The rest of the years were good enough, though I did settle into a routine. Hating my classes, saying the wrong things to get kicked out once every other month, was one of the more prominent traits I further developed. I battled with teachers that told me I had potential if I would just focus myself. I fell in with a rather safe group of kids, whom I spent my weekend nights with, watching horror movies and listening to gossip.
I made out with a few girls. I delivered newspapers. I still got panic attacks once every few weeks and wondered what the hell was wrong with me.
Weekend days were reserved for going down to a local sports card shop, where for the nine or so hours the store was open, I talked sports with a bizarre cast of townies that had nothing better to do with their lives than, well, sit in a sportscard shop. There was a kid a few years older than me that worked there, who treated me as if I was the annoying little brother he never had. Just like an older brother, one second he would be giving me a rash of shit, while the next few hours were spent killing time, spewing out weekly statistics or theorizing what legendary team was better than the other. It never seemed to get old.
The owner, a local businessman that owned a sketchy chinese food restaurant, would make rare visits. Always scented with a tinge of alcohol, John would swagger into the shop, open a few packs of Hustler cards to look at some naked women without his wife knowing, eject a few inhuman belches, mutter the words "hurt me" as he rubbed his stomach and then say goodbye for another week or two.
David, the. shop "manager" would come in, sit at a back table while smoking cigarettes and harass any potential customer. He was the definition of the word "haggler", always coming in with some unnecessary items that he had scored at a flea market or garage sale for a dollar or two. He would give lengthy lectures on any and all subjects brought up and always seemed to fashion himself as a somewhat small town mystical philosopher. There was always a look on his face after he talked as if to ask, "Did I just blow your mind or what?"
Without a doubt, the most interesting specimen of the shop days was Stretch, a seven foot tall manboy that lived with his mother. Day after day he would come in wearing the same Chicago White Sox jersey with smudged ink on his face from delivering newspapers from his car. He had this bizarre high pitched voice that, when excited, sounded like dying airhorn. Naturally, I looked forward to this. He was, quite literally, the clumsiest individual I have ever been in contact with. His lanky frame seemed to never have a day pass without knocking over something in the shop, or, just knocking himself over.
There were a few other stragglers that found their way in and out of the store through those years, but we were the diehards, the ones who took the sour and dismal weekend offerings and ground them into sweet lemonade. I'd find a way to make it to that place in the dead of January blizzards with twelve feet of snow falling with another twelve on the way. So did the rest of them. On those days, I knew it wasn't that we all had nothing else to do, it was that this was exactly what we wanted to do. There was a comfort in that fucked up sports enthusiast family we had gathered.
Summer vacations, that place became my daily sanctuary. I would alternate between playing pick up games of basketball and sitting my weighty ass down in the air-conditioned shop. I know my parents would have been much happier if I had spent my free time with schoolmates, and, in my defense, there were a few. Unfortunately for my parents, I'd spend time with those schoolmates at the shop, them usually getting bored after a few hours while I was just warming up.
It went on like this for years, well into high school. I loved that goddamn place and all the fuckups that made it what it was. When I think of early teenage years, I don't think of many instances involving school. I think of that shop. I visualize Stretch tripping over a barbell and falling out the back door, setting off the alarm. I think of David, cigarette in hand, opening a pack of cards and getting something valueable, causing him to dance some mutant jig that shakes his beer gut from side to side, up and down. I like it better this way. I don't ever have to worry about where any classmates ended up, because I never made friends with them in the first place.
I don't know what happened to them. My mother would run into one of the guys every once in a while and would let me know, though that hasn't happened for a long time. It's quite fitting though, seeing as throughout my many, many moves since I left home, I don't have one baseball or basketball card to my name. My bedroom back then was filled with stacked white boxes of thousands of thousands of sets, divided into categories by players, teams, years, etc. I think collecting cards had done wonders for my OCD, keeping me occupied with something that, at the time, I could focus all my attention on. (and when I say "all my attention", I meant "all my attention". Homework had established itself as a nemisis..).
I do find myself walking in and out of card shops out here in Seattle, half hoping to overhear a conversation that peaks my interest and give me a reason to include myself. You hear people talking about good old days, or wanting to be able to go back in time to enjoy a school year again. I'd like to go back and spend a few more of those whitewashed winter days at the shop, watching snow fall out onto a modestly busy, small town Dover Main Street, watch the cars hurry down the slight hill all frantic with places the drivers need to be, while I'm exactly where I want to be. I can barely recall any of the stupid crap we talked about, all I know is that I had a great time doing it, being able to block out the thoughts of another day sitting at a desk, being told to do things I didn't want to do.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
27.01.10...baseball sucks and so does companionship
His name was Mike.
We were on the same little league baseball team. Baseball may have been the single worst sport I have, or ever will, play. I was absolutely horrible. Looking back, I think it had something to do with my lack of focus or attention on anything for longer than any given time. Unless I was utterly enthralled in the task at hand, my mind floated away, which is not very helpful when you have a solid, leather bound ball screaming towards you repeatedly throughout a few hours.
I was the token space case on the team. It was the Dover Elks Lodge, which made my mother quite proud. Her father, my grandfather, had been a proud member of the Elks Lodge for a great part of his life, before he passed away in my first of third grade years. I would not be surprised if she believes that her father was up there in that heaven of his, fishing in a pond with the God almighty himself, stuffing sugar covered jelly donuts in his mouth by the dozen (remember...in heaven there's no calorie counting...), and politely asked the guy to let me be on his pride and joy's team. Even how little I can remember him, I can picture this going on, him with his amazing talent at showcasing an unavoidable puppy dog look, something which skipped a generation, in my mom, and was handed straight down to me. However, the puppy dog look was given an added twitch of both sarcasm and hostility when it landed in my lap, which ends up giving me a slightly frantic and urgent look.
I'll make the baseball stories quick. There's not much to tell, other than my pure hatred of playing. It wasn't that I hated the game itself, however. It was my void of any talent whatsoever that pushed me over the edge. I dreaded going to practice. I found myself getting panic attacks each and every game, which garnered mixed results such as pissing myself while playing third base, which happened on two seperate occasions. I disguised it well and I don't think anyone even noticed because I always made sure my pants were nice and dirty by the second or third inning. I would strike out and bury myself back in the clubhouse, wanting to break down and go home.
My father, the supportive parent that he was, was constantly encouraging me, trying to provide any comfort he possibly could to make sure I knew he was still proud of me. For two of those wretched seasons, he was an assistant coach on the team, trying to make it to a practice or game whenever his oppressive work schedule permitted. I don't think he found the time to be there because of his love for the game, though he did have a passion for it. No, I think he was there because my dad, from a very early age of my life, started to notice that I was a bit on the fragile side. I think he saw how much I struggled to be a normal kid and, though he never said it, wanted to be there in case I finally had my impending breakdown.
The moment I had played my last game of little league baseball, I took of that glove and buried it deep in my bedroom closet, knowing that I'd never need it again. I went back to enjoying the game as a spectator and didn't regret it in the least. A few years later I went to some batting cages to remind myself how much I really did suck, and it only took about seven swings before the task at hand was accomplished.
His name was Mike, and he was on that Dover Elks Lodge team. He was one of the only kids on the team I made a slight effort in communicating with, and he seemed to enjoy me. We were in the same grade, so as I started junior high, we were finally in the same school. We hung out a bit, seeing as we knew each other well enough to do so, and on his end, I think he needed to know he had some friends in the new environment we were all thrown into. He had an older sister that took us to the high school football games on friday nights, where we would spend the time half paying attention to the game and the other half looking for other kids we went to school with to hang out for a few hours.
We'd sit at the same table at lunch, which was a relief to me on that first day of school. The cafeteria is a little piece of hell in it's ownright. You walk in there and wonder who your friends are going to be, who's going to let you sit at their table and welcome you. Years later I found the glory in sitting by yourself while there. Some time around a month into that seventh grade year, Mike stopped sitting at the table, opting to sit with other school friends he had made. We still hung out on occasion, but more times than not as the weeks progressed, Mike would cancel our after school plans, always having something else to do. A few weeks later, he started to forget he knew me.
Weeks after that, we had somehow turned into enemies. I don't think there's ever a way to figure out when a lot of things start to go south in a friendship, especially at that age. It just happened. We would walk past each other in the hallway, and he'd always have some verbal bullets to shoot out. This was before I found my venom tongue, so most of the time I would just look at him in a disgusted confusion, not sure how things had got to that point. It went on for months, until one day I wasn't in the mood to hear anything come out of him. He opened his mouth and I pushed him into a wall and shouted something like, "This ends now....". It had no authority behind it. It was all the effort I wanted to put into the situation, already tired of trying to figure out how friendships were supposed to work and how come they fall apart so quickly. Mike just curled up his lips into an obnoxious little grin and pushed me back, knowing he'd finally gotten me to break from my apathetic demeanor. A teacher seperated the short lived scuffle before anything escalated.
From that day on, Mike made no effort to mess with me in the hallway. I'd love to say it was my forceful nature, that I intimidated him from the moment I put my hands on him and backed him into that wall. I'd love to say that, back then, I had already figured out how to ruin a life and silence the assholes. But, truth be told, I don't think he ever messed with me again because another friend of mine, also named MIke, heard that he was messing with me that day, and knocked him out in the middle of a classroom.
27.01.10....life lessons
I found myself getting in darker and darker personal places. I guess this is what happens when you start to come into your own. Once you've established who you are, you tend to battle with it internally, still trying to convince yourself that you're a normal, well adjusted piece of youthful exhuberance.
You go through the motions, finding friends that are supposed to supply you with a self acceptance, a self assurance. It doesn't work like that. I can't say that it never works like that, because there are a great many that are able to take those motions and spin them into golden years, golden memories.
This is not to say I didn't have great times. I went on all the same dumb adventures kids and teenagers go through, but at the end of it all, I came home at night, crawled into bed and felt empty as when I woke up.
You start to feel voids. You begin to rust the gleam of those shining adventures, and most of the time, there's no real reason to do so other than, as I've now come to realize, fully coming to terms with the fact at hand: you're kind of fucked up.
I spent my junior high school years floating in and out of social circles. I made friends with people that I would assume would enjoy me being around. I never had much to say, which never stopped me from speaking, though, it made me come off as just an extended part of the scenery. I was what a lot of kids that age would consider a simple acquaintance, never really finding my place.
I knew it would end up like this during these years from one very small instance. It was a week before I was to begin my seventh grade school year, the last week of august. I had had a friend named Jason since third grade. Looking back, there was no friendship....this was the very defenition of an acquaintance.
Jason and I were in the same third grade (my second third grade...) and with about a month left in that elementary school year, I realized while walking home from school, that we were always headed the same way home. He was actually the one that brought it up, as he sped past me on his bmx bike one day. He asked me where I lived, to which I replied Prospect Street before asking him the same.
"Highland...I'm the next street over from you. That's so weird. How did we not know each other until now?"
I shrugged in response, which was my trademark maneuver to any question someone asked me.
We started hanging out, naturally. When you find a kid the same age as you that lives only a three minute walk away, it's a somewhat given outcome. Jason had what every young male could want. There was a basketball hoop, a skateboard ramp built by his father who was a carpenter, and an unlimited supply of little debbie snacks in his kitchen.
We found ourselves hanging out on a daily basis, playing any sort of competitive game we could think of with other neighborhood kids, which blew me away, since I didn't know there really was any other neighborhood kids. Summer vacations were the grounds for early morning baseball or basketball games that lasted well into the night, until we both made our way home.
It went on like this until the last year of elementary school, being sixth grade, in which time Jason had found another set of friends that, I readily admit, were on the much more popular end of the spectrum. He found himself with a girlfriend, going on dates and such that, at my young age, was forbidden. If I were to be able to have a girlfriend at that time, the basis of the relationship remained waving to each other in between classes at school. There were no dates for me, as per order of my parents, which I can completely understand. My parents were born in the fifties and grew up in the sixties in the same small town and wanted thier son to do the same. Whenever I did find myself with a girlfriend in juior high, I would lie and tell them I was going to a friend's house before heading to the local movie theater.
So, Jason had good things going for him. We still hung out a lot, kept playing basketball or video games, anything we had the time for. The only difference is that he would end the sessions early, having somewhere else to be. He never wanted me to go hang out with his new friends, which never seemed a problem. I was never concerned with meeting their approval or finding out what they were doing.
That summer before junior high was bizarre. I spent most of the days doing my regular routine, but there was a fear hanging inside of me, knowing that in two months I would begin life at a different school with different kids. I was ready for a letdown, I just didn't know what that letdown would be. Everything seemed like it was going to change. I kept telling myself it would be for the better, that going to a new place with new faces and new options was something positive. It was, or, it would have been if I hadn't been the type of person I am. Instead, I prepared for the letdown of real life (or, as real as life could be when you still live at home and have no bills, rent, etc...).
There was a dance at the junior high, just a few weeks before I was to begin. I didn't want to go. I had no intention of walking into a large gym and watching as everyone would turn and unwelcome you into the new halls of judgement. Well, I went, anyways. I was coerced into it by Jason and my neighbor Kate, the girl who I grew up with that lived across the street. I wore some stupid outfit, in hopes to look even remotely cool, remotely in touch with what everyone around me was comfortable in.
There are a few small things I remember about the dance. I can recall walking in, having one of my minor daily panic attacks. At least it was dark. At least I wasn't able to make out the expressions on most people's faces. This was not me and never would be, but I did it just the same. I did it to prove to myself that it could be done. They were playing music of that era, a sad mix of commercial hip hop and rock. Every eighth or ninth song, though, I'd be given the gift of hearing Public Enemy's "Fight the Power" or something along those lines. Something that on the surface was widely accessible, but within me was a reminder of the other worlds where I'd rather end up.
Slow dances. I spent most of the night on the side benches, talking with a few people I had spent the previous years with in clasrooms, up untill slow dances would begin. At that time, like clockwork, I'd end up sitting there with maybe one other person, watching as the young romances were attmpting to be established on the dancefloor. I'd feel my face red and warm, sensing that the whole room was focused on me as I sat on that bench, wondering why I wasn't out there. The last dance of the night, a girl came up and asked me to go out on the floor with her. With my head dizzy and my heart ready to burst out of my chest, I walked slowly with her, knowing I had no idea how to do what everyone else was doing. I didn't even know where to put my hands. To this day, I'm surprised I didn't shriek, punch a window and run out of the building.
She wasn't the prettiest girl there, and the fact that she wanted me to dance proved she wasn't the most popular. But, the fact that she asked me to go out there instead of one of my fellow saps next to me was proof that she was, without a doubt, one of the kindest girls in attendance that night. There's no punchline to this. I went out there, messed up a few times by stepping on her feet. She was nice enough to show me where to put my hands. I hadn't touched a girl before that, so, yeah, it was enough to get me a little excited about my future. The dance was over, I thanked her and then I made a break for the door, ready for the night to be done, which it was.
I rode high for a few weeks after that, feeling as though maybe the next six years of schooling would bring about in me a welcome transformation from young nothing to young adult something. I felt good. Jason and I would go to pick up basketball games every day. It was something I needed, that I enjoyed.
There aren't many specifics about what happened. On the grand scale of worthless moments, this remains high, but it was enough of an incident to make me remember it even now. We went back to that gym, where two weeks before I had had my first slow dance, to play some more basketball. The school had opened the doors for anyone in junior high to come play. I set foot back into the room, this time bright and alive as opposed to the dark unknown world I had walked into previously. The smell of sweat and the noise of squeaking sneakers was welcome to me. It felt good and comfortable.
There were older guys there, somethat definitely hadn't been in juniour high for a few years. I wasn't intimidated. This was back when I had a competitive nature and was quite a good basketball player. I had no problem joining into pick up games with people older than me. I was able to hold my own. We shot around for a while before games were begun.
At some point I was standing near Jason when one of the older guys came over and said something to us, asking whether we were going to play. We both said yes, and the kid nodded in approval. He then started asking us the usual dumb shit about whether we were going to school here now, do you know this guy, blah blah blah. I stopped paying attention, ready to get out on the court and initiate the whole reason I came to the gym in the first place. I snapped out of my daydream in time to hear the older kids ask Jason and I if we were friends.
"Yeah." I replied.
"No..." was Jason's response.
I must have looked a little bewildered, because the older kids cracked a small grin and looked back at Jason, which was what I was doing as well.
"You mean, you're not his friend?" he asked Jason again. Jason wouldn't look back at me, trying instead to focus on anything but my surprised expression.
"No...we just live near each other." was all he said.
"This kid right here....right next to you, is not your friend."
At this point, Jason repeated himself, but not without a tone of guilt in his voice. He knew what he was doing, but there wasn't enough of a reason to stop himself. He was drawing his line in the sand and establishing what the rest of the school years would be like. There was something in him that was letting him know that he was only as cool as the company that surrounds him.
The older kid raised his eyebrows and looked back at me. Almost apologetically, he told me, "Looks like you had one less friend than you thought you did...."
I nodded in response. "I guess so."
I didn't look back at Jason after that. The older kid turned around and dribbled a basketball back to center court. Following close behind was Jason. For the next few hours he didn't say anything to me, and I didn't make an effort to force him to. I understood why he did what he did. Some just need that feeling of belonging, and for Jason, it was imperative to his future schooltime endeavors to be a part of what he considered was the elite.
He left the pick up games with the older kid and his friends. I walked home by myself, thoroughly enjoying my time playing basketball. I was supposed to spend the night at his house that night, but instead I came through our back door and was met by my mom in the kitchen.
"I thought you were over Jason's tonight." was all she got out.
"Me too. I guess he had different plans he forgot about." was all I could say back. I didn't want to get into a story, and didn't want to waste my time telling her how I'd just been sold out for my lack of social grade. Mothers are there to tell you not to worry about things and that you are a great person that will have a bunch of new friends when school starts, and, truth be told, I didn't want to hear any of that. I wanted things to remain as blunt and viewed in face value as they were inside my head at that moment.
We saw each other every day at school when the year started. We met up a few times, found ourselves at the same school sports games. I never brought up that night and neither did he, though we both knew what it meant. He moved away at the end of that year. He had a going away party that I was invited to, but politefully declined to be a part of. You spend your last days with your friends, and not the ones you'd lie about being friends with.
I'm sure that night didn't realy mean shit to him, and I feel the same. I've remembered it all this time, not because I lost a great friendship that I though I'd had, but because it was another good life lesson. I remember that night because it shows how very little the amount of people you can rely on.
You go through the motions, finding friends that are supposed to supply you with a self acceptance, a self assurance. It doesn't work like that. I can't say that it never works like that, because there are a great many that are able to take those motions and spin them into golden years, golden memories.
This is not to say I didn't have great times. I went on all the same dumb adventures kids and teenagers go through, but at the end of it all, I came home at night, crawled into bed and felt empty as when I woke up.
You start to feel voids. You begin to rust the gleam of those shining adventures, and most of the time, there's no real reason to do so other than, as I've now come to realize, fully coming to terms with the fact at hand: you're kind of fucked up.
I spent my junior high school years floating in and out of social circles. I made friends with people that I would assume would enjoy me being around. I never had much to say, which never stopped me from speaking, though, it made me come off as just an extended part of the scenery. I was what a lot of kids that age would consider a simple acquaintance, never really finding my place.
I knew it would end up like this during these years from one very small instance. It was a week before I was to begin my seventh grade school year, the last week of august. I had had a friend named Jason since third grade. Looking back, there was no friendship....this was the very defenition of an acquaintance.
Jason and I were in the same third grade (my second third grade...) and with about a month left in that elementary school year, I realized while walking home from school, that we were always headed the same way home. He was actually the one that brought it up, as he sped past me on his bmx bike one day. He asked me where I lived, to which I replied Prospect Street before asking him the same.
"Highland...I'm the next street over from you. That's so weird. How did we not know each other until now?"
I shrugged in response, which was my trademark maneuver to any question someone asked me.
We started hanging out, naturally. When you find a kid the same age as you that lives only a three minute walk away, it's a somewhat given outcome. Jason had what every young male could want. There was a basketball hoop, a skateboard ramp built by his father who was a carpenter, and an unlimited supply of little debbie snacks in his kitchen.
We found ourselves hanging out on a daily basis, playing any sort of competitive game we could think of with other neighborhood kids, which blew me away, since I didn't know there really was any other neighborhood kids. Summer vacations were the grounds for early morning baseball or basketball games that lasted well into the night, until we both made our way home.
It went on like this until the last year of elementary school, being sixth grade, in which time Jason had found another set of friends that, I readily admit, were on the much more popular end of the spectrum. He found himself with a girlfriend, going on dates and such that, at my young age, was forbidden. If I were to be able to have a girlfriend at that time, the basis of the relationship remained waving to each other in between classes at school. There were no dates for me, as per order of my parents, which I can completely understand. My parents were born in the fifties and grew up in the sixties in the same small town and wanted thier son to do the same. Whenever I did find myself with a girlfriend in juior high, I would lie and tell them I was going to a friend's house before heading to the local movie theater.
So, Jason had good things going for him. We still hung out a lot, kept playing basketball or video games, anything we had the time for. The only difference is that he would end the sessions early, having somewhere else to be. He never wanted me to go hang out with his new friends, which never seemed a problem. I was never concerned with meeting their approval or finding out what they were doing.
That summer before junior high was bizarre. I spent most of the days doing my regular routine, but there was a fear hanging inside of me, knowing that in two months I would begin life at a different school with different kids. I was ready for a letdown, I just didn't know what that letdown would be. Everything seemed like it was going to change. I kept telling myself it would be for the better, that going to a new place with new faces and new options was something positive. It was, or, it would have been if I hadn't been the type of person I am. Instead, I prepared for the letdown of real life (or, as real as life could be when you still live at home and have no bills, rent, etc...).
There was a dance at the junior high, just a few weeks before I was to begin. I didn't want to go. I had no intention of walking into a large gym and watching as everyone would turn and unwelcome you into the new halls of judgement. Well, I went, anyways. I was coerced into it by Jason and my neighbor Kate, the girl who I grew up with that lived across the street. I wore some stupid outfit, in hopes to look even remotely cool, remotely in touch with what everyone around me was comfortable in.
There are a few small things I remember about the dance. I can recall walking in, having one of my minor daily panic attacks. At least it was dark. At least I wasn't able to make out the expressions on most people's faces. This was not me and never would be, but I did it just the same. I did it to prove to myself that it could be done. They were playing music of that era, a sad mix of commercial hip hop and rock. Every eighth or ninth song, though, I'd be given the gift of hearing Public Enemy's "Fight the Power" or something along those lines. Something that on the surface was widely accessible, but within me was a reminder of the other worlds where I'd rather end up.
Slow dances. I spent most of the night on the side benches, talking with a few people I had spent the previous years with in clasrooms, up untill slow dances would begin. At that time, like clockwork, I'd end up sitting there with maybe one other person, watching as the young romances were attmpting to be established on the dancefloor. I'd feel my face red and warm, sensing that the whole room was focused on me as I sat on that bench, wondering why I wasn't out there. The last dance of the night, a girl came up and asked me to go out on the floor with her. With my head dizzy and my heart ready to burst out of my chest, I walked slowly with her, knowing I had no idea how to do what everyone else was doing. I didn't even know where to put my hands. To this day, I'm surprised I didn't shriek, punch a window and run out of the building.
She wasn't the prettiest girl there, and the fact that she wanted me to dance proved she wasn't the most popular. But, the fact that she asked me to go out there instead of one of my fellow saps next to me was proof that she was, without a doubt, one of the kindest girls in attendance that night. There's no punchline to this. I went out there, messed up a few times by stepping on her feet. She was nice enough to show me where to put my hands. I hadn't touched a girl before that, so, yeah, it was enough to get me a little excited about my future. The dance was over, I thanked her and then I made a break for the door, ready for the night to be done, which it was.
I rode high for a few weeks after that, feeling as though maybe the next six years of schooling would bring about in me a welcome transformation from young nothing to young adult something. I felt good. Jason and I would go to pick up basketball games every day. It was something I needed, that I enjoyed.
There aren't many specifics about what happened. On the grand scale of worthless moments, this remains high, but it was enough of an incident to make me remember it even now. We went back to that gym, where two weeks before I had had my first slow dance, to play some more basketball. The school had opened the doors for anyone in junior high to come play. I set foot back into the room, this time bright and alive as opposed to the dark unknown world I had walked into previously. The smell of sweat and the noise of squeaking sneakers was welcome to me. It felt good and comfortable.
There were older guys there, somethat definitely hadn't been in juniour high for a few years. I wasn't intimidated. This was back when I had a competitive nature and was quite a good basketball player. I had no problem joining into pick up games with people older than me. I was able to hold my own. We shot around for a while before games were begun.
At some point I was standing near Jason when one of the older guys came over and said something to us, asking whether we were going to play. We both said yes, and the kid nodded in approval. He then started asking us the usual dumb shit about whether we were going to school here now, do you know this guy, blah blah blah. I stopped paying attention, ready to get out on the court and initiate the whole reason I came to the gym in the first place. I snapped out of my daydream in time to hear the older kids ask Jason and I if we were friends.
"Yeah." I replied.
"No..." was Jason's response.
I must have looked a little bewildered, because the older kids cracked a small grin and looked back at Jason, which was what I was doing as well.
"You mean, you're not his friend?" he asked Jason again. Jason wouldn't look back at me, trying instead to focus on anything but my surprised expression.
"No...we just live near each other." was all he said.
"This kid right here....right next to you, is not your friend."
At this point, Jason repeated himself, but not without a tone of guilt in his voice. He knew what he was doing, but there wasn't enough of a reason to stop himself. He was drawing his line in the sand and establishing what the rest of the school years would be like. There was something in him that was letting him know that he was only as cool as the company that surrounds him.
The older kid raised his eyebrows and looked back at me. Almost apologetically, he told me, "Looks like you had one less friend than you thought you did...."
I nodded in response. "I guess so."
I didn't look back at Jason after that. The older kid turned around and dribbled a basketball back to center court. Following close behind was Jason. For the next few hours he didn't say anything to me, and I didn't make an effort to force him to. I understood why he did what he did. Some just need that feeling of belonging, and for Jason, it was imperative to his future schooltime endeavors to be a part of what he considered was the elite.
He left the pick up games with the older kid and his friends. I walked home by myself, thoroughly enjoying my time playing basketball. I was supposed to spend the night at his house that night, but instead I came through our back door and was met by my mom in the kitchen.
"I thought you were over Jason's tonight." was all she got out.
"Me too. I guess he had different plans he forgot about." was all I could say back. I didn't want to get into a story, and didn't want to waste my time telling her how I'd just been sold out for my lack of social grade. Mothers are there to tell you not to worry about things and that you are a great person that will have a bunch of new friends when school starts, and, truth be told, I didn't want to hear any of that. I wanted things to remain as blunt and viewed in face value as they were inside my head at that moment.
We saw each other every day at school when the year started. We met up a few times, found ourselves at the same school sports games. I never brought up that night and neither did he, though we both knew what it meant. He moved away at the end of that year. He had a going away party that I was invited to, but politefully declined to be a part of. You spend your last days with your friends, and not the ones you'd lie about being friends with.
I'm sure that night didn't realy mean shit to him, and I feel the same. I've remembered it all this time, not because I lost a great friendship that I though I'd had, but because it was another good life lesson. I remember that night because it shows how very little the amount of people you can rely on.
Friday, January 22, 2010
22.01.10.....young photos
I don't know who has it, though chances are it's my mother. She's the one with the scrapbooks. It started quite a few years ago when, just as most hobbies initialize, she found the need to express her creativity that had been bottling up. It went from one single, solitary scrapbook and erupted into stacks and stacks of pictures that would be divided up into different volumes. From what I can recall, she has them broken up into years, into holidays, into birthdays and special occassions. There's more, but, as I've already slightly established, I'm kind of a bad son and don't remember all of them.
Actually, that's a lie as well. I'm a pretty good son. I'm just fucked up. So, under the circumstances, let's just establish that my mother's a saint for being able to make it through all of her only son's repeated (though unintentional), shall we say, "episodes". And, so, under the circumstances, let's just establish that her son tried as hard as he could to walk in line and to make her proud, all the while fighting the urge, each and every rise, to run.
My mother, with the scrapbooks. She's the one who's got it. I'm almost positive.
There are a lot of them from up until, and including, my first five years. I'm not going to say everyone has them, because everyone doesn't have them. It's the closest to eternal youth you can give a parent. Posing in front of the camera while you're young, before you've learned to become self conscious, before you hate the idea of someone having concrete proof you've existed.
It's the smiles they love. It's that care free expression painted all over your young face, something they can look at time and time again to remind themselves that they have done something amazing. They have these to keep as the years go by and the smiles melt into something else. Not so much a frown as a sign of the times of the lives.
For her, it's the early pictures of Halloween. I know it. It's our holiday. There's pictures of me at one year old, dressed as a scarecrow, straw hat and all. That's the only one I can think of. They all had the backdrop of reds and golds and browns, courtesy of the leaves that had fallen from the trees surrounding that second story apartment I called home for all of those years.
For me, there's one photo that tells it all. One photo that sums up, quite perfectly I might add, how far I am from the young kid that had his eyes wide open and fell in love with the world. That's how it works, though. Everyone has that one piece, whether it's in your head or hands, that evidence that, yes, at one point everything made sense.
I couldn't have been more than three years of age. I know that because when I was young I had this golden blonde, curly hair. It grew out in little ringlets that stuck close to my head. Then, some time around four or five years of age, my hair straightened out and became a darker brown. It was random to say the least. (To this day, whenever I grow a beard, my facial hair comes out in three seperate colors. My moustache is blonde, while my beard is a dark brown and a reddish, copper color. This has absolutely nothing to do with anything said so far. Also, my hair has gone back to being curly.)
It was the fourth of July. For heightened style points, I'm going to say it was the first fourth of the new decade, the decade in question being the eighties. Now that it's been said, I can't believe how very long ago it feels. I never really feel very old until I think about what I've done in the last three plus decades, and then I feel ancient. We were three houses down and to the right from our home, the walk from our front door to the lawn party clocking in at a whopping ninety seconds.
Our family had lived on Prospect street for three years, my parents moving in, miraculously, at the same time as two other newlywed couples ready to start procreating, ready to turn the quiet, small town street into a bursting chaos of squeals and laughter courtesy of eager young lives. It didn't take too long for this to happen, as all three couples gave birth to their first child within two months of each other. Lo and behold, Prospect Street became an instant romper room. As far as the new street children were concerned, I was the middle child. The couple three houses down gave birth to a son in August. Thirty days later, on a rainy morning in late September, my mother had me. From what I've been told, I came out looking completely void of emotion, not even a whimper being heard from me for the first week I was alive. Three weeks after that, the couple across the street had a girl. This is where you assume I had a loving relationship with the girl across the street. Lovers from the moment we were born. You are very wrong. That would have been nice (and very convenient for me...) if it wasn't for the fact that I couldn't stand the girl from the moment I was old enough to realize I could pick and choose my own friends, or lack thereof.
Our three households ended up spending quite a bit of time together, if you can imagine, considering how much easier it was for our working parents to entertain their kids when there are other kids around. Most holidays and birthdays were spent rotating around the different homes on the street. One big jovial goddamned family. Everyone knew everyone.
The fourth of July was always a big event. Cloudless skies accompanied by the New England summer weather (this is almost thirty years ago, before the climate shifts, so summer was still just warm and mostly dry and managable in New England....nowhere near as oppressive weather wise as it has become now), tables upon tables of comfort foods and drinks, and overall high spirits. Kids running around with sparklers, waiting for the sun to go down so that they can watch the city fireworks from the comfort of their own front lawns, which was possible, seeing as the trees were young and still hadn't grown to the size they would be ten years later, where any view of anything past those leaves was virtually impossible.
The photo is very simple. It's the three year old me, pale skin, golden blonde ringlets and all, dressed in a full Superman underoos outfit, playing miniature golf with a small neon club....actually, it's more of a small, neon five iron. There's a smile on my face. It's not ten miles wide, it's just there and very noticeable.
That's it. That's what all these words were working towards, this small picture of me back when I was just a little shit, running around in superhero underwear. That's all it takes, though. This is the picture. This is the proof that I've been in complete and utter bliss. This is the proof that there was life before panic attacks, before depression rears it's ugly head every odd month and / or year. It's the proof that my bipolarity hadn't slithered it's way into my each and every day, before my OCD started to cause me to clean random people's houses, to arrange the garbage cans in perfect lines, to arrange and rearrange all the writing utensils in the house, to vacuum three to four times a day even though things are already spotless.
This is a picture to show there was a time before my mind would crack and the memory bank would be bled dry, before I'd be sick of myself for not being able to remember simple things. But, most important, this is the picture I can point to when I visit my mother and look in the scrapbook titled "Young Ryan. Ages 1-3". This is the one I can point to and tell her that she did well. This picture gives her something to remember that her first born wasn't always the chemically imbalanced trainwreck he is now.
It's one little photograph, but it matters.
Actually, that's a lie as well. I'm a pretty good son. I'm just fucked up. So, under the circumstances, let's just establish that my mother's a saint for being able to make it through all of her only son's repeated (though unintentional), shall we say, "episodes". And, so, under the circumstances, let's just establish that her son tried as hard as he could to walk in line and to make her proud, all the while fighting the urge, each and every rise, to run.
My mother, with the scrapbooks. She's the one who's got it. I'm almost positive.
There are a lot of them from up until, and including, my first five years. I'm not going to say everyone has them, because everyone doesn't have them. It's the closest to eternal youth you can give a parent. Posing in front of the camera while you're young, before you've learned to become self conscious, before you hate the idea of someone having concrete proof you've existed.
It's the smiles they love. It's that care free expression painted all over your young face, something they can look at time and time again to remind themselves that they have done something amazing. They have these to keep as the years go by and the smiles melt into something else. Not so much a frown as a sign of the times of the lives.
For her, it's the early pictures of Halloween. I know it. It's our holiday. There's pictures of me at one year old, dressed as a scarecrow, straw hat and all. That's the only one I can think of. They all had the backdrop of reds and golds and browns, courtesy of the leaves that had fallen from the trees surrounding that second story apartment I called home for all of those years.
For me, there's one photo that tells it all. One photo that sums up, quite perfectly I might add, how far I am from the young kid that had his eyes wide open and fell in love with the world. That's how it works, though. Everyone has that one piece, whether it's in your head or hands, that evidence that, yes, at one point everything made sense.
I couldn't have been more than three years of age. I know that because when I was young I had this golden blonde, curly hair. It grew out in little ringlets that stuck close to my head. Then, some time around four or five years of age, my hair straightened out and became a darker brown. It was random to say the least. (To this day, whenever I grow a beard, my facial hair comes out in three seperate colors. My moustache is blonde, while my beard is a dark brown and a reddish, copper color. This has absolutely nothing to do with anything said so far. Also, my hair has gone back to being curly.)
It was the fourth of July. For heightened style points, I'm going to say it was the first fourth of the new decade, the decade in question being the eighties. Now that it's been said, I can't believe how very long ago it feels. I never really feel very old until I think about what I've done in the last three plus decades, and then I feel ancient. We were three houses down and to the right from our home, the walk from our front door to the lawn party clocking in at a whopping ninety seconds.
Our family had lived on Prospect street for three years, my parents moving in, miraculously, at the same time as two other newlywed couples ready to start procreating, ready to turn the quiet, small town street into a bursting chaos of squeals and laughter courtesy of eager young lives. It didn't take too long for this to happen, as all three couples gave birth to their first child within two months of each other. Lo and behold, Prospect Street became an instant romper room. As far as the new street children were concerned, I was the middle child. The couple three houses down gave birth to a son in August. Thirty days later, on a rainy morning in late September, my mother had me. From what I've been told, I came out looking completely void of emotion, not even a whimper being heard from me for the first week I was alive. Three weeks after that, the couple across the street had a girl. This is where you assume I had a loving relationship with the girl across the street. Lovers from the moment we were born. You are very wrong. That would have been nice (and very convenient for me...) if it wasn't for the fact that I couldn't stand the girl from the moment I was old enough to realize I could pick and choose my own friends, or lack thereof.
Our three households ended up spending quite a bit of time together, if you can imagine, considering how much easier it was for our working parents to entertain their kids when there are other kids around. Most holidays and birthdays were spent rotating around the different homes on the street. One big jovial goddamned family. Everyone knew everyone.
The fourth of July was always a big event. Cloudless skies accompanied by the New England summer weather (this is almost thirty years ago, before the climate shifts, so summer was still just warm and mostly dry and managable in New England....nowhere near as oppressive weather wise as it has become now), tables upon tables of comfort foods and drinks, and overall high spirits. Kids running around with sparklers, waiting for the sun to go down so that they can watch the city fireworks from the comfort of their own front lawns, which was possible, seeing as the trees were young and still hadn't grown to the size they would be ten years later, where any view of anything past those leaves was virtually impossible.
The photo is very simple. It's the three year old me, pale skin, golden blonde ringlets and all, dressed in a full Superman underoos outfit, playing miniature golf with a small neon club....actually, it's more of a small, neon five iron. There's a smile on my face. It's not ten miles wide, it's just there and very noticeable.
That's it. That's what all these words were working towards, this small picture of me back when I was just a little shit, running around in superhero underwear. That's all it takes, though. This is the picture. This is the proof that I've been in complete and utter bliss. This is the proof that there was life before panic attacks, before depression rears it's ugly head every odd month and / or year. It's the proof that my bipolarity hadn't slithered it's way into my each and every day, before my OCD started to cause me to clean random people's houses, to arrange the garbage cans in perfect lines, to arrange and rearrange all the writing utensils in the house, to vacuum three to four times a day even though things are already spotless.
This is a picture to show there was a time before my mind would crack and the memory bank would be bled dry, before I'd be sick of myself for not being able to remember simple things. But, most important, this is the picture I can point to when I visit my mother and look in the scrapbook titled "Young Ryan. Ages 1-3". This is the one I can point to and tell her that she did well. This picture gives her something to remember that her first born wasn't always the chemically imbalanced trainwreck he is now.
It's one little photograph, but it matters.
Friday, January 15, 2010
15.01.10.....how you go
I'm not going to start the debate on whether or not the places exist, of whether or not you get sent down or up or sideways when the heart stops beating and you shit your pants and say goodnight, goodbye or good riddance. That is an arguement that I am not qualified to make, and it is an arguement I have no desire whatsoever to engage myself in.
But, for sake of what I'm saying, let's just assume they exist. Let's just say there are the golden gates and harp and all that shit. Let's just assume that you get to spend some sort of infinity nestled into the place of your dreams, which , in my case, would involve a neverending blizzard while my wife, dog and I are happily trapped inside our three story log cabin / townhouse that can magically rest halfway up the side of a mountain, overlooking a snowcapped field of fir trees.
In the distance is a frozen pond, close enough for me to take my son (my son being my dog) for a walk and we play fetch in the middle of the pure white, the only sound being the small hiss of the wind, the little guy barking in delight as I toss the stick, and the love of my life shouting out to me that the coffee is ready and that there's a heaping plate of tofu scrambler accompanied by a toasted everything bagel waiting for me when I make it back home. I guess if I'm pipedreaming, I'm also going to throw in that Cinnabon went vegan and was able to drop cases of cinnamon rolls with extra icing onto our porch from a helicopter. This is the afterlife, we're talking about. I might as well go all out, because I'm also going to assume it's impossible to be fat unless you want to be.
In the distance is a frozen pond, close enough for me to take my son (my son being my dog) for a walk and we play fetch in the middle of the pure white, the only sound being the small hiss of the wind, the little guy barking in delight as I toss the stick, and the love of my life shouting out to me that the coffee is ready and that there's a heaping plate of tofu scrambler accompanied by a toasted everything bagel waiting for me when I make it back home. I guess if I'm pipedreaming, I'm also going to throw in that Cinnabon went vegan and was able to drop cases of cinnamon rolls with extra icing onto our porch from a helicopter. This is the afterlife, we're talking about. I might as well go all out, because I'm also going to assume it's impossible to be fat unless you want to be.
This is what it would be like.
But, herein lies the problem with "what it would be like".
If there is that three story log cabin, complete with endless breakfast, endless quiet entertainment, and endless love, there also has to be the other side. The endless cancer, the endless fear and the endless wounds. If there are such gods, then there are such devils. If there are such heavens, then there are such hells.
It's just the rules, man.
If there is that three story log cabin, complete with endless breakfast, endless quiet entertainment, and endless love, there also has to be the other side. The endless cancer, the endless fear and the endless wounds. If there are such gods, then there are such devils. If there are such heavens, then there are such hells.
It's just the rules, man.
There's probably a many different rooms in those hells. Rooms reserved for the murderers, the pedophiles, the liars, the thieves. The corrupt cops and lawyers and politicians probably have their own wing. This is all inside of one monstrous buliding, mind you.
And, without a doubt, there's a special place hidden deep on the basement floor. You take the bitter stairs (there are no elevators or escalators in hell....convenience does not live here) down a few levels until you hit the walls painted in not so much colors, but dampened and distressed emotion. There are no giant numbers to announce the level you've hit. You rely on stench that leaks into your nostrils and your eyes. You start to dry heave. Your tear ducts break the dam and unleash a river of liquid that glides down your flushed cheeks, meeting up with the fluttering cobweb of snots that fall uncontrolably from your crooked nose. You cough in a voice that is no longer recognizable as yours.
This.
This is when you are here.
This is when you are here.
The uneven stones stink of soggy flesh and gravestone mold, of tainted blood and panic-induced vomit. The air, thick and curdled, weaves in and out of your dripping mouth and nose and with each and every inhale / exhale, your sight grows increasingly blurry. This isn't where they come to die. This is where all come the dead.
You stop walking, hoping there's been a mistake and there's no possible way that this is where you spend the rest of your eternity. You stop walking, hoping that at any moment an alarm will go off above you, and a deepened, broad voice will anounce that your name had been mixed up with another pathetic frame from somewhere you've never been to or wanted to go, and that he's the one that will rest his head down here with the moss and blood. You stop walking, only to be pierced and prodded from behind, the sign that, yes, this place is very much for you and all of your kind.
The special place. Your bare feet covered in mud and swamp and shit, Your body soaked in forced sweat from the muggy, stale breaths. Still pierced and prodded by the faceless guards that you were never quite given the chance to see before being hauled off, you are guided over to a single, solitary corner, where you are told to keep your head down, turn around and sit without making a sound.
You stop walking, hoping there's been a mistake and there's no possible way that this is where you spend the rest of your eternity. You stop walking, hoping that at any moment an alarm will go off above you, and a deepened, broad voice will anounce that your name had been mixed up with another pathetic frame from somewhere you've never been to or wanted to go, and that he's the one that will rest his head down here with the moss and blood. You stop walking, only to be pierced and prodded from behind, the sign that, yes, this place is very much for you and all of your kind.
The special place. Your bare feet covered in mud and swamp and shit, Your body soaked in forced sweat from the muggy, stale breaths. Still pierced and prodded by the faceless guards that you were never quite given the chance to see before being hauled off, you are guided over to a single, solitary corner, where you are told to keep your head down, turn around and sit without making a sound.
"This is where you go." they say.
"This?"
"This. That is all."
"Nothing else?" you ask, waiting for another shot from the guiding spears the guards cherish so much.
"Do you think you deserve something else?"
"Me?"
"Who else?...You are the only one here, the only one asking questions. Get them out now, because we won't be back. In fact, no one will be back."
"Ever."
"Ever."
"So, this is really it. This is all."
"Yes. This is all." the guard says, turning his back and heading towards the corridor in which you had just been brought down. "Let's see how relieved you are after two hundred years.After eight hundred. Don't bother with time anymore, down. It's gone. Time stands still, or time is no longer time. Take your pick. This is your world, now. Your food. Your value. Your entire life's earnings. Enjoy. Your feet will become infected from the shit and swamp below in a matter of days. Enjoy. We are done. Are you?"
"Am I what?"
A quiet sigh of agitation comes from the speaking guard's mouth. "Are. You. Done?"
"This?"
"This. That is all."
"Nothing else?" you ask, waiting for another shot from the guiding spears the guards cherish so much.
"Do you think you deserve something else?"
"Me?"
"Who else?...You are the only one here, the only one asking questions. Get them out now, because we won't be back. In fact, no one will be back."
"Ever."
"Ever."
"So, this is really it. This is all."
"Yes. This is all." the guard says, turning his back and heading towards the corridor in which you had just been brought down. "Let's see how relieved you are after two hundred years.After eight hundred. Don't bother with time anymore, down. It's gone. Time stands still, or time is no longer time. Take your pick. This is your world, now. Your food. Your value. Your entire life's earnings. Enjoy. Your feet will become infected from the shit and swamp below in a matter of days. Enjoy. We are done. Are you?"
"Am I what?"
A quiet sigh of agitation comes from the speaking guard's mouth. "Are. You. Done?"
You look down at the brown muck you are settled in. One thick breath. Two. "I guess I am. I have only one question to ask...."
You never look up. You focus on the melting, swirling filth that is your new residence. Not your home. A home is where you want to be, while a residence is where you are forced to.
You never look up. You focus on the melting, swirling filth that is your new residence. Not your home. A home is where you want to be, while a residence is where you are forced to.
"How am I the only one here? Where are the rest of us?"
The speaking guard raises one eyebrow, a curious stare in your direction. You would never know, though. Your eyes are buried beneath you.
This is your world now.
The speaking guard raises one eyebrow, a curious stare in your direction. You would never know, though. Your eyes are buried beneath you.
This is your world now.
"Very good last question. The rest of you? There are very few. Few enough that you all can have your own cages, jails, whatever you want to call this." The guard pauses, choosing has last couple lines carefully to provide maximum effect and maximum guilt. "You see, the few of you that there are? You are a very rare breed. There wasn't a physical crime. It was all up here..." The guard pointed once to his heart and once to his head.
"...You didn't kill a frame. What you did was slightly worse. You killed a memory. An image. And this is why you are here. Here you are. It's a good thing you have a while to think about it...."
The speaking guard resumes his walk. You listen to the footsteps squish in the wet ground until they become faint whispers and then nothing at all. There you are. Silence in silence in silence while the world revolves and you sift through the death in the air down there.
This is all.
The special place. They do exist, quiet one. They exist for those that sour the veins of good fortune. For those that slice the throat of lady luck. For those that bury the best of times in the worst done rest.
The speaking guard resumes his walk. You listen to the footsteps squish in the wet ground until they become faint whispers and then nothing at all. There you are. Silence in silence in silence while the world revolves and you sift through the death in the air down there.
This is all.
The special place. They do exist, quiet one. They exist for those that sour the veins of good fortune. For those that slice the throat of lady luck. For those that bury the best of times in the worst done rest.
If there is that three story log cabin, complete with endless breakfast, endless quiet entertainment, and endless love, there also has to be the other side. The endless cancer, the endless fear and the endless wounds. If there are such gods, then there are such devils. If there are such heavens, then there are such hells.
If there are such hells, quiet one, they exist for those only sons, those first borns, that, at one time or another, had the war in their hearts to beg their mothers to kill them. To beg their proud parent to take the life of the one they cherished. And, yes, there are some of us out there.
I'm getting ahead of myself with all this. I never wanted to start this all out with an overly dramatic battle of good versus evil, of angels versus demons. But, sometimes, just as in real life, things don't exactly work out as planned. They do, however, sometimes work out the way they are supposed to.
If there are such hells, quiet one, they exist for those only sons, those first borns, that, at one time or another, had the war in their hearts to beg their mothers to kill them. To beg their proud parent to take the life of the one they cherished. And, yes, there are some of us out there.
I'm getting ahead of myself with all this. I never wanted to start this all out with an overly dramatic battle of good versus evil, of angels versus demons. But, sometimes, just as in real life, things don't exactly work out as planned. They do, however, sometimes work out the way they are supposed to.
I can explain the whole "begging my mother to kill me" thing. I can't decide whether or not it's as sad or pathetic as it seems. On good days, I can hold the reasons in my tattooed palms and squeeze them tight, knowing full well that in the heart of the moment, it felt like the selfless thing to say. On the bad days, I can hold every one of those reasons up to my tattooed throat (because lady luck don't come 'round here...) and just wait until they sharpen. On the bad days, sometimes you can look back and just know the days you were ready to die.
This a story of sick life. A story of a self ordered quarantine embedded into a restless mind. It's not exciting. There are no rules to storytelling, though, so if you are at all curious what another walking corpse lives with on the daily, this may make sense. Or not. It's your call.
I believe there are four types of people in this world:
a) Those that are born fucked up.
b) Those that are born to get fucked up.
c) Those that are born to fuck things up.
d) All of the above.
I believe that there are a great many of us that fall under the letter "d", For the rest of you that fall under a different letter, welcome to how our world works. Welcome to the world of the ones that your parents, guardians, teachers, priests and bosses warned you never to become.
This a story of sick life. A story of a self ordered quarantine embedded into a restless mind. It's not exciting. There are no rules to storytelling, though, so if you are at all curious what another walking corpse lives with on the daily, this may make sense. Or not. It's your call.
I believe there are four types of people in this world:
a) Those that are born fucked up.
b) Those that are born to get fucked up.
c) Those that are born to fuck things up.
d) All of the above.
I believe that there are a great many of us that fall under the letter "d", For the rest of you that fall under a different letter, welcome to how our world works. Welcome to the world of the ones that your parents, guardians, teachers, priests and bosses warned you never to become.
Monday, January 11, 2010
11.01.10....dark / light
It has been a very long time since my last confessional on here...so long, in fact, that I don't ever feel like trying to sum up the last few months.
I will say, however, that my world and future is taking bizarre turns with even more bizarre results.
I came back from tour about a month and a half ago. Since that time, a steady diet of work, reading and quality days with my better half, have consumed me.
I have brainstormed on how to finish the last few days of the next installement of Barren Praise....an LP that will come out on Prosthetic later this year. I'll divulge the title of said behemoth at a later date.
Right now, two things are keeping me going.....two things are doing thier best to help me keep my mania in check. Those two things are love and punk.
Some people can preach the chic message of imbalance, of being a fuck up....they can make it look or sound or seem glamorous.
I want any of you that may actually read this to know one thing: it's all bullshit. Bipolarity, ADD, manic depression, OCD....there isn't one beautiful thing about any of it.
Fucked up people may be able to make great art, but they can also dig thier own graves faster than a young bride to be can sprint into Filene's Basement for a wedding dress.
At thirty two, it's finally come crashing down for me, and I've given myself permenant reality slaps.
Basically, with this entry, I'm outing myself. Next week I will be going to a doctor and will be put on medication for the first time in fifteen years. I've lived my entire adult life as a bipolar wrecking ball, telling myself I didn't need the pills, didn't need the help. Certain situations have caused me to drastically overhaul my opinions and outlook on this, and I'm about to bite the figurative bullet before it's replaced by the literal one.
My goal is to document what happens, with the medication, on here. I'm extremely curious as to how I will take to what I'm given. I fear my art will change. I fear my thought process will be altered negatively. But, more important than any of that, I fear that if I don't finally do something, I will lose my loved ones, or they'll lose me.
I can't, and won't, get into storiesof how fucked up I am / was....not yet, anyways. Sooner or later, my need to lay down words vomits everything out of me, anyways...but not now.
I have a very long break from the road right now, which is both necessary and perfect. It will give me time to adjust, time to show my wife and puppy some love, and time to create and rebuild.
All to the sound that has paved my path for about two decades.
I find myself in need of distortion constantly lately. My walk to work includes headphones and any number of bitter young (and old) men and women, screaming in my ears.
Right now, I'm inspired. I have many plans for this year, and am in the process of creating my "to do list" for the next decade. So far, it includes releasing at least three books of short writings I've done, finally writing a novel, starting a record label, buying a house, giving my wife her dream wedding, and building my dog a dog house / pirate ship.
But, the most important goal is to work my own well being and how I affect those around me.
My art is one thing....I want to create violence and never stray from that. The key is to be able to seperate myself from my various artistic endeavors.
I think I've said too much as it is, so I'll end this now.
Let's get heavy.
As of late, this is what has been destroyingme, to my listening pleasure:
Cancer Kids "Possible Dream" LP
Aerosols LP
Kvelertak - Westcoast Holocaust demo
Fight Amp - Manners and Praise
Sweet Cobra - Bottom Feeder EP
Hatred Surge - Deconstruct LP
Deathreat - Consider it War LP
Threatener - all three 7"s
The_Network - Bishop Kent Manning LP
Alarm - Crossrot EP
Career Suicide - Attempted Suicide
AWK - Close Calls With Brick Walls
plus many more
long live eleven....
I will say, however, that my world and future is taking bizarre turns with even more bizarre results.
I came back from tour about a month and a half ago. Since that time, a steady diet of work, reading and quality days with my better half, have consumed me.
I have brainstormed on how to finish the last few days of the next installement of Barren Praise....an LP that will come out on Prosthetic later this year. I'll divulge the title of said behemoth at a later date.
Right now, two things are keeping me going.....two things are doing thier best to help me keep my mania in check. Those two things are love and punk.
Some people can preach the chic message of imbalance, of being a fuck up....they can make it look or sound or seem glamorous.
I want any of you that may actually read this to know one thing: it's all bullshit. Bipolarity, ADD, manic depression, OCD....there isn't one beautiful thing about any of it.
Fucked up people may be able to make great art, but they can also dig thier own graves faster than a young bride to be can sprint into Filene's Basement for a wedding dress.
At thirty two, it's finally come crashing down for me, and I've given myself permenant reality slaps.
Basically, with this entry, I'm outing myself. Next week I will be going to a doctor and will be put on medication for the first time in fifteen years. I've lived my entire adult life as a bipolar wrecking ball, telling myself I didn't need the pills, didn't need the help. Certain situations have caused me to drastically overhaul my opinions and outlook on this, and I'm about to bite the figurative bullet before it's replaced by the literal one.
My goal is to document what happens, with the medication, on here. I'm extremely curious as to how I will take to what I'm given. I fear my art will change. I fear my thought process will be altered negatively. But, more important than any of that, I fear that if I don't finally do something, I will lose my loved ones, or they'll lose me.
I can't, and won't, get into storiesof how fucked up I am / was....not yet, anyways. Sooner or later, my need to lay down words vomits everything out of me, anyways...but not now.
I have a very long break from the road right now, which is both necessary and perfect. It will give me time to adjust, time to show my wife and puppy some love, and time to create and rebuild.
All to the sound that has paved my path for about two decades.
I find myself in need of distortion constantly lately. My walk to work includes headphones and any number of bitter young (and old) men and women, screaming in my ears.
Right now, I'm inspired. I have many plans for this year, and am in the process of creating my "to do list" for the next decade. So far, it includes releasing at least three books of short writings I've done, finally writing a novel, starting a record label, buying a house, giving my wife her dream wedding, and building my dog a dog house / pirate ship.
But, the most important goal is to work my own well being and how I affect those around me.
My art is one thing....I want to create violence and never stray from that. The key is to be able to seperate myself from my various artistic endeavors.
I think I've said too much as it is, so I'll end this now.
Let's get heavy.
As of late, this is what has been destroyingme, to my listening pleasure:
Cancer Kids "Possible Dream" LP
Aerosols LP
Kvelertak - Westcoast Holocaust demo
Fight Amp - Manners and Praise
Sweet Cobra - Bottom Feeder EP
Hatred Surge - Deconstruct LP
Deathreat - Consider it War LP
Threatener - all three 7"s
The_Network - Bishop Kent Manning LP
Alarm - Crossrot EP
Career Suicide - Attempted Suicide
AWK - Close Calls With Brick Walls
plus many more
long live eleven....
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