The Quintessence of Life

"The mountains are calling, and I must go." 

-- John Muir

     

     I just recently watched "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty." For those of you who don't know, it's a movie about a man, Walter Mitty, who has a habit of zoning out into his own dream world, where he fantasizes about the life he wished he had. An unexpected turn of events forces Walter to stop dreaming and start living, so he leaves his life behind and goes on a global journey. Before I go on, I would like to just say that I cannot say enough good things about this movie. So I will simply encourage anyone reading this to instead go and see it for themselves. Now, anyways, I found myself attracted to this movie for two reasons: reason 1 is because I often find myself dreaming about the life I'd like to have, whether it be about finding a girlfriend/wife, or doing something heroic, or going on some sort of journey or even just my perfect idea of having a good time. Reason 2 is because I've always been in love with the idea of adventure. And when I say in love, I mean in love. If the concept of adventure was physically manifested into a woman, I would kiss her, date her, fuck her and then marry her. But I digress. Watching Walter Mitty had led me to ponder about what it means to be alive. See, in the movie, Walter embarks on his journey to find a piece of photographic film that was dubbed "The Quintessence of Life." Walter was chasing the quintessence of life; what it means to be alive. It got me thinking. What does it mean to be alive? Anyone with a beating heart and air in their lungs can be categorized as alive, sure. But are they really living? Or are they simply just not dead yet? These are the kinds of things I think about often, and I think I've consolidated my thoughts enough (for the moment) to put them down in writing.
     I turn pretty much everything in my life into an adventure. All the errands and nights out with my friends; they are all little escapades. And I'm just beginning to finally plan out real journeys, like backpacking expeditions in the mountains, or traveling to different places of the country, or even different countries. My life is an adventure. You can get me to do pretty much anything if you call it an adventure or say it would make a good story. On that note, I'm also enthralled with the idea of stories and story-telling, to the point where I like to live by my own little acronym; forget YOLO, I live by DIFTS (do it for the story). I've done some pretty weird shit in my life because of that acronym, but I wouldn't have it any other way. The way I see it, embarking on some sort of grand exploit and then telling your friends about it one night around a bonfire is literally what I consider to be the worldly manifestation of what it means to be human. We experience something and the experience makes us wiser, and then we talk about it. The Latin term "Homo Sapien" means "wise man" and both experience and language are human constructs of wisdom. Dogs cannot do that. Elephants and bears cannot do that. Lesser animals are not capable of doing that. Man is the only species capable of doing such a thing. Now, in everyday life, I will consider any living organism to be alive. However, from a philosophical standpoint, I will only consider living and breathing organisms who are merely not dead yet to be exactly that... not dead yet. To be truly alive is to embrace your humanity and vitality, because man is the only animal on this planet with the ability to wholesomely live beyond instinctive and survivalist means. A house cat does not need to survive because it is taken care of by its human masters. So what does the house cat do? It sleeps all day. You will never see a house cat strap on a backpack and head to Mount Annapurna to test the limits of the feline spirit. I suppose that's what separates us from the rest of the life on this planet: the human spirit.
     But, as I said before, this is what I consider to be the essence of life. The essence of life is completely subjective. I consider adventure and experience to be the essence of life; to be what it means to be human. Someone else may consider the essence of life to be art, or music, or theater, or athletics. However I believe that we can all agree that spending your whole life working and then sitting on the couch and watching TV in your free time is not, in fact, the essence of life. Playing video games all day is not the essence of life. You need to get out there and do what you do.
     Before I wrap this up, I'd like to clarify one thing. I just talked about the essence of life and its subjectivity to each person. However, this passage is titled "The Quintessence of Life." So what's the difference? Well, the definition of quintessence is, as stated by the Merriam-Webster dictionary, "the essence of a thing in its purest and most concentrated form." So quintessence is a pure form of essence. With that said, I think it will be safe to say that the quintessence of life, as opposed to the essence, is in fact not subjective. It is the same for all human beings. It is very simple to uncover the quintessence of life. It is to embrace your essence, whether that be venturing, making music, fighting, writing, helping others, acting, painting, playing sports, mastering your body, nurturing the earth, or any combination of anything that you're truly passionate about. Because passion is the one of the most human things of all. And that's what it comes down to. The essence of your life is your passion. The quintessence of life itself is to embrace that passion, to embrace your humanity and vitality. Quite simply, the quintessence of life... is to live. 

-- Woody

A Victim of my Own Vices

“If you ride like lightning, you’re gonna crash like thunder.” -- The Place Beyond the Pines
   
     How sad is it, that a human being can become addicted to something that is so harmful to his or her mind and body? How sad is it that I was so heavily addicted to tobacco to the point where I couldn't go a day without a buzz? How sad is it that I would drink to escape myself? How sad is it that even though I despise what weed does to me, I still would more often than not choose to do it?
     I've just recently pulled myself off of tobacco completely. I dipped for 5 years and smoked cigarettes for 3 months before I quit both. I't's been 2 and a half weeks since my last lip, and even though I had a couple smokes for New Year's Eve (read my Spinning in the New Year story to see how that went), I technically quit cigarettes a little over a week ago. I feel good. Very good. I always knew it was bad for me, but my urge to do it always superseded my logic. You see, the attracting factor was the buzz that nicotine would give me; the head rush and body high that I would get and would make me feel like everything was OK for about 10 minutes. I started dipping at 14 years old, as a freshman in high school. For the first few years, I simply did it because it was fun. But then, I started using it to deal with my negative emotions. And then, when I went through a breakup in September 2013, I started dipping 3x more and eventually started smoking cigarettes on top of that. Doing any substance is bad enough. But when you start using it as an emotional crutch, thats when the real problems start kicking in. You use because you're upset. But then when you come down, you're more upset than you were before because you realize what you're doing to yourself. So, in turn, you use. It's a vicious cycle. You use substances to curb the pain, to mitigate the anxiety, to tame the emotions. That's why people who are experiencing withdrawal are such angry, emotional wrecks. They can't deal with the whirlwind of emotions inside their head. They don't know how to. During aforementioned breakup, I heard a rumor that infuriated me. I had no dip on me, so what did I do? I punched a metal door and broke my hand. Not too long after that, I heard something that made me equally as mad. However this time, I had a tin on me. So I threw in a lip, and my anger was limited to yelling, and nothing and nobody got punched. I didn't realize what I was doing to myself; that the way I chose to deal with being an emotional cripple was only making me more of an emotional cripple. I didn't know how to cope with life.
     I started drinking when I was 13 years old; 8th grade. To most people, that's a shock. The sad part is that I never thought much of it. It seemed normal to me. I've had my ups and downs with booze, but I never reached the point that you would consider alcoholism. I've had cases where alcohol has made me angry, aggressive and rowdy. I've tried to fight more than a few people with a liquor-soaked brain.
     I started smoking weed at age 17, as a senior in high school. It was never my favorite thing to do. I've never bought pot. I don't own a bowl or a bong or any of that shit. It was just something to do when it was offered, if I felt like it. I hate what weed does to me. I've rarely had good experiences while high. It makes me timid, passive, sensitive and paranoid. So why did I do it? I don't know. I never knew. Maybe it was the hope that the high would make me feel better. It never did.
     And what would happen if I ever combined the three? That's it. Game over. Strike out. Usually how these nights play out is with me feeling like I'm on cloud 9 for like 15 minutes, followed by my inevitable crash, followed by the spins, followed by me being a vomit-comet for about 2 hours until I pass out. It's this kind of thing for which I miss out on fun nights with attractive girls, ruin chill nights with my bros, and receive disappointed looks from my parents. It was one of these instances from which I received the nickname "The Sauce" from my friends (but that's a different story for a different time). This is exactly the reason I cockblocked myself in my Spinning in the New Year story. And it sucks, because I could tell you, spending the night with a girl is a lot more fun than spending the night with the spins.
     Even without combining substances, there have been times when I've hated myself for how much booze I drank, or how much weed I smoked, or walking into class smelling like an ashtray. I've humiliated myself, let down my family and friends, ruined perfect opportunities, and done and said regrettable things all under the influence of substances. And for what? Why? I ask myself that every day. And I never seem to have an answer. But I may have an idea. Maybe it's not the substances that I'm addicted to, but the escape; the privilege of not having to deal with reality for a little while. Is my life really that sad? I think it is, but only because I made it that way. I made the conscious decisions to do these things. It's my fault. I realize now that we are not always slaves to circumstance. We are the blacksmiths who forge our own destiny. I'm choosing to stay away from weed and tobacco from now on. I'll drink, but I'm choosing to keep it under control. You do not need drugs to be happy. You can say no. It's as easy as a single syllable. And now, since I opened this piece with a quote, I'll end it with a quote: “Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think." -- Whinnie the Pooh

-- Woody

Spinning in the New Year

   It is often following our highest peak, when our lives will begin the downward spiral into the dreaded rock bottom. This is part of the natural up-and-down cycles of people in today's society. Many times, this happens to a person over the course of a few months, weeks, maybe even days, if things are just really shitty. Well, for me, things went south over the course of fifteen minutes. That's right. fifteen fucking minutes. Let me explain:
     Last night, December 31st, 2013, I had hosted a party at my house to ring in the new year. It was going to be awesome; booze, music, fancy clothes, a solid girl-to-guy ratio, the whole nine yards. I'm 19 and still living with my parents, so obviously I had to see if it was all cool with them. It was. Once I got the OK, this bitch was in the bag. I told my boss I couldn't work New Year's Eve as well as New Year's Day. In the weeks leading up to the event, I had envisioned the perfect scenario. Everyone would be having a great time, I'd be walking around in well-fitting clothes, bottle of Jack Daniel's in hand, talking up a storm, and listening to good music. I'd be kicking it with the guys, flirting with the girls, and doing my best to properly host and satisfy a large group of young and spry college students who were home for winter break. I would make a cheesy tweet about the future once the clock struck midnight.
     You'd be happy to know that that is exactly how the party had went... for the most part. Everything was going well. Nobody (who intended to drink) was without a drink. The music was enjoyable, and everyone was perfectly satisfied. My boy who goes to school in Florida had come to the party, and he brought, along with his girl, a lovely young lady whom he attends his university with. We are all from Connecticut, and she was from Massachusetts. Perfect, a new pretty face to add a little bit of freshness to the scenery. She was a very nice girl and I was soon very glad to have her there. Earlier in the night, I was talking to her here and there. My boy from Florida, who had brought her, was also putting in a good word for me. Obviously I found her attractive. I had just barely put a dent into my bottle of whiskey, so I thought that I was at a relatively good pace. That was all about to change.
     Another friend of mine, who is one of the biggest potheads I've ever known, brought weed brownies to the party. I didn't know he had them in my house because I thought he was going to keep them in his car in case anybody wanted to buy them. Well, this guy unsurprisingly disobeyed my "no weed in the house" rule, and brought them in. But at the moment I noticed that he had them on him, he did the unthinkable: he offered me as many as I wanted... for free. He was just handing them out. Now I had never eaten a pot brownie before, so I only took one. I am no fool. But, what I didn't know, was that apparently shoving the whole fucking brownie into your mouth at once has a dramatically different effect than nibbling on it. After I put the fucking thing to my face, I made sure I took precaution; I had given my bottle of Jack to someone so I didn't drink anymore and get too obliterated. I was told to wait an hour for the effects to kick in. Awesome. Great. Wonderful. Let's do it.
     Another thing I hadn't considered at all was the combination of substances I was putting into my poor body. This brownie was not premeditated. I did not intend on getting high tonight. So a while before I had eaten the brownie, I smoked a couple cigarettes. So after eating the brownie, I had alcohol, tobacco, and a lot of fucking THC in my system. I have not eaten all day. So Florida guy comes up to me and basically says that I should try to hook up with his friend from school. He literally gave me the green light and said she was into it. Fuck yeah. This was awesome, because I have been in a dry spell since my ex broke up with me back in September. I haven't even kissed a girl in about 4 months. So fast forward to when the high finally kicked in. I was talking to the Massachusetts girl and she seemed pretty interested. I was on fucking cloud 9, talking to a good-looking girl who apparently wanted it. I was the one running the show at my party, and was dressed in kick-ass clothes. I was the fucking Alpha Male of this night.
     So, before making my move, I decided to sit down to gather myself. Some of the guests had started playing GTA 5 in the room, so I was watching that while sitting. They all started laughing hysterically at the TV, so I looked at what they could be laughing at. And I don't know why, but something about watching a dude in a banana hammock bang a hooker over a patio table gave me the spins like no one's business. Next thing I know, my face is in the garbage can, and I'm dry heaving uncontrollably for the next hour and a half. I tried to ride it out and wait to sober up so I could pick up where I left off with this girl, but it seemed like an eternity. Then came the time to watch the ball drop. Listening to everyone count down made me nauseous and want to die, but I was finally able to lift my head to see the countdown hit 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and welcome the new year. While everyone cheered, I made an inhuman noise that seemed to convey excitement, and promptly put my face back into the garbage. No cheesy tweets there. Shortly after, I was walked to my room by my mother, where I passed the fuck out. At around 4:00 in the morning, I woke up. Noticing my phone was nowhere to be found, I got up, apparently still high because my feet almost gave out when they touched the floor. I hobbled my way downstairs to find everyone sleeping. However, my would-be lady friend for the night was still up, along with a few other people. She saw me, smiled and said "Oh, look who's alive!" I don't remember much else of the conversation. I woke up again the next morning, made my way downstairs, and everyone seemed to look surprised that I was still breathing. After bidding everyone a farewell, with the house empty again, I approached my parents. They laughed and said they thought the party went well. Fucking cool, Mom and Dad.
     So there it is. On this New Years, I got cockblocked by weed brownies, and spent the last minutes of 2013 and first minutes of 2014 face-first in a garbage can. Not exactly how I had envisioned it. But hey, everything was still under control, everyone said they had a great time, and at least I got to see the turn of the year, even if it was from the bottom of a barf bucket. Have a great 2014, everyone. -- Woody