Gatsby’s Greatest Mistake – Avoid Death Through Eternal Hope.

“I never met a man with such hope. I doubt I ever will again.” Nick Carraway.

Mr. Jay Gatsby clearly didn’t thrive on this plane. He was bigger than life, above earth, to many who knew him. Knew of  him. Men, women, actors, senators, commissioners, vagabonds, freaks, all ages, all shapes, the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, the pimple-faced kid who delivered the freshest produce every mid and end of week who stuck around a bit too long to catch a glimpse of mystery.

Clearly, everyone was aware of Gatsby, or at the least, the image of the man formed over years of discipline, sacrifice, study, focus. Amazing, blinding focus. The thousands who entered the masterful iron gates of his 40,000 square-foot mansion on weekends, who took advantage of the endless flow of hospitality, each one, had a story.  To Nick, Gatsby seemed like a soul ready to dance on the edge of tragedy.  Stripped of protective barrier, Gatsby was a mere boy playing adult games. There was a story which circulated, cut deep through the heat of party goers and the lights. So much light. It blinded Nick.

“I heard he even killed a man.”

Gatsby never belonged in the present.  His closest friend, if Gatsby held a real friendship, observed the inner distraction, perhaps a bordering on obsession.

Nick was convinced: Something outside this world was eating Gatsby alive.  At least that’s what he believed.

Looking down, Nick observed Gatsby’s rich leather shoes. Always polished.  He laughed. It was his way of knowing Gatsby existed in the physical realm. One day Nick would imagine, he’d look down and Gatsby’s feet would be hovering about a foot off blue lawn, like a spirit ready to speed off to another planet. A Godly mission perhaps?

Nick wondered:  Where did Gatsby’s heart rest?  Standing majestic, always dressed for perfection, looking into him, Nick would observe, feel the distance, beyond the deep blue of Gatsby’s eyes. Who was Jay Gatsby anyway?

A spy? A killer? A hero? Did he even remember?

Nick asked himself repeatedly – “Who owns and chains Jay Gatsby’s soul?”

Nick noticed how Gatsby would uncomfortably shift to and from the current.  He was much like the white water which ebbed and flowed along a lush, personal beach.

Nick was fascinated. There existed a beautiful sadness, a breathless longing, a waiting in a smile that caught itself before completion.  There was true genius here. An honesty, a passion locked deep. He knew things you didn’t. You didn’t want to know.

Depending on the conversation, Nick could release the child-like innocence who was Gatsby. Gatsby before all the trappings. The hungry one. The one who felt.

Behind wispy delicate beauty purchased from wealth, lived a man awaiting release. Or redemption. A better life. Completion. Forgiveness, perhaps. Nick would write feverishly in his journal – “Heartbroken. Distracted. Innocent.  Mysterious spirit. Dangerous.”

“Yet hopeful. Always amazingly hopeful.”

Immersed in overly decadent trappings of the richest mahogany and purple-blue carpet which felt like crushed velvet under foot, Gatsby was a polished, preserved shell draped in the finest light linens and deep silk vests designed solely to fit his swimmer’s body, snug. From the calloused fingers of artist-immigrant tailors at Herbinger’s of New York City.

Stuck rich between youth and maturity, estrangement and engagement.  Waiting for a bridge to be built between past and future – One vital piece remained untethered for the polished yet raw of Jay Gatsby.

“Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.”

Every reserved step, each over-the-top party, the plethora of salt breeze which swirled over Long Island Sound direct through his open balcony door, sought to embrace him. It felt best not to touch. The salt-air felt thick, solid – yet it played teasingly gentle with billowed drapes. Silk flown in directly from Singapore, woven by hand, wrapped Gatsby in the future of a dream not yet realized. He raised a manicured finger. Lowered his head. Sandy hair once coiffed, now tussled by wind. Breathing in and out.

Pointed forward. Eyes closed. The pain of her. Her absence radiated from deep his chest.

Traveled on emerald bright.

A salvation: His salvation.

Where the woman, a human light, who held his soul captive like a seirene, for half a decade now.

Danced gleefully behind the green light. Where she lived.

Little did Daisy know when she spun on the dock like a little girl, with the green light as beacon, Gatsby felt her. He felt nothing deep except her presence.

The lights from his mansion across the water,most of the time launched in Technicolor, was designed to capture an elusive star. The music, the crowds, the fireworks. All for her attention. A tactic designed to push a love, Daisy, back to where they started. It was five years. To Gatsby, it was yesterday. Everything stopped unless Daisy was part of the equation.

Thought across the water, he would focus on the only shine that mattered to him. The green. The calm. The pure of color messaged him. It was code to his soul not yet released. His heart to join past and present rode on a wave of robust hope.

He created an elaborate stage – a world of players he observed but never touched.  Except for Nick. There was a difference about him. He reminded Gatsby of a brother he left a life ago.

And for all Gatsby appeared to his those he played to, his foundation, his emotional as well as financial footing was shaky. Perhaps we love this timeless story because perfection is born from imperfection.

However, you can never run from who you truly are. As well as you dress, as elegant as you speak, there’s something tragic about all of us. Gatsby couldn’t touch the imperfect. It was a realization how truly flawed he was.

Daisy Buchanan was smart enough to accept her station. Her willingness to party, her vacuous nature, was truly who she was. Gatsby tried to acquire her. He created an inner image of her. An image he could control. And wanted so badly to believe. Who he loved wasn’t Daisy. It was his wish to save her, perhaps possess her. A projection. A feeling lost he needed returned.

“I KNOW. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything…Sophisticated – God, I’m sophisticated.”

Writer’s note: Daisy was a pompous twit. But she knew it. Admit when you’re a pompous twit, people will hold a greater respect for you. 

Everything Gatsby built, everything Gatsby sought, everything he had become, born of incredible focus. (Was. For. One. Person. And. It. Wasn’t. Him.)

Ostensibly it killed him. Death after going so deep, was the only answer. It was the only conclusion F. Scott could have come to. Gatsby was so mired in his dream, so far gone, only death could release.

So what can we learn from this classic?

Random Thoughts:

1). Gatsby’s parties and trappings were a horrible return on investment. If the elaborate wealth was bankrolled by Prohibition then what would happen when it all ended? And Prohibition did indeed, end. Gatsby surely spent more than he took in.Only a matter of time before Daisy being as spoiled as she was, would depart. As soon as the cash ran dry. I have no doubt Gatsby as a fighter,  would have found another way to build a fortune. To recover. Unfortunately, his true focus for it would have long exited. And possession should never be every reason to acquire wealth, especially when it comes to the acquisition of a heart, love. A feeling. Gatsby loved how he felt around Daisy. He was willing to pay anything for that feeling. He was paying with his life and she really wasn’t concerned. If Gatsby was able to spend more time in the present, he probably would have figured this Prohibition thing was going to conclude. He held enough contacts to uncover this information and ostensibly work to protect his wealth.

2). Gatsby suffered from abhorrent emotional and cognitive biases. First, he lived in the past. Only the past. I’m sure hindsight bias troubled him. I’m sure he obsessed over past investment mistakes because in hindsight, he knew they were going to fail or do well. He needed to control so much of his projection, his journey, his capture of a love that died a long time ago, he could have never admitted he was wrong. As Nick wisely told Gatsby: “You can’t bring back the past.” Can’t repeat the past?…Why of course you can, old sport!”

“He wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was.”

Writer’s note: His love for Daisy was the love he lost for himself.”

Gatsby was inflicted by regret aversion. He held on to lots of “losers,” much longer than he should have. All his party goers, the people he provided a “respectable front” for business dealings, DAISY (biggest loser as it cost him his life). Don’t hold on to losing investments thinking the’ll recover. Forget holding on to feelings, or hope that someone you loved will return. A bullet in the chest and a float in the pool are the results. 

“They are a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”
I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time.”

3). Find and then appreciate your Nick Carraways. The true alliances, the objective financial partners who will provide truth even when it hurts, those who make up your inner circle. The ones who listen, care, the ones who truly feel your pain. So much it changes them. And you. Those who embrace who you are now. Learn to love the Nick inside you, too. For some odd reason, Nick was Gatsby’s true salvation; he just couldn’t make the pieces fit. Your human outliers, the ones who think outside the box, but are pure of heart are worth more than any Gatsby-like fortune. Write down who those people are. Call them. Write. Tell them now what they mean to you. Cherish. Thank them for sharing the brutal, beautiful truth. These people provide clarity.

“Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.”

4). Understand Gatsby was dead before he hit the water. The bullet was merely  release. A method to move on. Forced by the hand of another. We, on occasion, are moved forward by the force of another. Harsh realization from a past love, an illness that sets you back, a business failure (which is not a defeat), depression, an inner disappointment. Let’s face it. Daisy wasn’t going to return to Gatsby and for him, it meant all he built was false, mere illusion. It was time for him to deal with the demons. And they were powerful. He made them so. Death was a good way for Gatsby.Majestic. Full of story. Bigger than life. It’s not yours. Remember the bullet that caused you to move forward, bleed, then drown. Time to emerge. Remember what you’re made of. Some dreams are not fucking healthy. They hold you captive. Daisy wasn’t going to call. She was long gone. Years back. She knew how to work the Great Gatsby.

“He must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about…like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.”

5). Know when your light goes from green to red. To much hope will blind. The blinking beacon, your overwhelming focus, will trick you. The light you seek should always be green. The light inside you should be red. Somewhere between is where reason should  flicker. You’ll then know when to change the path to the green light. Or perhaps you’re focused on the wrong dock. The wrong light. There’s more than one green light out there. Find them all. Know when to change the bulbs, change the focus, move to other docks.

The phone will ring. You’ll attempt to exit the pool, complete the illusion.

And that may be the worst possible outcome.

Gatsby died with hope, from eternal hope.

Create life through hope. It’s healthy in doses.

Realize when hope is not enough.

Run faster, stretch your mind, move past your comfort zone, stretch your arms.

Know when hope creates illusion, self denial.

Because then you’re in the pool.

And going under.

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter- tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning-”

Duel – Chase Yourself to Sanity in Five Quick Lessons.

David Mann rolled over. He was late. Again. Third day this week and it was only Wednesday. Different day. Same shit. The wife of 13 years was already downstairs. Busy. For hours. Occupied with the twins as usual. And it was always about the goddamn kids. And why did they need two anyway? Because God decided to play David another shit card, that’s why. And now all she does is bitch and complain when all he’s doing is trying to is scratch out a living. Paying on a mortgage too big for his shrinking paycheck. And the wife wanted another baby? Perhaps a girl this time. No fucking way, David thought. Not going to happen.

She never understood his hours, his increasing time away from home. His work grew longer – like a slow, barely noticeable pull on his favorite indulgence – banana Turkish taffy. Sooner or later something was gonna give. Snap.  He told her deadpan, seriously, how he hated driving hours to see customers and spending time away from the family. Naturally, it was the nature of his business, especially in the face of rising financial obligations, the boys. Five years ago, his excuse was valid. Today, he was best to not say to use the same excuse and she knew not to ask. They both knew the truth…

David’s favorite candy. He liked to smell the wrapper. Had stacks of them in the glove compartment.

David Mann loved being away from 101 Sycamore Street. As much as possible. He just couldn’t admit it outwardly. Or inside, to himself. Best to go with the flow until death came. Good fucking riddance. Inside – relief at the thought. He was glad to be out of the house as much as possible. David was 45, felt 95. Thinking about how his father died at 45, he mustered a smile. Sweet relief. Coming soon? He wondered. Deep down he prayed. Checking out wouldn’t be so bad right now. At least his next trips would be his last. Off to Grayson’s Funeral Parlor, then Peaceful Rest Cemetery. No more long commutes, no more kids, no more wife, no more clanging of pots and pans holding meals he never had time to enjoy, anyway.

Right now, ironically, Emily Mann (formerly Anderson) was taking out her frustrations on the man-sized breakfast of a frying pan. Or the lime-green enamel stove top. Or both. He thought her especially loud this morning; deep down resentment festered when he slept in. After all, the missus was stuck with two whiny, living alarm clocks. With wheat-colored bangs. Twenty-four hours a day. They jolted her from slumber, religiously at 6:30. Never failed. So now, the frying pan, today, was the chosen weapon of pent-up hatred for a marriage that just died away, leaving what David called “scatters.” Like the bones of carcasses he counted along Highway 57 through his numerous business trips that took him deep in the desert. 

The trips were so tedious, like his life, his job. It all just fit together. There was AM talk radio, thank god, but most of the time, the babbling hosts weren’t entertaining enough to keep him awake, capture his attention for long. David would pull over, roll down the car windows. Full. Allow the heat of the desert to press and swirl around him in a dry-warm death dance. The faster he went, the tighter the grip. Heat and cold he still felt. Barely. The breeze felt good. And not much felt good lately. At times he felt the heat was a devil. Wrapping him. Suffocating…

David started this crazy game over a year ago. He’d catch a quick glimpse of death from the open window of his red Plymouth Valiant Signet and then along the way, through the dust and gravel of his life, his travels, he’d count. Count again. And again. Count the carcasses as he passed. Carcasses of friends he never saw again, people who died away. Carcasses.

What was left of living creatures after trucks, cars, weather and scavenger birds were done: The “scatters.” Traces of what was full of life once – never truly disappear. Scatters. He remembered how he smiled to himself when he thought up this word. It amused him. He laughed the more he thought of it. Looking around he was glad other drivers didn’t catch the insane guy, chuckling to himself, hair flying in the wind, sweat on brow. Dripping on his new Ray Bans. It was rare for him to spend money on himself. The guilt was too much. With the wife. The boys. Most of the time he did without. Penance.

A pissed-off wife’s alarm clock – a frying pan. Better than the goddamn so called “state-of-the-art” Panasonic alarm clock she picked up at Erickson’s 5 & 10, he figured. Shook his head. Cobwebs fell away. 

At least Mrs. Mann gave up waking him for anything. Everything.  A long time ago. David managed to focus. The first time of the day. Certain to be fleeting.

Thank god for small things, he thought.

And the fucking new alarm clock never went off?  At least he wasn’t sure. He thought he set it correctly, but David realized his efforts in the dark were clumsy at best. He’d been up all night. Exhausted. Trying to pull a miracle out of the hat to save one of his biggest and most reliable customer accounts.

He was notified yesterday, after 11 years of working together, that Bill Johnson of Johnson Electrical Circuits was ready to jump ship. For an overseas supplier. The death call came from central office.  Tough break. Same product – 20% cheaper. Stinking Japs. What was going on? What the hell happened to the competitive nature of the United States? Sad.

And the wife. Picking up this new-fangled Jap alarm clock with the clicking numbers, lights, bells, whistles he couldn’t operate. Hate began to rise up. She knows I’m losing clients to these bastards but spends my money on their shit. Perfect.

David Mann left the house at 10 that Thursday morning. Flew out. Barely a goodbye. His mind already setting into motion how he was going to lose about 30% of his pay, perhaps his job. And he was scared. Sweating. And it wasn’t even 70 degrees outside.

Time to hit the road. Same shit. Different day. Again. Rinse, repeat…

And now this goddamn truck is gonna mess up my day too? Why are you driving so goddamn slow! I’m going to be late. Are you counting the scatters? That’s my game! Scatters…

Wait…Now you’re on my ass? Did I piss you off? Great. Another wife. In a truck yet.

******

Steven Spielberg was(is) a genius. Early on in his career, in the 70′s, he managed to monitor and then document on film, the human condition. His strength was to show stories behind the stories. Turn stuff inside out until nerves were exposed. Then he danced on them. Until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

In November 1971, in an ABC-TV Movie of the Week, Spielberg visually spun a story. On a $450,000 budget. Completed in 13 days. Popular for over 41 years, he tells a tale of a middle-aged electronics salesman traveling in a Plymouth with a motor the size of a scooter, tortured, chased relentlessly by a faceless driver of a 1955 Peterbilt 281 Tanker monster along miles of a two-lane winding highway through a California desert.

The movie is popular, still. It frightens. Still. Why?

Because we’re all David Mann….

We are all “scatters.”

Random Thoughts:

1). Demons chase you. Rise up. When you least expect it. When you’re at a breaking point. When you’ve been kicked. You’re kicked again. At times you’ll be driving the wrong car, carrying the wrong thoughts and that monster truck, the demons will follow you. For miles. For years. Through the heat. How will you shake them off? What takes you to the breaking point. Write it out.

2). Scatters. How many carcasses have you counted? What scares you enough to wish those scatters whole again? Are they remnants of the dead you created? Do they follow you? When you stare out a window what do you see? When you stare into a mirror – what then? What are you driving today? A Plymouth or a Peterbilt? Are you being chased or are you chasing? What’s your test for the day? The week? The month? A lifetime?

3). Demons can be chased. And killed. Or at the least, set free. Establish your boundaries, turn the tables. The demons always believe they have the upper hand. Unfortunately, you’ll need to be tested to determine if this is indeed, true. The demons are overconfident. They can even play nice with others. But not you. To you, they’re deadly. They laugh in their hubris. At your fear. How will you turn the tables, surprise your demons today? Like David Mann did. And for a moment, moments, the trucker, the demon, held the upper hand. The stronger he became. The demon. Until his strength, his speed, overtook him. Right off a cliff. David Mann needed to take drastic action. Play the demon’s own strength against him. How will you turn your demons’ strengths into weaknesses, today?

4). Money demons exist. You’ve acquired them by watching your parent’s relationship with credit, debt, saving, investments. My parents were horrible with money. I observed their financial demons. Lack of life insurance, living only for today, not thinking of tomorrow. No wills, no estate planning. Those demons came for me. I fought them. Hated them. Have you inherited your family’s money demons?

5). What will lead you home? Is it something spiritual? Where’s your safe house? Find it. Live in it. Read it. Use it. Never turn what leads you home into scatters.

Never forget…

The outwardly weaker being. David Mann. Won the “Duel.” 

His demon was outmaneuvered. Off the edge.

By a Plymouth.

Turned to.

Scatters.

And a new day had begun.

18 Miles – How far out will you go to change?

When I talk to her, listen to her, watch her speak, stare into her blue-greens, I wonder how she was as a child. I pay close attention because there’s passion in her words, her thoughts. I don’t want to miss a beat. Yet, all I can think about is her beginning. Her upbringing.

She shines with incredible substance and polish. There’s strength in her words. I wonder what kind of family, household forms this quality of person. A human who shines like this. I bet her house was full of sunlight, fine wood, literature, bone china, warm, comforting aromas and love. And I’m glad. And I’m fortunate to know her. Her impervious sense of self is magnetic. Many see it. When you stand near, her personality generates heat. I bet she glows in the dark. If I told her that she would laugh, probably call me silly.

I’m absolutely sure she glows.

Then I think about how incredibly different our paths to here, this moment we meet for an interview, must have been. Light years. I’m certain she never came home from school to find her mother topless and drunk on the lawn or her dad in a hot tub with three females twenty years his junior. I’m sure she never had to fear for her life on the way to high school or practice hours in a mirror to remove a heavy, lower middle class urban accent. Nope, I’m certain of all this. I’m sure her diction was perfect; her voice resonates from deep in her chest, rises up – her words are as dense as diamond. She makes life look easy. I have always labored through it. I believe her road was paved with beauty, mine graveled with ugly. Yet, smooth and rough can collaborate and create.

We know each other, respect each other’s strengths. And when I’m in her presence I wonder: How many miles would I need to venture from my comfort zone to be like her, possess a slice of her self confidence. I’ve figured about 18.

18 miles out.

Can disparate roads eventually merge? 

Random Thoughts:

1). How far out of your comfort zone are you willing to travel today? Take it a mile at a time. Maybe you believe you can’t get past the shit in the road, but the more you trudge, work, push forward, the cleaner and smoother the path will become. As a kid if you would have  told me I would have gotten as far as I have and consult and meet with the diamonds I do today, I would have laughed hard in your face. Will you practice in the mirror of your soul, for hours, to be a better person? To seek knowledge? To bathe in the wisdom of words and actions you see in someone like KC. I call her KC because she brings the sunshine band with her wherever she goes.

2). The farther out I go. The more I discover who I am. When I traveled 18 miles outside of New York City, I felt the dirt fall away. Permanently. When I travel 18 miles outside of a rural Texas town, I hit a patch of land I recall as a crossroad for change. I can pass the road today and remember the thoughts of that day. What changed about me. Where is your crossroad? How far out will you travel, will you go to change something about yourself? Begin 18 miles from point center.

3). It’s never too late. To travel. Build wealth. A business. Age is not a restriction. Picture your finances 18 miles out. Eighteen miles from today. Picture yourself debt free. Don’t look back. Begin the travel now.

4). Find the smooth road and then go open throttle. Analyze people you admire, tell them you admire them. Tell them why. Ask them for guidance to get 18 miles out. You would be surprised what you’ll get when you ask. Never abuse the privilege.

KC’s passions include issues that affect children and the underserved. She’s adventure, knowledge, devotion, cum laude of the school I always wanted to attend – Vanderbilt University. She told me I could teach there someday.

She has connections.

She’s a spark.

An “18 miles out,” destination we should strive for.

What are you waiting for?

Get moving.

And tune in.

http://abclocal.go.com/ktrk/bio?section=resources/inside_station/newsteam&id=7027627

Strong Ghosts – 5 Ways to Conquer Them.

“And now you’re a ghost
I walk right through.”

Sky Ferreira

Sky is ok in my book. I think she understands the human condition.

Think about how many times people in your life walk through, then out of your life. It’s astonishingly easy. Even those you thought were closest can reduce to mist in a moment. They may say goodbye (or not) and what’s worse an electronic footprint, most likely, radiates within a device you carry with you daily. A digital photo, a text, the cold tone of an e-mail.

Words scorch into your brain and never disappear (even when you delete them). A techno-ghost of sorts. No matter how many times you read the words your mind stumbles upon the apparitions. The people. You were able to touch them, love them, kiss them. Then the last time you saw them, if you knew it was the very last time, perhaps you would have done it all different. Whatever it was. Maybe then..

They wouldn’t have decided, using thumbs and a tiny keyboard, to vaporize or dissolve you. It’s easier than ever today to turn yourself into nothing or transform another into an ectoplasmatic goo puddle.

Ponder those times you’ve walked through others. The ghost circle is now complete. C’mon. You’ve done it. We all have. You held the upper hand on several occasions. You turned souls into dust. It’s fine. It’s what makes you human. Severing the mortal thread (not coil) with another is as old as time. It’s never pleasant. Ok, on occasion it’s pleasant. Admit it. You really enjoyed vaporizing the bastard.

How many have you “ghosted?”

Then there is one. That damn ghost. The strong one. The one you walk along. The invisible one you trip over. The one who slides in from a dark corner of thought, of memory, and causes you to stumble. To shake. Repeatedly. You. You. You, You gave the ghost permission to stick around. You didn’t complete the fade-out process. Because you weren’t ready to release the ghost that holds power over you. You walk around it. Never through it.You respect the presence. The strong one is still here. But not here. The strong one mocks you. Still.

The ghost who holds power over you. 

Still lingers. Waits. 

You can’t walk through. You’re not ready.

Sorry Sky. 

It feels too good to stumble. To succumb.

Time to change all that. Now.

Here comes the strong ghost. Teach it a lesson.

Random Thoughts:

1). Recognize what motivates the strong ghost. What empowers it. For me, it’s a song, a picture, a gift received. I’ve removed the powerful triggers from my life. I’m no longer feeding the strong ghost. She’s starving to death.

2). Fight the strong ghost with a stronger presence. The more active you are, the weaker the strong ghost becomes. Activity, accomplishment, sweat, pain, solace, love, peace, all work to slay the strong ghost.

3). Prevent the ghosts of bad financial decisions. Bad investments with too-good-to-be-true return promises, overextending credit cards, lending money to others (who most likely won’t pay it back), feed the strong ghost.

4). Allow the strong ghost to have its way. Let the strong ghost absorb you. Invite it in. Sooner or later, you’ll be so sick of it, it will disappear out of pure disgust for its presence. Too much attention will force your mind to expel the strong ghost. You’ll reach a saturation point.

5).  Recognize the signs of a strong ghost that waits in the wings. There is a person or addiction, or behavior you can currently classify as a potential strong ghost. It’ll be something you’ll recognize. Something that sparks you, inspires you. Makes your heart beat faster. Strong ghosts disguise themselves in chains of enlightenment. Respect the power and understand how the presence may be fleeting. You’ll learn to appreciate the moment more or recognize when the ghost has the power to be evil, debilitating.

There are many souls that cross your path. Many are innocent.

Then there are the ones. The strong ones. The ones that linger.

The ones that make you thankful to be alive.

And can take your life away.

In a moment’s notice. 

When you least expect it. 

And you’re going to love every minute of it. 

The Colors, The Times, of Your Life – Will You Remember?

We were free. Moving quick in a white hot breeze. 1977. When the world flew by in lime green.

Slit through a black bowel of public housing. Deep in the middle of the aged carnival colors of blueviolet, aquamarine and bisque. Coney Island. A narrow way forged between the metropolis, slick brown with rot. The summer New York heat penetrated, bounced from dead, white alley cats forming a yellow haze floating neon pungent sluggish slow in still heat. Bright orange, with a burst of unhealthy steel-gray around the edges, like a healthy pink hue that hesitantly abandoned its soul, was there too. Cats and garbage rotted just that way in July. In 1977. In Coney Island. I remember.

The odor scorched the outer part of our pink nostrils until they flared red. But we didn’t care because this moment was designed to be fleeting. The clear blue of escape from a place we should not have been, was near. And as long as that moped motored us out  in one piece, alive, all the Sunday ritual – staring at the newly-painted off white walls behind the rich, marbled altar of St. Simon & Jude’s Church would have been worth it.

Until.

Boom! Black.

The lights went out. A deepest black seeped in from the edges. Beige smoke rose above. From everywhere. It suffocated us like a color. Purple maybe. Stopped us dead. Frozen.

Then.

Restless white noise. Muffled sounds of agitated souls. Blood-red anger.

Frenzied, white round bursts of bright. Scattered. Flash lights cutting through, getting closer, like silver shards.

In the dim gray mist of yesteryear, when lapels were wider than a McDonald’s Happy Meal and Mayor McCheese still held power over us.

“We need to get out of here. In there,” I pointed. And kept pointing and she knew what I was pointing to. What I meant. Like she could see through midnight blue.

“Fuck no,” she said. A spanish, italian, puerto-rican fire mix of black-coal eyes, deep brown bouncy curls in red spandex and cherry-red heels.

“If you don’t get in the dumpster you’re getting raped and I’m getting robbed,” I said. Heels off. She moved. The color of imminent danger was crimson with dark-red daggers.

We dove boldly into the acrid stench of the mix. Eggplant in color, wet, with sticky blotches of yellow green. The lime-green Puch Moped that was to take us into the wild blue now secured behind the jungle-green metal coffin for the discarded muck public housing didn’t  want. Too much green. We puked. The gagging color of cloying hot crimson arose in our noses and throats.

A city summer. In a blackout. 1977. I remember the shades of memories. The colors brought me back to an alley. When looters almost discovered a boy, a moped and a girl’s saturated skin with Love’s Baby Soft (always smelled cotton-candy pink to me). All this clear vision from a lone lime-green bicycle I barely noticed. In a driveway. Yesterday. In Houston, Texas. A million miles away – faded into a lemon chiffon of time.

Oh the colors, the colors. Perfect.

Colors have the astounding ability to anchor you back to a time and place for as long as you live. No matter how far to the past you venture. Colors are seeds that blossom the past to the present, immediately. Sort of like songs. Sort of like a person you love, or cherish. If you remember the colors, you’ll know what you feel about a moment is true. And real. Even when others doubt you. Even when you doubt you. The colors make it true. And true is slate blue.

Random Thoughts:

1). How will colors conjure up the past? Today I re-lived the memory of a first dinner. I smelled the thick tapestries of dark & tomato reds. The rich browns of hair and delicate tan of lines, of form, of grace. I’ll never forget the fire-brick colors of what ignited in mind and heart. The reams of gold in the conversation. I re-live those pigments every day.

2). Red & green are the colors of money. When stock markets are green, as they have been since the fiscal cliff (version 1) concluded, I use green to trim growth and profit. When there is red again, a trickle of crimson in the streets, I’m motivated to buy. Use the reds & greens to make smart financial decisions.

3). How will today’s colors form your future? Be careful with the colors you use today to form the thoughts that move you forward. Today I’m staring at coral, firebrick, and forest green from my windows. All soothing, positive colors to me. I’ll make it my business to avoid true dark shades today.

4). What colors will propel you to thank someone today, love someone, be grateful for a communication, a note, one positive word. Close your eyes. Think of those colors. Shamelessly relive the good memories tomorrow of how you changed someone’s attitude. For the better.

Like it’s 1977.

Because times were good.

Because we lived to escape.

The blazing yellow sun eventually showed us the way.

To the blue.

Back on course and lime-green.

Once again.

Like you.

And your memory.

Governing Money – Lessons from the “Governor.”

In a former life, the world before hell and earth went inside out, Philip Blake was a husband, father. I think he sold insurance (and wasn’t very good at it). He probably carried too much debt, drank too much  - I’m certain erectile dysfunction was a grim reality.

I bet he fantasized about having sex with the twenty-something barista at Starbucks or even worse - the overweight college dropout with crooked, yellowed teeth and soured look from behind the register at the local Piggly Wiggly convenience haven. In other words – HO HUM. Mundane. An existence we all mistake for a life because we were told that’s what life is, ya idiot. Or as a friend would say – lame ass!

And now?

He’s bigger-than-life in a world shrinking (literally) from decay. Ain’t that a bitch!

 A former insurance prospect? You betcha!

The “Governor” as he’s been proclaimed by the inhabitants of the fictional town of Woodbury, exists, rules, and on occasion, thrives (code for: gets some). You know what that means. Wink, wink.

It appears the whole end of the world thing has added pep to his step. He dons cool vests and brandishes a big-ass knife low on his hip. He’s handy with an automatic weapon. Yep - he’s discovered his true, higher calling, although the path he takes on occasion, would classify him as certifiably insane. Well, if the world was as it was, once upon a time - the one of sales calls, stopping for beer and milk on the way home to the mortgage payment; praying to get it up on a weekend for the wife he’s long tired of. But in this new world? He’s the king, baby!!

The Governor appearing calm, collected in front of Woodbury residents. Notice the power stance (I’ve eaten a great breakfast at the coffee shop behind him and was able to leave town, peacefully).

But this new normal is truly abnormal. It requires a huge (over) dose of out-of-the-box thinking followed by unorthodox actions to keep him and his close-knit brood, alive. Fight or die. Stay alert because at any moment you may become a food source for ravenous, rotting flesh eaters and/or victims to the living who want what you have, what you worked so hard to build. All you possess can be gone in an instant. In this place, you fear the living and dead, equally.

His life demands tremendous inner reflection, strong leadership, a healthy dose of paranoia, an intense hunger for knowledge of the deademy (my zombie bon mot for enemy,) stamina, charisma, a penchant for strong tea, an instinct to survive and on occasion, cold-blooded murder of his own species (the living) which is an odd way to re-populate the planet. The deeper he believes in his mission to preserve what’s left of the human race, the more he perceives outsiders as threats. Appears almost everyone is an outsider.

The Governor laments the ”experiments” that just didn’t work out.

The end of the world definitely raised his stature. Forced him to rise above. Imagine a former insurance hack re-born as a new-found savior. Only in the America of the living dead. Bittersweet (bloody) success. Climbing the ladder of what’s left of the human race.

The Governor fights passionately to protect what he’s re-created - a tree-lined, bucolic microcosm of once was; the time before this time or whatever this putrid shit is now. He preserves, behind big makeshift walls made of of fat tires and metal, the lives and well-being of his followers. The ones who still breath and don’t seek to eat each other.

In this Georgia sanctuary, residents adhere to daily routines like doing laundry, taking the kids to school and on occasion, they gather together to enjoy a hearty zombie gladiator fight in the center of a dilapidated makeshift arena. Hey, we must have our sports events no matter what, right?

Born from the imagination of master comic-book genius and creator of the concept for the hit show, “The Walking Dead,” Robert Kirkman’s “Governor,” is possibly one of the most complex characters to bridge the annals of comic and television history.

The Gov, played by Brit actor David Morrissey, in a pensive mood.

Something has gone dreadfully awry on the road to Woodbury (when it’s not dressed up for television this town is really the peaceful haven of Senoia, GA). You can see it in the eyes of the town folk. They’re scared of Philip Blake. Philip Blake who knocked on their doors once trying to push term insurance. In that old life, they didn’t open the door or got the dog to chase him. Maybe a family pet bit him.

I guess change happens when you can no longer self-regulate (or have no reason to try) - you create the rules, acquire minions to reinforce them. Ostensibly, a bit of sanity erodes as you’re tormented by the memories of those you lost, those you cherished, to wide-mouthed bites of growling corpses who drool black goo. When your back is truly against the wall – you shake things up.

Ponder the horror long enough and the snap-crackle in your mind ostensibly goes pop. You’re no longer who you were. The person inside, the one who worried about following the lawn fertilization schedule to the letter on weekends, is in a dark place now. Deader than dead.

The Governor has allowed the demons to occupy a great portion of his psyche and they rest on his mind on a full time basis. He can’t win against them any longer, so he commands them steer them to push him forward. Hey, when in Rome!

Black inside, tortured but he’s moving. Getting shit done. Every day.

He’s been re-shaped, reborn, by the end of the world he knew and the path he cuts to cling desperately to what was. After observing him you cannot decide who’s more rotted inside – him or the staggering corpses who meander around the parameter, tripping over debris, bumping into burned-out husks of rusted autos of drivers not lucky enough to escape from rotting marauders of warm flesh.

To the people he protects, the Governor is the best thing around. He’ll do whatever is necessary to guard his flock from strangers – living or dead – as long as they’re loyal. There’s something admirable about his rise to power, his grandiose vision to take back a human race most likely lost forever; yet, his actions at times are so horrific, his thought process so cold blooded, you almost wish to take your chances with the ghouls outside the walls of Woodbury.

He does have his heartwarming moments. Like when he talks soothingly to the chained and straitjacketed pre-teen zombie  who once was his daughter Penny. He keeps  her nestled in what appears to be a human kennel, deep inside his quarters. He brushes her hair (which falls out), sings to her.

Penny snarls and snaps at him as he releases the chained collar tight around her neck – her jaws make a  sharp snap sound, directed toward his warmth, like a blind ravenous canine searching for a steak in the dark. She’s so long gone, however. Yet, it’s Philip’s very last cling to hope, to who she was, the young life with so much potential she represented. Represents still, as he works with a genius professor geek deep in the bowels of Woodbury who works fervently to discover what makes these dead things tick. And perhaps, just perhaps, a cure!  He denies the fact there’s truly no cure for what ails precious Penny (except a bullet to the brain).

A heartwarming moment as Penny noshes on body parts of the once living who faced the Governor’s wrath. 

And if you watch AMC’s hit show “The Walking Dead,” you’ve been fascinated by the Governor and his actions. Why? Because you know (oh, you do), that you can go bat-shit wacko if faced with the same horrific circumstances. You would be altered in ways you cannot imagine. You would work effortlessly to cling to what was, because what was there and now is gone changes you. Lose enough people you love, then you tell me.

There’s a little bit of Philip in all of us. 

There’s a bit of anger, insanity, in all of us. 

There’s a bit of bad behavior where the living are slaughtered, the dead walk (figuratively) in all of us. 

There’s a bit of motivation to protect Woodbury, the safe haven, in all of us.

And when we sit alone and stew about this stuff, allow the demons to play handball against  our psyche, then we are no longer insurance salespeople, stockbrokers, artists, psychologists, the “sane” ones. We are indeed – governors.

Random Thoughts:

1). Construct the walls around you (carefully). Just be mindful of the materials you use. Employ love, civility, warmth and mix in a small dose of paranoia for those who attempt to enter your Woodbury. On occasion, you’ll let undesirables through however, do what the Governor does – dispose of them quietly and explain to yourself how that person, entity, drug, drink was endangering the lives of your minions (or brain cells).

2). Be open to what breaks your current mindset. Recently, I had a revelation after an e-mail exchange that allowed me to easily remove someone from my Woodbury. Realize that Penny isn’t gonna return, put your own back against the wall, get winded. Then wake up. Instead of changing for the worse (as you’ll see in the Governor in the remainder of season 3 and 4), bounce hard against that wall and propel forward. Philip Blake has been broken by the horror of his experiences. He had good intentions in the beginning, but something really bad happened along the way. Watch your path. Create guardrails to not veer off to blackness.

3). Don’t be afraid to retaliate now. As the economy improves, I’m personally seeing, hearing, about people breaking the chains of their old employer and discovering healthier ways to make a living. Something I predicted in my book “Random Thoughts of a Money Muse.” Check out the link below, here’s a blurb from a recent CNBC article outlining the trend:

The steady drumbeat of “you’re just lucky to have a job” that played through the recession is finally starting to fade and employees may be getting ready to say, “I quit!” and bolt for the nearest exit.

http://www.cnbc.com/id/100359891

Don’t feel bad – be slightly angry about how you’ve been treated. Rise above. You’re the Governor over your fate and as the economy slowly recovers, you should get your mental minions to focus on a brighter future.

4). Get shit done. Every day. For a time you’ll seethe, give yourself that. Then go ahead and continue to tend to your walls which surround the quaint town in your mind. Eat healthier, exercise more, find better conversationalists, seek friendships where you didn’t look before. Read a book. I’m reading Eckhart Tolle’s Stillness Speaks at this time.

5). Be bad. It’s ok. Just don’t appear to be above, criticize, or correct others. You’re not perfect and on occasion, you rot and stink worse than the walking dead. And your opinion is just that especially when wrapped in judgmental tone. You’re getting tuned out, too. Fast. The Governor has convinced himself that even the horrific things he does is for the good of his little community. He’s lost the ability to judge his behavior, self correct. You cannot do the same. Oh, unless the dead want to eat you. Then feel free. Have a glass of wine, a dessert, kick a wall (I accomplished all three last month).

6). Appreciate what you have. Now. Before the dead come back and the world goes to hell. Learn to appreciate those you care about. Feel good about your possessions; realize there’s a point when too many possessions eventually own you, especially if you’re taking on debt to “own” them.

7). Appreciate and gain protection. I know I’m making fun of Phil being a pain-in-the-ass insurance salesman in another life, but do not discount the need for life insurance. Bypass the salesperson. And think term insurance. It’s the cheapest, purest type of insurance. One of the best life free life insurance needs calculator out there is here:

http://www.lifehappens.org/life-insurance-needs-calculator/

For insurance quotes investigate http://www.selectquote.com or http://www.matrixdirect.com.

8). Know your enemies. Inside and outside your skin. Which emotions hold you back? Are there people in your life who do the same? Self assess, write it out, drink some strong tea or coffee and take some time to analyze. Then toss out of Woodbury, those threats to your well being.

9). Learn to let go. When the Governor lost his beloved Penny to a samurai blade to the head, you can tell how broken he was and about to become (terrific acting by Mr. Morrissey). You need to let go of what’s dead already. A love, a longing, a feeling, a thought, a friend, a lover, an actual shopping cart with wheels that work at the supermarket. Learning to let go means less stress. Laugh more.

10). Stand like the Governor. I mean it just looks cool, right? Hands on hips. Your body language says a lot about you.

The set of “The Walking Dead.” Notice the tire, metal walls. Also, the building in the background (with ladder) was the place where the Governor & Michonne fight was filmed. 

We sweltered a bit on the set this past summer. Then, there he was. Walking behind us. David Morrissey. In his cool vest. Carrying a script.

When I asked my daughter why she sat off to the side instead of joining me in the discussion I was having with David Morrissey, she said bluntly:

” But Dad he scares me. He’s the Governor.”

The Walking Dead comic-book version of the Governor.

Impressions are everything.

Aren’t they?

Three Lines. Three Words. Three Lessons. Three Tips. Three Reasons to Believe.

Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you. Just sit there (three sentences).

Not sure why Santa scared me so much. Clowns frightened me. Women frighten me. Threes.

Scary happens in threes. Scary movie sagas frequently occur in threes, although many times I wonder why. The Godfather movies? Three. Don’t ask me why. Don’t see Godfather III. Abomination.

On occasion you need three signals to wake you, shake you, bake you – Three hammers hit you in the head, three lightning strikes. You cry, you deny, you wake up. Maybe you wake up. Most likely, you don’t wake up. Try. I try every day.

Why?

Because your brain forms protective layers. Three from what I’ve discovered about myself. As your mind tries to protect your heart. To get through to you, to others, you need to bust through the layers.

Thinking in threes, speaking in threes, can improve your life, possibly save it.

Everything you ever need to know can be learned in threes. Everything you ever need to communicate can be accomplished in threes.

Random Thoughts:

1). “Leave me alone. Go away. I mean it.” Use this for bad thoughts, bad people, bad ideas, bad anything. Sure, you can stop at leave me alone but it’s not enough. Go further. There is a force in threes.

2). I love you. Three actions prove it: I’ve been there for you in rough times, I’ve been there for you when you disappear and return, I’m there for you now that you’re gone again. Being there through bad times isn’t enough to prove you love someone. It’s through the challenging times, confusing times, the times when you want to let go. But you don’t. And you should.

3). All you need are three rules to be successful with money. Save more, spend less, be thankful for what you have. It’s not rocket science people. The financial services industry makes it more complicated, sexy, confusing, on purpose. Now you may need a coach to help you save more, spend less, be thankful. Most of the time it’s a failure to accomplish one of the three simple rules that upsets the game plan. Recently, I met with a distressed lady who saved, had no debt (and a beautiful home), but was not thankful and wanted more. I spent hours taking her through an inventory of all the gifts she’s been bestowed, most of them based on her good habits.

Try writing out your throughts in three sentences. Let me know if it works.

In 2000, I received a call from a doctor I didn’t know. I was at work. 1pm.

“Mr. R? Your mother is here at our hospital. She’s been ill. She’s about to die.”

“I can speak with her. What do I say? I’m not sure.”

“Tell her you love her. Forgive her for the bad things. Help her to move on.”

He handed me the phone receiver.

“Richard? Are you there? I’m sorry.”

“I love you mom. I forgive you for everything. Grandpa is waiting for you.”

I heard three breaths. Then nothing. Then a dial tone.

Threes. What an impact.

On everything.

 

The Cleansing Fire.

What moves you forward? What compels you to change? Walk away? Stay? How much will you deal with before you say no more? What pushes you over the edge?

An awakening perhaps. And I never said it would feel great. Awakenings appear to wreak havoc on my immune system. Currently, I’m fighting the flu; as I grow stronger  my horrible chills and muscle aches loosen their grip.

I will be cleansed and better for it. A person in sync with restful mind and spirit.

Never to be fooled again.

Anger as prevention. Anger as my safety belt. Lack of anger allowed me to be fooled, less skeptical, more open. Stupid.

I’m using anger as white-hot catalyst for change. And it’s good. Anger is healthy; it should be embraced if you can control it. Despite what Dr. Phil or Drew or Oz say – anger if channeled properly, can be your lifesaver.

But can you control it? Sort of like Drew Barrymore in Firestarter. I’ll allow the heat of anger to do my bidding. I’ll maintain the upper hand.

How?

The torch of anger, colored in passion I’ll point toward my goals. I’ll allow it to turn the fear to liquid, then steam, then gone.

The torch of anger, colored in disdain (a sickish yellow), will flame on those people, those companies, those entities which forged the anger-fire path. I’ll take them to ash, sweep it aside and move on.

The torch of anger, colored in love (a blue flame) will be directed toward protecting, guiding those in my inner circle, I’ll cast a warmer heat of love and gratitude. The bad anger inside me will never harm them.

Maybe then the anger will cool.

But then I’m afraid I’ll feel nothing.

And something is better than nothing.

If my blood goes cold, so shall I.

Random Thoughts:

1). It’s acceptable to feel anger toward Wall Street, the Federal Reserve & the bankers. They messed up. They almost caused the entire foundation of the system (whatever that is), to crumble. Today, four years after the financial crisis, they’re still worth your anger as many have not been prosecuted for their crimes (ratings agencies who rated junk AAA appear to have made it through unscathed), the Fed is keeping rates at zero so you earn nothing on savings. The stock market is run by programmed traders who can suck up the bandwidth and wreak havoc. Remember flash crash? It certainly can, and will, happen again.

2). It’s acceptable to feel anger toward those who fool you (even though it’s mostly your fault). Use it as a cleansing fire. Use it as a way to burn their memories out of your head. Don’t look back.

3). It’s acceptable to direct anger inward. If it pushes you to break a chain, get out of a rut, protect yourself against evil, sever a tie, head toward freedom, to greatness, to peace. Then by all means use it. Use it generously.

So for many reasons anger will walk with me and come when summoned.

I’ve tamed this beast.

Bring on the next.

I’ve never been so ready to fight, succumb, surrender. Out of strength. Not weakness.

How about you?

Captain America to The Hulk in the movie The Avengers:

“I think it would be a good time for you to get angry.”

The Hulk (Bruce Banner): “I’m always angry, that’s my secret.”

And what an empowering secret it is.

 

Five Silly Signs of Economic Recovery – What are Yours?

As economics is a social science, we all exist or swim in the soup of its existence. The best economic indicators are within 3 miles of your house. No really, they are. I’m always observant of the world, mostly my world, as a launching point for economic discussion or analysis.

I’ve learned to get better at taking in the signs of my current surroundings, stepping back, and examining how they apply to everyone else.  On occasion, I’m able to at least scope out an investment idea which ostensibly requires further homework and some hair pulling. But that’s ok. I’m thinking. I’m observing. I’m talking. I’m taking notes.

However you want to term it – Economic conditions are sluggish, sort of ok, not so hot; as a friend of mine would lament – sort of “meh.” I’m thinking the economy is somewhere between “meh,” and “yay!” Like pergatory. No fire, brimstone. No heaven. Just sort of blah. There’s an economic angel in there somewhere waiting for wings. For the first time, in a long time, I’m seeing a decent positive tone to my 5 hometown signs of economic recovery.

Random Thoughts:

1). Waitstaff at my local Denny’s is progressively less appealing to the eye. During the throes of the financial crisis, I noticed the waiters, waitresses, cashiers, looked like models. Good-looking people were serving me my Grand Slam Breakfasts. Now, not so much. The current staff messes up my order more often now, too (I ordered over easy not scrambled). In my mind, the lookers have moved on to better opportunities. I’m willing to sacrifice my breakfast for the greater good of economic prosperity.

 Why did my sexy waitstaff wander off?

2). It takes twice as long as usual for Domino’s to deliver my order of chicken wings. My pup Princess hates this even more than I do. I ask: Hey, what’s up with the wings taking an hour to fly over here? I’m sorry sir we are really, really busy. I don’t understand it. And it’s a Tuesday. I always tip the Domino’s delivery people 20 percent.

3). Less bodies at the local gym at 2pm weekdays. I shouldn’t even be there at 2pm weekdays. It seemed that during the “Great Recession,” I couldn’t find an available treadmill. Now? Rows and rows (and rowing machines). Perhaps it has to do with people waiting for their chicken wings from Domino’s and losing weight from starvation. May be coincidence but I’ll take it as a positive.

 4). Higher heads. I’m noticing progressively higher tilts to the jawlines. Like the people on the street are working through this economic cycle, getting a better handle on their household financial situations, feeling lighter, less burdened. I’m seeing more of a shine to people’s eyes. Perhaps more of a focus on the little things that are more important. I like it although I’m a bit paranoid so I’m always thinking people are staring at me for some reason. At the zenith of the housing bubble I was downright paranoid all the time. Now? Slightly. Good sign.

 I’m walking here..

5). Everywhere I go temporary license plates. I know for sure autos make up more of our GDP growth than housing does. I’m seeing more temporary tags than ever on the back of cars. They’re usually poorly printed paper tags that look like your kid drew them using black crayon on white posterboard.

Ok, these are fun, perhaps silly. We are completely entitled as deep inside we are all economists.

You know you have your five. Or two. Or one.

Share them. Write this stuff down. See if you’re correct in a year.

What  – you have anything else to do?

Not an economic sign.

Wake Up Parents! The Kids Don’t Want Your House!

 

Some houses are more legacy-worthy than others?

It was an ongoing conversation between a mom and adult daughter and me (in the middle).  Moving slowly to what I call the “legacy awareness,” stage where we begin to explore mom’s legacy, a loving daughter’s inheritance expectations (or lack of) and possible living benefits (my carefully-chosen words for gifting valuables) for both.

The dialogue flowed innocent enough, until one simple, direct question left my lips:

                   “Carol, if mom dies what would you do with the house?”

I do these things on purpose. It got real quiet. Then.

Carol: “Well, I don’t want that!”

Mom:  “It’s a great house; it was our house, mine and your father’s. You lived there too didn’t you like it?”

Carol: “Of course, but I have my own place, and all that ____,” I mean stuff.” But the word had slipped out. The “J” word.

                              Junk? That’s not junk. It’s my entire life!!

 Most likely that 3,000 square-foot albatross with shingles is not a cherished heirloom in the eyes of your kids. In fact, they would prefer you deal with the house and its contents as soon as possible – I mean while you’re alive and well enough to handle daunting tasks that come with downsizing into a more humble abode.  

Want to see the kids reduce to the behavior of a two-year old, flailing arms and legs tantrum style? Die and leave them to deal with your dwelling and its dusty contents.

Deep attachment to a house is understandable – plenty of wonderful moments were created within those walls; most likely you’ve accumulated plenty of items through the decades and haven’t parted with much in a very long time.

Parents are still storing their parent’s stuff too. There’s multigenerational hoarding going on everywhere. And I don’t see many families doing anything about this affliction.

Frankly, many retirees would rather stay put; moving is stressful. I don’t care how old you are. It’s less trouble to remain in a place that’s outgrown you and choose to live in what I call “the house within the house,” which usually is reduced to two rooms and a bath.

To make it worse, it feels wrong to upset contents that have settled deep into memories. It feels right to leave everything as is – let the next generation handle it. But do they truly want to?

Your kids are busy with their kids, careers, and still coping with the financial distress that comes with a mediocre economic recovery. A majority of households are dealing with too much debt, skyrocketing college costs, underemployment, and now this? Do the kids want an inheritance? Sure. Do they want the house? No.

As we age, memories start to weigh a hell of a lot more than brass antiques or hardly used bedroom suites. An elderly widow was ashamed to tell me she hadn’t used her fireplace since 1987 – the year her husband passed away in a chair in front of it. The old lounger hadn’t been utilized either except recently by Tiger her new tabby cat.  

In 1993, my father passed away in his home. Nineteen years later, I still find myself using Google Maps to cyber-visit the location to see how it’s changed and praying nothing hadn’t. I was the kid who wanted desperately to hold on to the house. I was so afraid I’d forget or disrespect his memory if it didn’t stay in the family. It was a sacred place to me. A real-life example of how housing can get messy. Unlike other purchases, a house gets deeply imbedded in the threads of our emotions.

 A close friend said holding on to the death house was “creepy,” and my thinking macabre. Why? After all, he was my dad. I found nothing weird about the situation. In fact, wasn’t it actually normal to feel this way? Eventually, I did drop the idea. When my head cleared, I realized it wasn’t bricks and stucco I was after. I longed for flesh and blood (dad) back.

Currently, retirees are ravaged by the Federal Reserve’s ongoing decision to transform safe money into dead money by cementing short-term interest rates at zero and artificially suppressing intermediate-term yields.  The result is a dismal level of income generated (after inflation/taxes many yields are negative) and little hope for a respectable income from high-quality bond investments. Those in the “golden years” are ravaged by austerity even though they will ostensibly live more years than their parents and should be more active doing it too. Oh the joy of longevity.

Since low (no) rates on money markets, certificates of deposit, savings accounts and corporate and government bonds will be around for a longer period than any of us originally anticipated, (thus the word cementing) retirees must think creatively about the utilization of additional resources available to them like the house.

                                        Don’t be scared. Free the cash!

I know this may sound taboo, but desperate times call for some “out of the box,” thinking – Why not consider squeezing your greatest illiquid asset?  I’m referring to – you know: The albatross with the bay windows. If you play your cards right, the house your kids don’t want can be a boost to retirement cash flow.  Would this be so wrong to consider if done responsibly?

When consulting with pre and current retirees about income planning, I notice how reluctant they are to consider the house as a future source of cash flow. I’m always the one who initiates the idea. And the faces I get when I do! The topic is horribly taboo. Why? My job is, at the right moment, to bring up sensitive topics. Part of what I do is to place myself in less-than-desirable circumstances as a first step to awareness.

Admittedly it’s an uncomfortable conversation in the beginning, however when you consider how tough (impossible) it is to earn interest on conservative investments and how challenging it is to save for retirement, strategically utilizing home equity may be the only choice available for those looking to eke out some sort of comfortable existence in retirement.

Those close to retirement are afraid of misusing home equity. We’ve all read about or knew homeowners who considered their houses as never-ending money fountains splashing cash for new televisions, cars or expensive vacations. Even seniors or retirees willing to investigate the option of utilizing home equity have been reluctant due to declining or stagnant house values and the unattractive fees associated with reverse mortgage products.

Retirees appear to be more receptive to home equity extraction later in life, especially for long-term care expenses, when instead they could mindfully draw from equity along with other income sources starting earlier and thereby enjoy a more fulfilling lifestyle.

Instead, many have resorted to re-entering the work force (if 55 or older, it appears you’re working more years than originally anticipated, too) and remaining vigilant about cutting household expenses. But how much cost cutting can you do before you need to hit the big stuff?

I call seriously considering the big stuff  “Code Red Moments.”  “And they ain’t fun,” as I’ve been told repeatedly. Let me be clear: Code Red is and never will be “fun.” These moments are accompanied by the stark realization that drastic measures must be taken to survive financially.

At the least, thinking outside the box (or the house) a discussion with family, and a strategy session with a qualified financial professional on how to go about taking the right steps is warranted.

According to a July 2012 Center for Retirement Research at Boston College Report with information from the Federal Reserve’s Survey of Consumer Finances, the average balance of a household with head (of household)  age 55-64 in 401(k) & IRAs was $42,000 in 2010 which was lower than the $45,000 held in retirement plans back in 2004.

Thank goodness for Social Security otherwise most of us would be sunk. A select few are still eligible for defined benefit (pension) plans; the number of workers lucky enough to know what pensions are continues to decrease markedly since the early 1980’s. 

Wealth of Typical Household with Head Age 55-64, 2010                                                                                   Source of wealth
Financial assets	18,300	3%
401(k)/IRAsa	42,000	7
Defined benefit	131,300	23
Social Security	287,200	49
Primary house	82,600	14
Business assets	7,600	1
Other non-financial assets	13,100	2
Total	582,100	100

^a Includes thrift savings plans and other defined contribu­tion plans.

Note: The amounts are for the mean of the middle 10 per­cent based on net worth.

Source: Author’s calculations based on U.S. Board of Gov­ernors of the Federal Reserve System, Survey of Consumer Finances (SCF), 2010.

Chart courtesy of July 2012, Number 12-13 Center for Retirement Research: 401k Plans in 2010: An Update from the SCF by Alicia H. Munnell.

At $82,000 the primary house represents an asset with cash-flow potential. And don’t feel guilty: The kids prefer you consider your needs first.

Isn’t that right?

Random Thoughts:

1). Spark a Dialogue. Granted – sounds obvious enough. In practice though, not easy. Conversations about legacies, estate plans, inheritances are difficult. Don’t be afraid to enlist a “fire starter,” like your financial advisor if he or she is objective enough and possesses a semblance of EQ or emotional intelligence. Empathy and respect are important here.

 At the least, kids should be willing to assist parents with the overwhelming tasks that go with the relocation process. Families just don’t talk enough (or at all), about inheritance matters until forced to or a life event triggers it. It’s time for this conversation to begin as soon as possible. If only so the parents are aware of your preferences.    

Grandchildren are surprisingly effective at easing the pain of regret even if their intent is limited to the excitement of spending time in a different environment or rolling toy trucks over carpet in a new location.

Recently, a grandmother of three shared with me how she decided to sell her large home and move to a more modest apartment in a suburban retirement community. She was remorseful even though the children were very communicative and supportive of the move. When her grandson’s face lit up at the feel of new carpet and a balcony and shared how excited overall he was about the new place, her remorse turned to joy. She was instantly relieved and satisfied with her decision.

2). Outright downsizing is an effective method to lower living costs. Why continue to remain in the smaller “house within the house,” situation especially if the children are willing to help?

On occasion, the death of a spouse or other life-changing episode can jump start actions.  It’s best to contemplate “going smaller”, before forced to hit the code-red button.

So, sell the big house. Let it go. Based on recent reports, it appears to be an opportune time. Use the cash to purchase a smaller place in full (no mortgage if possible). Release the shackles of the material goods you haven’t dusted in years and get them to a consignment shop. Better yet, open the door to gifting cherished items to the children while you’re still alive.

Think seriously about renting. Why not? Yes, rental rates have increased in several markets so you should examine the tradeoff between buying and selling on a case-by-case basis. First, you’ll need to gather information about the area you’re looking to reside. For example, gaining a handle on annual home price changes vs. annual percentage of rent increases or decreases would be important. From there, one of the best calculators on the internet is available for free from the New York Times at http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/business/buy-rent-calculator.html.

Keep the extra cash you would have used to purchase a residence (or at the least as a down payment) liquid in a low-cost, no-load mutual fund that invests in ultra-short bonds which will generate a small monthly addition to cash flow.  And think about splurging on a nice vacation.  After all, you’re liquid now.

3). Consider a Home Equity Conversion Mortgage Saver. I understand the concerns about the closing costs and fees that go along with reverse mortgages, but hear me out.

Data released by the National Reverse Mortgage Lenders Association (NRMLA) shows senior home equity increased by $30 billion in the fourth quarter of 2011. Seniors have $3.22 trillion in home equity available according to the most recent NRMLA/Risk Span Reverse Mortgage Market Index (RMMI) report. That’s unlocked potential you can’t ignore if tapped strategically. Remember, you must be 62 years old to consider any reverse mortgage option.

Although you’re limited by the amount you can borrow, the HECM Saver is more cost effective than a standard reverse mortgage option. For example, the HECM Saver has an upfront premium (cost) of .01 percent of your property’s value compared to two percent for a standard reverse mortgage. Also, those who utilize the HECM Saver are limited to borrow roughly 10 to 18 percent less than for the Standard reverse mortgage.

Instead of withdrawing in the form of a lump-sum cash payout, it’s best to retain a line of credit that can be used only when necessary. Work with a knowledgeable financial adviser who can assist you with establishing clear rules to trigger and monitor credit line usage. The decision should be based on a thorough examination of cash-flow needs, your overall portfolio mix and current market conditions.  The goal is to have a readily available source of funds to draw from when warranted. 

The debt associated with a reverse mortgage (or HECM Saver) must be paid in full when the borrower dies, moves out permanently, or elects to pay it off voluntarily. Any equity remaining belongs to the borrower or the borrower’s estate. If the debt exceeds the property value, the FHA (Federal Housing Association) bears the loss, not the borrower or the borrower’s estate.

One of my favorite websites designed to educate mortgage and reverse mortgage borrowers is The Mortgage Professor, www.mtgprofessor.com  operated by Jack M. Guttentag, Professor of Finance Emeritus at the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. You can access, free of charge, a series of articles about reverse mortgages including Using a HECM to Strengthen Retirement Plans.

Use the recent, positive news about housing to get the thought process rolling.

It’s ok parents, really – the kids don’t need your house.  Have faith that the memories within will always be worth a small fortune to them no matter what.

                             And that is exactly  what the kids want.