I was lost in thought the other day- half way between meditating and thinking of new ideas- when I had this moment where I realized my life was no longer consumed by my previous PTSD/Depression. No longer did my identity revolve around the murders, or the harmful ways I attempted to address that pain. For the longest time I didn’t even realize I was living this way. PTSD and the depression that sprung forth stripped away so many things I loved. I even stopped enjoying djing for awhile. My heart wasn’t into it, and the fact that not having that love didn’t even feel off to me- looking back at those times I didn’t fathom why I no longer cared that something I loved so much I could brush aside so easily. Or why I would get soul crushing anxiety anytime I would have to play out in public. Thats the real crime of depression is it robs you from experiencing the things you love to the point you can’t even remember why they gave you joy in the first place. It was so bad that I didn’t even make a dj mix for over five years. Music become a chore- something to be endured not enjoyed. So in the past year being able to experience the joy of djing brought me all the way back to my teenage years in my basement mixing records. Having that passion rekindled in me has been beyond a blessing, and a blessing I will soon be able to share with you with a new mix in the coming weeks.
But before that glorious day my hours passed in a fog of frozen hell. I had no idea all those years later that the despair I fled in the wake of the deaths would eventually wreak so much havoc in my subconscious, and subtlety weave it’s way into my whole view of the world. It was as if I was wearing those Roddy Roddy Piper glasses in They Live- but instead of seeing aliens my eyes were clouded lenses of tragedy and fear.
Thinking back the dogma of AA prayed upon and played into those fears for many years. I was indoctrinated that I drank- not because I hadn’t properly dealt with some serious emotional pain I was suppressing- because all my pain was just resentments that the fourth step would cure with the turnarounds. For those not aware there are 12 steps in AA. The first three are basically saying you are powerless to alcohol and only god(higher power- something greater than yourself can save you from your drinking.) Alcohol is this big boogeyman in AA always in the parking lot doing push ups, and other body focused isometric exercises. Alcoholics do some terrible shit while drinking so AA professes that deep down all alcoholics are selfish and resentful at their core, and thus it’s not really your fault since you just never were were not giving a proper design for living(aka Big Book and 12 steps)before to deal with these bedevilments. So the fourth step is where you first write out all your resentments to the world- so anyone, or anything you felt has wronged you during your entire life. This is also the step where you have to to do a turnaround on said resentment- which is where you show the role you played in the resentment. For example the resentment of my brother murdering my sister, niece, and nephew was my fault because my reaction to the trauma was to drink to avoid it. Never mind the batshit logic of having to explain where your at fault for a murder is fucking nuts. Even worst AA loved when I said that. Real taking of accountability the old timers would snarl- but if you look at this beyond the surface why the fuck I am exploring such a deep and nuanced subject based on anecdotal science from a hundred years ago with a sponsor(for god bless their souls and my past ones were the best people!) whose only qualification for exploring this process with you is they themselves completed the steps. These are not licensed counselors you deal with- just normal people. So imagine the type of harm that can happen from these types of exercises even if the outright intention is not malicious. After completing the steps, sponsoring others (three of which who were in their early twenties who passed on), going to multiple meetings daily, and running a sober house I still wanted to drink. No matter how much I prayed I was still miserable. So I would drink again and then have to go back to AA and grab a newcomers white chip and start all over. And have to lie when I shared that I didn’t trust god with all my heart enough as the reason for my drinking again- not the mental anguish and toil going on from unstable brain chemistry mixed with unresolved emotional trauma. Nope just not being 100 with GOD. Or I drank because I didn’t pray hard enough, or I just didn’t want it enough- because AA is not for people who need it, it’s for people who want it. Looking back the whole process makes me want to puke.
In AA everything centers around alcohol- and the program becomes all consuming in your life where meetings serve as your new addiction. I know today I can not drink- I ruined that ability in the midst of trying to avoid my emotions. I abused this liquid escape to a point my body can no longer consume without being a total asshole that you don’t want around, who will sabotage anything good in his life. I am at peace with not drinking- plus drinking makes me fat. At my peak depression about five years ago I weighed 280 pounds-this morning I weighed in at 221(more nutrition posts to come I am into overnight oats now) But just losing the weight didn’t make me happy either. Long story short what made me happy was a long and arduous journey of self-discovery full of too many failures to count. Being able to write while feeling joy is something I feared I would never be able to experience. If I followed AA’s path I would still be stuck in that purgatory pain fog which was a living death. But as a part of my journey I am thankful for the lessons I learned along the way in AA, and the amazing people who came into my life because of it. I am not here to destroy AA- because for those it works for it is a beautiful thing. But for the others struggling today to I want them to realize there are different paths to happiness, and to keep searching to you find the right one.
As the days slowly but surely get longer, and the faint whisper of spring can be heard through vibrations of sawed off icicles. It signals one thing is soon to be coming to an end: that’s right the quarantine cuffing season is all most over, and love will soon be in the air again.
In honor of this I decided to reflect back on love. And I realized I used to write about a love so raw- so primal- so full of throat punches you could feel it pierce through your molars. A love that burned through emotions, bridges, and tsunamis of hearts. A passion that was a strike from a drone: an explosion you never see coming till your guts are caressing the canvas floor. For a fire so intense was always made to self-combust, and blow the fuck up it always did.
That type of love is not sustainable- that type of love is more of a high than a partnership. For along time I couldn’t tell the difference. I was so full of hate, rage, sadness, and anger that my vision was clouded to only see love in those same violent colors. Searching for a love so pure and intense it could replace the root of bitterness that had intertwined with my soul, and had me rushing down the raging rapids of sorrow. I was too selfish and guarded to be saved- instead I was an emotional terrorist blowing up any empathy around me.
That passion- that naivety- that listening to the lizard part of my brain forgoing all reason – well yeah I sometimes miss it-but not really. I am at that growth part in life where you are at a such a good place you know that the only person dating you right now should be you. I am currently wooing myself with 1985 wrestling dates. Future suitors take notes.
I still seek a pure love- but I am not seeking it out to save me from my own self-destruction, or as a distraction from life itself. In fact I am not really seeking it out all. I figure when fate wants it I will find that dope female of my future. Until then I always have these words I write, the love you, my beautiful readers, give me, and the pure joy of pro rasslin’ at my side.
Yesterday was James Baldwin’s birthday- an author whose words always leave me in awe. So today I reflected on one of his quotes, “To accept one’s past—one’s history—is not the same thing as drowning in it; it is learning how to use it. An invented past can never be used; it cracks and crumbles under the pressures of life like clay in a season of drought.”
So in the past few weeks I have been really diligently trying to be mindful so I don’t return to my past harmful ways of thought. It means having to be truly insightful, and honest of my past behaviors- especially the selfish ones that came from fear. It meant embracing the fact I hadn’t truly been pushing myself for being stagnant is oh so comfortable. It’s realizing I feared failure more than I desired success. It meant looking in the mirror and deciding I was not going to let my old ways of thought bury my future happiness . And it meant learning past failures are key for they unlock the skills for future joy. And most importantly it meant sacrificing immediate happiness and comfort to experience the discomfort of growth. Which I exemplified by not pursuing a relationship with a truly beautiful girl because you realize lust is not a foundation you build relationships on. That looking outside for validation only ruins yourself and the other soul’s ability for connection, and ultimate growth. That two boats letting in water don’t fix each other’s holes- and in the end it just leads to two people drowning even quicker. Each an anchor preventing one another from reaching the shore ahead.
So Instead of drowning in past failures I am actively learning from them. Some days I still want to drink, and instead of simply running with the thought and mindlessly allowing for it to occur; I now challenge it. Realizing that maybe that thought is occurring from a lack of connection with others; my own loneliness gutting through my belly causing such feelings of emptiness. Maybe it’s the routine of the past, and a desire for a return to turbulence out of the current tranquil waters I swim in now. Maybe it’s just my brain firing on old pathways I haven’t successfully rewired yet. Either way the only thing I know for certain is today those pathways have a big ass detour sign in front of them blocking those shortcuts of sabotage.
For I agree with Baldwin that our past always shapes us, but it never defines us. With our first morning breath we choose which path we will follow today. Our footing as solid, or perilous as we wish for rock solid foundations are only built with time and effort. Each day I am putting in the effort to reshape my future. Each night knowing my past has helped guide the way to this current future. And each day struggling towards a better tomorrow.
Chapter 6 – What’s An Adjective- an excerpt from my novel from 2008 discussing race, white privilege, and being a white lover of rap music since birth. A man who grew up surrounded by whiteness, trying to write about race. I just tried to be honest- please let me know where I failed.
Like Eggers’ before me I can guarantee to you that when I see a young black man holding a baby I will smile. I tell you this for a few reasons. First so you like me. I really need you to like me so I can be completely honest with you readers. I mean, sure, I am full of anger and prone to drunken bouts of pure asshole, but for the most part I am a good guy. In fact I am pretty color-blind as well. Well, not the bullshit liberal sense of not being able to see color, which in itself is racist as fuck and puts a blind eye to the challenges people of color endure, but in the sense of not basing judgements based off of it.
But I am not going to lie because I make judgments of people every day based on their appearance. It’s why we use adjectives. Us writers love them because they not only put things into cute categories; but they are also a good for use with people. That’s why when I was asked by a black man named D, “What’s an adjective?” It struck me as this could be the beginning of a story. Actually I did not think that at all but we can pretend that right? So let us start over with a story about an adjective. And you are probably wondering the time frame of this is and well we are in spring 2007 now.
This adjective question would be asked by D, a musician from the Marcy Ave Projects, whom I had just met outside a bodega where I had purchased a 40-ounce beer for seven dollars. I would have haggled over the price, but the place had the feel of a storefront where they move drugs, and well, I didn’t need an ass whooping over a couple bucks and I was thirsty after all. (Side note look at my subtle racism believing a bodega was a drug front.) I was at this bodega because my girlfriend Tiffany and I had got off on the wrong subway stop in our search to see the Bonde Do Role show in Brooklyn. Outside of the store we asked a black dude if he knew where Studio B was and he tried to direct us into the Marcy Ave. Projects a couple blocks down. D, who overheard this, jumped in the conversation.
“Yo, you’re saying there is a new club in the projects? I have to see this.”
Now I was talking to, and smiling at two black men, neither of which held babies. D was holding a Styrofoam cup with beer in it, and when he noticed my own brown paper bag gave me a pound.
“Ha-ha, my man knows the deal, brown paper bag and everything.”
After some discussion we figured out the club was not in the projects, but rather toward Williamsburg, and the hipster section of the borough.
D, with no other plans for the night, decided to tag along with us and thus became our tour guide. As we walked the city the landscape transformed. The cleanest projects in the land according to D vanished, “I mean we don’t have any shit or piss in the hallways, or anything like that,” The bodegas had instead been replaced by a Parisian style cafe filled with white faces enjoying wine and large meals.
“So where you two from?” D asked.
”Right outside Boston in Manchester, NH. Tiff is from New Jersey, but we both live in Boston now.”
”Manchester? I have a bunch of boys who moved out there and love it. They were saying it’s cheap as hell, and you don’t have to worry all the time. Around here you want to act tough, you have to be on guard, because people will test you on that and if you’re fronting they will fuck you up. But I am done with all that bullshit. I used to slang, and what not, but now I just concentrate on music. I am bringing rock straight out the projects with my band.”
”You’re in a band?”
”Yeah, I play guitar, rap, and sing. I mean, I never been trained to play the guitar or anything like that, but I picked it up on my own from listening to the radio. The only problem is my band never wants to practice and really get down to work. They just want to get high and jam out, and never want to put in work on songs with hooks and shit like that. I mean no rock band has really came from the projects, and that’s a gimmick we can use to get noticed.”
So, here I am walking the streets of Brooklyn with my girlfriend and a black dude from the projects. I am drinking a 40, and D has some sort of drank in his cup, and we are talking about rock music on the way to a show from a group from Brazil that does their take on booty music.
Only in America.
Now here is the important adjective question that D will ask.
“Yo, do either of you know what exactly is an adjective? Is it like an adverb or something?”
”Nah, man it’s just a word used to describe something else. Like that car over there is red. Red is the adjective because it describes what the car looks like,” I said.
”All right, I get it, but yo, that’s kind of messed up. Why don’t they just call it what it is, like a describing word, or some shit then, instead of confusing people and calling it something weird like an adjective?”
I never thought of like that, but D had because he knew he had to look at all the angles if he wanted to get out of his situation he was in. He knew that he needed to use whatever advantages he had going for him. If this advantage was the stereotype that black guys from the projects were not supposed to make rock music then why the hell shouldn’t he use that novelty to get him in the door? He made this even clearer when I told him I booked bands back home.
”You should have me come play a show, and you can promote the fact I am a black guy from projects playing guitar in New Hampshire. Hell I don’t care how you want to use me just as long as I can get some money out of it. We both can get paid, you feel me?” D said and then laughed and gave me a pound.
”You know I am right because ain’t nobody doing what I am doing yet.”
As we passed the cafe we came up to an art show flushed with skinny faces wearing angular haircuts, skintight t-shirts, and jeans that seemed to be painted on. Each outfit was put together with meticulous care to ensure the image portrayed would actually show how little they cared about how they were dressed. It was absurd, and they used this seeming aloof nature in order to hide their own vanity. Because the only thing worse than not being hip was to admit that you actually cared about being hip.
Of course I was also dressed hip; but I was hip just cause I was a naturally fly motherfucker, and I knew by rocking a Big L t-shirt, a dead rapper who is adored and loved in some circles more than 2Pac himself, yet unknown by many of the kids in skinny jeans, would prove just how much hipper I was than everyone else. But it’s not like I cared about anything like that, or would even think about what my t-shirt would represent to others. Hell, let’s just say it was the only clean one I had, so I can continue this story with disdain for those who care how they look but pretend they don’t.
”How the hell do you white people wear jeans so tight? You’re nuts must not have any room to breathe.”
”I don’t get it either. White folks are strange,” I said.
It was funny as I interacted with D we were able to bond over the fact that we didn’t pretend the notion of race didn’t exist, and instead embraced and made fun of it. I was a white boy from New Hampshire, and he was black kid from the projects, and we understood it was a strange relationship but also one that we could use to our advantage. It was like the Dave Chappelle routine where he tells the audience, “Every group of black dudes should least one white guy in it for safety. I am serious, because when the cops come around, someone has to talk to the police, and that’s when that white friend Ernie comes in handy.”
From the art crowd we were able to find a threesome of hipsters who knew where Studio B was, and even happened to be headed in that direction. We followed them as my girlfriend chatted up front with the two girls, while I lurked in the back with D and cracked jokes about how the one guy with them was probably nervous that we were going to try to jump him, and steal the bicycle he walked with.
They led us to the club and we stood in line and waited to get in as D told us his theory on why rock music wasn’t as good as it used to be.
”Man, nobody writes with metaphors and shit any more. I want to be able to think about a song and what the singer is trying to say. All these new bands just come out and say it. I get it you are angry, but find some other way to say that shit other than ‘I am so angry. That’s why I love Nirvana and Kurt Cobain. Think about it-when he was talking about Polly wanting a cracker you had to think about it? And you knew he sure as hell wasn’t talking about a pet parrot of his.”
”He wasn’t?” I said with a grin.
”Ahh, fuck you, man, but you get what I am saying though. That’s why I don’t listen to any of that new shit.”
”What do you listen to then?”
”Shit from the same time as Nirvana, you know, like Stone Temple Pilots, Green Day, and Tool. The good shit.”
I cringed at the last three bands he mentioned. First because I am an asshole when it comes to music, and those bands to me represent all the shitty people from my hometown that hated rap, and still listened to hair bands without shame. Well, not Nirvana, I liked Nirvana, but those other bands sucked. But then I realized he had probably never been exposed to any rock other than what was played on the radio (and of course I assumed this because it was an easy assumption, because black people from the projects could not ever want to listen to rock, and yes, I am that dumb sometimes). Cobain to me was a voice for mostly bored and jaded middle-class white kids, and it was odd that he had been able to penetrate into D’s world and impact him much in the same way. And then I cringed at my own thought and realized that growing up I had rejected those bands, and instead listened to rap music which impacted and spoke to me in a way rock never could. Growing up I had always hated when people would ask me why I listened to black music; instead of white music like rock. Even worse were those who had no idea about what rap music was, and would dismiss it as not music because they didn’t play instruments, or even worse as nothing more than just “niggers talking.”
The line crawled forward and D bounced around with nervous energy.
”So who exactly is playing tonight?” D asked.
“It’s a Mad Decent show with Diplo, Bonde Do Role, and Blaqstarr. Diplo is this dope ass dj and Mad Decent is his label. Bonde Do Role is this Brazilian group that does favela funk, which in English basically means ghetto funk, or booty music. They are like 2 Live Crew and raunchy as hell and use beats that sample everything from Alice in Chains to that ‘Final Countdown’ song from the ‘80’s. And Blaqstarr is from Baltimore and does b-more club which is like a cross between house and rap music. It will be a real hype show. “
”I am guessing it will be if y’all came all the way out for it.”
”Yeah, plus my man Chris Lemon-Red works for Mad Decent, and I used to dj with him before he moved here.”
”Then why we standing here in line? Go talk to your man and get us in.”
”Nah, waiting builds character.”
”Fuck character, I just want to get in there get me a drink, and start dancing with one of these fine white girls,” D said with a laugh.
As we headed to the front, D seemed worried when he finds out there is $12 cover to get in.
“I don’t think I can afford this. My budget is kind of tight.”
”Fuck it, you helped us find the place, so I’ll take care of it as a way to say thanks.”
After I paid I couldn’t help but think of William Baldwin’s Another Country, and the relationship between the black musician Rufus, and his white friend Vivaldo. Rufus always despised it when Vivaldo would try to help him, and would interpret this as not a simple act of kindness between friends, but rather, a paternal nature that made him think Vivaldo was doing this so he could feel good about helping out the poor black man who would be so helpless without him. Which left me wondering, would I have paid for D had he been a white guy instead? And I realized then, had he been a poor white guy from the projects, I would have been less likely to trust him at all, and even less likely to pay to get him into the club.
But I soon forgot all those worries as the music rained down, and the bass cleansed me free. The dance floor was a Where’s-Waldo picture of gangly white flesh, and then in the whitewash a black face, D, fearless and with no shame, could be found walking up to any girl on the dance floor.
I saw Lemon-Red at the merchandize booth and headed over to say what’s up. He was surprised I had made it out the show, and then introduced me to Diplo.
”New Hampshire, huh,” Diplo said, “That’s the, ummm, shit. I know nothing about New Hampshire at all. “
”Don’t worry, most people don’t.”
I told Lemon Red I would catch up with him later and went back to find Tiffany and D. Tiffany asked me if that was Diplo, and I told her yeah.
”He is not as cute as he was in the pictures I saw of him, but then again he was doing Zoolander poses in those.” She then left to take more pictures of the folks at the party for a project for a class she was basing on the NYC club scene. Most of the people she took pictures of had no problem mugging for the camera with their practiced look of disinterest.
Over the course of the night we lost D, and the next day I would find out from a message he left on my cell phone, where he first apologized for bouncing without saying goodbye, and that he had drank too much and needed to leave before he acted a fool and got himself in trouble.
By 4 am the show was over. Tiffany and I left the club and grabbed a couple slices of pizza, and then headed for the subway. Our subway car was pretty much empty except for us, two girls coming back from the club, and a passed-out black man. As we rode through the tunnels of a sleeping city I noticed the girls were snapping pictures of the passed out man and laughing. To them this man was nothing but someone to mock so they could laugh when they showed the pictures to their friends, and put them up on their MySpace and Facebook pages. As we rode they grew bolder and posed with him, mean-mugging and crossing their arms, as if in modern black face; Amos and Andy would have been proud.
And then I went home and instead of using pictures of me smiling with the black man, I wrote a story where the whole world could see just how much more enlightened I am by my thoughts of race, and how I would never exploit it for someone else’s entertainment, and that I was so much better than those girls at the end who took pictures with the sleeping man. But you, reader, you know better than that. And you are probably thinking of a few adjectives you can call me, and I would agree.
But I think D was right in the end-let’s stop hiding behind vague descriptions, and just say it how it is from now on. But then again wouldn’t that mean Polly really just wanted a cracker? I am all confused now. How about you just take whatever you want out of this story, and hopefully you were entertained, because this was just an interlude in tragedy, a chance to make you laugh for a moment, and hopefully help you understand the narrator outside the context of dealing with tragedy.
I am a human you know, which I think is an adjective for person. Plus, as a young kid, I grew up wishing D’s life was mine, while never realizing he probably grew up wishing he had my life. And in the end, regardless of the bullshit, I can’t blame him. But I do thank him for making me realize the true meaning of adjectives.
Reflecting on what I wrote over 12 years ago I am not mad overall. I rejoice in the reality I was able to recognize my white privilege and not be a slave to it either. What I feel I failed on was my silence. At the end of this story I mocked and judged those white girls for their actions, and took a bullshit moral high ground. It was my unique privilege as a white male to feel superior without having to act. My silence to their acts made me complicit. I too was mocking this man by staying silent and judging those who mocked him. By letting it happen I was just like a cop who lets his partner stand on the neck of a man who can’t breathe. I know I personally need to get better. And I will continue to strive for that. In the meantime I won’t hesitate to call out bullshit behavior- it’s the subtle racism that is prevalent where I am from. When you don’t have to deal with black men in your daily life it’s funny how easily racism pervades. When you can’t be checked for saying the n word in a rap song you won’t be surprised how many white folks say it. I was taught at an early age by Wu Tang to always say nuh instead of that word. It was ideal because it always reminded me I had no reason to utter that world-it was never my right and thus nuh right in saying it. Radio edit for the win.
My apologies to my loyal readers but like that good ol’ chap from Mad Men Pete Campbell last week was as he eloquently stated, “Not great, Bob!” To prove this point this past weekend I am going through my records and find my 808 State New Order remixes from Rephlex Records. I was super excited because I had forgotten all about been having this record. So Excitedly I put it on my turntable and it’s the goddamn Eagles live album. Yes, the fucking Eagles. What kind of sociopath would do this to me?
To top it off even if it had been the right record it wouldn’t have worked because both my Technic 1200’s are on the fritz, and not working.
While organizing I also came across some letters from my nephew, when he was in prison, who I haven’t seen or heard from in years. They hit me hard and instead of you know maybe talking to someone, writing a gratitude list, or just fucking writing about it here I decided the best plan of action was alcohol. My brutal mistress.
Sometimes I am the sociopath when it comes to drinking because I know all it does is hurt me and everyone who cares about me. Yet for that mere moment that was all my brain chose to see. It’s pathetic really- it’s easier to confess here than to confess my feelings before a sip of sin is on my tongue. It’s even worse now because I made sure to damage a relationship in less than a week of drinking. A sweet soul that had inspired so many beautiful words that I utterly burned at the altar of intoxication- not even remembering the careless words I uttered to destroy her impish nature.
So know I am going to be Michael Jordan, and make alcohol my grudge against the world. The grudge against my past self. Nobody did petty like Jordan because he was the prince of mindfulness always in the moment, and always clinging to any slight to keep him focused. With this mindset I am going to look at alcohol like the high school coach who cut him, and treat it as vicious as he did his teammates when they were underperforming. No matter what I will be fully conscious to the moment to not let myself sleep walk into the easy facade that brews from the falsehood of peace through a drink.
Now back to my nephew. I have already lost two- one through murder, and then not even a year later another who died shortly after birth. I never met that nephew, and because of the blinding nature of that previous loss I sometimes don’t even think to mention him when discussing family that have been taking from this earth. In a way I feel I have lost three now, and that letter just made it sink in more. I haven’t read them all yet- I put them away for now. But I do wonder how he is doing these days. I hope he is enjoying the clouds zig zagging through a sea salt blue sky from the rooftop of a car, and not the bars of a prison. And I hope in the future memories of him will make me think of hope and not despair. Think of gratitude and not drowning. Think of myself as an uncle he can be proud of, and not worried about.
So with this I am going to embrace this failure as fuel for the fire. The pain as a learning experience to be better. With the simple mind state of just don’t drink it. And all I know this week, like the Dude before me, I will not being opening up any more records with the fucking Eagles in them.
Frayed and ruined relations flow from remains of a life of liquors past. When drinking I seemed hell bent on destruction of all leaving a wake of harsh, hurtful, and haunting words. Savaging relationships without even realizing what I had said when my breath turned sober. I wonder now where these words came from. These crazy emotions that seem so distant, foreign, and as if another being had said them. Alcohol is a hijacker-a mobster who tells my brain we have your license so we know where you live and if you tell anybody about it’s over for you. So I awoke dumbfounded at how I could have done such actions that now still leave my stomach queasy, and my hands still stained red from the murder of friendships, and lovers past. A simple sorry won’t bring them back to life. These are my scarlet letters etched deep in my bones as a reminder of booze’s hellbent desire at turning love into chaos. Chaos into isolation. Isolation into loneliness. Lonliness into a desire to end it all. But today I choose to wash my hands- a baptism in Gomorrah- and trudge forth with an honest heart in hand. For I won’t be able to mend all the relationships I lost. But I also know I won’t let myself be deceived into destroying another.
Sometimes’s someone energy can inspire words to flow with the power of Niagara’s Falls. Washing away self-doubt and letting clarity run through your veins. Some call these muses because such beauty is rarely seen in nature. These special beings seemed as if carved from the most skilled carpenters hands, and blessed with those intrinsic values that inspired the poets of yesteryears. Sometimes you find a muse in the strangest place. You can’t seek out a muse- the world seeks one out for you. Mine came from an enchanted forest in a foreign land. A mystic with an elf like joy that cleansed the anger in my soul. With fresh eyes, and a new found clarity the words came back. I realized the sadness that once fueled the pen to paper was bound to flame out like the joy that a simple sparkler gave as the child grows old. The simplicity of that emotion turns to ash as joy now brings the fireworks rocketing to touch the top of the clouds. You can’t control a muse- their whimsical nature leads to a choose your own adventure novel where the ending is never known. Just like the passion they install in you will lead your inspiration on the paper til your fingers bleed truth. A muse is dynamite- it will eventually explode. It is the artist’s duty to ride the ripples to bring such beauty to the audience. A muse is a gift and a curse- just like writing is. Feeling too much can destroy someone so they can inspire many. My words bleed so you can weep with joy. My muse changed my perception so my words can change yours.
I haven’t wrote here in awhile- at first it was because things were going so well. The chaos was behind me so the words stopped flowing. My brain though- through years of repetition, repeating past cycles, and being able to grasp in its clutches the one thing that still caused me pain- however was sly. It’s like I jumped in the front seat of a Cadillac while never noticing the killer in the back, with a halo in his hands meant to choke out my existence. The thing was unlike before I wasn’t in deep despair- nor any longing for the embrace of a breathless existence. Things just became too normal- everything was going too well. It just made me too uncomfortable to be comfortable and free from calamity’s oasis. So embraced my old mistress and took a sip of the pleasure of my pain. Ruining the friendship of the person whose past pain was similar to mine, and could relate in a level so much deeper than most. Instead I found umbrage in embarrassing fb messages, and the matrix of dating sites. Not wanting a connection till my brain was on autopilot, and my past code took over control. My future was so bright that each night I blacked out the night- inching ever so closer to those future days I was actively trying to destroy. A catch 22 of the madness of despair. I named this blog Broken Resolutions because it was an ode to the past. And while today I start a new journey- I learned a new lesson. You can’t fix anything in the morning if you are actively destroying it each night. Comfort equals despair when your actively trying to change. The only thing I was mindful in those almost two months was my dishonesty to myself, knowing all the right lies to trick myself. So here again I am freeing my secrets- sending them out so they can’t hide in me no more. Feeling the night so I can enjoy the brightness of the day. Still wondering in confusion, but tonite I am sober. And tomorrow will follow. And from there just like doing lunges at the gym I am just going to enjoy the suck- knowing the only way to be freed from past sins is falling into the arms of the the destruction of that oasis of my past love, chaos. And if all else fails l’ll just pretend I am John Wick, and booze was my dog’s killer. Taking revenge on that bastard by never taking that first sip.
The day after Valentine’s Day is always a good day to reflect on love. To think about the wounded roses and thorns lost in the copse of smoldering bonfires where only the lust of smoke lingers. Through the haze thinking about all the corpses of lost loves- most of mine from self-inflicted wounds through the carelessness of my sins. Mundane curiosity makes me reflect for a moment at what could have been- but realizing swiftly that all my actions past faults makes me just grateful for my next chance at someone’s heart. Tenderness abides at the cold oceans wake; for February keeps so many hearts in sleepless hibernation. I am feeling catatonic, and yet so awake. Cuffing season and cuddling I sorely do miss, but springtime is coming across the snows mist. Soon the pollen will fill up the air as the sun beats down on the muddy soils despair, and I will trudge through this journey for three hundred and sixty four more days, knowing my heart is awake even if it’s shadowed with doubt.
I haven’t been writing much because I am on day nine of a headache that will not leave. I am also on day 33 being sober and fully moving forward with my life- which is just as terrifying to me as any horror movie can be. My past still exists- lurking in a sunken place that would provide a comfort that is all too welcoming in the days when the loneliness becomes seemingly impossible to endure. 33 days is just a smudge in reality- but it does feel amazing not to be in constant fear of alcohol right now. One thing I don’t fear are ghosts- especially ones that would stick around to haunt the this world, because our brains alone can do more haunting than any ghost is capable of. How many days have I stayed paralyzed in fear brutalized by past actions? How many nights have I put all my focus on the days I failed to meet my dreams rather than the days I achieved them? And how many mornings have I awoke being cuddled by the memory of a lost lover- or a lover who is now out of my reach no matter how much I cling to the illusion she is not. Desperation at trying to change past actions is the greatest horror story I have lived. It destroys today, and muddles out my future with crippling self-doubt. I have been the Freddy Krueger of my dreams, the Jason with the blade at the lake, and, hell, even the leprechaun that terrorized Jennifer Aniston. So today I put a stake through the heart of the past. I took a bubble bath in holy water and awoke reborn in today. So today I change what I can, and pick up the shovel to bury the past.