Floating Junk Around Us

Seeing the movie Gravity for the first time was an amazing experience. It was a Friday night in woodland hills and David was about to meet his good friend Christina. They met in the parking lot outside of the AMC and decided it would be fun to smoke a bowl before going in.

“I haven’t smoked in such a long time.” Christina was a friend, but not in the traditional sense of how hanging out with friends led to expectations onto their poor backs. No. Christina existed in a circle of friends where they spend weekends partying in a couple of Pasadena and Alhambra night clubs -- hoping to find that little sweet time that will make the entire shitty week at our jobs worth it. 

“I just want to feel like I’m in space.” David didn’t know what he was talking about after his first pull, but he knew, in about twenty minutes, he was going to be put on the edge of his $20-a-ticket recliner leather seat. The CGI was incredible and all he could think about was how hot Sandra Bullock looked in her dark green spandex floating in zero gravity. The movie was an incredible thing because it made David think about what it meant to be human, especially one that existed in an extremely alien and incredibly hostile environment. The movie displayed a scary attention to detail that had his 29-year-old, heavily under the influenced self stuck without even a water bottle to ease the suffering of dry cotton mouth.

    After they finished the movie they stumbled out of the theater –it was past 1AM. There was fog in the air from the California winter breeze. David's car was covered in fresh due. They both laughed about this feeling as if they were hanging above the Earth’s ozone, literally flying through orbit. “Did she really ride a fire extinguisher home?” Christina puffed out a plumb of smoke from fresh bowl David just packed when they returned to the car. That was the part that brought David out of the movie, but he stopped caring about that. In fact, he didn’t pay too much mind to what existed beyond that point, only that he was with a good friend at that moment in time. 

    “I know. After watching that movie, no air, no sound, it's almost as if we were under water the whole time.” David started feeling confident in himself. “Like compressed you know. Does it feel more scary to you, to be underwater? Like, you’re trapped in there and no one can hear you scream.”

    “Well you can’t be in too much trouble with a fire extinguisher.” Christina had a sarcastic sense of humor that David always enjoyed. She just didn’t care and his attempt at showing some sense didn’t change that for a second. “It’s just crazy to think about all that stuff that floats above us.”

    “What do you mean?” David asked.

    “Those satellite thingies that orbit the earth. Its crazy how they circle us. Right now at this very moment.”

    David's head was getting heavy. He wanted to go home –to a small room he was renting in a house in Winnetka. “Yeah, that’s what satellites do. Right? Haven’t you seen a single spy movie?” 

Christina wasn’t really staring at David at this point. She just sat there in the passenger seat –twisting her dark hair between her fingertips –just staring out the moon roof right into the night sky. “We all depend on those things, huh? Just floating up there, around us like some communications wizard.” 

“I think I about lost you at this point.”

“Look at us. Some fragile creature needing all this…this…floating junk around us –crashing into each other.”

Crashing into Earth, that’s all David really saw in it. But he didn’t want to be a downer about the whole existential thing. Its like were some catalyst for destruction, like some flying missile into a stream of helplessly orbiting satellites. All that crap doesn’t really matter to him right now. David just started to notice Christina in a whole new and refreshing light –a shade of excitement from this new possible emotion. He knew socially it would be disruptive to his circles socially if they got involved, but the primitive thrill was too tempting to ignore. 

The end of the night came at around 3am in the morning. They let their heads clear and sober by the time Christina said she was leaving. They had a good conversation, about life and tragedy –maybe even an embarrassing moment or two. 

“Do you need me to walk you to your car?” David tried to pull up as close as he can. 

“No I’m alright. Don’t want you to get cold.”

“What are you doing next Saturday?”

“I have a date.”

“Already back in the market?

She already closed the door behind her. She gave David a smile and wave as she got into her car. He didn’t know what came over him, but for that single moment she was the most beautiful person in the world -- not talking about in a romantic, sexual preference, but in a tone that speaks to what it means to be alive and in the moment. The way the streetlight bounced off her eyes as she walked away that night. 

David knew that would be the last time she would enter his life. 

It’s almost as if people are all free falling within the spaces of one another -- floating like wandering strangers, waiting to be discovered -- gasping for air. She was becoming reborn, disappearing from his conscious life, falling back into memory, just as the image of Sandra Bullock as she glides out of her space suit – transforming, fetal, as if reborn in zero gravity.

I Am Told, Therefore I Become

“Don't feel sorry for me. I did plenty of that. All the way growing up.” 
  
The reason why I've been reflecting on this subject is because Im trying to get a better understanding of who I am as an adult and how I am going to be as a parent and how not to continue the same failings that Ive experienced.
 
I wonder why I've struggled so much to get ahead of this world and why I feel so unsatisfied and I come to the realization that I've been hampered in a lot of my self development.
 
In school I've always been categorized as remedial, even having to take English as a second language when I was as young as kindergarten.
 
In high school i was immediately enrolled in "transitioning" courses --basically classes for under-performing students. I’ve never been considered for AP courses and, for the most part, held back a grade during my time in high school.
 
Then afterwards I went to community college instead of just shooting for higher --had terrible scores on my SATs.
 
So what I’m trying to say is that while it appears that I’m not performing well, it happens to be the system that tells me that I'm inefficient; therefore, as an adult, im always struggling to take a risk and really shoot for excellence.
 
I can tell myself to change my mentality, but it is near impossible to do that without understanding the lifetime of living in a world that told me that I am less than average.

Walking With Nothing, Hoping for Everything


I don't know how much left I have in me. I'm locked away with barely enough sunlight. I'm a man that didn't experience much of a life and now thrown into complete isolation while becoming a father. 

What are we left with if not the true authentic self? 

Every person needs to have a good shit story just to be able to break ice with people: "I just had to take a hot shit. You know those wet, peanut butter ones -- this shit has stickiness to it. I have to run the water so my wife doesn't have to hear the toilet splash -- It's steaming in there but then I realized there's no fuckin' toilet paper. So I'm trying to be quiet so to not wake the baby. Now I'm walking with nothing but my bare naked ass, stepping over strollers and toys and shit, feeling like I have a hot brownie shoved up my ass!"


Again, what are we left with if not the truest form of humanity?


This is My Story


https://unsplash.com/@faceline?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText


I want to take this opening statement to better articulate what has been troubling me. I felt the need to write this down because my natural reaction to the question "how are you?" is always met with a quick "I'm fine." Now I know in most social settings, divulging all of your emotional weakness is most likely not the best place to do so. But there needs to be times to just lay it out there with no judgement.

First and foremost, my default emotion tends to be anger. One moment in my childhood, during a family visit to my aunt's in New York, I blew up in ferocious anger against one of my younger cousins, then preceded into a shouting match with my grandmother. No harm was done in the aftermath, yet I remember my mom telling me afterwards that my aunt observed in me that I carried around a tremendous amount of anger.

Now, my mother and I never really addressed this episode ever again. We did what we do with almost every other emotionally dynamic episode, we compartmentalized it. We never bothered to follow the breadcrumbs of that incident. Never once inquired in an open and honest conversation about what was the root cause of this anger. 

I love my mother to this day and would never try and take away that love for anything. Growing up she was a strict disciplinarian, and, as well as my father, ruled over their house hold with a belt if we ever got too far out of line. My father is a Pandora's box of emotional trauma to say the least. He immigrated from Mexico in his early 20s with no more than a high school education. I love him very much, but to say that he was emotionally underdeveloped is an understatement. For most of my childhood, he was diagnosed with chronic depression -- prescribed a litany of anti-depressants -- he let the cloud and fog dictate his personality and his ultimate relationship towards his children.

With that, I wish to share probably the most defining moment in my journey into adolescence. I call it defining because I remember this day as the moment my innocence for life died. 

One afternoon after school my father enter by bedroom appearing distraught. He seemed angered and, what I remember distinctly, on the verge of tears. I'm not sure how it happened but I knew that my parents were fighting again (which is strange in hindsight because my mother was still at work). 

I remember I was about 10 or 11 years old and I was in my bed watching tv. Then I remember my father walking in and started apologizing to me and what a failure he had become. He wanted to be more but that he couldn't be around us anymore. 
I remember distinctly my reaction to this and it was cold detachment. I didn't beg or plea or wonder why he was doing what he was doing, just that if he needed to do this then goodbye. I remember shedding a tear but that was it. I was already compartmentalizing the moment while it was happening. 

I don't even know what he said to my brother and sister because I didn't follow him out my bedroom door. My mom came home later that afternoon and I told her what happened. Her response was almost colder and with less emotion than mine. 

And that was it. For that day.

Then the next day came. I arrived home from school when my mother finished a phone call. She told me it was my Dad's sister. She just informed Mom that Tijuana PD had found my father in a park bench, about a mile from his car. Barely breathing, passed out with nothing on him but a few empty bottles of his medication. He was lucky that he only suffered a few days in a clinic in San Yasidro with pneumonia.

Mom that night made the long, lonely drive from our hometown north of Los Angeles to San Diego. And she made this drive without any of her children for support. She came back home and entered the house ahead of Dad. She wanted to warn us about who we were about to see and to be supportive. I did as I was told. When I saw him I remember him still wearing his nightgown and robes from the hospital. He looked so fragile and weak. He went to his bedroom to go immediately to sleep.

Mom then gathered my brother and I in my bedroom (my sister was with the sitter). She broke down in front of us and began criticizing us for not making the drive down to see our dad in the hospital and how terrible she felt making that drive to pick up her husband after what appeared to be a failed suicide.

All I remember of my response was that I was upset that he walked out on us and couldn't make any understanding why he did what he did. My brother started to cry about his fear of death and that this was the closest he'd been to seeing it first hand. I'd like to say that we found catharsis in that conversation but it was most likely boxed away again to never be spoken of. And as far as Dad goes, he's alive today, but the Father that I knew who walked out of that bedroom never returned home.

My final thought is this: I am a father now and I have an opportunity to write a different story for my son. However, in order to do this I have to know myself first; that requires uncovering more of these boxes stored deep in the past; it requires a deeper level of compassion and self love that I don't ever think I allowed myself to feel then and now. The self-loathing and hatred that almost feels as if it stems out of nowhere can all be attributed to this connection towards isolation and abandonment. I had to teach myself then that people will leave you and you will have to protect yourself at all costs. But this only self harms and will continue the destructive cycle onto my own children. 

My wife has been instrumental in teaching me a new way of viewing my own personal turmoil, my erratic emotions, and most importantly, my purpose in life. She has introduced me to the concept of grief and how it takes many forms (not just the literal death & loss of a loved one). I expressed how I felt as if on that fateful day I lost the only dad I ever knew, and through that experience, I have been grieving ever since and just never knew it. 

Here's to grounding myself in a new path towards freedom and happiness, and the ability to finally allow myself to heal again. Because it is not in the highs of life that we find meaning and worth, but in the deepest, most painful memories. It is in these Pandora boxes that the whole self is truly discovered.



BONUS Check In: When Mental Health Becomes a Crime



The recent footage of Daniel Prude is considerably chilling to watch as it displays the slow, methodical torture and eventual murder of someone suffering Mental Illness. This is a reoccurring narrative. People who suffer are left to navigate the justice system alone, without special care, and in worse cases, end up dead. This episode is the little I can do to share his story.

The Face of Death and a Single Life


My Story of Two Different Americas


Twitter/IG: @AlexAntonio0
Instagram: @WhySoAngryPod


Associated Press reporting the footage of Daniel Prude's detainment and arrest.



Kansas City Barbecue

Today. 

It's a weird day. 

Lunchtime.

Monday.

No energy, no thought, no expression.

No care in the world

Know hopelessness, guilt, train tracks.

Hot. Hot. Hot. 

Loud. 

Walking down 12th & Imperial — along the green lines. 

Vending machine broken.

This machine does not store cash. 

Please do not vandalize.

Kansas City Barbecue & 

A blue umbrella outside.

Everything looks flat to me. 

It's like I'm walking through space 

but nothing's happening. 

When those phone calls 

And inbox gets started, shining, blinking 

SafeTran Systems Corp. & murals

Decorate the boulevard.

And I'm safe from the tracks. 

Meditation blocks my rage. 

The afternoon.



Freedom, Oppression, Distraction

What are my thoughts now?

Stream of consciousness. 

What makes me happy?

What makes me sad now?


The heart, mind, and soul

are but a concept

that exists in mind.


Those who try and squelch

the mind are the opposition.


My greatest fear is to

be in a position,

or a circle,

or job,

or marriage

that would rather see

me quiet then express

my thoughts. 


Pure freedom is the

ability of expression

and the opportunity

to push the boundary.               


Oppression is a 

real danger, but it

is never swift.


Distraction is what

allows the guard down.

When we appeal to

this societal concept

--of happiness

--we lose our notion

of what constitutes

expression.


Sometimes, the homeless

man screaming on the 

corner

is not so crazy,

after all.


Though random are his

thoughts,

it is his pure

expression

— and he is absolutely 

free.



-2014

The Face of Death and a Single Life

 



What we forget is almost certainly what we will regret. The lessons of the past cannot leave us. Everything exists in a cycle -- and to ignore this truth is subhuman. Do not forget those who have turned you to who you are. The good and the bad. Those who forgot you. Those who did not choose you. Those who rejected you for something better will soon come to realize your strength and how your influence upon life is far greater than could have ever imagined.


A message to those who use others for self-indulgence or self-importance: they all will soon become victims of their own selfishness. Do not toil in other's emotions or less become lost in spirit in wandering a wasteland searching for meaning -- unable to understand the love of others. To be cast aside and written off is the best motivation anyone could ask for. For it can only fortify one's own emotional structure. Only the walls that have withstood the heat of battle can truly deem itself worthy; hang in the pocket; weather the storm; keep moving, for the story does not end. It is the beginning. The part of the story where legend begins.


Old souls remember the darkest moments and the times that truly define their character. We see true achievement. Greatness is not an entitlement but a testament of overcoming. We will always be tested. It's a matter of remembering.


The cause. The end. The passion.


Not everyone is privileged to understand this. You are special and possess a gift that few will take the courage to seek out and pursue. The only guarantee is that tomorrow is not guaranteed. In the face of death and a single life, nothing else can compare in importance, except meaning. Meaning to one's true life and true calling -- where want and need become the same. Just as the Moon is set to light the darkness, we are in balance. We are tasked to understand where that balance lies.


My Story of Two Different Americas

I needed to take a moment (which felt like an eternity) to really gather my thoughts and emotions. The events of this past 2 weeks have really placed myself and my family on the verge of a maelstrom that we may not quite understand for years to come. I don't know what my place is to speak on such topics, because after all, who am I but one more voice on social media.

To say that this week has been a stressful period of soul searching would discredit the active psycho-social warfare that this nation is undergoing at this moment in history. Like everyone, I immediately jumped to social media and re-posted social justice awareness to claim solidarity with the movement in a way that I've never seen before. But I just felt that wasn't enough. 

My own life experience is mixed, in that I grew up in a small town suburb outside of Los Angeles. To say that I confronted blatant racism in my neighborhood as a social class would be untrue, because of the fact that I grew up (for more or less) in a predominantly white neighborhood. A son of Mexican/El Salvadorean immigrants, I went to elementary school, where i was immediately shuffled into an English as a Second Language, despite the fact that I didn't even speak the Spanish language fluently (I struggled learning a second language, but that is a story for another day). Learned how to love and serve God, community, and country as a member of the Boy Scouts of America -- earning honorable rank of Eagle. I went to private school for half of my life, and though I didn't immediately attend 4 year undergrad, I still maintain the ambition of seeking higher education with having not earned 1, but 2 college degrees. 

Why am I telling you this?

This is the American story. That hard working, middle class families can make the sacrifices to afford their future generations a life of prosperity and peace. I was given that path and I don't want to deny the privilege that I was blessed with to allow me to become the man I am today. I was happy and glad for my opportunity.

Then adulthood and reality collided into my sheltered perspective. It wasn't blatant, no. In fact, it's almost a condition that reflects your insecurities and shortcomings back upon you, "is it just me?" So instead of finding the root cause of these emotional micro-aggression, I held it in, deep down, to the point where I forgot all meaning and justification for my attitude. I was just an angry brown man.

My worldview didn't begin to change until I engaged with members of law enforcement. Though most interactions were cordial, very rarely was it ever friendly, more of a sudo-interrogation and a few instances of a threat of arresting me if they "catch me in an act because they are bored and have nothing better to do" (miss you too El Segundo PD). 

I chalked it all up to just the experience of being young in Los Angeles. Still maintaining to the belief that I was a good, righteous citizen. 

Then one evening, during my commute home from Santa Monica while driving on Jefferson blvd in Marina Del Rey, I was hailed by the red & blue. Now, these flashing lights may mean something different to every single person reading this. For some, its safety and protection. For others, order. For me, that afternoon, it was utter confusion, then fear, and now to this day bitter anger. 

I knew immediately this wasn't an ordinary stop, because not a single officer approached my window, like they would in a normal traffic violation. It wasn't until I heard the loud speaker that I knew this was much more serious than I thought. The officer called out to me and asked me to throw my keys out the window and to keep my hands in visible view while I slowly (with clear instruction) stepped out of the vehicle. 

When I stepped out of my Honda Civic (full of personal possessions because I had just come home from a trip to my parents) I witnessed the full force of the LAPD out to apprehend their "suspect". I counted 5+ squad cars (estimated 10 officers total), all fixating laser scoped weapons at my chest and head, waiting for the slightest hesitation as to if, and when, I was going to make a sudden movement. I was asked to turn around and get on my knees, then lay flat across the pavement and dirt

As I layed there, polo shirt and khaki pants, I remember seeing Jefferson Blvd filled with a lineup of cars, stuck in traffic, doing the very thing that I was supposed to be doing -- they were just staring, wondering what I did, reaffirming possibly their own beliefs that crime just doesn't pay. 

The officers handcuffed me and pulled me over to the lead squad car. They began questioning me: do you know why we are holding you? Where are you going? Are you a resident here?

When the questioning officer asked me for my identification, I didn't even have to tell him my wallet was in my car. The police, without warrant or probable cause, were already searching my vehicle. They had my license, they had everything and I stood there, complying to it all -- not saying a Goddamn word. 

I came to find out later that there was a pursuit for a young, Hispanic Male with the same colored vehicle. So I just happen to be the unlucky soul during LA rush hour that "fit the description." When they realized that they had the wrong guy, I was set loose. I even wished them good luck on their ongoing pursuit, feeling sorry for anyone who looked like me driving my car at that particular hour. And that was the end of it. And I'm still alive to tell the tale. 

Now, if you're wondering what on earth is the point of this story, well I guess that's the Rorschach test to the criminal injustice debate in America today. If you can't SEE what is wrong with the details to this narrative, then we have ourselves a bigger F**KING problem (I promise not to cuss anymore). I kept my mouth shut because I knew that I was a guilty brown criminal in all their eyes. No evidence. No jury. No habeas corpus. Just a bullet in my head if I didn't do what I was told. And I complied. I did my duty. I listened to the officer. I'm an American citizen. 

Now I live in Trump's America. An America that will advocate leadership that will call its southern neighbor shithole countries occupied by rapists and criminals. A leadership that will stand by while white nationalists occupy city streets in protest, claiming them to be good people. A leadership that campaigns that we need to be TOUGHER on crime and that military force be used to dominate it's streets. 

How many people does this reality exist for, every single day having to wake up, trying to find whatever inner strength left to do what is necessary to feed their children -- to still carry hope despite decades of struggle against a system that will value them as subservient to the elite class. 

Lately, I've been struggling with the notion of being detached, unengaged, or never present mentally. I seem to no longer react emotionally to the human needs of others. But in that moment on Jefferson Blvd, handcuffed in front of all LA traffic, on the hood of a squad car, I realized that I had to be. I couldn't react, it was my survival instinct -- to protest would have meant death and so I remained silent. 

When America asks why protest turns violent? Why the eruption of hate and vitriol is so potent when more "constructive" measures can be taken to influence change? It is because on most days, brown/black America stands there quietly complying, staring down the barrel of a gun.

A Status Update to Planet Earth


Too much has happened since my last post. I don't think I live in the same timeline anymore. Everyone talks about returning to some semblance of life, but that's a luxury I'm finding hard to enjoy every single hour as this thing seeps on.  We're hoping for a light at the end of the tunnel, and the odds are in our favor that the light will return, but what will the costs be?

This is the story I was able to see when I looked back just a few months ago, when my biggest worry was how to make the car payment. The story of my body and how seeing my boy sick for the first time just illustrated the terrible epic drama for what it really was: our lives were dictated by our relationship with health. I use to remember walking around the streets of Los Angeles with an anger against something unfounded, throwing fire into the wind towards anyone who cared enough to endure it. I don't know why I was so angry at it all -- the world, but it was something real that lingered deep within me. I was waiting patiently for my first real battle against the natural world and come to grips with the truth: I am only a sojourner made of fragile flesh.

There is something terrible about this human experience; our realities are just a play of aggregated sensory inputs dictating what is happening outside of ourselves. We only know what we experience and what whatever we don't know, we attempt to learn through aural history. The entirety of human knowledge was passed along through ancient texts and storytellers that carried the journeys and tales of our ancestors; it was the only way we knew what was possible.

So where do we define truth in the information that we are fed?

We are now a part of a digital era where everything is recorded, captured, streamed, and stored for the use of Lord-knows what. And what becomes of the human body when the mind is no longer the most optimal engine that powers ingenuity in our realm? We are tangling with big questions I know, so let me take a step back.

This pandemic is forcing us to grip with  the most elemental questions of our own civilization: are we all really in this together? This comes as a harsh truth to the ones that subscribed to the philosophy that we are every man for ourselves.

But let me go back to a couple of months ago: I ended up getting the flu shot twice!

Now, I've kind of always been paranoid about getting the flu shot. Are these fears grounded in any hard research and fact-checking on my end? No. So, I am here to clarify that I don't freaking know what is in the flu shot, but I get them anyhow because I figured, "hey! I trust my doctor enough to get one."

In the last few years, there's been a real uptick in the anti-vaccinators narrative that the vaccine for influenza is harmful to children or worse, manufactured specifically to keep people sick. Now, I'm not going into the details of these theories out of fear of spreading false information, but I did become susceptible to the possibility of mistrust. And can you blame me? I'm not a doctor. I would absolutely have no idea what the hell is happening outside my four walls if it wasn't for the media. If you ask the doctor, "hey man, what's this for?" I'm pretty sure they are going to give you a very legitimate response. After all, this is for your benefit. That's what hope in this medical system is for.

Now, this is where I just come out and say it: I don't believe in conspiracy theories (wow, I can finally live my life as my authentic self).

The only way conspiracy theories work is if every party involved are all in on the drama -- pulling the levers in unison. This seems to come as one big farce -- which is sexy and scary and spooky and  exciting. But then again, I subscribe to practical belief and, again, human beings are terrible at keeping secrets -- the public finds out one way or another.

Let me reiterate again, "I don't know what is in the flu shot." Does that make me misinformed? Does that make me uninitiated?

I'm sure there are doctors with logical sense to point to both sides of any argument and provide a case. But in the end, it is still just a perspective. I haven't sat down with many that hold medical credentials, but the ones that did told me I hadn't need to worry over Covid-19 because the numbers just wasn't there (taking place just a week before the government lock-down).

So, I have to dismiss it all by simply saying that none of it is apart of my experience. Yes, work has been disrupted somewhat and I have to work remotely, but does it warrant the notion that my life is at a total risk none like anything I have ever witness before? I believe in the very clear danger this mass scale infection has upon the world. In fact, I would say that I hope that it will finally shake the wits into ourselves, just so we can begin to speak and ask questions and engage on the very topic that should be put front and center.

The Fallacy of Dr. Manhattan

I'm battling with a lot, with everyone, like a chaotic mess --throwing things around and making it crack and shatter into a thousand pieces of something that was once good and right and beautiful. It's like I am searching for the pain --like I want it to be violent and tragic and sad and hurtful.
 
Sometimes I have a thought that come across my mind that says, "If I can just ease off the gas pedal and just let the moment breathe." Yet, I become a man of conviction, all of a sudden, and I need to dig my heels; this is what catches me in a lot of terrible conflicts with other people, especially those that are closes. It's like this tendency to tear the roof off of things and get a spotlight on rotted flesh and get the meat and bones of this suffering pus like orifice that needs to see a medic ASAP; the only way you're able to remove the tumor from its deep rooted tendrils is by cutting deep. It's going to be a painful, festering wound. I'm making the short term sacrifice for long term prosperity; right now, I look like the bad guy. 
If any of you are readers of The Watchmen, there is a character that basically resembles a god. The character by the name of Dr. Manhattan --a big blue giant whenever he wants to be --or he can make love to five different women all at the same time while still creating the masterpiece of human ingenuity. He is not evil. He's not bad. But he is neither a good person nor a hero in the sense that he fights for the side of humanity and (to get more detail into it) America. He's a being that is perceiving reality, all at one time, and can see and understand and conceptualize infinity, beyond anything that resembles any form of intelligent life on this planet; he comes off as someone that's cold and callous without heart.

Because he lacks the ability to be in the moment, to really sink down into the murk of human emotion -- which he lost that the moment he was destroyed him down to the single atom --he lost all connection to what a human being is. Now, his super intelligence puts him so far beyond our ability to relate to him. 
He was Dr Manhattan. He was a god among men.
 
 I'm not trying to compare myself to Dr. Manhattan. Yet, I think it's when you strive for some sort of higher level of consciousness, or higher level of being, that you may be perceived as a dick due to the nature of not living in the short term; you're not living in the here and now; you're living in the time of infinite realities This isn't an apology or an excuse, or a green light to be an asshole in your everyday life, because you're thinking, "oh I'm being a god." 
With that aside, I believe that it's a law of motion.
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