Spencer Moseley

I thought I would pick up my weekly self-expression routine again. My hope will be to share my deepest self in a way that others can say, "Oh I feel/have felt that way too." I will continue my side projects where I try to entertain and share my inmost self more indirectly, but I believe this practice where I am more direct, on paper, for an audience, will also help me in my fantasy/novel/storytelling.  This week I've been congested and slept too much, to the point where I wake up with back pain. Friends have been there for me, but I've felt like I've reached out more than I've been reached out to. But I know I tend to exaggerate and see things a little one-sided.  I had a hard conversation with some podcast buddies about how I feel we've dwelt too much on the past in our discussions. I thought it might come off as an accusation, but, as with most things like this, they didn't take it that way and, in fact, agreed with me. Why is it we tend to think sta...

Cameron watched his dad mow the lawn on a hot Texas morning. The racket annoyed the neighbors, and his dad would curse when he mowed over a stick, launching shrapnel at speeds that would rival a Mariano Rivera pitch.  "It really dulls the mower blade when I hit these sticks, plus the debris could really hurt someone," his dad would say. "You need to move them out of my way,  Cameron."  Cameron —conflating disrespect with independence — would pick up sticks with an eye roll.  Cameron's reaction reminded his dad, Matthew, of moonlit racoon hunts with his own father, Gable.  Gable  would park his rusty pickup at the hunting grounds, whistle for his coonhounds, then  reverently remove his shotgun from the bed of the truck.  Gable  would ask Matthew  to wait in the hunter's lobby while he and the dogs chased coons in the woods. Matthew knew better than to show his dissatisfaction or  his father  might call him "ungrateful" or, ...

Father Clive finished helping with the last of the dinner-dishes, eying Javier with kindness. The boy had cut some corners and left some dinner plates slightly smeared with grease; but he was only 13. His hands shook, and his attention wandered—classic anxiety. Fr. Clive saw the boy grab a buttered roll, stuff it in a napkin, then into his pocket, but chose not to bother with it. The kid needs to eat , he thought. "Are you ready for night prayer?" Fr. Clive asked, scratching his shingle-ridden head. He'd been avoiding a doctor visit for too long. Javier nodded with exaggerated (but not sarcastic) obedience. Canter walked by, "I'll pray for your soul," he said to Javier.  That drew a smile from Javier, "You need it more than I do after dodgeball today." Canter laughed and the door from the cafeteria shut loudly behind him as he exited. Fr. Clive and Javier exchanged a glance, shrugged, and followed him close behind for night prayer. The snow was pil...

Candide Quotes Candide to his mentor, the optimistic Pangloss: “When you were hanged, dissected, whipped, and tugging at the oar, did you continue to think that everything in this world happens for the best?”  Pangloss: “I have always abided by my first opinion, for after all, I am a philosopher, and it would not become me to retract my sentiments.”

I look at everyone around me and see something I'm missing. Some have a drive for music, others for comedy or literature, and still others for making more money or... something. And when I look within myself, I don't find a drive. I don't find any future goal I want. I'm not much of a materialist. I like sexy clothes and good music, but I don't feel this Wahlberg-drive to produce content. I desire fame, but I know that this is not a source of happiness, so I try to keep it in check.  And here I think I stumble upon something deeper. I desire to desire something out of life because that's the message I see around me: self-worth can found in achievements and noble pursuits and attention.  I'm reading cathartic quotes from Michel de Montaigne related to this modern idea of happiness, and I hope I can devote more time to reading his stuff. Do you babes want some samples? Fuck yeah you do :) “There is nothing more notable in Socrates than that he found time, when...

Popping champagne scares me. I don't have much to say about it, but I thought people should know.  I believe in an imperfect god (right now). Am I on some road to believing in a perfect god or in Plato's eternal forms? I'm not sure. Maybe this is some slippery slope to MAGA, but I find some comfort talking to a god. I've resisted this for a while because I thought belief in a god would mean I'm weak, but I don't think that's true anymore. We're all weak af, so it's probably not bad to find things that help me function.  It's weird going back to god. He and I have a fucked up past. The god who gave me a list of rules to follow did not let me embrace my authentic self; and I had to follow his rules lest I end up, "where there will be wailing and grinding of teeth". So I guess my relationship with god feels a lot like my relationships with fellow humans—imperfect. So I've basically removed god from the traditional values that make god ...

I'm in a tender development stage where I'm struggling to keep my eyes focused on the road ahead. I reflected this past weekend and realized that it's only been four years since I left Catholicism. In that time I've accepted two corporate jobs, moved three times, made some of the most authentic friendships of my life, traveled abroad, started podcasts, performed a stand-up comedy set, and explored my sexuality.  The truth is though, this isn't good enough. I wish I had spent the first 26 years of my life doing these things. I wish I had started younger and gotten into the film industry as an actor/performer/singer/public speaker/writer. Now I'm 30 and it feels so late in the game. The game. What game? See that's the problem. The world creates this game in our minds, as if there's some place we need to be in our career at some age.  But still. I can't help feeling a deep, deep regret for time poorly spent—time I will never get back. And the crazy thin...