In Search of Gumption

01. Check In #1 : Good Bye

"Would you like to start this time?" "Yes, let me just put my phone away. What is that, a joint?" "No it is Palo Santo. It’s incense that helps keep evil spirits away." "Oh wonderful." "Ughh, I know what you are thinking, just surrender to this smell…

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3 years ago · 1 like · Omar Shaker

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Warm Hearts

and blinking lights,

bursting with fire,

and dancing to the tunes

that their souls' desire.

.

Flow and spinning

to every sun up

and each sunset,

over the mountains

and into the edge

of the universe,

.

and holding 

everyone in it,

with love

and compassion

and joy

and triggers.

.

Triggers left and right,

beautiful distractions

and people poking each other

every day and night,

.

bumping into one other

on the dance floor,

that is their lives.

.

The people poke and

the dust blinds,

the sun crushes,

and the chafing lips

hurt.

A lot!

.

No showers,

pissy moods,

and things

not working

as they should.

.

Low reserves,

quenching thirst,

smell of sweat,

and ammonia,

and playa dust,

and our hopes and dreams,

all spiral into a dusty vortex

of growth.

.

Needs will be met,

but wants will be 

*very* ignored.

.

This revolution will

not be televised,

because TV can't handle

how important

this is. 

.

May we rise

into the deep

playa's storm

of confusion

and emerge

on the other side

dusty and

dirty and

hungry

.

for our collective yearning

.

for peace,

and love

and an improved

human condition. 

.

In the end,

all that matters is:

What will you take 

with you

beyond the

trash fence?

!

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I am the warmth of the sun. 
I am the desolate cold depths of the ocean. 
I am the stillness of the mountains. 
I am the roaring engine of a dune buggy. 

I am the swirls of dirt it makes in the sand as it cuts through it. 
I am the capricious waves of the Atlantic. 
I am the lazy current of the Russian River. 
I am the one who knows that the Russian River is in California. 

I am the facts. 
I am the bullshit that we are fed to distract us from them. 
I am the righteous leader of the Bolshevik revolution. 
I am the liberator of the free world with democracy. 

I am the blind destruction of families and homes. 
I am the fire that burns these homes to ashes. 
I am the rains that wash the ashes back into the rivers.
I am the injustice of the world. 

I am the gluttony of the oligarchy, the ruthlessness of cancer, and at the same time…
I am the healing and divine touch of God. 
I am the vaccinated. 
I am the unvaccinated. 

I am the son who is estranged from his father, and 
I am the father who is trying the best he possibly fucking can. 
I am the mother and 
I am the pain she carries in holding the world together. 

I am Maskat’s radiating curiosity. 
I am Maskat’s blind anger, and 
I am his awkward love. 
I am Maskat’s ecstatic existence, and 

I am his depressing despair. 
I am optimistic love. 
I am cynical fear. And 
I am everything in between. 

I am sitting here in the past
typing these words
and there you are in the future
reading them on a screen.

We're not in the same room,
you don't even hear my voice
Technically, I never said
these words at all.

These ideas are
being channeled 
through my soul,
to yours

I can't take credit 
for writing them,
and you can't take credit 
for reading them.

Together,
we are bound
in a moment of time,
just long enough
for your eyeballs 
to scroll
and scan
and scroll
and scan, 
these thoughts that I 
have recorded for you
once upon a time ago.

Once upon a time,
there was a pain 
in my chest.
I could not face it
so instead 
numbed it good
every way I could.

And one day, the thoughts
swirled up into 
a heap of dust!
It dulled my brain
and exaggerated my lust.

I was lost
in the heap 
of ideas
and felt robbed 
of emotions.
I locked myself up
and threw 
away 
the 
key.

But then one day
there was a paper
and next to it 
a ballpoint pen!
A soul of light 
bounced through 
the window 
of my eye.

"Write, write" a voice then said
"document these thoughts
for when they're on paper
they stop being mindblocks.

And through your fingers,
your demons will rise
and you shall transmute 
them into fine 
tunes 
and 
images.

And if someone happens
to read them one day
then they too shall
dance with the melodies,
exorcize their maladies,
and one day the world
will be
healed."

And if not,
well then at least
we are doing
magic.

Coffee is a 

wonderful

and legal

drug.


I depend on it

to tolerate you,

and the horror

of a morning sun.


I hated the smell as a kid,

but grew fond of its magic 

as an adult.

It made my father

approve of me,

when I fixed him

his cup.


Then in college

I thought I’d try it,

just to see

what the big deal 

was about.


Zing Zing

Zap Zap

Fireworks in

my brain!


Once again,

I  tolerate you and

I feel a little bit 

less insane.


The more I drink,

the more I work,

the less I feel,

the more I do.


Move on soldier

the machine can’t run itself.

Production, Marketing 

Selling and Farting!


Drink more and one day

we’ll make you

head of your own 

department.


These are the words

that lie 

above 

their mouse traps.


They make me think I’m worthwhile

then pull away the warm blanket.

They give me the tit,

and take it away 

before I am fed, and before

I have found my angle. 


So when they’re gone

when all is lost,

when stupid shit

is a part of my past.


I still have coffee

to turbo charge 

what ever is left

for me to care about.


Now that I am old enough

and have the cash

to buy a better cup,

now that I’ve been around 

the world enough

to know that 

you’ve

been

serving

me

brown

water!



Now I’ll make my own coffee,

thank you very much.

No more Nescafe,

no more instant,

trigger happy,

bullshit. 


I’ll have a pour over, 

that’s a french roast

and organic!

With hints of hazelnut

and a dash of almond milk.


Ooooh what is that

Huye Mountain!

Where? Oh my god, Rwanda! 

Wait till my friends hear!

Maybe I’ll get me some of that.


Fair trade? Oh that feels good

makes my insides tingle

and tickles my fancy 

quite a bit!


No wait! I think I found it:

Guatemala San Sebastian!

Oh, yes that is the one.

A cup of that everyday

through eternity

and we can perhaps

reverse all what 

the white man

has done.


Yes pour me one

over the beans that

some native woman

uh -sorry- woman of color 

has plucked

from the field

with her bare hands

and sown the seeds

after her family 

had planted and

had broken their backs

over hundreds of years

to get me that turmeric

coconut Guatemala

pour over

on my big 

fat 

leather

couch.



I sip it and 

think of the Amazon,

not knowing that

it has nothing to do

with Guatemala. 


I don’t really care

where it is from.

What is important

is that it is strong

and that I get my kick

and that I am happy

and that I can tolerate you

once again.


Zing Zing

Zap Zap

Let’s get to work


Churn Churn

Look!

Bling Bling

We know you want it bad.

Suddenly I believe their lies 

and I am way too wired

to be sad.


Now I can be a smiling person

and promise to refrain,

from earlier thoughts

about killing

the people

that I 

work 

with

and

myself.

Just like Shabbat,
and Church on Sundays,
Muslims have Fridays
to pray and be nice. 

My dad and I
would go together,
like every father
and son in the hood.

I hated the mosque
and before you kill me,
listen to my strictly
practical reasons. 

First of all, my shoes always
got stolen, but also,
I had to stand awkwardly
next to my dad. 

I’d stare at the boys,
in silence we circled,
and listened to the
parents talk about the weather.

Oh this oh that! 
Get me out of here
this ugly kid
is killing me. 

But Friday afternoons,
they were quite  special,
just my father and I,
away and together 

buying newspapers,
eating Persian bread,
Times I now cherish
being so far away.

Then I would ask him
the weirdest questions
And he would strategically 
hide his dread.

Like once I asked him:
Is religion even real?
We all need it, son
And it's the whole deal. 

That
Didn't
Make
Sense!

Islam to me 
was a video game
Developed by God, and
installed by my parents

I was into winning 
and I must ace it
like every other 
act. 

But soon the play
became quite old
and fresher thoughts
entered my brain.

Some may say 
I was Westernized
by Classic Rock
and South Park.

I argued, I fought
I won many battles
but lost great friends
and felt quite battered.

I wasn’t an atheist
or maybe i just dabbled
but realized that they
are equally terrible.

So I rested with my
indifference to the answer
and stayed cozy and warm
in my echo chamber.

Then one day 
I heard  me say 
horrible things
to myself. 

I felt alone and 
not quite right.
And suddenly a mountain
and a zooming out.

At some point,
I stopped thinking
and started intuiting,
And felt connected  

To other humans,
to the birds,
to the trees,
to the Earth.

I might have taken 
a tab of acid,
or maybe grandma
was praying hard for me.

But the point is that,
I transcended the
layers of bullshit that
have us stuck. 

So it was me
And the mountains 
And the desert and
The Big Ol’ Sun. 

The divine mystery,
I was reminded of.
Angelic sounds 
were here to show me

Yes, you are loved. 
You are not separate. 
You are not against. 
You are with!

You are protected.
God speaks to all.
Each and every one of us
is connected to

each and every one of us. 
Amen, 
Aho, and 
Ohmmmm.

Say what you say,
dance how you may,
just know when you judge me,
that you’ve gone astray.

God doesn’t care,
she’s everywhere,
and isn’t waiting
for your masturbation

to make sure 
that her 
day’s work 
was worth it.

So just do the thing
that lights you up,
and find a community
that opens you to

your deepest 
intuition.
Go for Renaissance 
not Prohibition.

May you be peaceful
May you be kind
May you be free from suffering
May you be fulfilled.

In your work,
in your relationships,
in your spirituality,
and in your purpose.

Amen.

Art is making
something
out of
nothing.
It doesn’t have
to be hard.
Here,
I’ll show you.

Art is a stick figure
drawn by a kid
on the back
of a napkin,
a silly dance
in the kitchen,
or singing Whitney
in the shower.

Art is a war
inside of you
and showing up 
is your only weapon.
It is you,
and your feelings,
splattered 
on a messy canvas

Art is a healing way
that allows you
to see,
feel
and express
despite 
the shittiness
of it all!

Art is a song
sung together
on a warm
summer night,
around a fire,
with friends
and lovers,
and guitars.

Art is your gift 
wrapped in 
shiny blue paper,
with a gold ribbon
and a card,
with a love note,
a smiley face
and a big heart.

Art is how
your body 
wraps itself
around mine.
Art is gazing
into your eyes
and seeing
the world.

Art is a path
that guides 
you over 
the river 
of doubt, 
and into 
the ocean of
wild uncertainty.

Art is a red rose,
and a pink daffodil
that you stole 
from a garden,
after smelling them
and assorted both
neatly
into a green leaf.
 
Art is for you, 
the artist!
And when I see 
what you've
created,
and appreciate it,
I become 
an artist too.

Forget rhyme
forget reason,
art is everywhere
and for everyone.
It is not confined, 
or defined, and art
leaves no one
left behind.

Art is a tango
between you
and the human
condition.
Witness the waves,
and transform 
the pain into 
a gorgeous splash.

It doesn’t have
to be hard.
I hope I 
convinced you.
So go now 
and create
something
out of nothing.

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Recap:

Zelda is a rich tycoon who has been deserted by his life partner, and finds himself in his 100 acre land. He is troubled by a few things: the soil isn't producing this year and the wretched loneliness is eating him alive.   

In Part I - Magician, Zelda is visited by his daughter who takes him on an expected journey of self-discovery. What he finds deep in his subconscious prepares him for Part II - King, where he faces his wife's death and realizes that it is time to release old grudges, and rebuild. 

Today's part III by Khaled, takes is into his past, in an almost different world, in a half-remembered dream, where he is a different Zelda and this is his story....

Part III. Notes On Therapy [Lover]

The room smelled just as he expected, musty and dank; the walls were yellow from years of lingering smoke, if desperation ever needed a dictionary refresh, this place was it. Appropriate he thought because desperation was about all he felt when he decided to join SLAA (Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous). He always fancied himself a freethinker and above the mindless conformist drivel shoveled in those kinds of meetings, but he had to admit, he was powerless in the face of his disease and he needed help.

“Hey, my name is a Zelda and I am an addict” he said when a ball was handed to him indicating his turn to speak.

“Hey Zelda” the chorus replied.

“Longtime fan, first time caller” his attempt at humor fell on deaf ears, the crowd here gets off on truth, anything else is seen as deflection and is summarily rejected.

He squirmed a bit in his chair looking at the floor, trying to muster the courage to look the people around him in the eye, when he finally did, to his surprise, he found warm, all-knowing smiles looking back at him. They have seen it all before, they know that to be here is to have hit rock bottom, often multiple times. He got the feeling nothing he says will shift that smile from their faces, there may not be honor among thieves but there seems to be kinship amongst the broken.

“I am here because of what my girlfriend said as she dragged her bags out of our 5 year relationship, she said that I am a monster disguised as a a human being, that I feed on people’s affection and give nothing back, she said that she has never felt more alone than when we were together, she also said that if I have any shred of humanity left that I should kill myself but I think that last part she didn’t mean or maybe she I did, I am not so sure anymore but what I do know for sure is what she said before that was the God’s honest truth, I am a monster; a charming, manipulative, insecure monster that demands love but is himself incapable of either receiving or reciprocating it”

Nobody in the room said a word but then again, he didn’t expect anyone to. He just saw the same plastered smiles except they seemed to get wider, as if to say “you are not done, are you?! This is just getting good” oh these sick fucks he thought, they are really getting off on this but it was too late for him now, he knew he would oblige.

“I honestly had never thought about it in quite those terms until she said it, but it is of course true, and more than that, it makes perfect sense; I was sexually abused as a child, my mom’s love language was the belt and I never knew my old man because he died when I was four, where in this shit soup do you get healthy, loving adult?”

That sounded to him a lot like self-pity and he got angry with himself but it didn’t stop him.

“I thought because I didn’t cheat on her like I did in my other relationships that I was doing great, that I was getting better at least, but that just made it worse, because in my mind she now owed me for my loyalty, and I could justify the abuse and neglect from the comfort of my high horse.”

“Looking back, I truly wish that I did cheat, at least then I might have felt guilty, and from there I know it is only a short stroll to being resentful which is where the fun really starts because that’s when I become truly insufferable leaving her with no choice but to leave. But at least that cycle is known and it is short. I would have spared that poor girl five years laboring in emotional hell”

He was surprising himself as he talked, he wasn’t working an angle, trying to win over a crowd, he was being completely honest with himself in a room full of strangers. This was unchartered water and  fear started to creep in, he was willingly giving up control, asking others to form impressions about him that he didn’t deliberately cultivate, he started to also feel untethered to reality; shadows from his past darkened the room around him, memories from his childhood, long under lock and key, started impinging on his psyche.

This was a defining moment in his life and he knew it, there were places in places in his mind he dared not go, but he also knew that if he had any chance at getting better, that is where he needs to start.

“The truth is, gentlemen, that I truly despise myself, and it makes not one scintilla of difference that I have the world to blame for it, the world may have shat on my face but I am the one that has to smell it every day. Love to me is an excuse to dump my pain on someone else and watch as they drowned trying to save me. If I am being honest, I don’t think I have ever loved anyone but I had to delude myself into believing that I did, because only through the magical redemptive, quality of love could I justify the pain that I put all of them through” he snickered as his mind wondered to all the times he said I love you as they were nearly at the door, about to leave him, about to save themselves from his trap…

“NO, the truth is I so desperately wanted to believe that a woman’s love was enough, that I could grow to see myself the way they see me, but I think I realized a long time ago that that wasn’t possible, only instead of accepting it, I chose to bury the truth deep within myself.

I became frantic from that point on, I became addicted. I binged on the affection of wonderful women but invariably, it was only a matter of time before their affection wasn’t enough and the cracks in my soul started to rupture and the demons found their way to the surface, I would get mean and vengeful then, angry at them that their love didn’t cure me, I felt betrayed, I allowed my delusions to justify my behavior and my behavior got worse and worse, I justified cheating, emotional withholding, emotional abuse verbal abuse, I justified it all because they were choosing to see me suffer, they could cure me if only they wanted to, if only they loved me deeply enough, hard enough, sincerely enough”

He started feeling sick as he was talking, like the truth was a new drug he just ingested and it was not agreeing with him, he felt sweat dripping from the back of his neck, he could see his charcoal grey button-up frantically heaving in front of him and the white polka dots that festooned his shirt earlier were now freely swimming in it. He got up as fast as he could and barely made it to the bathroom before he emptied his guts in an empty stall.

“Guys, I am sorry, I don’t feel too good, I think I am gonna go, thank you for lending an ear, hopefully I will see you all soon” he wasn’t even embarrassed when he made his way back to the group, he just felt depleted; emotionally and intestinally empty.

Before he could turn to leave, he felt a hand on his shoulder, looking back, he saw a man in his late fifties, bald, with a large beard wearing that same smile from earlier “better here than alone right now, trust me” but Zelda knew himself enough to know that he needed to be by himself now, come what may, and then it was his turn to put on that all-mighty smile.

“I think I just need some fresh air” he slowly made his way to the door and he was out.

The weeks that followed were the bleakest that Zelda ever lived through; admitting the truth to himself was not the freeing, exhilarating experience he hoped it would be, if anything, he felt even worse, his mind no longer gave him shelter from the demons that now assailed his thoughts with impunity. He took off the mask and with it, all the protection that self-deception afforded, now he was face to face with his true self for the first time and it was horrifying.

His first instinct was to numb himself, he frantically rummaged through his drawers looking for molly, he knew he had some somewhere, it has been years since he last rolled, the last time they had just started dating and they were happy still. He kept looking for a while but eventually gave up, he was only delaying the inevitable. If he didn’t at least try to face his addiction head on, to give himself a real shot at getting better, it all would have been for nothing, plus he thought the come down would for sure kill him now. He went to bed and dosed off after a while into an uneasy sleep.

Spending the following two weeks between the bedroom and the bathroom, he had fully succumbed to depression, he started stalking her on social media, punishing himself as he obsessed over her pictures with friends, he imagined her out on dates, laughing and whispering sweet nothings into a new guy’s ear, he even started stalking every girl he has ever been with imagining them all happy without him. His mind was determined to break him, he pushed her away, he pushed all of them away and now that he is all alone, he is desperate for connection.

“Fucking enough with this already!!!!” he started screaming to himself

“I am not getting better, just because I am not calling her doesn’t mean I am fighting this shit”

“I am killing myself here”

“This is fucking pathetic!!!”

“I’d rather you kill yourself you piece of shit than wallow in this misery for one more fucking day” that last sentence scared him stiff but even that was a welcome change to the madness grating his mind.

“Yes that’s right, if you don’t stop this shit,  you might as well kill yourself”

He fell quiet.

There is too many fucking hours in the day he noticed his handwriting when he looked down at his new, leather-bound journaling notebook, he also started meditating recently and volunteering three times a week at the animal shelter and working out 2 hours a day, every day.

When he first started this new self-improvement routine, he was euphoric, he felt like he was finally on the mend, that night in his home with the knife to his wrist felt like a distant memory now, if he takes care of mind and body. If he keeps himself busy with good deeds and healthy living, it will all take care of itself.

But as he sat there staring at what he unconsciously jotted down in his journal, he starting to notice the patterns in everything he did: the binging, the elusive high, the ever increasing need for more, the emptiness afterwards .Whether it was relationships, personal development or even misery, there is nothing that he couldn’t abuse or turn into an addiction. This merry go round will never end, he is bound to keep on living through this hellscape forever, he will never escape, it is futile to hope that things will ever change for him, that was the last thought he remembers before finding the knife.

Life has always been painful for him, and it never played fair, he never intended on being the person he ultimately became; bitter and broken; but he never really had much of a choice. He always knew that much but rather than fixate on how unjust and miserable it all has been, he felt himself getting lighter, his mind started to project unto him flashbacks from the past; his father dying, his mom transforming from the sweet loving woman into a ball of stress and anxiety that she ultimately became.

He saw the abuse that he witnessed at the hands of his step-dads, the beatings he received all throughout school, all the women he loved that ended up leaving. It all played as a collage of horrors, only this time he didn’t flinch, he just sat there eyes wide open, and the more he sat, the less scary the images became and like a carousel, each time they passed through, the villains in his story, they started to smile at him.

They didn’t speak to him but he knew what they were saying without words

“It is not your fault little buddy, you can let go of the guilt and shame that you have been carrying all  your life. It was never about conquering us, you can never defeat a shadow, just let us go my friend, just lay us down and walk away, and if others come again to visit, do with them as you did with us: Smile and tell them that it is okay.

Tell them it is no more their fault than it is yours, nobody picked their path in life, we are all meeting along this mystery plane, plucked from the unknown and thrust unto an existence we didn’t chose or understand.

Just nod, smile and carry on my friend, we will all meet again somewhere new, we will be you and you will be us, just remember we are all wandering spirits embodying shells we find along the way, we are no more our shells than the heavens is its own maker”

Zelda’s tears flowed into a river, and in it, he was bathed and born anew, he felt peace for the first time in his life. He woke up in a hospital room, this time he knew he will see this merry go round through.

Thanks for reading! 🙏

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Yes, More Archetype Stories!

Cool, but let’s switch gears and do something else!

This is part of a series of short stories that cover the archetypes. These are the nucleus of all of human being’s “collective unconscious”. They govern our psychology, behavior, development and fantasy. This is all towards a bigger effort of writing a novel that inspires better health. If you are not subscribed, click below to get our weekly posts in your inbox.

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Recap: 
In Part I [Magician] of these short stories, we learned that Zelda is a rich tycoon who has been deserted by his wife and the land of his 100-acre ranch has not been fertile ever since. 

As he wonders what is wrong with the soil, he gets a surprise visit from his daughter who reminds him that it is his 65th birthday, and offers him five grams of psilocybin mushrooms. 

Zelda ends up going on a journey to the underground, where he meets Osiris the god of fertility and he shows him what he’s been running from. 

Part II. Vasilis [King]

Osiris disappeared into the rocks of the cave. The sound of thunder struck from the outside, and water started filling the cave. Two ravens descended from the cistern’s opening where the light came from. Their wings were a bouquet of green leaves and orange flowers. ‘Great Spirit Great Spirit’, they chanted in concerto.

Each raven flew to one of Zelda's shoulders, and carried him up towards the light. They went through the roots, into the soil, and above the ground. Zelda saw patches of green grass above him transform into the white hairs of the rabbit's back.

He smelled the incense and knew that he was back home with Sandra. He opened one eye, and Sandra removed the blindfold with her smiling dimples. He was ecstatic to see her two eyes. He recited the whole deal to her over a light dinner that she cooked.

He couldn’t sleep that night until sunrise. He had not done that in decades. He walked out barefoot into the garden. He admired how beautiful the golden arrows of sunshine were as they rose. He looked into the house, and by the window, lay an old wrench flat on the wooden shelf. The sun rays trickled through the window and created a golden aura around it. He smiled with a sense of contentment and possibility.

As Zelda approached the house, a raven croaked with delight as it did during sunrise. The raven belted out its cry as it flew over Zelda’s head; a head filled with a newborn curiosity. For you see, Zelda began experiencing a wonder about the things of the land, sea, and sky. It replaced the previous day’s contempt for the same that would manifest (loudly and brightly) during precious sleeping hours.

Zelda’s eyes followed the raven, and soon a glowing orb of warmth under his diaphragm urged him to follow that bird1. As if it knew it was being followed by a mere land-walker, the raven paused every 100 feet, waiting for Zelda to catch up. “Was this one of Osiris’ ravens?”, he thought before quickly stopping himself.

Zelda knew where the line was between a drug-induced hallucination and the plane of reality. He appreciated his moments with the mushrooms. He appreciated the beauty, the terror, the expansiveness, and the feeling of calm that now flourished in his being.

However, Zelda did indeed know where that line was.

But Zelda also knew that he was beginning to question everything he thought he knew. “I’m following a Raven through 100-acres of dead oak trees”, he pondered with a calm but tepid resolution. The oak grove that populated the majority of his estate had withered away over the years, leaving towering fossils of what was once a living and breathing arboretum. But even surrounded by the botanical undead, the air was still crisp. The aroma of jasmine infected the air, a decade after the last flower had bloomed.

The raven landed on a curious birdhouse nailed onto a random oak in the grove. It was the birdhouse he and Melanie, his ex-wife, had built with Sandra when she was a little girl. During the last seconds of the Great Melanie Purge of 2021, Zelda couldn’t seem to part with this one beautifully asymmetrical item. It reminded him of a time when Melanie was his partner in crime; a memory that stung as an icy-cold shower in winter. Despite the dark shadow it cast upon Zelda’s warm sunrise; it also reminded him of his precious and youngest daughter. Yes, it brought back the moments that actually mattered to him. Memories that stand-out in contrast to a sea of meaninglessness. “Why did I keep it here all these years? But alas, the ravens of Osiris have captured my attention and… what the fuck am I saying?”

The phone vibrated. It was Sandra.

“This doesn’t feel like my usual drug-induced hangover.”

“It’s called an afterglow, dad. Look, I’ll explain later, hurry up and come back! I’m hungry.”

Zelda arrived at the house, carrying the awkwardly-built family relic that the raven led him to.

“Remember this?”

“Is that Hotel Sparrow??”

“Is that what we named it?”

“Dad, how could you forget Hotel Sparrow?! Hotel Sparrow has only the very best accommodations for robins, bluejays, and doves this side of the Sierras. Hotel Sparrrooooooow…”, she began singing the fictional jingle she and her family composed.

“I found myself following a bird through the grove back there. Is that what mushrooms do? Do they compel you to follow birds and other flying things?”

“Well, in a way dad, yes. Remember how I said mushrooms make us see ourselves from outside ourselves? They also help us see everything else from that same greater perspective. We start to recognize the wisdom and magic that exists all around us in nature.”

“So this is… permanent?”

“It can be, if you want it to be. ‘They can put you in the room with Christ, but won’t necessarily keep you there.’2

The aroma of pancakes filled the space and two of them stood in silence.

“Hmm”, Zelda exhaled.

“How does it feel?”

“It feels… different. Good. Warm. Kinder?I almost ran over to shake Billy’s hand this morning.”

“The gardener? Alright, dad, I see you! Mr. Fiorello LaGuardia, champion of the working class! Or are you turning more into a John Muir… hmm…”

Zelda’s cell-phone phone rang. It was Keith, Zelda’s “replacement”, as he was lovingly known. Melanie fell in love with Keith during a 100-day Bikram yoga challenge. Melanie and Keith together completed 100-days of hot, sweaty yoga, and 98-nights of hot, sweaty kama-sutra. Melanie left Zelda for Keith many years back, giving Zelda full custody of the girls. It took years for Zelda and the girls to find their own groove, but eventually a new, fractured normal set in.

The comfort of mutual hostility was interrupted, when Keith and Melanie decided to have a spiritual awakening. Ten days at a vipassana retreat, and just like the brochures promised, their lives were dramatically altered. While attaining humble presence and non-attachment, they also became quite annoying to Zelda. “They smell like patchouli, those two. It’s weird! It's fucking weird!”

Since that retreat, Keith had begun calling Zelda every other Sunday, in the hopes of healing the deep wounds of that whole torrid affair.

Eventually, Zelda stopped picking up the phone, and Keith kept on calling. Like clock-work, at 10 a.m. every other Sunday, the phone would ring. Yet today, he felt like picking up the call. Zelda wasn’t ready to change his life too quickly, lest the vertigo set in prematurely. A man can only take one step at a time, no matter how many mushrooms he consumed the night before.

“Keith again, Dad?”

“Right on cue.”, Zelda replied, now shifting his attention back to the birdhouse.

“He just wants to have peace, dad. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you.”

“Sandra…”

“Dad, you did great.”

“Hon, take Hotel Sparrow”

“No, you keep it. I think it will help with your integration.”

“My what now?”

“Love you.”

Sandra’s arms squeezed around her father’s neck, kissed him on the cheek, and disappeared like a flash. The door slammed, leaving behind 10,000 echoes through the lonely caverns of his castle.

The phone vibrated again. “Keith?”. Keith never called a second time. While this was curious to Zelda, the call remained ignored.

Zelda had fully drifted into the distant past. “Was she unhappy then?” Behold, the trailhead. This question led Zelda down a well-beaten mental pathway, lined with a meticulously-architected series of phrases and questions (like linked cars in a bullet train), shooting him straight to the pits of shameful rage. It went something like this:

“When did the unhappiness start?” → “Was it work?” → “I gave her everything” → “She asked, and I provided.” → “Then she blamed me for not being around.” → “She found something new and shiny to play with.” → “You can’t ask for the world, and pretend it doesn’t come with a cost.” → “How could she do this to me? To us?!” → “She ruined our lives! She fucked it all up!” -> “And I could have stopped it.” → “Fuck, could I have even stopped it?” →“She saved herself from me”

“There is a black sorcerer that will infuse you with more shame and guilt to keep you locked inside of your house. Instead look beyond Zeldaaa, and everything will make sense in due time. You will understand why the soil has been so weak, and why your heart has been so sad.``

Osiris’ voice echoed as it did the night before. As Zelda looked out a nearby window unto the land, the warmth in his belly drew him back outside.

But before he could leave the house, the phone vibrated a third time. A lump in Zelda’s throat materialized. He hadn’t spoken to Keith in two and a half years, since that time Keith asked him if he had his chakras polished. “What could this guy want?”

“Hi Keith”

“Zelda…”

“Yes, Keith. What can I do for you?”

“Melanie’s gone.”

One never knows the moment that can transform the heart of a man. It is never a single moment, but usually a succession of seasons, songs, uncooked meals, lost jobs, rewards credit cards, premature ejaculations, winning teams, crypto sell-offs, and unrequited affections that can lead a person towards automatic detachment. One never knows when this is about to happen.

The sounds of a 144,000 shimmering razors fluttered around Zelda’s head. He oscillated between nausea, relief, confusion, and deep sadness. Wrapping up the call, a now unhinged Zelda stood with a birdhouse in one hand, a phone in the other. Zelda hurled the birdhouse aimlessly across the room. How anticlimactic it was to have the birdhouse land squarely on a decorative pillow, unscathed by Zelda’s wrath. This fortunate act of mercy by this $599.99 West Elm purchase snapped Zelda back into his original aura of temporarily abandoned cool stoicism. Zelda found himself, again, alone in his prison of steel and silicon.

The year was 1999, it was a happy time to be a New Yorker, and a young Zelda was no exception. From the belly of an Irish pub near Gramercy Square, a group of NYU students with fake IDs in hand emerged. They stumbled, celebrating what would be the second of three consecutive championship titles for the New York Yankees. A much younger Zelda walked down Irving Place, arm in arm with the love of his life, a much more alive Melanie Greenfield (of the West Hampton Greenfields). The air was cool and not so windy, appropriate for a late October New York evening. A southern breeze carried faint aromas of car exhaust and pizza. From the bar area was the smell of drunk New Yorkers: a combo of libations and bodily fluids. Together these made the iconic aromas that saturated the Greenwich Village air during the late 90s.

As was the custom, Zelda would take Melanie on extravagant nights out in New York, while the babies stayed with a sitter. “Yes you are the mother of my children, but you’re still the woman I married, and I never want you to forget that.” Memories were still alive of his own mother, raising five boys, and losing her identity in the process. Haunted by his mother’s sadness, Zelda attempted to make sure Melanie did not follow suit. “I will give you everything in this world”, he would tell her.

Melanie would receive Zelda's gifts, even though she didn’t need to be showered with such materialism. She was an up-and-comer in her investment firm, and on her way to make partner. Together, they were making it happen in the big city. But Zelda needed to make more happen than others did. His motivation: to give his family everything. His shadow motivation: even he hasn’t discovered that yet; but we all know who’s running the show here, don’t we?

Like many others during that time, Zelda made enough money to never work again. Eventually, things between the Wall St. power-couple shifted. Their “both of us against the world” ethos began unwinding. The immense torrent of wealth pouring in dissolved the need for a good fight to be fought at all.

Melanie missed the hot days cramped up in a small Forest Hills apartment, having to take two trains to work every day. Adjusting to an easier life felt much more difficult. But she held onto “just you and I, against the world.”

But, the world was too threatening for Zelda.

As the young couple crossed paths with the inebriated celebrants, a cocky sophomore bumped shoulders with Zelda.

“Watch your step, asshole”, he chuckled with his friends.

Zelda’s throat closed up and a flash of heat radiated across his forehead from right to left, and he paused.

“Let’s go”, Melanie suggested as she cocked her head away from the group.

“What’s that hottie doing with that Wall Street hack?”, one of the students blurted out.

“The same reason Steve Tyler fucks. Money, baby! The ultimate beer goggles.”

Did these kids know Zelda? He’d felt more seen than had in a long time; it was uncomfortable.

“Why don’t I shove my rich foot up your bony ass, you little shit”, the reflex kicked in. Zelda took calculated steps towards the group as the shadow took the driver’s seat.

“Zelda, let’s go… now.” Melanie started pulling on his arm.

“Zelda?!” The kids began howling with laughter. “Named after a Nintendo princess?!” The laughter echoed through decades and generations, filling the halls of Zelda’s fragile psyche.

“Oh you wanna piece of a princess?” Melanie shouted, reluctantly joining the confrontation. Things took a turn.

Zelda pinned the sophomore by the neck against the brick facade of the pub and began to squeeze.

“Got anything else to say to me?”.

His friends began pleading to let the sophomore, but no one used any force. It was clear this wasn’t a tough group of kids.

“You’re gonna kill him! Let him go!”, they pleaded.

“Ok, Zelda, let him go. This shit isn’t worth it. Let’s go home!” Melanie insisted.

And her touch on his arm, sent a rush of energy out of his head, and into his belly. He didn’t know what came over him. While it was understandable why he reacted, he didn't comprehend the intensity of it all. While his need to dominate is expressed with finesse and poise in the boardroom, every so often the beast is let loose, untethered and unfiltered.

“Fuck off, trash.” And with a downward force, threw the kid on the ground, where he laid there gasping for air.

“Ron, call the cops.”, one of them shouted.

Zelda began chuckling, all while resisting Melanie's tugs to leave this scene be. “I run this town, kid.” he exclaimed as if he transported himself into John Wayne film. “Giuliani was at my house on Thursday. You know what, I’ll just call them myself.”

Immediately they all ran off, shouting back, cussing, mocking the couple and the entire interaction. Zelda and Melanie stood there, both feeling quite lost and confused. After a time, Melanie tried to break the silence.

“You run this town’?”

“Felt like the right thing to say. It worked didn’t it?”

“And by Giuliani, I think you mean your Aunt Tilly”

“Only the second most powerful force in the five boroughs. Did the Yankees play tonight or something?”

“I'm shocked. Where’s your NYC pride?”

“Meh. I’ve always liked the Red Sox”

“I divorce you”, Melanie snapped back, leading to them both laughing. They held hands again, and walked towards 14th Street where he could hail a cab home.

“81st and Second please”, Zelda instructed the cabbie, and the two inched home through thousands of Yankee fans who poured into the streets.

Zelda pondered on the dead oak trees that populated a land created to forget his now dead wife. How can a man grieve when decades ago he swapped his tears for a payment plan? What would people say at the funeral? A holographic mourner appeared in Zelda’s mind’s eye: “I’m so sorry for your loss”, she says. “Now? Now you’re sorry? I thought she deserved better!”

Sorry for your loss was a condolence delivered 10 years too late.

He thrashed through the sea of fossilized bark, as a numbness grew in his chest. It appeared to be a little twinge at first, but as the seconds trickled by it was an absence of feeling that was growing. He felt the immense pain of absence, the absence of himself, the absence of his presence, or what little of it he had left.

For you see, the center of Zelda’s heart was no more. She left Zelda’s life several years ago, but she remained very much present in Zelda’s being. All those years loving and asana-ing with the hippie-scum who stole her from him. She transformed from being the loving center of his purpose, to the ground zero of his misery. But either way she was the center, and the rock, and the nail. She became the object of his scorn. She became the Nero to his Sebastian, Parasceve, and Photis. And like a controlled demolition, the structures of his psyche disintegrated, as the frame that held it all together turned to ash.

The raven croaked. It wasn’t even sunrise.

A sudden nausea overtook the man. His breath was elevated, his heart: a rapidly beating taiko drum. Beads of sweat began pouring down his back as he ran through the oak grove, only to find himself even more lost. The smell of dead leaves and mint suffocated him, until he could not stand on his own two feet anymore. Like a pair of crash cymbals, Zelda met the earth; and the earth met Zelda. The ground cradled Zelda’s fall like a $599.99 West Elm decorative pillow would meet any discarded object of worth. There was no one left to hate.

With his face in the dirt, he could hear nothing but Osiris’ words. “You will understand why the soil has been so weak, and why your heart has been so sad.” Like a broken spell, a veil was lifted from his eyes. And he saw her. His beautiful wife. He felt the pain of a thousand knives tear at his ribs. The dried, acrid soil was a stark contrast to the succulent life-force of his youth, when he built and plowed. Not just in the boardroom, but Zelda was a force of nature, and could grow anything under the sun. Hard weeks of work in the big city would culminate in weekend getaways upstate. He kept a garden there that fed his family tenfold. The dried, acrid soil reminded him of the feeling in his throat he'd get for being the loudest man in the room. The rivers of play and wonder slowed, and energy repurposes for more important things. But so, his joy dried up years before Melanie left him, this was no secret.

The avatar of a villainous cuckold evaporated from Keith’s image in Zelda’s mind. He then remembered the man who also tilled the earth. He recognized that Keith was was filled with life, and gave Melanie the drink she needed after being parched for so long. He hated Keith for being what he himself couldn't sustain. But that's what made them so close. When Keith’s father died, and he came to live with Zelda and his brothers, they became thick as thieves, as they say. It was the thing that made them more than just family.

“This is the great tragedy,” Zelda said to himself. "That the ghosts I created feel more real than the ground beneath my face." Zelda was right. This was the tragedy of man. Angsty holograms can orchestrate lives, with projections so illuminated that they don’t need screens to be seen.

He knew he had the power to drain his family of life. He knew he made the choices that drove them all away. And he knew full well, he didn’t do it all for them. The dried, acrid soil now hydrated with a steady flow of a fractured man’s tears. The elixir of the courageous, only gifted to those brave enough to face themselves. And the dried acrid soil felt the cool kiss of water upon its cracked face.

Two weeks after the funeral, Zelda stood in his grove of withered trees, gazing back at the mansion he had built. It was an architectural dream. Zelda had hired one of the top architecture firms to realize this vision. He spared no technical detail or expense; any last convenience one would want in their home, he made sure there were 4 of them.

Zelda knew it was time to rebuild his kingdom.

And so he picked up the phone and called a demolition contractor. After that he ordered 144 tons of organic soil (and two tons of mealworms). After that followed phone calls to a lumber yard, a mason, and a chicken breeder.

Zelda decided he was going to rebuild his own house, and he was going to do it with his own two hands. But this would not be a castle of silicon and steel, but a home of wood and brick. Zelda knew this was the only way to feel life in his body again. It didn’t matter that his own fragile mental state, now influenced by psychedelic drugs, may deem this an extraordinarily impractical (and expensive) idea. But nothing mattered to Zelda anyway, so the value assessment on this plan did not bother him in the slightest. Zelda yearned for the feeling of aliveness once again. Zelda remembered his whole story and wanted to live into all that he brazenly threw away.  Zelda decided he was going to rebuild his kingdom but didn’t want to do it alone.  

“Let’s call Keith, and see what he’s up to.”

This is part of a series of short stories that cover the archetypes. These are the nucleus of all of human being’s “collective unconscious”1 that govern our psychology, behavior, development and fantasy. This is all towards a bigger effort of writing a novel that inspires better mental health. If you are not subscribed, click below to get our weekly posts in your inbox.

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Part I. Zelda’s Initiation [Magician]

"Kroaaakeespireet! Kroaaakeespireeet!

Ravens2. Must be two or three of them. They have been disturbing his sleep since she left him three years ago. They were a daily reminder of his loneliness. Every Persian carpet, Dali painting, China cup and chiffon curtain has the same effect. Their dream home has become his house of terror.

Zelda groans in his King-sized bed, as the sun rises to the East of the 100-acre land. Its rays penetrate the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom. He sits up and looks down at the land that had stopped producing vegetables and fruits since she left. She must have cast a spell on it! Another raven croaks. "You fucking thief of sleep!" he tells it.

He watches the gardener play with his son out on the field and wonders if they are happier than he is. He resents life in that moment, and feels it in his chest. He puts on his checkered purple robe and the fuzzy slippers that say "World's Greatest Dad" on them. He walks down the spiral stairs, and pushes the magical button.

“Good morning Zelda. How would you like your coffee today?”

“Double espresso, light roast, extra strong.” He said. It is his only sure way to put his morning demons to rest. The smell of coffee starts filling the kitchen and living room.

“Activate morning news.”

The hologram recites news about cryptocurrency inflation and the water crisis in Africa. Bad news makes him feel better about himself. He swipes right, and a health coach avatar now appears guiding his morning exercise. He snaps his fingers to mute the hologram, and takes his coffee to the rooftop.

The roof is his heaven. He tucks himself away from noises and responsibilities of the land. He tries to ignore the four gigantic winged flamingos that she had chosen to decorate the top of the house with. He sips his coffee and smokes a cigarillo, before hearing the electric gates open. Who could this be?

A green mini-cooper makes its way towards the giant house. Sandra! It must be her! He rushes through the attic, down the spiral stairs, and into the kitchen where the entrance is. The avatar is still doing silent jumping jacks.

“Happy Birthday Dad!” she said. She is wearing a hippie, mandala-like, red and yellow dress. She carries a purple helium balloon that says 65 and a tiramisu cake in the other hand. I forgot my sixty-fifth birthday! He thought to himself.

"Sandra! I missed you baby girl!" He hugged his youngest daughter. She was his favorite, and he felt his grief dissipate the tighter he squeezed her. He was in love with the dimples of her smile, which felt like a divine intervention for his withering old soul. He remembered how she was a saving grace for a life otherwise full of regrets. A life force that gives back for all the years of hard work. They spent a couple of hours catching up about her travels. She recited her magical tales about beaches in Brazil, trees in Argentina, and dance in Colombia.

"I wanted to get you something special for your 65th birthday, Daddy"

"Oh you didn't have to, Princess, it is enough that you are here…"

She starts talking about healing ceremonies that she attended in Peru. "It cured anxieties that I had for ages!" she said.

"Sandra, as a reputable psychologist, you don’t believe the quackery of these Shamans do you?"

"What if I told you that life is a hallucination? And that psychedelics were the only way to see the actual fabric of reality?"

"I would say that my daughter has gone completely insane!"

"Well we both know who I take that from."

"Yes of course, your mom!"

She laughed with a snort and he felt a lot of pride in still being able to make her laugh.

"Mom is still at her bank job. You are the maniac who lives alone on this 100-acre ranch. You are the one who drives buggies into the game to hunt wild boars and climb insane mountains."

"What is wrong with that?"

"Dad, I look up to you. You have done everything in this world. What I am proposing to you is an internal journey this time!"

"So the gift is a therapy session?” he said.

"Kinda! It is a psychedelic experience.Tribes have been using these medicines for a very long time."

"You want to give me drugs, Sandra?"

"Pops, you take 15 different self-prescribed drugs everyday."

"Well, I have at least 15 self-diagnosed conditions! You are not going to make me a patient of yours, are you?"

"Of course you are my patient, Dad! You have been sooo patient with me and my reckless behavior growing up. I want to give you a day of your childhood back. That is the gift. An adventure with magic mushrooms! '' she said. "These psychedelics allow you to go outside of the washing machine that is life. To witness it, rather than tumble inside it."

"Do I look like a tumbler to you? I do not need to hallucinate and escape my life!"

"Quite the opposite of escaping, Daddy! Do you know how you say, that mom caused you so much damage?"

"Yes, now we're talking."

"Well that trauma she has caused you has stayed with you even after she is gone, right?"

"Oh yes. Your mother continues to cause that harm."

"Ok so you can beat around the bush for the next ten years, or get to the heart of that matter with a few mushroom sessions."

Efficiency. He couldn't argue with that. She had penetrated his heart of steel. She sealed the deal.

"Get into something comfortable, dad."

Another raven flew by. "Kroaaakeespireeet!". Zelda groaned again.

He put on his thick green alien socks and joggers and went back downstairs. Sandra had moved every scrap of paper, open book, sticky note, coffee mug and whiskey glass. She pushed the living room table away from the large, fuzzy, white fur rug that they’ve had ever since she was three. She had two pillows, a blindfold and several candles arranged in a circle around the carpet.

She handed him what she said were ‘five grams of Penis Envy mushrooms’. How rude, he thought, and he gulped them down. She smiled.

As he lay back on the white fluffy carpet, he started losing touch of where his body ended and the carpet began. He felt a sense of static; an electric blue forcefield running around his body. He watched Sandra continue to sway her hips and smile. He got lost in her baby blue eyes…or were they green? What is that between her eyes.Is that…a third one? Huh?! And now a fourth one is growing from her mouth! Her eyes multiplied into a kaleidoscope of horror that had him recoil back away from her in fear.

The fuzzy white carpet threads towered over his head. Was the carpet growing? Or was I shrinking? he thought. He heard her say "Oh my God!" and that was the last thing he heard before the carpet started swallowing him into its under belly. He felt like an insect on the back of a white rabbit.

First the wooden floor, then the gray granite, and then the soil beneath the house. He descended between the roots of the trees, and found himself in a dark underground tunnel. The relief from the taunting eyes is short lived. He hears a ruffling sound that gets closer, and closer, and…holy shit! Winged bats with hyena teeth? Tens of them! They are making donkey-like noises that turn into croaking like ravens! “Greaaat Spirit! Greaaat Spirit!” they sing. He kneels down on the floor, terrified, in a prayer position. Then...silence!

He looked up and saw the comforting glow of an electric blue globe rising around him. The winged beasts hit the blue orb and got deflected until the whole herd had passed through. "Welcome to the underworld!" a high-pitched and squeaky voice said. "We have been waiting for you, Zelda! Breathe!" He looks above to see a silver wrench with oval blinking eyes and a smiling mouth. Huh?

“There is not much time to explain, I need to take you to the Magus of the Underworld. He is waiting to see you.”

“I am very confused.”

“Great! That means you are getting closer”

“To what?”

“The secrets, Zelda.”

“What? Who are you! Who is behind this virtual reality!?”

The wrench rolls its eyes and sighs. “Virtual reality. That is as far as your imagination goes…”

“Who are you?!”

“Well if you must know…I am your Higher Self, Zelda! Soon you will remember. I am your light here, and there is a lot of darkness to face. Now let's skip the small talk and get to business. We must go!”

He looked at the talking wrench again. Very clever Sandra. How is she doing this?

The blue wrench leads the way over puddles of water. Fluorescent fruit dangled from shrubs growing in the darkness. Colorful phytoplankton whistled and danced in the puddles of water. Spring blossom, and the small he had so desired for the land, filled the air of the underground.

The wrench stopped and scanned the rocky caverns of the tunnel. It finds a knob, and turns it clockwise. Bright light shone as the cavern walls opened up into a cistern. Glowing fireflies and sparkly micro fireworks lined the path into the cistern.

“You may enter Zeldaaaaah…" a deep and thunderous voice commanded. "It is time to meet your destin-ayyyyy”.

The fireflies led him to a blue creature with a tail for legs. It wore a purple dress and a large wizard hat studded with crystals. "Welcome to my cave" the genie-looking thing told him. "I am Osiris3, Ex- Egyptian God, current Magus of the underworld and Great Spirit."

"Impressive resume." Zelda said "What are you doing below my house?"

Ahh..haha..ahh.haha..huhuhhaa. Osiris' eccentric laughs echoed in the walls "It is you who has disturbed my roof, young man."

"Bro, I am 65." Zelda said.

“Bro, I am six thousand.” Osiris said. "This piece of land has belonged to the Gods since the dawn of time. The crops always grew here. The drought that you experience is new. You can have the land, but you will have to help us fix it. That is your legacy. This is why you are here"

"Look, I have a birthday party with my daughter to attend." Zelda said.

"Unleash the testiculares!" Osiris said, raising the two fingers of his right hand in the air.

Two large beetles came shooting down towards Zelda. They had thorns on their heads. One of them scratched his head and the other thrusted into his chest. He fell backwards, slamming his head to the wall.

"Zeldaaah...."Osiris said with a voice that sounded like Mufasa from the Lion King. " You have come here for a reason. You live on this land for a reason. You are the descendant of a long chain of Magicians. I have not much time to describe your task, but it is great."

The two winged beetles came back swinging at him.

"Those beetles are your shame and guilt. You will have to command them, otherwise they will kill you." Osiris said. “I will help you find the right guidance, pull a wisdom card!”

A deck of cards appeared in the air. Zelda reached out and pulled one. It revealed itself as “The Fool”4 with a jester holding a stick and a bag of clothes.

“Ahhh, the first card of the deck! The fool is here to remind you to be open to your new journey, Zelda. Divine guidance is here to help you find your path. Be open, be curious and take the first step towards your destinn-ayyy!”

The wrench smiled and blinked at him, making a Twing! Twing! sound. He opened the palm of his right hand and it floated straight into it, like a magnet to a fridge. The blue glow started extending itself like a line of electric veins around Zelda's body. He oscillated between feeling empowered and overpowered. The blue force lifted him off the ground...and he was now floating in the cave among the fireworks.

"Guiltus testacularis! Attack!" Osiris said. Zelda heard whispers of his wife's voice blaming him for her sadness.

Zelda's right hand generated a blue ball of light from the wrench. He directed it towards the beetle's head. The guilt beetle's flesh lit up in shock. Its skeleton shone through, and then descended to the bottom of the cave. It dissolved into ashes.

"Great work Zelda, now watch what happens to Shamus Testacularis!" Osiris said.

Zelda turned towards the other winged creature. The flying beetle shrieked. It seemed exposed, and weakened. It was as though this shame monster was itself ashamed of its own existence. It ricocheted and went back into hiding. Zelda hovered down. He felt more in command of his hovering powers.

"Great Work Zelda." said Osiris. "You will not be able to unsee these guilt and shame monsters. Congratulations, you are now ready for your mission. Soon you will be able to return the crops onto the path of fertility. You shall no longer hide on your rooftop, and shelter yourself from the land. You must walk in the garden yourself, with bare feet and an open heart. "

"I don't know who you think I am. Is this all a dream?"

"I have no time for such frivolous questions. There is a black sorcerer that will infuse you with more shame and guilt to keep you locked inside of your house. Instead look beyond Zeldaaa, and everything will make sense in due time. You will understand why the soil has been so weak, and why your heart has been so sad.`` Osiris said. “For now, keep using your Higher Self. It will guide the way. That is enough for one day, I must sleep now.”

Osiris disappeared into the rocks of the cave. The sound of thunder struck from the outside, and water started filling the cave. Two ravens descended from the cistern’s opening where the light came from. Their wings were a bouquet of green leaves and orange flowers. ‘Great Spirit Great Spirit’, they chanted in concerto. Each raven flew to one of Zelda's shoulders, and carried him up towards the light. They went through the roots, into the soil, and above the ground. Zelda saw patches of green grass above him transform into the white hairs of the rabbit's back.

He smelled the incense and knew that he was back home with Sandra. He opened one eye, and Sandra removed the blindfold with her smiling dimples. He was ecstatic to see her two eyes. He recited the whole deal to her over a light dinner that she cooked.

He couldn’t sleep that night until sunrise. He had not done that in decades. He walked out barefoot into the garden. He admired how beautiful the golden arrows of sunshine were as they rose. He looked into the house, and by the window, lay an old wrench flat on the wooden shelf. The sun rays trickled through the window and created a golden aura around it. He smiled with a sense of contentment and possibility.

It is another Sunday and I am still alive and still writing. Al-hamdulelah 👐🏽, cheers 🍻, and everything in between.

Thank you for reading.

I mean it from the bottom of my heart.

Also a special thanks to 🙏 Atta Pilram, Riitta Kamel and Gabe Charbonneau 🙏 for their incredible, personal and timely emails and messages of support week in and week out. Your kindness and generosity fill my cup!

Ok now for the good stuff….

If you are wondering what we will actually do here since Season 1 is over, fear not, Paul will be announcing an exciting new series soon 🎭. In the meantime, I will be going back to the cave to finish off ✍️ the first draft of the novel which is almost there!

I will squeeze in one more experimental post that is inspired by my friend Gabe Charbonneau and his work and leadership at Medicine Forward.

These doctors are on a mission to reclaim the the soul of medicine and recreate the sacred bond between doctor and patient.

In the process, they are reclaiming their own souls, and figuring out how to relate to their own selves.

The following is a piece of flash fiction inspired by listening in to one of their conversations around feeling all feelings. A topic we discussed extensively on our Season 1 Finale.

Enjoy.

I love you, and I mean it.

See you next Sunday,

Omar

Howl Like You Mean It

A very short story about a doctor looking for meaning and happiness

“Have you ever howled before?” He asked me as we made our way down the Literary walk in Central Park. That is not exactly what I had expected when he invited me to his ‘walk and heal’ session. Howl? I thought to myself. How awkward. The mere idea was unsettling.

“Yes howl, like a wolf!” he said, as he ran off the pavement and crossed onto the green patch of land that rooted the great American elm trees. He approached one of them, and much to my embarrassment, hugged the trunk and started howling. “Aaa-wwwooooooooo!”. As expected heads of people walking by started turning.

What is this guy about? I thought. I laughed the same way I did at everything that made me uncomfortable. I can’t remember when I started using laughter to express all emotions. It is some sort of defense mechanism I have developed. I laugh when I am happy, I laugh when I am sad, and I definitely laugh the most when I am uncomfortable.

“Common try it.” He said as he continued 'Aaa-wwoooing'.

I laughed again. “You are making others uncomfortable.” I said.

“Do you mean I am making you uncomfortable?” said he.

“Well, yes that too.” I said. “I mean this is not what I am here for. You said this would be walking and healing, not tree-hugging and howling!” I hated how impatient I was, but at least I was being assertive.

It is a good time now to tell you how I got here in the first place.

I am a physician who worked hard for everything. When I was a child I had dreams of becoming a dancer, because I loved moving my body. I loved twirling and twisting to swing music and even Russian ballads.

At some point though, my mother knocked some sense into me. I had great grades and we made the decision that I would join medical school. I say we, because it was not her fault alone that I let go of my dancing dreams. I felt like the right thing to do was to pursue a career in medicine.

Over the past fifteen years, I went from a kid that wanted to dance, to a senior neurology resident. I developed my no bullshit attitude towards life. I thought that this would be it. I would finally be happy, but a few months ago I realized how depressed and overwhelmed I actually am. Somewhere along the line, the lights went off in my soul.

That’s when I had my first conversation with my howling and tree-hugging, therapist here. He is also a neurologist at my hospital, but the pressures of the hospital seem to evade him. There is a certain vibrancy about him. Some inherent capacity to feel, and connect with the source of life, which I am jealous of.

I judged him without saying anything for years, until I was so annoyed at his happiness that I had to ask him. What is your secret? How can you be so lively despite the demands of the hospital? I asked him.

"I feel all my feelings." He said with a smile. It did not make sense to me at first. Then he told me about a course he did called Compassionate Inquiry. The creator of this course, Gabor Mate, is a renown psychiatrist. I had seen some of his videos on youtube, and agreed with about 50% of what he says. My tree-hugging colleague here told me about the research and evidence behind a lot of this trauma work. That got my ears perked.

“So, how does one feel all their feelings?” I asked him over lunch.

“By embodying them.” He said.

“That still does not make any sense to me.” I said.

That’s when he invited me to this ‘walk and heal’ session at Central Park. “I’ll show you. It requires getting out of your comfort zone to actually be comfortable in your own skin.”

So this is how I find myself here, with my tree-loving and howling friend. “This is all part of the therapy.” He said as he left the elm tree and joined me back on the pavement. “The reason why you are suffering is that there are feelings that are not expressed. You keep them in.”

He seemed to want to say something else afterwards but I interjected him. “You understand why, right? I take pride in being able to control my feelings. I mean as a doctor, I can’t express my anger at patients, right? Whatever happened to being professional?”

“Yes but we are taking a walk in Central Park. Have you ever considered that there is a false contract about emotions? There doesn’t need to be a certain responsibility around them? I mean what if feelings are these things that you don’t have to do anything about?”

“But, of course there is a responsibility!” I said. “Everything I feel is my responsibility! If I didn’t suppress ninety percent of my feelings I would not be a doctor by now!”

He stopped walking and held me by the shoulders.

“Stand tall for a second, will you? Imagine that you are a mountain." I humored him and imagined myself being a mountain. "Is it your responsibility whether there are clouds above you, or sunshine or rain? Is it your responsibility if it is snowing? Or are you that same mountain with different moods based on the weather?” He continued. “Now is the time to let go. Try to embody what you are feeling. This time is for you.”

x

“I still don’t understand what you mean by ‘embody’,” I said with an eye roll that I used to give my mom.

"How about we try an exercise that can help you do that?"

“Sure, as long as there is no howling involved!.”

“Deal. Here come sit on this bench, we will do a quick meditation.”

I sat on the bench as asked.

I read a lot of studies about meditation and its effects on the body and the mind. I had been searching for ways to cure this newfound depression. Meditation seemed well substantiated, and I wanted to try it.

“Ok, now get comfortable, close your eyes if you feel like it, take a few centering breaths. Let your body sink into the bench. While it relaxes, turn the clock back and look at a time in your life where you felt in your full power. A time when you were completely on top of your game. A peak experience in your life.”

All I could think about was being around my son who was visiting this week. I saw his face smiling and hugging me. I remembered writing, and how much in flow it made me feel. Time flew, I felt so alive.

“Try immersing yourself back in that experience. You were tingling with the excitement of what was going on. As you are recalling that experience, try to take in all the sensations of it. Where where you? Who is around you? What are the sounds and smells in the situation? ”

I remembered medical school, feeling so stimulated by my neurology classes. I was in the class again as a student. The thrill of knowledge rushing down my spine came back to me. I felt the headache I would feel after class because of how concentrated I was. I saw the gardens that I would walk up to after class to ground myself. The heady smell of daffodils and the sweet sticky green grass outside of campus all came back to me.

“Stay with that for a few seconds until you are ready to come back to the present. Is there anything that your body was going through that you would like to name?”

“Hmmm, yes I felt a headache first, then a relaxation in my shoulders, and a widening in my chest.”

“Fantastic work, these are all emotions passing through your body!”

“So what does this have to do with my depression then? How is this therapy?”

“Well, let’s see if we can find out what feelings you have repressed. Ready for one last exercise? This one requires some honesty.”

“Sure” I sighed.

“Isn’t it funny how sighing is normal and yet howling isn’t?” he said with a mischievous smile. “Sighing is also an emotional release from the body, yet it does not weird us out.”

“You’re going to try to get me to howl again won’t you?” I said.

He laughed. “No! No! I promise! This exercise is about your triggers. Now get back into that comfortable position and think of something that triggers you.” He told me.

All I could think of was him. I hated his all-loving all-encompassing zest for the world. I hated his nonchalance and his ability to howl in public. His simplistic view of the world. Oh, how it all got on my nerves.

“How does your body feel now that you are with your trigger?” He asked.

“It feels contracted. My heart is racing. My headache is back.”

“What is the feeling that you have?”

“Judgement. I am judging you for being so open with your feelings.”

He was silent for second.

“I appreciate your honesty. Judgement is a way we repress other emotions. Which of the five emotions do you think lies beneath the judgement? Anger, sadness, happiness, fear or creative energy?”

“Hmmm. There is anger and some fear. I am angry at the hospital, I am angry at my relationship with my patients, I am angry at how doctors are being treated. I am angry at every inch of documentation that I am expected to do. I am angry at how powerless I have become at work. I am afraid that I have wasted my life.”

These words shocked me. I had never seen myself as an angry person. I always thought I had it under control. But holy shit, was I angry!

“Thank you. What does your body want to do when it is angry?”

“It wants to scream and it wants me to make flex my muscles like the incredible hulk.”

“Would you be open to doing that?”

“No, no. I can’t, I am too afraid that someone I know will see me.”

“Ok, then imagining it, is good enough for now.”

I opened my eyes, and a teardrop fell down my cheek. It must have been the first time in a decade or so that I experienced a tear. Something had shifted.

We walked back to his car and he rolled up the windows. “You know this is my favorite screaming spot.” He said with a smile. “No one can hear you in your car, everyone is busy being in their own car.”

This was all the permission I needed for my final release. I screamed. I

flexed my muscles like the incredible hulk and screamed off the top of my lungs. I screamed for the whole drive back to the hospital. I screamed for the injustice I felt at the hospital.

Then I smiled. I felt elated. I felt the way I had when I danced alone in my room as a little kid. “I understand now.” I said with a smile. “I get why you howl.”

He smiled back and said nothing.

I held his hand and took a deep breath in. On my exhale, I surprised both of us with the sound that came out from me as we parked by the hospital.

“Aaaaa-wwwwww-oooooooooooooo!”

The types of posts you can expect every Sunday:

• 📖 Excerpts from the novel in progress and updates on how it is shaping (I will declare a publishing date in the next few months.)

• 🔍 Commentaries, essays and resources from the creators on our own healing journeys and what we have tried. (see themes above)

• 🧵 Threads for discussion after every post.

• ✍️ Short Stories of gumption that inspire you for your busy week.

• 🦸‍♂️ New authors and commentators on the topics we discuss.

• 🎙️ More audio (The Gumpcast) and 🎥 video (Lamu Diaries) content coming your way when we have enough gumption to give them the attention they deserve.

How to support, join, and collaborate with us:

• ❤️‍🔥. If you enjoy a post, click on the love button to let us know we did a good job.

• 📝 If a post resonates with you, leave a comment and use the Wednesday threads to let us get to know you more.

• ✉️ If you know someone who can benefit please share this project with them.

• ✋ If you want to share your story on the podcast, in an anonymous short story, or in a blog post. Send us your story at thegumpcast@gmail.com

• 🤝🏿 If you want to collaborate, cross promote us, or host us to speak at your events. Also email us, we want to collaborate. thegumpcast@gmail.com

If one can dream even further, then maybe one day a communal collection of pieces will provide a sort of literary cure to depression and mental illness.

👨‍💻 This journal entry was the first time I was able to turn my suffering into something creative. This is how my own struggle feels like. Next week our hero will find the tools to deal with it!

Enjoy,

Omar

Subscribe here to get our weekly posts!

Me and my Self - Part 1/2

From Maskat’s Mémoires - Undated

The darkness does not lie outside of us. It seems necessary for an eventual agenda of happiness. It is freakishly familiar. I thought I had built an arsenal of protection against it, but it seems like I am doomed to live it over and over again. Life isn’t sad, the externalities are inviting, but the somber sadness comes from within. It is deep and almost just another characteristic of my body just like my black eyes or pronounced clavicle lines.

I used to want to fix it so bad, and it is not like I have not tried. From taking care of myself, to going on the most outrageous adventures. I looked for God in nature and in plants, I left home, I started new careers, I made new friends and found new lovers. I am searching far and wide, but I don’t know what I am searching for.

Everything only satisfies temporarily, until the deeper melancholy takes over. The effect feels chemically induced and my brain feels depleted of its happy juice. It creeps in so subtly as internal suggestions of self-doubt and guilt that snowball into shame. It becomes completely debilitating.

Suggestions of how I am not good enough start the cycle into what I call retrograde thinking. I fall into a moving quicksand of my own devise and it doesn’t seem like people recognize how to help me. I am not sure how to help me either. I judge those who reach out to me for not understanding, and those who become distant for not caring. I need both space and attention from other people simultaneously. It doesn’t make any sense. 

The physical effects are immense too, summed up as an achy back and a sloth-like existence. My body just wants to curve into a ball and lie in fetal position. My mind feels like the light has been sucked out of it, and a full system shutdown occurs as frequently as possible. Deep narcolepsy ensues with lethargy and a low appetite. I am never sure if it is an exhaustion from all the thinking or an escape from figuring things out. Probably a mix of both. 

This all leads to the grand finale. The fight of the century. The kick boxing session that I have with myself once or twice a year. Hurry hurry come right up, introducing the stars of the show: Me and myself. Maskat’s Tyler Durden is here, and he is not impressed with me. The clobbering usually happens in the middle of the night, and he frequently wakes me upon his arrival. 

The last time he paid me a visit was the worst. There was no small talk. He walked in very determinately and loudly. I got up from bed to at least have a positional advantage. I tightened my fist in anticipation as I saw his shadow in the hallway come closer. He walked in with his top hat and the classic black suit which he only wore on special occasions. A crimson rose held on for dear life from his suit’s front chest pocket.

He stopped, smirked, and took a long look at me above his dark sunglasses. Our eyes locked in for a second. He hurled his briefcase towards my chest. I raised my hands to protect myself, but the steel briefcase was heavier than I had expected. The pain on the outside of my arms from his bag’s impact was already excruciating.

Bleeding and bruised by that first move, I decided to advance towards him. They say the best form of defense is offense. They don’t tell you however, that this only works if you know what you are capable of. If you understand your fears. If you have connected with both yourself and your opponent. It didn’t work out for me that night. In one fell swoop, he landed an uppercut to my jaw, a kick to my belly, and another punch straight to my lower ribs. I collapsed on the ground in agony. 

“You’ll never learn, will you?” he said as he ran his hands through his well-combed hair and adjusted his tie. “You think I want to be here spending my time with a person like you? Fuck you and fuck your pathetic life.” He sat down and lit a cigarette as I recollected my thoughts, and reached within myself for whatever strength I could muster. 

“You fucking bastard!” I screamed as I scrimmaged, reached out to his face and landed an elbow to his nose. He held his bleeding nose, and seemed surprised by my audacity. He took another puff from his cigarette. I quickly grounded both my feet behind one other, turned around and dragged my foot with all my might towards his face. My foot hit his face the way a butcher’s knife would fall onto a chicken. He bled from the impact, but his eyes and resolve merely flinched. He took another puff, and his smirk got bigger. The more I fought back, the stronger he got. I felt terrified as I watched him rise again.

Now with all the world’s apathy, he spit his blood on me as he laughed. “You will never be enough.” he said as he slammed my head onto the floor. He threw a knee kick straight into my ribs and another punch to my face. I felt dizzied as he dragged me on the floor next to the bed. He sat me up so that my shoulders were between his knees, as he sat on the edge of the bed.

He grabbed both sides of the silky drapes of my 4-poster bed, wrapped them viscously around my neck, and choked me into a deep coma. I stared into the mirror in front of us, and his bloody maniacal smile was the last thing I saw as I quickly fainted. 

In these moments I am very grateful for sleep because it is the only thing that can numb out the pain. Perhaps the only other cure is to write about it. And perhaps, someone will read this one day, relate to it and know that they are not alone.

If one can dream even further, then maybe one day a communal collection of pieces will provide a sort of literary cure to depression and mental illness.

COMING UP NEXT SUNDAY, SAME TIME TO YOUR INBOX:

In Part II of this journal entry, Maskat uses some tools to defeat the shame gremlins in his brain and finds a way to connect with the man in the dark suit. Stay tuned for Me and my Self Part II next week!

❤️ Click on the love button if you enjoy this to let me know, and 📝 please leave a comment if this resonates. Or event better, share this post with someone you care about.

Share

The types of posts you can expect every Sunday:

• 📖 Excerpts from the novel in progress and updates on how it is shaping (I will declare a publishing date in the next few months.)

• 🔍 Commentaries, essays and resources from the creators on our own healing journeys and what we have tried. (see themes above)

• 🧵 Threads for discussion after every post.

• ✍️ Short Stories of gumption that inspire you for your busy week.

• 🦸‍♂️ New authors and commentators on the topics we discuss.

• 🎙️ More audio (The Gumpcast) and 🎥 video (Lamu Diaries) content coming your way when we have enough gumption to give them the attention they deserve.

How to support, join, and collaborate with us:

• ❤️‍🔥. If you enjoy a post, click on the love button to let us know we did a good job.

• 📝 If a post resonates with you, leave a comment and use the Wednesday threads to let us get to know you more.

• ✉️ If you know someone who can benefit please share this project with them.

• ✋ If you want to share your story on the podcast, in an anonymous short story, or in a blog post. Send us your story at thegumpcast@gmail.com

• 🤝🏿 If you want to collaborate, cross promote us, or host us to speak at your events. Also email us, we want to collaborate. thegumpcast@gmail.com

I am the unloved,

The darkness inside

 Party of one

But still nowhere to hide

I am your shadow

Your sadness,

Your plight,

I am that one bully

That you never could fight

I am your best friend

 I’ll tell you the truth, 

I am your dad’s approval

Just kidding, that will never come through

Your addictions?

You ask

Yeah I run that train

Choo Choo, Next stop

Here come Withdrawal pains,

 That scorched earth valley,

Yeah that’s me

Past them luscious verdant plains

I am your youth

 Just slipping away

You thought it forever

But guess what

Today, collection day

You fidget you fret

You ask me to stay

You got down on your knees

Even started to pray

I am not your lover

Your whims I don’t obey

I gave you the sun

You didn’t make the hay

Ok ok

I think I have been mean

So I will try to come clean

Or rather I will tell you

What is simply not me

I am not ….

 That dumb curated identity you constantly tout,

You can repeat it, and yeah you can shout

But still,

Nobody cares what you think it is about

Something important,

You seem to have done without

A little goes a long way

But maybe just maybe

Introduce some doubt?

I am telling you brother

Oh don’t you dare pout!

What you think is original

Is just too played out

I am not

That 2 dollar donation you made to save the planet

You slept like a baby that night

Made out like a bandit

I hate that fake chivalry

Those crocodile tears

I hate the moral high ground

You claim as your sphere

I am not

 The conversations you start,

Those are just so trite

You prance around in parties

Going left and going right

Pontificating

Gesticulating

Oh you are flexing that muscle tight!

You sound like an idiot

You know that right,

Even if the girl you pulled

Still sucked your dick that night

I pity you though

 Your attempts to always stay chipper,

For it is me, dummy

 The missing arrows in your positivity quiver

You tried to kill me once, remember?

Ended up just busting your liver

Why do you have to be like this?

Your redemption

I promise I can deliver

If you just just sit with me once

Maybe take me to dinner

Or tell me I no longer scare you

When you pass me in the mirror