I tried to paint a mourning that didn’t hurt, dipping my brush into the brightest yellow I could find— the color of survival, once the color of son, the color of I am okay.
I laid it thick across the clear sheet of today, trying not to cover the past but to bring it with me into the next scene.
But you know the physics of this book now— the pages are glass, not paper.
And deep beneath my layer of yellow sunlight lies the permanent midnight blue, sometimes black, of losing you. The indigo of a silence that started at nineteen.
I thought the darkness would spoil the light. I thought the blue would swallow the gold.
I tried to outsmart grief— it already knew my name.
But as the layers settled, something impossible happened.
The yellow of my living sank into the blue of your absence, and the world didn’t turn grey.
It turned green.
That wild, impossible emerald green. The color of the fields you loved. The color of the heritage you wore like armor, the family crest tattooed over my heart that reads jackiemac4ever beneath it.
I see it now.
Every time I let a little light in, it doesn’t push you away. It just mixes with the memory of you to paint the whole world in your color.
The Zig Zag Irony of Being Remarkable: An Exploration of Creativity and Innovation. (PS. This is not for everyone)
In a world teeming with incessant zigs of conformity and predictable patterns, the act of zagging – deviating from the norm – becomes not just an act of rebellion, but a necessity for those seeking the mantle of remarkability. Let’s delve into the intricate dance of the ‘zig’ and ‘zag,’ unraveling the irony that to be truly remarkable, one must embrace what stands in their way and see it as the only way forward.
The Lure of the Zig: The Comfort of Conformity
Let’s first talk about the Zig. The zig represents the safe harbor of conformity. In business, it manifests as industry standards, best practices, and tried-and-tested strategies. A cheap hologram of acronyms littered about in a dreadfully vanilla and cliche power point presentation. In the realm of creativity and innovation, it’s the allure of following trends, sinply emulating successful models, and avoiding risks. The zig is appealing; it’s the siren song of the status quo, promising security and a modicum of success. But, nine out of ten zigs never get the stamp of remarkable.
The Zag: A Leap into the Unknown or simply what stands before you.
Conversely, the zag is an aberration from this path. It’s the embodiment of original thought, the pursuit of unexplored ideas, and the courage to challenge prevailing norms. The zag is not just about being different for the sake of it; it’s a deliberate choice to explore new horizons, driven by a quest for something more profound than mere success – the pursuit of remarkability. A place where commerce feels more like art.
The Irony of Being Remarkable
Herein lies the irony: in a world obsessed with unconscious zigging, true distinction often lies in zagging. Remarkability is not found in the crowded alleys of common thought but in the solitary paths of uncharted territories. This is not a mere contrarian stance; it’s an acknowledgment that the most groundbreaking innovations and creative masterpieces often arise from a willingness to diverge from the mainstream and sometimes it doesn’t at all mean taking that road less traveled, it’s often right front of you and isn’t even on a road, and may not require going anywhere at all.
The 180: Embracing Intellectual Rigor
Drawing inspiration from the intellectual rigor of Simon Sinek and Seth Godin, zagging is not about reckless deviation but about informed and thoughtful non-conformity. It’s a process steeped in intellectual curiosity, critical thinking, and a fearless attitude towards questioning the status quo or perhaps seeing the very overused term “status quo” as the North Star of the consensus and your mortal enemy.
The Role of Zagging in Creativity and Innovation
In the landscape of creativity and innovation, zagging represents the essence and the art of true creativity – the ability to see connections where others see divides, to find potential where others see pitfalls. It’s about reimagining the familiar in unfamiliar ways and daring to implement ideas that may initially seem scary or even weird. But perhaps one must first journey with the zigs, maybe even learn from them, all to find themselves in the middle of a happy accident, where they are struck with a beautiful epiphany that they are indeed going to zag.
Navigating the Zig Zag Dichotomy
The challenge, however, lies in navigating the dichotomy between zigging and zagging. It requires a delicate balance – an understanding of when to adhere to conventions and when to defy them. The art of being remarkable lies in recognizing that the most impactful ideas often emerge at the intersection of conformity and rebellion yet without making conference room compromises as they, indeed are just accidents without the happy.
The Call to Zag
At this point, you may be only hearing the reverb of this semi verbose rant, so I shall begin to wrap it up neatly and add a bow of colorful clarity to this little package of riddles. You see, the Zig Zag Irony of Being Remarkable is a clarion call to those aspiring to leave an indelible mark in their fields. It’s an invitation to embrace the zag – it’s not the path less traveled, but that very place most only see warning signs in red with bold letters: Do Not Enter. This direction is fraught with uncertainties but rich with the potential for true innovation and unparalleled creativity. In a world preoccupied with zigging, the bold, the imaginative, and the daring find their true calling in the art of the zag. Creating their own way by digging out of the very problem they’re trying to solve by embracing the deep holes that may first have them stuck, struggling and perhaps suffering a little more. But the proverbial light is always much brighter coming out the other side when that very problem is now the solution. This idea of zagging is 2000 years old, Marcus Aurelius put it best, “The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” So, when you put your critical thinking cap on today, put it on backwards and ask yourself, am I zigging or zagging?
If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be, and why?
If I could be someone else for a day?
First of all, what a suspicious question.
It presumes I am insufficient. It suggests there is a better vantage point. A shinier skull to occupy. A more impressive mask to borrow.
It feels like a parlor game designed for polite envy.
“Lincoln.” “Bowie.” “Einstein.” “Someone rich.”
But after doing a little shadow work — the kind that makes you sit still longer than you want to — I’ve realized something uncomfortable.
The only people I’ve ever wanted to be… were fragments I recognized in myself.
I don’t want to be Abraham Lincoln. I want his steadiness under pressure.
I don’t want to be David Bowie. I want his permission to shapeshift.
I don’t want to be Albert Einstein. I want his refusal to accept the obvious answer.
And as for Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky — I don’t want to be him either.
I want the sentence I stole from him and pinned above my internal doorway:
“Above all, don’t lie to yourself.”
That’s not identity theft. That’s apprenticeship.
After staring at my own shadow long enough — thank you, Carl Jung — I’ve realized something far less romantic than body-swapping.
The fantasy of being someone else is usually just a refusal to finish being yourself.
There is no other man I would rather inhabit for a day.
Not because I’ve perfected this one. Not because it’s comfortable. Not because it wins.
But because this one is honest.
And honesty is harder than admiration.
If I became someone else for a day, I would miss the friction that made me. The grief that carved me. The strange wiring that lets me see beauty in broken things.
No.
If I could be someone else for a day, I’d choose to be the part of myself I sometimes avoid.
The shadow that says, “Above all, don’t lie to yourself.”
And then I’d come back — unchanged in name, but slightly less afraid of who I already am.
If you had the power to change one law, what would it be and why?
I’ve been sitting with this question longer than I expected to. Not because I lack answers — but because the more honest ones don’t arrive cleanly.
If I had the power to rewrite one law, I would hesitate — not out of humility, but out of suspicion. History suggests that anyone eager to rewrite the rules usually believes they are the exception to them.
I’ve learned to distrust simple answers, especially the ones that arrive wearing moral certainty like a uniform.
That’s the trap.
Every age produces its architects of certainty — people convinced they’ve finally identified the flaw in humanity that can be corrected with enough authority and a well-placed signature. They come armed with good intentions and leave behind unintended consequences.
So when someone asks me which law I would change, I find myself resisting the premise. Not because nothing needs fixing — plenty does — but because the desire to impose order often reveals more about our fear of chaos than our understanding of truth.
The problem isn’t that laws exist. The problem is that laws are blunt instruments trying to govern something that refuses to be blunt: human beings.
Maybe the real issue isn’t legislative at all.
Maybe it’s cultural.
We say we believe in free speech, but what we often mean is safe speech. Approved speech. Speech that arrives pre-sanitized so no one has to feel the friction of disagreement.
But truth rarely arrives politely.
Truth interrupts. It disturbs. It exposes contradictions — especially where power insists none exist.
Somewhere along the way, we stopped fearing censorship from above. And started practicing it on ourselves.
Quietly. Efficiently.
Until silence began to feel natural.
Consensus has never been a reliable compass for truth. Every meaningful shift in human history began as something offensive to the status quo — not because it was cruel, but because it refused to conform to the narrative everyone else had agreed to protect.
The most effective form of control isn’t imposed by force. It’s adopted willingly — when people learn to silence themselves before anyone else has to.
The hardest freedom isn’t speaking without limits. It’s choosing restraint when you could easily go further.
I’ve learned that life doesn’t exist in slogans. It lives in the gray spaces — in contradiction, in tension, in the uncomfortable distance between certainty and doubt.
Maybe that’s why I hesitate.
Not because I lack opinions — I have more than enough — but because every law begins as someone’s certainty, and certainty has a habit of mistaking control for wisdom.
We imagine the right rule will finally fix us. That somewhere there exists a perfectly worded sentence capable of correcting human chaos.
But chaos isn’t a flaw in the design.
It is the design.
We are contradiction walking upright — capable of cruelty and grace within the same breath.
And so I resist the urge to legislate discomfort away.
Because the real danger isn’t that people might hear something they dislike.
The real danger is that we stop risking honesty altogether.
So if I had the power to rewrite one law, I suspect the bravest thing I could do would be nothing at all.
Not out of apathy.
Out of respect.
Because maybe the most important law isn’t the one we write.
Are there any activities or hobbies you’ve outgrown or lost interest in over time?
Today’s prompt asks what hobbies or activities I’ve lost interest in over time.
The Hour I Stopped Pretending.
The answer came to me immediately:
Happy hour.
Though somewhere along the way, I started calling it Unhappy Hour — not out of bitterness, just accuracy.
There was a time when I enjoyed it. Or at least, I enjoyed the idea of it. The promise of connection. The belief that if you gathered enough people in one place long enough, something meaningful might eventually happen.
And sometimes it did.
——————————————————
But over the years, my relationship with time changed.
Part of that is practical. I don’t drink anymore, which turns social rituals into something easier to observe than participate in. Without the soft blur of alcohol, you start to notice patterns — conversations looping back on themselves, laughter arriving a half-second too late, people searching for the next safe thing to say.
It begins to feel less like connection and more like choreography.
Nobody’s doing anything wrong. In fact, everyone is usually trying their best. But there’s a quiet performance happening — an agreement to stay on the surface where things feel manageable.
And maybe that’s where I drifted away.
Because what I realized is that I haven’t lost interest in people.
I’ve lost interest in pretending.
Time stops feeling infinite at some point. You begin to understand that every hour carries weight, whether you acknowledge it or not. And once that shift happens, the idea of spending it in conversations that never leave the shallow end starts to feel… expensive.
These days, I find myself wanting fewer interactions, but deeper ones.
Conversations where nobody is trying to win.
Where silence is allowed to breathe.
Where you can say something real without watching it bounce awkwardly off polite smiles.
Maybe that makes me less social by traditional standards.
Or maybe it just means I’ve become more honest about what connection actually feels like.
I still believe in gathering. I still believe in laughter. I still believe in the magic that happens when the right people sit down together and forget to check the time.
But I no longer believe proximity alone creates meaning.
So yes — happy hour is probably the activity I’ve lost interest in.
Not because I’ve lost my sense of humor.
Not because I dislike people.
But because I’ve learned that time is the one thing that never comes back once you’ve spent it.
And if I’m going to give mine away, I want to know it mattered.
–
These days, I don’t avoid happy hour because I’ve become less social.
I avoid it because I finally learned the difference between passing time and living inside it.
He had an Apple IIe back when Michigan still thought a “home computer” was something you yelled at. My father collected firsts the way other men collected regrets. Not to brag — to know. He wanted to see how the future worked before it decided what it was.
That machine sat in our house like a glowing confession booth. Green letters on a black screen. The future, stuttering.
Mine showed up in 1997.
By then, the future had learned how to sell itself.
That was the year I became that guy — the one who corrected people at parties over a commercial.
“Jobs didn’t write that,” I’d say, beer in hand, moral high ground wobbling under my feet. “That’s beat poetry in a business suit. He just stole it and slapped a logo on the ribs.”
I called it blasphemy — using dead poets to move plastic and silicon.
But I respected the hustle.
Because in one clean, arrogant move, he didn’t sell you a computer.
He sold you a seat at the same table as Einstein and Gandhi and Picasso.
Buy this machine and maybe, kid, you’re one of them now.
I couldn’t tell if Jobs was in a garage somewhere burning his fingers on a soldering iron…
Or just the best preacher Silicon Valley ever produced.
While all that was flashing across the TV, I was in my room discovering a different sin.
I started writing.
In 1997, writing poems on a computer felt like cheating on paper. My classmates were bleeding into notebooks, breaking hearts in cursive. Love songs, death songs, soft-focus misery.
I was staring at a screen, trying to figure out how to be a hard version of Sylvia Plath without driving my own car into a lake.
I tried pretty metaphors. Lakes as mirrors. Souls as reflections.
I hated all of it.
So I wrote my first real poem instead:
“Dionysus and the Silver Spoon.”
It was about a man who treated excess like oxygen. A drunk god in a borrowed suit who thought the world owed him women, wine, and a standing ovation.
It wasn’t mythology.
It was me with better lighting.
And that’s when the joke landed.
There I was, calling out Jobs for dressing up as Kerouac…
While I was wearing Plath and dead gods like a Halloween costume, hoping someone in the room would clap.
That computer didn’t teach me how to write.
It taught me how to look at myself without flinching.
It showed me the hunger. The vanity. The quiet little prayer every creative mutters when no one’s listening:
You will be told to keep it down. You will be called edgy, angry, reckless, dangerous, misinformed. You will be warned to think before you speak, but the only ones worrying about your volume will be those who fear your voice. Truth is treated as noise by those who live securely behind their own proof of lies. We’ve been told who to hate, we’ve been told who to trust, we’ve been told when to mourn, we’ve been told what to fear. And with each order, they’ve made the world quieter, emptier, and easier to control. A country where anger, grief, heartbreak, and dissent are classified as symptoms instead of signals. Turn it up until they know your name. Shatter the windows. Wake the neighbors. They tell us to be disarmed. Let’s make sure they can’t sleep.
If you could un-invent something, what would it be?
If I had to un-invent Organized Religion, let’s be clear: I wouldn’t be trying to kill God. I’d be firing the middle management.
I would dissolve the corporation of faith. Because that is what it has become: a global franchise that sells you water while you’re standing knee-deep in a river.
There is a profound difference between the spiritual impulse—that raw, undeniable feeling you get when you write a lyric that tells the truth, or when you sit in silence and actually face your own Jungian shadow—and the rigid structures that demand you outsource your conscience.
Hitchens would call it a “celestial dictatorship,” and he’d be right. It is the ultimate Orwellian surveillance state. It demands we surrender our modern intellect to the whims of bronze-age provincials. It insists we take our moral cues from illiterate merchant warlords who solved their disputes with the sword and claimed divine permission for their questionable domestic arrangements.
Why should the messy, beautiful search for meaning be held hostage by the egos of men who have been dust for a thousand years?
If we un-invented the organization, we wouldn’t be left with nothing. We would be left with us. We would be forced to build our own moral architecture, brick by brick, based on empathy and reason rather than fear. We would have to find the divine in the faces of the people we love—and the people we mourn—rather than looking for it in a gilded cage.
True spirituality requires bravery. It requires the guts to walk into the dark without a map. Organized religion is just selling you a flashlight with dead batteries and telling you it’s the sun.
It did not sprinkle moral disinfectant on your habits while you slept.
January 1st is not a beginning. It’s a receipt.
If you were moving toward something in October, you’re already closer now.
If you were lying to yourself in November, you brought that lie with you—carry-on, not checked.
Resolutions are charming in the way apologies are charming when they arrive late and rehearsed.
They sound noble.
They feel ceremonial.
They allow us to pretend that discipline is seasonal and courage can be scheduled.
But character doesn’t wait for fireworks.
Anyone who truly meant it—the running, the quitting, the writing, the calling back, the drinking less or loving better—quietly started when no one was watching. Usually on a random Tuesday. Usually without an announcement. Usually without permission.
That’s the part no one sells you.
Change doesn’t arrive with a slogan. It creeps in through boredom, discomfort, repetition.
It shows up looking unremarkable and asks if you’re willing to be consistent instead of inspired.
So keep your resolutions if you like. They’re harmless theater.
But don’t confuse the theater for the work.
If you want to begin, begin now.
If you already began, don’t stop just because the calendar caught up.
January doesn’t make you new.
It merely exposes whether you were honest before the countdown.
And that, inconveniently, is the only resolution that ever mattered.
