xenomorphous laws (1-21)

The “Xenomorphous Laws” are scattered thoughts about this blog in relation to my second book “Xenomorphine” (The Bonesetter’s Revenge, Book2).  I’ll adapt these laws and change them over time.  I’m not exactly sure where this is going yet, and like any good xenomorph, this will change faces and stances and places throughout this journey.  “Xenomorphine” is the title of my second book, and while I have much content already written for the book, I still have a lot to craft to provide cement to the story.  I hope these are as wise as they are entertaining.

Xenomorphous Laws (1-21)

1. This will change you, and you will learn to love it.

2. Few journeys end the same place they start. 

3. Everyone dies young–the good, the bad and the ugly.

4. Listen to your heart, before it buys an aluminum bat and beats you into submission.

5. If you spend your life drunk, your memory box at the end of the flight will be a blur of stupid fights, bad decisions and moments you wished you had back.

6. Don’t alter your life knowing that number 5 is your destiny. Your crash will probably involve Alzheimer’s anyway, and you won’t remember your name when it’s time to surrender your ticket or be locked in an infernal prison.

7/ Wise men jump; scared men calculate the distance of fall.

8. Trust the crazies; the sane have ridden the roller coaster too few times.

9. If the cart ends up before the horse, teach your horse how to push.

10. Life is mostly about timing; you may not control the chaos of events, but you can make sure that you’re at the right place at the right time to let serendipity balance the clock.

11. Little is experienced from staying inside.  Unless a barstool is your friend, then you will experience more than a little bottom-side growth from your stay.

12. If love doesn’t work, like a lot. Something is better than nothing.

13. Stop reminding yourself that you’re alone.  Most of the planet is in the same sad state you are, and would rather not be reminded of their misfortune.

14. We are alien to this place and always have been.

15. You are alien to this place, but so is everybody else.

16. Make love, not news.

17. Make waves, not dust.

18, Make truth, not lies.

19. If you’re just a “plus one” for anyone, you’re minus one within.


20. When all else fails, cut your own hair.

21. Don’t take things so personally.

    the last crash

    Today’s Lesson (early edition):   Time eventually crashes every airship, regardless of whether or not the crew knows how to operate its controls.


    My friend Kiki’s father is dying.  Perhaps weeks away from his own death.  He’s an older, tallish man who raised a strong family, but is now weakened by his failing body–overworked heart making up for failing kidneys.  On dialysis, he has months to live; without it, not long.  Kiki’s siblings are converging in this area this weekend so the father can estate plan with the three of them.  It is a gruesome, real story about a man at the end of his life.  I am truly saddened for my friend Kiki, whose father is on the verge of saying “Good Bye”.

    But we all have our ways out of this place.  Some know their route; others enjoy the ride with blissful ignorance.  Either way, his end is imminent.  Near the end of our conversation, I gave her a compliment for being there for her father near the end of his days. I suppose it’s common sense that we would be there for the passing of our parents, hopefully to comfort them into their exit door.  We should expect such reciprocal treatment from our children and loved ones.

    We gave each other a painful look when we both realized that neither of us would probably have such generous care.  She’s married, in her 50s, with no children.  Men die first in marriages; it’s almost a statistical given.  I am not as far down the path as she is, but have sparse family and no offspring to speak of.  I’m not middle aged, but I’m of the age where a midlife crisis is plausible.  Even possible.  The reality is when we make our individual exists, at the end of our long and winding road, the odds of us departing without loving, caring, lifers around us to pillow our fall is pretty small.

    I write these words and they automatically seem whiny.  “Poor me for not having planned better”, I hear myself complain in my head. I compare myself to the success of my friends, old and new, and wonder how I got plopped on this runway, in this cabin with this crew. The words do seem a touch defeated and hopeless.  we’re not dead, and there is time for us to make sure there is at very least a sweet looking stewardess for the final ride. But how does one not lament the empty plane, the rows of silent seats and a cargo hold devoid of comforting memories?  Life was simpler–not less difficult, just more direct–in the era of Kiki’s father.  The path to “The Dream” was not as complicated and convoluted, with competition attacking your stability from every global angle.  Roles, though resulting in far less freedom, were far more defined and clear.  Every time I got used to a persona or familial role, circumstances changed my course.

    Or I got too drunk to understand the map.  And so did the pilot.

    Or maybe I’m just making excuses for my failures, or the streak of longitudinal choices that didn’t go my way.  Maybe I’m saving all my luck up for that final clearance, for one final shot with the stewardess before my departure.

    The best thing about life on the main runway is that you don’t have to contemplate heavy questions like these. The people who are lucky enough to have the common path don’t have to ride through the turbulence with a window seat at 2am and no one else around you. Yes, the truth is that everyone dies alone, and odds are good that we won’t be able to determine where we are and who will be around us when we pass on.  We all return to the same dark window we original flew through.  But if at the last moment, which comes swiftly for all of us, there is no one to keep us company, was the trip worth it at all?

    Time eventually crashes every airship, regardless of whether or not the crew knows how to operate its controls.  Today, I’m thinking that I haven’t prepared well for the last crash.

    gaining it back

    Two months ago I weighed 147 pounds.  I now weigh close to 167.  Twenty pounds isn’t that dramatic of a swing, except when you’re living in a state next to skeletal. Over the Fourth of July holiday, I vacationed in Vegas.  While memorable for many reasons that aren’t positive, I turned a strange corner there:  I looked at myself in the mirror and realized how gaunt I had become.  Through a commitment to vegetarianism to get my weight down and address other health concerns, I forgot what it meant to eat.  I had backed myself into a nutritional comfort corner where nothing was enjoyable.  And, unlike previous phases in my life where health conditions whittled me away without my consent, I was fully responsible for the bony visage I was becoming.  It’s what I thought people wanted me to be; specifically, what girls wanted me to be.

    My epiphany came from wandering the streets alone in Vegas.  No one should feel alone in Vegas, not naturally.  And when I saw the withered reflection of myself in that dark mirror, the truth was undeniable.

    This path wasn’t working.

    So I changed.  In a matters of days, I brought back my old ways, went from vegetarian to omnivore.  My body didn’t fight back.  Overall, my energy levels increased in the coming weeks.  I gained weight fast in the places where I needed it.  The skeletal frame I had become filled itself back out, wrapped tightly in the dead flesh of other creatures.

    I went from living at peace with the natural world… to consuming it.