungry, I’ll get a cup of coffee later.” She says, “Honey, you have to eat something, let me make you some eggs”.  She never listens to me.  “No mom”, I say, “I'll get something on the way to school”.

Lester's Note

    

Lester wanted to be famous it was all he could think about since he was 14. His parents died when he was 12, his grandparents did the best they could but were too old to give him the attention he needed. His life revolved around getting out, getting out of this shit-hole little town to make a name for himself.

She was his ticket. She would deliver him to the public. People would take notice of him, write about him, think about him, fantasize about him. In her, he would have it all. She was valedictorian, captain of the field hockey team, and a member of the First United Church of Christ choir. Just standing next to her elevated your social status. Together, he knew they could make it.

Her eyes were still open as Lester scrawled out his message, in her warm blood, on the gym floor. In big block letters he wrote, Thank you.

Observing the Void: Next Six Miles

    

    That moment on the highway when you come-to and realize you don’t remember the last hour of driving. Though you have been here dozens of times, it all looks new and unfamiliar. You reach for a cigarette and struggle to find the pack, then it hits you that you quit smoking fifteen years ago.

Beginning or the End?

    First post or the last? I guess it depends on your point of view. Blogs are time machines. Something had to end in order to get to this starting point. Here is the last thing up until that point. Sometimes, the things left unsaid are better remembered. The answer to the question you didn’t ask, is yes; with all my heart.

Reality cannot live up to our imaginations.

What could have been will be sweeter than anything that would’ve been. I promise you. We aren’t what we imagine nor what we seem and so it’s better this way. We have something that’s never been touched and therefore is perfect and pristine.

Take from it what you will and use it for what it’s worth, then let it go. Go on and live, try to recreate it as best you can, but know it will never be as good as you imagined.