DATING: THEORETICALLY, THIS ONLY HAS TO WORK ONCE.

Finding real love, is like trying to find an almost-extinct animal. Everyone just wants to hook up rather than form a meaningful connection. Physical appearances matter because people want to get intimate on a physical level and leave emotional compatibility at the door. This also makes people shallow in that they lack depth and real connection. Ugh. There’s nothing worse than being on a date with someone who’s only talking about themselves and has no interest in chatting about intelligent topics. It’s really tough being a romantic in the dating world these days. People might roll their eyes at you when you talk about love and romance

We have all heard the romantic fantasy of the woman holding out for a hero, someone who will sweep her off her feet and ride into the sunset. Well, men have a similar fantasy. I had the checklist of skills I was looking for in a spouse: funny, ninja skills, could dish up a killer rattlesnake stew, and someone who would have my back through thick and thin. Every potential candidate I met was subject to my list of supposed "must-haves." And none of them measured up. The cycle of meeting someone, looking for compatibility and chemistry, not finding it for one reason or another, and starting all over again became depressing.

Theoretically. this only has to work once,but I feels like you have to put in a lot of swiping to get one good date. I can't seem to find a woman who appreciates what I have to offer. (Kindness, intelligences, financially stable, attractive, don’t drink, smoke or take drug) or want to put any work into the dating process. I always have to call, I always have to make plans. Is anyone else but me tired of these "rules" and "games" that you're supposed to play in the dating pool? The “Cliff Notes” version of me can’t tell the whole story, the better scenario is to email me so we can start getting to know each other and then take it from there. Who knows? A grand adventure may be about to begin-but unit I hear from you, we are missing out on all the fun!

My intentions are sincere and honest,! I am not here to sell a dream.I am just an ordinary man who is looking for his woman here. I am not a top model, only myself, a man with the qualities and faults. I cannot find woman who appreciates what I have to offer.-kindness, someone who

keep their word, caring..I fall hard and fast. I put myself out there because I believe it’s the only way to truly be loved by someone. I think very few women actually want that, given that kind guys are drama free and hence boring..

There are millions of guys out there who have a good heart, who are intelligent and has an open mind, who is caring and enjoys the simple things in life, but is that what you really want? If it is then start going after men who have traits of kindness to everyone, honesty, loyalty and run from men who displays traits of lying, cheating, and are sexually aggressive around women.

  

I've grown tired of dating  The girls seem to be the kind who don't want to put any work into the dating process. I always have to call, I always have to make plans. Even when dates go well and it seems like this could go somewhere, I still have to do all the work (which makes me think the girls isn't really THAT interested).

I'm a particularly attractive guy, caring, smart, compassionate and I don't have problems finding girls who show interest, but when it comes to actual dating, it always seems that these games have to get played, and when it seems that there is a game being played, and she's not being real, then I lose a lot of my interest instantly. Any time I've dated a girl who played games, it never went anywhere and I just ended up confused and hurt. The few times the girls were real were the few times that I developed meaningful relationships.

LETTER: DEAR SOULMATE

Dear Soul mate,

Today i was thinking, and wondering who you are. Sometimes i just get into these moods where i just wish i knew you, and you knew me...because its these times where i wish i just had your shoulder to cry on. Life's hard and i guess ill just have to suck it up and get over it one day but i always have this fantasy in my mind that I'd be perfectly content if i was just with you. life would be worth while that way. one day when you meet me...you'll find all these scars I've gotten along the way...from some tough relationships, to family issues and stress. i hope your waiting for me, because I've been waiting on you since the moment i understood that God had u in mind for me. even though your a mystery to me, i know you'll be better and far beyond higher then my expectations. honestly I've been looking for you for forever and I'm actually pretty discouraged right now. no one comes close to my standards and I'm not meaning to sound stuck up I'm just afraid maybe I'm being too picky. Ive been hurt thousands of times...and I'm sick of it. please don't be offended if it takes me a while to fully trust you, its not that you've ever done anything to make me feel that way...its just what my past experiences have proven to me as sad as it is to say. i hope your life is wonderful and that life gives you everything you've ever wanted. i hope all dreams and ambitions come true. i hope you know that wherever you are someone loves you more than life itself. and that no matter what you've done he'll never stop. one thing this guy has that you'll never find in someone else is, a space in her heart that only you can fill, and love that can never fade away. Ive thought about you constantly and wondered if you'd ever even wanna know me someday. not that its your fault but sometimes i get mad that its taking us this long just to find each other. and i know I'm on God's time schedule not my own but I'm very impatient and you'll learn that quickly. my family is a wreck. and when we meet you'll know all about it when the time is right...i don't wanna scare you away with all that yet though. haha. i know you'll be the woman i always wanted and more. you'll make me happier than anyone ever could and i can't wait to meet you. so when your down and you feel lonely and upset and lost...just know that I'm praying for you and love you every moment and every day. I'll always be out here loving you. just keep that in mind. please wait for me though. never give up, I'll always be waiting for you. forever.

love always,
your soulmate.




PART 2

Dear Soulmate, I have always loved you.

Many may find this strange.But those who have experienced it will understand completely.You see, I’ve always loved you.Always.Way before I knew you, before you even thought of me and before I even thought of you, I already knew you. And when I saw you for the very first time, I recognized you instantly.I puzzled for a while, questioning where I’d saw your face and slowly it came to me.You were with me all along.Every small footstep, each long and winding road, every mountain I struggled to climb, was synchronized with each path you were taking.Though at the time my mind was not alert and I did not pay attention, as I was concentrating on surviving each day—I can see now that nothing was ever in vain.I will never forget the first words you spoke to me and how your voice resonated deeply inside my chest.

I thought my heart would break through to get to you, but we’d only just met—have patience, sweet organ, I know you’ve been waiting a life time, but, please, beat slowly and keep me calm.I knew in an instant that I loved you.I didn’t know whether you drank tea with no sugar, whether you liked honey on your toast or whether you talked sometimes in your sleep.Neither did I know if this connection would last a moment nor a lifetime, but I did not care, I submerged in how it felt to be in your company, familiar, yet with so much to learn and unravel.

My imagination is wild, but I never dared to believe in someone such as you.Our electricity connected and you turned me on.I saw myself for the first time when I looked into your eyes. And you saw us.You had strengths where I had weaknesses and your weaknesses built up my assets.You knew me better than I knew myself. You never faltered, you had faith allowed me beyond your surface.You cracked your heart wide open and you allowed me to freely step in.We are one and the same, although, so entirely different.When our fingers met we made our first love right there, without a care for the world, that continued around us.

You touched me in places I never knew existed, I surrendered to your love and I allowed myself to fall.I gave you everything and you gave me myself in return.You held out a mirror and I was no longer afraid to look, I could not see me without knowing you first.Our fragmented pieces smoothly slid firm into place.You fearlessly drove and you never once doubted our love.You ran through each bone in my body and then printed your name on my heart.My veins pulsed wildly when you tenderly showed me your love.You gave me it all.

And I loved you more.

I had no choice.

There is no reason nor no explanation for love.


You were always the one and I have always loved you.

I waited and you waited and we finally arrived together.




PART 3



Dear Soulmate

To be someones mate is to be there exact pair. Two things that undeniably go together. Two things that were made to be with one another. Even the naked eye pairs them with no other information than a look.  

You are my soul mate. The way I was drawn to you from the very start is unexplainable. The feeling I get from simply hearing your voice. The way every nerve in my body stands at reacts to your touch. The comments of admiration we get from complete strangers about how in love we are. The seamless life we have built together. The ease in which you fit into my family and I fit into yours. The moments that we spend laughing over funny accents. The way you make me feel truly alive. The habits we have formed. The meals we have cooked. The tears we have shared. The way I see forever in your eyes. The countless conversations. The open hearts and vulnerability. The fact that I miss you before you ever say goodbye. The nights ended in each others arms. The mornings began tangled in sheets. These are all mere things that alone may not mean much, but it is in their entirety that our profound love can begin to be explained.




PART 4

Dear Soulmate,

I want to start by saying how much you mean to me. You are so caring and loving and there is not a person like you under this sky. You are my one and only, unique and special. No one understands me as you do, not a single person. I never thought this was even possible; that I could meet someone who knows what I am thinking, someone that, despite all of our differences, is always there by my side through ups and downs, someone that I never imagined I could love so much as I love you.

You encourage me to do better, to be better. You lift my soul and I thank you for that. You make me feel like I don’t have to face all the obstacles of the world alone. Simply your presence makes me happy, makes my life better. Being with you makes me realize how lucky I am to have you. Sometimes I wonder how did I even get so lucky. I know a thousand people who spend their lives looking for their “soulmate” to fill that empty space. I can’t believe I already found you without even looking for you!! I’ve been blessed with you!

I want you to know that I will always be here for you, just as you are always here for me. I want you to know that if life takes us apart one day, you were a light in the darkness. If I ever have to leave you or vice-versa, I will always be waiting for you, waiting to see you again. You are someone worth waiting for. I don’t know if you remember how we met, but it was magic. We connected instantly, do you remember? We understood each other perfectly.

I know we have had difficult times, conflicts and problems, but above it all our chemistry has always been stronger than anything. I want you to be happy, truly happy. I want you to grow personally and professionally. I want your dreams to come true, and do you know why? Because they are my dreams too. I feel what you feel, and when you are happy I am happy and when you cry my heart breaks into pieces; I just can't see you like that. I want you to know that you don’t have to stick with me your whole life. I want you to fly wherever you want to. I will always be your soulmate even if we are miles apart. If one day you get tired of me, I will also understand and let you be. I want you to be YOU, because that’s what I love about you, your whole person, your virtues and flaws. I love you as you are and I don’t want you to change anything about you.

I know friends come and go, but you, you will stay in my heart forever and no one will ever replace you.

With love,

Your Soulmate




PART 5


A message in a digital bottle:

Dear Soulmate,

I’m not quite sure I believe you exist. But the “Can you hear me now?” guy switched from Verizon to Sprint and now I guess anything is possible.

Which Chipotle are you reading this from? Oh, you already had Chipotle today? Twice, really?

You’re at home now eating cookie dough and listening to jazz? Cool. I’m actually glad you’re reading this. You see, I’ve had my fair share of awkward first dates and Tinder matches gone wrong. One time I even went out with a girl whose favorite food was candy corn. Favorite food, not even favorite candy. WTF? I was terrified. I didn’t date for a month after that one, and still haven’t fully recovered. The point is, I’m glad you’re finding this letter now, so we don’t have to waste our time.

We don’t have to stressfully search for a trendy first date spot and participate in dull small talk and try to pinpoint mutual friends and pretend to like each other, then the check comes and it’s like ugh awkward, but I pay, and then it’s time to go home and we get separate Uber Pools, but end up in the same car... It’s just no good.

FYI:I don’t like candy corn, but I can eat almond joys until I throw up. Not apologizing.

A little more about me: When I was little I thought I lived next to The White House, but it turns out I just lived next to a white house (who knew?) If someone called me right now and asked if I wanted to watch Spy Kids I honestly probably would. I think I owe Costco for a lot of my happiness. Also, I strongly believe French toast tastes better in stick form. Um, I’m 5’7” but my heart is 7’5”. 
And what about you?

Who are you? Have we met? Are we friends? Sh*t, is this Katie from 5th grade? Sorry again for starting that rumor about your dad being Guy Fieri (but it was hilarious.)

I guess I already know everything about you, though. You like the Obamas. And potato chips. You’re weird. You enjoy going out, but also sometimes avoiding human contact at all costs. You’d watch Spy Kids with me (What the f*ck. Were those movies even that good? I can’t remember.) Kindness is an innate quality of yours, but let’s be honest when it’s just us hanging out watching Spy Kids we’ll talk sh*t about things. You think I’m funny, but you’ll also tell me when I’m being an idiot or watching too much Spy Kids. Do you like shaved ice or crushed? Waking up early or sleeping in? Hash browns or curly fries? Did you answer, “I love both?” Of course you did.

Where’s your favorite vacation spot? Do you like drinking? How many times have you read the Harry Potter books? Pop-Tarts or Toaster Strudels? Do you play an instrument? Not a deal-breaker, but we could start a band and tour and I bet someone would make a cool movie about it (Ryan Gosling would play me.)

What seat do you choose on an airplane? For God’s sake please don’t say the middle. If you were any kind of sandwich what would you be? I’d be a deluxe grilled cheese — comforting, reliable, not trying to be anything I’m not, and it’s like, “Whoa this was already amazing, and NOW THERE’S BACON ON IT.” I don’t keep kosher.

I’m not really in a rush to meet you tbh. Life is good and there’s a lot of new standup on Netflix. It’s just nice to know that you’re out there.

Anyways, I’m sure you have to get back to napping or maybe you’re going to a concert or a basketball game or perhaps you’re on your way to a brewery. No, probably just napping. Hmm yeah, that seems right.

OH, PS, I haven’t updated my LinkedIn in a while so don’t judge me on that.

See you around? 

PERSONAL: WHY CHOOSE ME AMONG OTHER?

Why choose me among so many men? First of all, because I am real.My intentions are sincere and honest, I am not here to find a plan Q, live a short-term relationship or without next day! I am not here to sell the dream.I am just an ordinary man who is looking for his woman here. I am not a prince, or a perfect man, not a top model, only myself, a man with the qualities and faults. I like to which I like! I would like to make a beautiful meeting, I want to love, of complicity, of desire, to share and exchange, to build, to base a life of two We will take the time to discover us and to dial our history

The woman I’m looking for is all about “going with the flow.” She is a woman who knows what she wants in life and has learned how to ask for it. Intelligent, attractive (both physically and mentally), and confident, she would capture my attention right away. As soon as we started to talk though,or text, and we would both “just know.” The connections could not be ignored and the risk would be well worth the effort. Honest, fun-loving and adventurous, this is a woman who would become the “best friend” I couldn’t see myself without!

Since the “Cliff Notes” version of me can’t tell the whole story, the better scenario is to email me so we can start getting to know each other and then take it from there. Who knows? A grand adventure may be about to begin-but unit I hear from you, we are missing out on all the fun!

ARTICLE: ‘I made a statistical game out of dating’: could I crack the formula for love? BY Dina Nayeri

I am a math nerd. “A maths nerd,” my partner corrects me, because we live in London now. Fine. I love puzzles and formulae and bullet-pointed plans. I’ve spent many a winter morning with a steaming cup of tea and an Excel file. I don’t often make major forecasting errors, but I’m in the middle of my life’s biggest miscalculation.

Until I was eight, in 1987, I lived in Isfahan, Iran, in a big, warm family of science and maths types. I had a bike and a best friend and my own calculator. I loved a boy named Ali Mansouri. But then my mother was jailed for converting to Christianity and, when she was temporarily released, we had to escape Iran. Before you could calculate the probability of losing every toy and friend and photo, it was gone, favourite calculator and all. We were in a refugee hostel in Dubai and then in Rome. And then two years had passed and I was the foreign kid in early 1990s Oklahoma. Every subject was foreign to me: English, Oklahoma history, the topography of who knows what. But one subject hadn’t changed; in fact, in this one area, I was ahead of everyone else. In maths, I shone. I could do a sheet of 100 multiplications in less than a minute.

At 12, when I started to feel our poverty, I asked my mother how much money an average person needed not to stay awake all night, punching my calculator. She said, flatly, $5,000 a month. Sixty thousand a year, I thought. I went to a library and looked at average income levels. I learned that to make that much right out of college, I had to get into an east coast university (I had yet to learn about the regional cost of living). Screw this life, I thought. I’m going to live comfortably. I had the grades, but back then it wasn’t so marketable to be an Iranian refugee: even trying felt like a risk.

The university guides said I needed sports. I needed a national championship. I calculated the probability of winning trophies in the sports I loved: tennis and swimming. Other girls loved those, too. Wealthy Oklahoma suburbs were teeming with country-club girls who had way more practice and nicer rackets than me. I needed a sport that bent to my juvenile analytics: a sport with trophies handed out by weight levels, age levels, belt levels. A sport that didn’t attract rich girls with trainers. So I signed up for taekwondo.

I dropped 20lb, put in five hours of practice a day alongside the boys. I counted calories, fat grams, the hours on the Stairmaster. At 13% body fat, I stopped menstruating and won a national championship.

At Princeton, I decided to find a boyfriend. I had never had one, never been kissed, never had sex. I made a secret chart of the boys I knew. I quickly threw it away, ashamed of myself. I hated the entitled rich boys. I didn’t want another financial aid kid – the probability of poverty was too high. I was planning to go into finance or consulting, so I joined a business organisation and met an awkward boy with a kind heart who loved my OCD and the way I counted on my fingers. He wasn’t hungry like me; he was enjoying his life. So I gave him some of my hunger, that missing ingredient, and he thrived. We married and bought a canal house in Amsterdam. He grew handsome and ambitious. He had rows of wooden shoe racks and the most beautiful suits.

I followed the numbers to New York, to McKinsey & Co, and he came, too. My life was perfect on paper, an immigrant girl’s fantasy: the midtown consulting job, the apartment, the husband. We made way more than $5,000 a month. In one of our earliest photos, we’re both in Brooks Brothers trench coats, leaning on a Princeton umbrella and sporting his-and-hers corporate haircuts. A friend said, “That’s the yuppiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Then I went to Harvard Business School; we made a plan for our lives. He would have the low-beta career and I the high-beta (beta being the finance term for risk and potential reward). We actually did the maths for this.

I remember thinking, 'If I date him, there’s an 80% chance I’ll get a weird infection'

Through the years, I’ve had periods when something snaps. When I turn deaf to the data and do something crazy, because I crave joy, creativity, a jolt. It happens every decade or so. In 2011, it happened. I became a writer. We divorced.

I moved back to New York and made a statistical game out of dating. I downloaded a few dating apps and quickly figured out which had the best men: the best apps centred on photos. After all, I had undergone enough institutional brainwashing to be able to weed out, from a few snaps, the cultured, educated ones from the ones who were faking. I learned that a hat means he’s bald, no smile means bad teeth, grainy pictures means lying about age. From photos, I could figure out their travel smarts, their creativity, insularity, intelligence level, and even education and political bent. Believe it or not, something as simple as a baseball cap, choice of sunglasses or favourite sport is enough accurately to differentiate (on an aggregate level, at least) a midwestern Republican bible-thumper on a two-year work stint in New York from a pro-choice, dual citizen who makes his own bechamel sauce and reads Sebald.

In two years, I had many high-quality boyfriends, ones who scored well by every known metric. And, as predicted by my personal algorithm, I went on roughly 12 dates per eventual boyfriend. Once, I segmented the population of Iranian-American men into four categories and devised a plan to date one from each kind. The experiment effortlessly settled the question: “Should you be with an Iranian?” The answer was no.

As a rule, I wasted no time. I had a tight schedule. I had many pretty dresses. I kept my body fat next to nothing. Sometimes, I accompanied friends to freeze their eggs. I considered it, but in the end I believed in my eggs. Throughout all this, I found my way into a decent writing career. At 35, I had it together again.

Then, out of nowhere, chaos.

***

I met Sam, not on a Tinder date, but at a writer’s colony. He was English, divorced, 39, jobless. His shirts were full of holes. He hadn’t cut his hair in six months and washed it maybe every two weeks; it was a crazy curly mess that reminded me of Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons. Back in New York, I was dating a handsome Mexican businessman who fit all the criteria. A low-beta career, love of travel, a sense of humour. But, suddenly, I found myself falling for the unwashed writer, and I was confused. I actually remember thinking, “If I date him, there’s an 80% chance I’ll get a weird infection.”

Over many meals, I learned that Sam had spent the last year wandering from residency to residency, writing a novel about a Vichy demographer so devoted to his work that he didn’t stop to think maybe he shouldn’t be calculating census numbers for the Nazis. Now, he was on trial for crimes against humanity.

“So you’re claiming that he did it mostly for the love of the census?” I said.

“Right,” Sam said. “Culpability is a complex thing.”

“I think he’s guilty,” I said, surprising myself. “Maths is just a tool. You have to care about the thing you’re calculating.”

Silently, I did the forecasts on Sam: he wouldn’t make a dime for years. But I loved his novel. He lent me The Reader. He lent me Stoner. We walked in the woods. I stopped crunching the numbers. Slowly, I fell for his distractedness, his wandering, the life he had scattered in three storage spaces. He loved my OCD and the way I counted on my fingers. He called me Rain Man.

“How much do you love me?” I asked.

“There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned,” he said.

Screw that, I thought. Everything can be measured, even love. If it was a job, I’d be amazing at it. I should be a yenta.

Sometimes, Sam watched me do puzzles. He read me short stories as I slept.

Then, at some point between a history in French demography and a night with the works of Annie Dillard, my once-a-decade insanity came early and I got pregnant.

Soon, every sphere of my life, once neatly rolled skeins arranged in a basket, unravelled into one big tangled mess. Early in the summer, early in our relationship and also in our pregnancy, Sam and I decided to leave New York and start over. “Let’s wander!” we said, delirious with our news, with our brand new romance, each of us seeing in the other a strange twist on the qualities we had always chased in others.


We drifted to a tiny French village with a population of 3,000 geriatrics who dipped their toes in the fountain in front of the local restaurant, spoke only fast, accented French, and tested positive for toxoplasmosis at alarmingly high rates. Within three months, I’d dismantled my life and landed inside my own worst nightmare.

But we also relished our aimlessness. We plunged into the pregnancy, thinking that we could build a world around our unborn baby, caring for her, feeding her, monitoring her heartbeat. We looked at her sonogram: her big ears and the way she touched the wall of my uterus. Sam cooked me exceptional French dishes every night. Friends delivered American vitamins to France. Sam read my writing. I read his.

Unable to make sense of my new life, I slowly went feral. When I got too big to shave my legs, Sam offered to do it, but I decided just to stop. When I got a yeast infection and didn’t want to drive to the doctor, he stepped up with a bowl of yoghurt and a turkey baster. He cooked gingery salmon. He cooked a daube full of lamb. He cooked sour sauces to assuage my cravings. I devoured them all with my fingers.

“This isn’t the life I imagined,” I said.

“I know, love,” he said.

Fingers shaking, I sank my teeth into chicken thighs, gnawing to the bone.

***

To preserve a sense of my own space, I turned to geometry. I created a perimeter: my suitcase, my backpack with my laptop and work stuff, a big leather purse of important documents. I put them in a corner of the room and closed off that corner. I said, “Sam, this corner is mine. Don’t move it or touch it.” I figured, everything that surrounds me can change – we can move down the road or to another country – but in every place I’ll have this square metre that’s mine.

Each morning, I woke in a stifling 500-year-old room, a constellation of mosquito bites covering my feet and calves, every tooth threatening to fall out as I struggled against a half-conscious panic attack. It always took me a few seconds to recognise the shock of black curls on the pillow beside me, the gentle English accent: “What’s wrong, love?”

My first thought: “I don’t have an address any more, or a phone. We’re in a town with no maternity store and I’m wearing your boxers and I’ve known you for 10 months.”

I counted on my fingers:

Probability of relationship failing and becoming a single mother: 60%

Probability that current lonely feeling is caused by hormones: 90%

Probability that that cheese I ate earlier in the market was unpasteurised and carrying The Tox: 99% (I returned again and again to have my blood tested).

How trifling and small they seemed now, my formulae and aspirations and plans

I wanted my charts and my formulae back. I wanted something to strive for. Twelve dates equals new boyfriend. Two months in a colony equals a book draft. It wasn’t just the indignities of impending motherhood or having to forfeit all the carefree bliss of early romance: Sam was a stranger to me. Would my child be a stranger, too? And what did this turn of events say about the way I had lived my life so far? Was it all for nothing, all that calculating, all that striving?

Worst yet, had I chosen wrong? I spent a month trying to find a formula for Sam. His unwashed hair (that smelled so nice), the scattershot holes around the collar of his T-shirt (the softest shirt I’ve worn), the way he took five minutes to get out a sentence (oh, but what sentences!). I remembered the day his parents had come to Heathrow to pick me up three months earlier. They didn’t know my face – I knew theirs because they were each identical to Sam in unrelated ways: his mother had his curls and his long, angular face; his father had his expressive eyes and aquiline nose. I watched them scanning the crowd, confusion blanching their cheeks, for several long beats before I approached them. What were they thinking? Who was this woman their son had brought home? In what configurations would our genes meld together to create a new person?

One morning, I woke up soaking wet. I had sweated through the sheets and the stress was giving me acid reflux. “I have no plan,” I murmured into the pillow.

“We can make a plan,” Sam said.

“You look terrible on paper,” I said.

“But we don’t live on paper,” he said.

“We’re living out of a suitcase,” I said. “Do you know how much stuff we need? We need a stroller and car seat and diapers and burp cloths and a changing station and 10,000 other things. There are a dozen vaccines and two dozen signs of meningitis to memorise, and allergens and baby cribs. Do we put her on her back or on her front? Should we have life insurance and godparents? How will we build a whole life?”

“It’ll build itself,” he said. “Have a little trust.”

But the universe gave me data so I don’t have to trust. Often, I wonder about the ratio of chaos and order that would equal a happy life. Clearly, I wasn’t satisfied in a life of diversified betas and shoe racks all aligned. But going feral almost broke me. Is life only chaos or an ordered game of averages? Should I welcome it and its beautiful wildness, or fight to rein it in? So far, all I know is that my life has been a constant act of letting go, of changing what I need to survive, recalibrating the perimeter.

After France, we built a life slowly. We moved again, and once more after that. We bought a changing station. We chose godparents. We borrowed a car seat. Suddenly, we were surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins. We inherited bundles of baby clothes. We had the funniest, cleverest girl (there is no comparing). It came together by itself. No, Elena brought it together. How did she do it, with her little hands?

A few months ago, I stumbled on a piece of paper from 2014. It was labelled, “My five-year plan”. It was full of silly goals: publish second novel, finish third novel, decorate apartment, find community, read 50 books a year. Reading it, I missed my old self. I wanted to edit it, to make a new list, to build a predictive model of my future, and Sam’s, and Elena’s. Where had this vital part of my identity gone? Without it, I was no longer entirely me.

And yet it was frightening what I had left off. Where was my Elena? How trifling and small they seemed now, my formulae and aspirations and plans.

I looked again at the page, the unfamiliar language of it. I kept thinking, without my deviations and the screw-ups, the probability of Elena would be zero.

POETRY: ONCE UPON A TIME....YOU AND I LOVED

If you merely knew the sorrow I felt,
All those nights without you, all those nights watching the candle melt..
Tonight, tonight will be nothing more than a dream, unreal,
A dream where I find the courage to tell you how I feel.

There's so much I want to tell you,
So much I want to say, if you only knew.
Every night I pray and pray that you feel the same about me,
Cause deep down I know we're meant to be.

Your eyes are so dark and mystical, as the black of the night
A man can get lost in them and never find his way back.
Your lips are so red the roses green with envy
Your smile is so warm and pleasant
that even heaven thinks with spite... this could not be.

Nothing on the earth is as soft as you're gentle skin,
Your hair is so full of life when it dances with the wind.
I can feel your wonder as you walk into the room,
I can hear your voice that's as sweet as a mid-summer?s bloom.

Your kindness can bring a man such wonderful bliss,
A sweetness like yours is like an unforgettable first kiss.
I'll be there to share your pain and cry by your side,
But, most of all I'll be your friend, someone in whom you can confide.

In a dream I embrace you under the romance of the moonlight,
As we kiss and let ecstasy take over the starlit night.
I wake up the next morning  seeing the most wondrous sight,
As dusk passed over I revealed it was you while we dined by candlelight.

Yet, this is nothing more than a lover's fantasy,
Conjured up by my yearning heart at a quarter past three.
I lie down as I cry your name into the forsaken night,
Hoping you?ll show up and be my saving light.

My fondness for you isn't something new,
I fell in love the first time I laid my eyes on you.
In time my desire grew and grew,
Into a passion unconditional, honest and true.

Open your heart and let your feelings show,
Cause I just can't bring myself to let you go.
Take me as I am, take my dying heart,
And save it before it breaks and falls apart.

And that's all there is to say,
The endless night has ended,
And tomorrow is but a moment away.

The sun will rise and the birds will chirp anew,
Dawn will break and my never-ending quest will continue,
As I build enough courage and find it in my heart to say,

"My darling, I love you."




PART 2


The softness of you
Engulfs my every want care or worry
-moreover,
Now, is mostly meaningful
For memory's sake.
It's your absence that I
Embrace.

The sweet look on your God-perfect
Lips-as they encrypt their
Brand on the inner recesses of
My mind with subtle kisses,
A most unkindly kind.

Filtered sunlight prances it's way upon
The folds of her hair,
And our communication is perfect
In the muted form,
It's the sweet silent speech
Of timeless time.
 
I sink in slowly,
Floating on these rays of light
Where even with my eyes closed
It's bright.
Closest to her in dark light,
She haunts my mind in the
Midsts of the night-
As I fade out of sight.




PART 3

My angel... so full of warmth.
Take me in your loving arms.
Wrap your wings around me and protect me from the cold.

My angel... so full of love.
Take me in your heart and protect me from hurt.

My angel... so full of light.
Take me in your soul and guide the way to true happiness.

My angel... I ask these of thee and in return...
My angel... I will take you in my arms
And protect you from the cold.

I will take you into the deepest depths of my heart
And protect you from hurt.
I will take you into my soul and guide your way to true happiness.
My angel... above all else, I will love thee for eternity.



PART 4


Your eyes are like the sun's rays,
That dance upon the sea.
They make me want to hold you, touch you,
When they look at me.

Your lips, so full and tender,
I yearn for their gentle touch.
I can't wait until ours reunite,
As they dance to the rhythm of our love.

I long for your arms to hold me,
To make me feel so safe and secure.
I could lay in your arms forever,
And listen as my heart beats with yours.

There are so many feelings, emotions,
That I cannot express.
But maybe someday soon,
They can be physically addressed.



PART 5

I found out what my heart was hiding behind its very walls.
It was a dream; one that I wanted to be true.

It wandered in from nowhere, I knew not where it came from.
So when I found it standing there, I cried out for sheer joy.

The dream, it kept me happy, I treated it bad.
So, then one day it walked away, out of my heart forever.

Have you seem my dream?
Oh, I forgot. . . it's you.




PART 6

Once upon a time
In a land far away,
You and I loved 
Yet in a different way.
For we have always been together
In more than just this life,
And will be forever
Now that you are my wife.

Because soulmates are made
For eternity,
To love and to cherish
Just you and me.

Now should you get mad
At something I might do,
Just remember that I love you
And that you love me too!

JOURNAL: TODAY MARKS THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY SINCE MY DAD PASSED AWAY

I hate this day. It's been one year since my Dad passed away. I still remember kissing his head before leaving and telling him I loved him

This past year has been very difficult for me. It doesn’t seem to be getting easier. I had expected it would. I thought time heals. It hasn’t; at least not yet.  I miss him more than I could ever describe. I’ve probably already said this in a previous post: it feels like I have a phantom limb. It feels like a part of me has been amputated but the rest of my body will not acknowledge its absence. I know he’s there. I just know it. But then I look for him and he’s gone. It’s a horrible horrible feeling. 

I’ve learned a deeper compassion for people in pain.
I’ve learned how much you can hurt and still hold it together on the surface.
I’ve learned that old memories returning are like surprise packages from Heaven.
I’ve learned that death will challenge your faith in ways you never imagined.
I’ve learned that you’d gladly trade everything you own for thirty more seconds with them.
I’ve learned to resent strangers who have their fathers and grandfathers, and no empty chairs at the holidays.
I’ve learned that on some days, though not suicidal, you’ll wish you could die just to see them again.
I’ve learned that even though good people try to help, you ultimately have to grieve alone.
I’ve learned that no matter how old you are you never stop needing your Daddy.
I’ve learned the horrible accuracy of all those clichés about how we never have enough time with people we love, about how there are no ordinary days, and about the paper-thin fragility of life.
I’ve learned that death just sucks, and that any other spin on it is just a valiant but failing effort to make lemonade out of some really bitter fruit.

But mostly I’ve learned just how big a hole someone can leave in your life; how massive a gap there is when they’re gone, and how we all fill that space for someone.

I LOVE YOU DAD

ARTICLE: President Obama's $400,000 speaking fees reveal what few want to admit BY Steven W Thrasher (WHAT A BIG DISAPPOINTMENT)

The reason many of us have been critical of Barack Obama’s outrageous $400,000 speaking fee is that it robs us of a fantasy: that sooner or later, the first black president was going to use his considerable powers, in or out of office, to help the economic ravages of the poor, who are disproportionately black.

That Obama’s project was or ever would be racial and economic justice was always a dream – and the sooner we let go of this and recognize Obama for who he is and what he does, the better we’ll all be.

Some people who disagree with me believe I am racist for not lauding Obama’s right to cash in on the presidency the same way the Clinton and Bush dynasties have. I will never deny the representational and psychological value of having had Obama in the Oval Office and his beautiful black family living in the White House. I always liked the guy immensely, even as I’ve criticized the politician.

But when it comes to the economics of systemic racism, I don’t think anyone should earn $400,000 an hour, and I certainly don’t worry about criticizing black people also earning that obscene sum. I’m much more concerned with factors of economic racism such as why white people have 12 times the wealth of black people; why black families would need to work 228 years to build the wealth of white families; why the median wealth of single black women is $5 and how the economic crash of 2008 was an apocalyptic theft of wealth from black homeowners to Wall Street which was never prosecuted.

Enter President Obama. As Robert Jones Jr, the writer and creator behind Son of Baldwin, noted, it’s significant that Obama’s first big talk was to a Wall Street gathering, considering it’s “the same Wall Street that he used our money to bail out and, in return, instead of lowering our credit interest rates and raising our savings interest rates, that same Wall Street raised our credit interest rates and lowered our saving interest rates for what was the definition of ungrateful”.

 Barack Obama has a powerful voice. He shouldn't use it for paid speeches


Like so many people, when I campaigned for Obama before I was a journalist in 2008, I wanted him to take on the specific and persistent racial inequalities generated by American capitalism. I had read Dreams From My Father and hoped, once in office, this thoughtful writer about race would directly address economic racism. But the 2009 bailout, and Obama’s subsequent failure to pursue any significant prosecutions related to it, should have taught us all that racial economic justice just wasn’t Obama’s main priority.

We hoped, maybe in a second term, he’d come out swinging on systemic racism. But when Mike Brown’s killing in Ferguson ignited a rebellion, Obama looked very uncomfortable when he had to pause his Martha’s Vineyard vacation to address the ugly truths of American policing, as he did again when Brown’s killer was not even indicted. He never visited St Louis after that.

Still, some of us so desired our first black president to lead a Martin Luther King-like charge against the “giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism and militarism” that we hoped maybe, perhaps, after he left office, he’d really speak his mind. It was naive of me, but after I saw Obama speak in person about his My Brother’s Keeper initiative here in New York, I fantasized that he’d spend his days out of office working with young black people in a similar way that Jimmy Carter builds houses for Habitat for Humanity.

Instead, it seems like Obama will spend his post-presidency hauling in money as the Clintons have. I don’t believe even under the guise of philanthropy that speaking to banks helps ameliorate economic racism; it certainly doesn’t help the Democrats electorally.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe in his heart, Obama’s project was racial and economic justice, even if the evidence suggests otherwise. However, that was indisputably never the project of the people he hired.


Rahm Emanuel left the Obama White House to become mayor of Chicago, where he’s tried hard to bust the teachers’ unions and has presided over one of the most overtly racist police departments in the country. David Plouffe left for Uber, which is attacking the labor rights of taxi drivers the world over, while Robert Gibbs went to McDonald’s, which lobbies against an increase in the minimum wage. All of these things hurt the working poor, who are disproportionately non-white.

But the most egregious post-Obama job may have gone to Eric Holder, who returned to the very same law firm he worked at before he became Attorney General. That firm represents several banks which stole black wealth via subprime loans that then crashed the market in 2008 – none of which were prosecuted by Holder or Obama.

There isn’t a day I don’t look at 45 and wish 44 was still with us. Sometimes I think back to how my sister Sharron came home from Occidental College in the early 1980s. She was politicized about divesting from South Africa, because she’d heard one of her classmates, a young man with an afro named “Barry” , give a rousing speech about it.

My sister is now long passed, and “Barry” left the presidency just over a 100 days ago. But when he left the Oval Office for the final time – leaving it in the tiny hands of the very racist who had demanded his birth certificate – I fantasized that he’d join us on the front lines of marches, battle for the salvation of Obamacare in ingenious ways, and maybe turn up at a Black Lives Matter event.

But this was all a fantasy. The high-paid speeches were a sign that Obama’s post-presidency will, like his presidency was, be Democratic business as usual. And that means not radically altering the racial injustices of American economics.

POEM: HER LIPS ARE AS SOFT AS A ROSE

You came to me like an angel
   falling down from heaven
You covered me up with your wings
   and pulled me closer to your heart
Until I became part of your soul
There was no way out...
I didn't want out...
You protected me with every single feather
Filled me up with warmth and tenderness
A sensational feeling I have never felt before
I wanted to love you like you loved me

For once in my life I can
Say that I am in love and
No one can make me doubt it.
Love has finally found me
And cupid's arrow has
Made a direct hit.

For once in my life I can say she is
Mine and no one will be able to take
Her away from me.
This is the lady that I have 
Waited for, ever-so patiently.

For once in my life this
Is what I have been searching for 
From the time I knew that love really exists.
In my lifetime I will never
Find another love such as this.

For once in my life I have
Found someone that is special in every way.
She is like a fresh breath of Sunshine on a cold wintry day.
I am so glad that God sent Her my way.

For once in my life all my hopes and dreams
Are being fulfilled, 
it started the moment that she walked into my life.
Now that she is here there will never be any more goodbyes.

For once in my life I can raise my head up and walk proud
For her love puts me on a natural high.
There are no more dark nights since she came into my life, 
only blue skies.

For once in my life I can safely trust someone again,
In my life there has been so much heartache and pain.

She is as sweet as a Georgia Peach,
And as breathless as the
Sun that shines on a cool autumn day, 
and chases all the chills away.

Her lips are as soft as a Rose, 
and as gentle as the fresh  morning air.

She is pure as the white snow 
that covers the ground in the wintertime.
And her beauty makes you forget about all your troubles 
and leave them behind, for that is the way she is.

For once in my life I can say 
I am really happy,
For the dream I have sought is now a reality.