Mase is a storyteller based out of Seattle, Washington. Oddly Exceptional explores experience design, goal deconstruction, and intentional living.

Crazy

"I'm sorry my house looks like a crazy person's house." 

It's become my refrain whenever I have guests over.

"I'm sorry my house looks like a crazy person's house." 

There are books everywhere. Having outgrown three bookshelves, two desks, and "temporary" folding table, they now form towers atop every available flat service.

"I'm sorry my house looks like a crazy person's house."

Any available floor space in the living room not occupied by books has some form of exercise equipment. A thin foam mat covers much of the hard floor. A free-standing pull-up rack, push-up stands, and free weights take up half the livable space. 

"I'm sorry my house looks like a crazy person's house."

Large sheets of paper line the walls. On one is a Kanban board, covered in Post-It notes. Others have diagrams. Dates. A running tally of my savings. A list of people to regularly reach out to, to make sure they're doing okay. 

"I'm sorry my house looks like a crazy person's house."

In the hallway are boxes of bottled food. $477 will buy you a month's supply, if that's all you eat. That's a little over three dollars per bottle, or $16 per day. 

"I'm sorry my house looks like a crazy person's house."

Under my bed are five boxes of unworn Onitsuka Tiger Mexico 66s. They're an improvement over the flip-flops I wore for six years, but not by much. I like them because they're minimalist in their design, but loud in presentation. It offsets the plain black t-shirt and dark wash jeans that I wear every day.

But they're cheaply made, and I walk everywhere; each pair lasts about three months before I wear clean through the sole.

"I'm sorry my house looks like a crazy person's house."

On one of my desks are three notebooks. One contains the same list of affirmations, repeated over and over. 

"I love you, Ruby. I love you."

"I approach each task with purpose, clarity, focus, and determination."

"I live intentionally. I seek out ways to improve my reality."

"I am lean, strong, and confident."

"I produce."

I write them every day. I write them so I don't forget. I write them so they become truth.

Another notebook contains a list of the food I've eaten that day. It's a new notebook. I wonder if I'll fill its pages. 

The last is labeled Desk Thoughts. "But desks don't have thoughts," you say. That's generally true. But mine does. And it shares them with me whenever I'm sitting in that particular spot, typically while I'm reading or researching something. So I write them down. 

"What if what we perceive as free will relies wholly on our inability to fully grok the complete workings of the brain?"

"What if consciousness is just... recursive, delayed signal propagation?"

My desk needs to get out more.

"I'm sorry my house looks like a crazy person's house."

A fourth notebook accompanies me everywhere I go. On one of my shelves is a row of such notebooks, each filled with daily todos, notes, scratches, and designs from work and life. Each one spans three to four months. They go back to 2013.

I sometimes wonder why I keep them. I wonder why I do anything I do. 

I'm sorry my house looks like a crazy person's house.

But what did you expect?

I'm a crazy person. 

Anything, Not Everything

Awaken