Tag Archives: life

Growing up in Honolulu I knew a girl.  Her name was Sasha.  She was a few years older than I was.  I was two.

I knew Sasha through my Uncle Ray.  One day, we were in a room of a hotel that my Uncle was employed at.  I don’t have a clear recollection of why we were there.  Perhaps he was babysitting us, or maybe we went to visit him, anyone’s guess will be as good as mine.

Sasha and I were comfortably sitting on the soft feathery carpet, avoiding eye contact for most of the duration of our stay.  Meanwhile, Uncle Ray drenched himself into the single seat couch, looking out the window and staring into the dark eyes of Diamonhead Crater.  I sat there criss cross applesauce style and still as a photograph, not uttering a single word to Sasha or my Uncle.  She, on the other hand, was seven notches more active than I was.  Sasha drowned herself into the television set presenting some program I had no interest in. Every commercial break or so, she’d turn around and indulge herself into the one detail of this memory I remember the most – mini sugar powdered donuts.  She didn’t share with me.  What a bitch.

So I continued to just sit there, ogling at her crumby plump rings of sweet pastries. Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with the carpet like it was my mom’s hair.  My attention began to move frantically from Sasha, the television set, my Uncle Ray, my fingers, and to the coveted donuts.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry fat, isolated little island boy would do.

With my quick-like-a-cat greedy little hands, I pounced on one of her delicious donuts while she wasn’t looking and shoved it into my mouth.  Sasha didn’t catch me in the act.  She did, unfortunately, realize that her once family of four donuts were down to three.  She also couldn’t help but notice my peculiar white, powdery lips and my cheeks bulging at maximum capacity.

Fast forward nineteen years.  I’m living the Bay Area in California. At the time I had a girlfriend.  I was twenty-one.

We’re drying two baskets of clothes at a laundromat we frequented.  Being the big, bulky guy that I am, I get pretty hungry while staring at the colors and the whites go round and round.  Lucky there’s some neighboring food places – a Mexican restaurant, a liquor store, a 7-Eleven, and a donut shop.

I chose the donut shop.  I treated myself to an apple fritter and decided to get an old fashioned chocolate doughnut for her.  I devoured my pastry in two seconds while she gracefully and neatly picked at hers, breaking off small portions seemingly every five minutes.

So I continued to just sit there, on top of the counter ogling at her crumby rugged ring of chocolate covered pastry.  Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with my Dr. Pepper cap.  My attention began to move frantically from my girlfriend, the clockwise spinning dryers, my cap, and to the coveted donut.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry, fat grown up living in the Mainland would do.
I asked her if I could have a bite.  And without hesitation she said, “Go ahead!”  I gently broke me off a piece, popped it in my mouth, and life was good.  I finally earned redemption for stealing a donut nearly two decades prior.

Fast forward thirteen years.  Dare to D.R.E.A.M.; donuts rule everything around me.  And this shirt is available for purchase here:

https://www.IRUNSF.com/onlinestore

Oh, and I’m sorry Sasha.  Wherever you are.

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Originally written in 2005.  D.R.E.A.M. segment was added for the ’19.

Dream

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Watts

Let’s suppose that you were able, every night, to dream any dream you wanted to dream, and you would, naturally, as you began on this adventure of dreams, you would fulfill all your wishes.  You would have every kind of pleasure during your sleep, and after several nights you would say, ‘Well, that was pretty great.’

I knew a guy named Mogi Kenzaburo, we played little league baseball together in the 2nd grade.  He wasn’t very good, in fact he was quite terrible.  One play, Jorge Alvarado of the Tigers hit a molasses slow grounder down the third base line and Mogi swiftly kicked it back toward home plate and yelled “GOAL!” then proceeded to celebrate with himself.

Just himself.

As I and the rest of our teammates groaned in disgust, the girls in the stands swooned over his misconception between baseball and soccer.  This is because he batted 1.000 with the girls.  If nothing else, it was impressive to witness, even at a young age.  I’m sure (more so hope, to put on my full display of jealousy front and center) his batting average went down since then.  We lost touch after the 3rd grade, I was that kid that moved every other year.  But I did see Mogi did well for himself into his adult years – attended the University of Oregon, snagged a nice job, met a nice girl, and eventually learned the difference between a shortstop and a goal post.

Instagram tells me that they never married, but they did have a daughter fairly young, who has now logged 8 total years into this world and, get this – plays second base for the Epiphany Eagles – the same team we suited up for when we were kids.

Cue “The Circle of Life” by Sir Elton John, please.

But now let’s, uhm, let’s have a surprise, let’s have a dream which isn’t under control.  Well, something is gonna happen to me that I don’t know what it’s gonna be.  Then you would get more and more adventurous and you would make further and further out gambles as to what you would dream and, finally, you would dream where you are now.

Do you know what Instagram also tells me?  Instagram also tells me that Mogi has cancer, and has been battling for his life for the last two years.

Cue “The Circle of Life” by Sir Elton John, please.

Mogi’s Instagram shows his best days and his best days only, though I have more than enough understanding about cancer that when it’s not so good, the last thing you want around you is a camera.

This brings up that age-old question, why do bad things happen to good people?

Because life isn’t fair?  Well, I think we all have a cold, hard grasp of that mundane perspective.  Let’s take another route, and see this from a different vantage point of what life actually is rather than isn’t.

Life, is free.

Life is free to love, and free to hurt.  Free to give and free to take, free to build then free to crumble.  Life will see you, then will ignore you.  You will gain and you will lose.  At the end of it all we can only hope that our time is well-balanced between the bright and the dark.  Because too much pain is a bad thing, right?  Guess what, so is too much bliss. And perhaps this was never the point – rather than attempt to find the beauty in struggle, understand that struggle implies peace, and that already makes it a beautiful thing.

My childhood friend Mogi is dying.  But you know what?  Mogi is still living, too.  I too, am dying and living.  And so is the person that ran just passed me, and the person that’s right in front of you, and the people in this building, the person in the room next to yours.  The people in the elevator you’re with and the driver of your rideshare you took earlier.  Everyone you’ve ever met, and everyone you’ll never see in your entire life are all dying, and all living.

If you awaken from this illusion and you understand that black implies white, self implies other, life implies death. You can feel yourself, not as a stranger in the world, not as something here on probation, not as something that has arrived here by fluke, but you can begin to feel your own existence as absolutely fundamental. What you are basically, deep, deep down, far, far in, is simply the fabric and structure of existence itself.
–           Alan Watts 

You are free to spend life as you may; bunt single implies goal.
–           Michael Arce

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Vino

Sips.

Another night, another glass of vino.  It’s a fairly new habit I’m trying to keep up with.  For the record, it’s not due to the possible health benefits that have been associated with drinking a glass of wine every night.  Rather, it’s a simple and easy reminder to consistently flirt with vulnerability.  If that sounds scary to you, you’re right.  If it doesn’t, then you’re lying to yourself.

It’s scary as shit, but that makes it a good thing.

Sips.

Throughout our lives we’ve been protected with careful rules and recommendations designed to keep both physical and emotional harm at bay.

Look both ways before you cross the street.
Be sure to visit your doctor often.
Don’t put foreign objects or substances in your mouth.
Don’t like Instagram photos more than four weeks ago.
Don’t do drugs… but didn’t Steve Jobs create Apple Computers from one or several trips to LSD? I’m just sayin’.

Meth. Definitely don’t do meth. Or heroin.

Sips.

Many of these rules are in place to control and prevent chaos, and I’m not oblivious to the fact that these are required to be in place to reach and maintain a good quality of life.  I’m also not insinuating that you go completely rogue on society and start sprinting through red lights while sucking on Tide pods as you continue to light up hearts on photos from that girl’s (or guy’s) posts from March of 2017.

I merely want to emphasize balance – when playing it too safe you’ll feel unfulfilled, and if you are vulnerable for too long you’ll probably die from eating the detergent.

Sips.

And as I get closer to meeting the bottom of this glass of vino, I can tell you this – I feel a healthy sliver of imbalance and drowsiness, increasing the frequency of typos.  My judgment, however, is very much intact; I just misspelled judgment (initially judgement) but immediately corrected this.  My mathematical prowess also remains flawless.  Check this shit out:

Sips.

To solve 31! you must multiply 31 (x) 29 (x) 28 (x) 27 (x) 26 (x) 25 (x) 24 (x) 23 (x) 22 (x) 21 (x) 20 (x) 19 (x) 18 (x) 17 (x) 16 (x) 15 (x) 14 (x) 13 (x) 12 (x) 11 (x) 10 (x) 9 (x) 8 (x) 7 (x) 6 (x) 5 (x) 4 (x) 3 (x) 2 (x) 1, which is 8,222,838,654,177,922,817,725,562,880,000,000.

Sips.  Damn I’m good.

My mental foundation is drilled into a bedrock of euphoria.  There’s a warm blanket of elation draped over my body and mind, making me impervious to bad thoughts and feelings.

Most of all, I’m poised and willing to fail.  Matter of fact, there is not a flying fuck on this planet that I give.  It’s like traveling back in time to assassinate Overthinking so it longer exists in the present.  And that’s where there is true magic in vino – rules that are scary to bend or even break in vulnerable situations no longer seem so scary at all.  Life is good, life is all right, and regardless of the outcomes from scary decisions made within that hour or so of drunken haze – whether you land on your feet or flat on your face –

Sips.

Everything is going to be perfectly okay.

One last reminder – do you know what overthinking is?  It’s a game of chess between a mind reader and a clairvoyant – it’s always one without a winner.

Don’t be stale, mate.

Sips.

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Stupid

“You know, you have to be a little stupid.”

It may not sound like much, but let me tell you the who-what-when-where-why of one of the most compelling, impactful, and important things anyone has ever said to me.

INT. GYM/WEIGHT ROOM – AFTERNOON

We’re somewhere in 2008 of the timeline.  I’m at the gym working out with my two good friends Joe and Chris. They’re a lot bigger than me, and to give you a visual of that, picture the standard icon of the strength of your signal on your cell phone.  There’s five bars, and if I’m the middle bar, Joe and Chris are labeled to the right respectively, aptly giving you the best possible signal on your phone for crystal clear conversation.

Many times I wondered why they let me train with them.  Maybe because I made them laugh – not because I told jokes so good that they could be exchanged for pure gold, or wit so sharp it made you say cheddar, no.  They laughed because I couldn’t lift weights for beans, and understandably so, that holds a lot of entertainment value.  Fair enough; I laughed at myself, too.

We’re doing burnout sets, which means we’re flirting with death until we decide it’s okay to come back to life.  More technically, we’re doing one exercise – repeatedly – toward the brink of utter exhaustion at the end of a series of exercises that were performed in a more standard x reps for y sets.  You can imagine it’s only fun if you’re crazy.

Or in this case – stupid.  But, in a good way.  Let me explain.

For the burnout set we’re doing push ups – a classic exercise with the right amount sadism.  Naturally, I burn out first.  I can’t even tell you how many I did (couldn’t have been much), but I can tell you how hard my body flopped to the floor at the end of it.  Have you ever seen someone try to run through a glass door they didn’t see was there?

Harder than that.

Chris, the tallest bar of the cell phone signal icon, actually burns out second.  That leaves Joe as the iron man of the burnout set, and my jaw drops watching him keep at it.  One after another, he pushes himself up, and descends down, then back up, and repeat.  I didn’t lose count, because I wasn’t trying to keep one.  At this point, I was awed and inspired.  Chris, drenched and dripping with his own sweat, turns to me and says these words I’ll never forget, and words I have and will continue to live by:

“You know, you have to be a little stupid, you know?  You have to be stupid to just keep going.  That’s all pain right there, why wouldn’t you just stop, you know what I’m sayin’?  Like, stupid to the point that you can’t even register what pain is.”

Joe is still going – one push up after another.  Grunting, muttering expletives under his heaving breaths.  Just when I think he’s going to burn out, he pushes right back up.  His determination was so heavy it felt like you could gather chunks of it from the air, pack it up in tupperware and save it as a post-workout snack for later.  Joe finally burned out his set, but even after a gutsy display of tenacity I still thought he could have easily kept on going.  I was convinced he felt more tiresome of Chris and I staring at him with jealous eyes.

While it seemed like an insult (albeit a playful one) at first, there is something powerful to be grasped from Chris’s genuinely honest observation about Joe – what we all understand as an innate human reaction of instantly pulling your hand away once you touch a hot stove was something Joe seemingly didn’t have.  In this case I took this not as a lack of intelligence, but rather a strong indication of mental toughness.  Only in the specific manner in which Chris diagramed his view of Joe did I conceive strength in a completely different light:

“Stupid” people won’t know how to quit, even when they’re burnt halfway to hell.
“Stupid” people take on challenges that are already labeled as impossible.
“Stupid” people go toe to toe with adversaries that will beat them to a pulp, and “stupid” people will find a way to get back up.
“Stupid” people avoid using excuses, especially the most valid ones.
“Stupid” people find ways to be vulnerable, in order to stay humble.

Joe is pretty stupid, in fact one of the most stupid guys I’ve ever met.  Chris is no different, and I’m lucky to have met and befriended several other people that can be just as stupid.  I want to be the same, if not even stupider.  In fact, I try to be the most absolutely stupidest person in any given room I walk into.  I want people to say about me, “That guy?  Michael Arce?  That’s one stupid motherf—-r, man.  So stupid he *willingly solves math problems when he’s completely inebriated with alcohol.”

So, Joe and Chris used to call me Mikelovin’.  There’s absolutely no point to me mentioning this at all, I just wanted to say it because I’m still the shorter end of this cell phone signal metaphor, I have zero appeal going for me so far, and we’re already at the end of this story.  I needed appreciate the ego boost.  I’m the one writing it, and I can do so.  Do somethin’.

I’m with stupid.

*true story

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