The 4-Hour Workweek and Slow Dance

A few weeks ago I finally finished reading The 4-Hour Workweek by Timothy Ferriss. I had started it earlier in the year, but put it down several times. No reflection on the book, though. I just had a lot on my mind and had to make some major life decisions. The book helped me figure out a career change, which I plan to post in greater detail sometime later. Basically, life is too short to be stuck in a job you hate. Even in this economy, where some would say it’s best to have any paying job, hating your job can really suck the life right out of you. I know this firsthand. Tim Ferriss outlines ways to start your own business, gives great suggestions for time management, and offers excellent ideas on how to travel the world with very little money. Overall, the book was quite inspirational, and allows one to truly believe that anything is possible if you know what you need to do and how to do it. If you’re thinking of starting your own business, finding time and money to travel to exotic lands, or want to change careers, The 4-Hour Workweek will provide you with a wealth of useful information.

Ferriss ends his book with a powerful, enlightening poem entitled “Slow Dance” by David L. Weatherford. Weatherford passed away earlier this year, but his poems will live on forever. The full poem is provided below with permission from his brother, Charles Weatherford. Enjoy.

Slow Dance, by David L. Weatherford

Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round,
or listened to rain slapping the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly’s erratic flight,
or gazed at the sun fading into the night?

You better slow down, don’t dance so fast,
time is short, the music won’t last.

Do you run through each day on the fly,
when you ask “How are you?”, do you hear the reply?

When the day is done, do you lie in your bed,
with the next hundred chores running through your head?

You better slow down, don’t dance so fast,
time is short, the music won’t last.

Ever told your child, we’ll do it tomorrow,
and in your haste, not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch, let a friendship die,
’cause you never had time to call and say hi?

You better slow down, don’t dance so fast,
time is short, the music won’t last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere,
you miss half the fun of getting there.

When you worry and hurry through your day,
it’s like an unopened gift thrown away.

Life isn’t a race, so take it slower,
hear the music before your song is over.

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Ode to New Paltz

Ode to the fresh mountain air
The dew that covers the morning grass
The stars so close you can touch
The autumn foliage so picturesque
The snow covered hills, that glisten in the sun
The vast athletic fields, full of memories
Of spring concerts, spirits, and dance
To the old main building
And its ivy covered walls
To the futuristic science hall
To the townies that call it home
To the city kids
Who learn how to fly
To the local bars in walking distance
To the thruway that cuts through town
To the place I called home
Where I learned to live
Grow and learn

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A Prose Poem of Passion

As the sexless dreary day ends in darkness a wild and wondrous world emerges. Recurring realms of perceived realities manifest themselves nightly. The energy of the evening raises expectations exponentially.

The probability of pleasure through a prancing party is clear in the air. People become real and whomever they care to be. Maneuvering through music in close cozy sectioned quarters within a large arena, bodies search for conversation, company, and conquest.

Singles seeking to awaken an inner life left dormant during the day consume inhibition juice to feel refreshed and free spirited. The mystical midnight hour opens multitude planes of make-believe. Creeping crowds dressed in their best sway and swagger through the club.

Scantly covered waists of various sizes parade their packaged goods through a sea of slim and strapping studs. Confident stances surround sexual dances as eyes meet and souls briefly greet, looking for that fleshy sensation, that right connection. Gropes and grinds are showcased for spectators who can only fantasize of being in others’ shoes.

Bouncing breasts and tight wide chests bump to a blaring beat. A deep deafening bass bashes eardrums while a frenzy of flashing hot lights shine on the masses.

Strangers step on each others’ toes in their quest to find a dance of desire, a chance encounter that may lead to a brief moment of magic or perpetuity of passion.

(Originally written for a writing class in February 2006.)

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