Dream

And just like that…. she comes back to break me. She, the  loving phantom from my dreams, from my nightmares… the spectra of my joy and my torment. Oh those soft spots in their porcelain soul; how can you protect against such innocent cruelty?

“Do you remember…”

the pause is noxious…

“…that…”

and she goes silent. 

My breathe stops: I know this moment. This is a moment I constantly dread; it's a moment that is just inevitable.

Fear in Truth

How is it that the world can change so much for you without you ever even noticing? When does the reality of what you are actually doing coincide with the dream life you’ve always been living? What is the worth of a life if it is one spent in mere repetition and subservience? 

This is never the world i thought I’d live in. I never thought I would be this person. I have made countless mistakes in my life… most of them a direct result of my decisions. Some of them are actually consequences of other peoples’ sins that I cannot control, and yet I am held accountable for. And yet still, through all of this, I always held on to a few set principles and paragons to live by. Until I didn’t.

Somewhere along the line, I lost my way. It is not an easy thing to come to terms with: you realize that all the sacrifices and mistakes you’d made until now were all for naught. This idea of writing seems such a simplistic, noble idea in principle. And it always came so easy to me. While that might come off as arrogant or egotistical… it is a matter of truth. I was never the one to be the life of any party. Instead, I was the one always on the perimeter, the chronicler of the world I saw around me. Ive always been fortunate enough to be blessed with friends and family that understood that outlier trait about me. In that characteristic, I’ve been able to see the world in front of me and, to be honest, multiple worlds that could be. Be it imagination or simply a different perspective… the ability for me to put down my rationality of the physical world via words was always a way for me to find my place.

Until those words stopped. Or, more accurately, until I stopped listening to those words. As the days, the weeks, the years pass… life has a nasty habit of distracting and discouraging us. Drama comes up; people you love disappear from your life; those you love are broken from events you couldn’t begin to predict. Long and the short of it is that it is so easy to lose almost anything to the nebulous schism of the moment to moment existence.

I really sound overly sanctimonious preaching like this. I have no right. These last past years have not been kind to me, but I have seen so much worse that I feel like a complete asshole even talking about this. Yet finally, after what feels like an eon of rudderless emptiness, I think I’ve found myself again. 

Every day is a struggle. The joy (said facetiously) of living with mental health issues is that I cannot predict what comes next, who I will be next, or how I will deal with any amalgamation of this fucked up arithmetic. But I know that it is worth fighting through. While I feel that pain of loss, of sorrow, of losing… I know there are darker valleys to be in. And though this platform of mine is still diminutive, I feel its important to stand with a sense of pride.

I needed to put words to page tonight. I just needed to. It is how I process my reality and my pain. And it is also how I create my great joy.

I am not famous. 

I am not a household name.

I am a writer.

I am a survivor of emotional disorder.

I am not alone.

And neither are you.

The Good Fight

Hello my darlings, my dears, and my not so nears...


     It's been some time since we've done this dance. I promised that I'd keep in touch and keep preachin' the word, but I guess I broke that one didn't I? Though I suppose that's of no surprise to those of you who know me: I have a reputation for being capricious and absent minded. A completely warranted reputation, mind you. Now I could cite the current state of affairs in the world today as reason for my absence and neglect but that would just be making excuses. And we ought to be better than that.

     No, I cannot blame geo-political intrigue for my languor and hiatus... despite my desire to. And for once, I will hold back on my verbose, vitriolic political rant. For now. Instead... I think it's time that we had a heart to heart, but to do that you'll have to forgive a moment of introspection and self-reflection.

     I am not an easy person, in any definition of the word. I am impulsively compulsive, irrationally rational and vice versa, obsessed with organized disorder, and a generally pessimistic som'bitch to use the parlance of our times. I know these things about me, and those closest to me do as well. How they've managed to stick around is beyond me because frankly, I tire of my own company on a daily basis. The problem is something beyond behavioral explanation or even cursory understanding. And that is the real problem, isn't it: we, as a nation... we still lack a supportive, embracing, and understanding dialogue about mental illness.

     I suffer from depression, and I'm at the will of mania. Some of the doctors in the day have said Manic Depressive, some BP1, some have muttered incoherently about lemurs with pitchforks... though as I type this I think that might have been me. The point is there is something not quite perfect in my genetic makeup that causes me to struggle. What feel like daily annoyances can send me off into a hysterical fit of mischief and self-destruction, while a passing glimpse on a sunny day can spiral me into unstoppable sadness and tears. For those of you out there who manage with these feelings understand without question; those of you who don't probably never truly can. And while I know this sounds preachy and all self-important the truth is that's not what I am trying to do here.

     As I've grown older and experienced more and more in my life I have also had to find various ways to cope with this. In the earliest memories I withdrew and insulated myself within myself; college was a blur of booze and bullshit with some of the best friends I could have asked for... people who put up with my fluctuating psycho-emotional state of mind without hesitation. As my dear friend Glen once said, "There are like five different you's, and I never know who to expect." In reality, I'm sure all five of those me's came to the dance each and every night. I've always hoped that it would get easier to deal with as I got older but the truth is, it gets significantly harder. It's a hell of a lot easier to spend a day prone in bed hiding from the world when the only consequence is a college course. When you have bills to pay, responsibilities to fulfill, people to consider... that is exponentially worse. In the time it takes for a cliche jackass to type about a drop of a hat, I can have a trigger that moves me from the ecstasy of doing cocaine with Maxim models at Mardi Gras to the sensation that every thing in my life is falling to pieces. The cliches really do not do justice to the feeling in those moments. Hope, peace, reason, simple existence becomes a goddamned fucking crucible that feels insurmountable. It is as if the very blood in your veins coagulates and your heart becomes a furnace; every smiling face is a razor blade drawing against the skin, and while you seek isolation, that very looniness just compounds the feeling three fold.

     I have had close people in my life question this, and while not intentionally... chastise me for it. "Just stop it," or "get out of your head," or "so don't." If only it were so easy. I really wish it was, because I would probably be better at this whole life shit than I am now. But the fact of the matter this isn't a conscientious decision: it's just a part of who I am. I have come to terms with this, and over the many years I have learned a lot of tricks to help me along the way. I have been blessed with several compatriots and guides who have battled alongside and taught me a few things. I have also lost more than a few dear friends who couldn't keep fighting... leaving a legacy for the rest of us to continue on. All things considered... I am in a place of contentment in my life. I have a wonderful, albeit complicated family; I am blessed with a cadre of brothers and sisters I call friends who have all been there for me without question; I am on a career path that I enjoy and I am rediscovering my literary voice. It doesn't mean that life is easy, and it doesn't mean that I'm always ok. But I fight the good fight because that's all there is to do. I was raised with a Bostonian disposition and quitting isn't in that DNA.

     Alright... self-righteousness aside, let me say this: open up the conversation. For those of you who don't face this obstacle, try to be patient with us that do. Understand that we are sometimes the victims of our own brains and aren't in the best place. And for any friends, family, or complete strangers that may read this who are struggling with this but keeping it inside... don't. Talk to someone: talk to your family if you're comfortable enough, your friends if you're close enough, a trained professional simply because you can and they help. Just start talking. Silence is never an answer.

     To all those I referenced earlier... you know who you are. That won't stop me from saying thank you: thanks for always being there for a late night call or midday distraction beer; for being a shoulders to cry on and a supportive arm when I fall down from laughing too hard. Thanks for putting up with my impulsiveness and every other character trait that might be flawed. Simply thank you for being you and being part of my life.

Cheers,

      -s.



P.S. Like the rising tide of activism in our nation, I will not be silenced nor ignored. More to come soon. Nighty night.

Apology

2016 is over. It’s dead and buried and hopefully being urinated upon by a surly, spectral bum with a spiteful disposition, And I think I could hear the collective sigh of relief at 12:01am Sunday morning. But there was also a noticeable hesitation in the reverie, a timidity to the bacchanalia. And for that I feel sorry.

Sorry is a word I’ve been saying more and more lately. Or I’ve been forced to say it by circumstance, but does that really matter? As we transition into a new year, we the People are also transitioning into a new, uncharted, unexpected, and to me inexplicable chapter in our world. Eight years ago, we are inspired by a campaign of hope; we believed in the inherent values and tenets of the national ethos. Now, less than a decade later we’re resigned to our choices out of fear and doubt. We’ve been deceived by a con artist and, in the process, severely damaged our collection relationship with each other. After all the bonds of our citizenship ought outweigh a party’s platform. But, while that trend has been growing slowly like a cancerous tumor… it has gone terminal. We have lost the united beliefs that forged a nation born from collected rebels… that survived civil war and managed to keep moving forward. Ad we, a nation of dreamers and explorers who once strove for the stars, now stand like ostriches with our heads in the sands, shackled by promises of restored retro-era glory. And for that I feel sorry.

I’m sorry that more Americans feel detached from and abandoned by the government that was elected to fight for them than ever in our history. I’m sorry that people do not completely understand our political system because our education system is fractured and ruinous. And I’m even more sorry that many of those elected officials have indeed betrayed we the People to further advance their agendas, careers, and bank accounts. 

To my Democrat friends, I’m sorry. We lost the fight, but it does not mean the end. To quote scripture, “I Have Fought the Good Fight, I Have Finished the Race, I Have Kept the Faith.” In the coming days, many of your beliefs will be challenged so keep the faith despite the loss. Dare to dream again; dare to hope. 

And to my Republican friends I too am sorry. First I am sorry if my passions and beliefs got the better of me; I’m sorry if my speech or opinions pushed too far. And I’m sorry that this is where you’ve come as a party. I’m sorry that your leadership has failed to pick a side in this last election. And I’m sorry this is your candidate. If you picked him out of party loyalty or a dislike of Hillary Clinton then I’m sorry that you felt this was your only option. To those of you who believe in your candidate, I’m even more sorry. Because you’ve been conned by a pathological liar, a narcissist, and a buffoon. At least that’s my opinion, which I’m also sorry for.

To all of the women in my life, as well as those whom I do not know, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that we have normalized, rationalized, and legitimized what is simply sexual assault by  putting a predator in the highest office in the land. I’m sorry that every step taken since the Suffragettes has still not been enough to give you equal rights, and that far too many people are still ok with this.

To all of my friends of color, of various ethnic backgrounds, of immigrant background… I’m sorry. I’m sorry that as a culture, a community… we’ve let things linger like this for so long. I’m sorry for the delusion that hate crime and discrimination HASN’T been happening right in front of us this whole damned time. All the while… we thought things were getting better. I’m sorry for such arrogant ignorance, and I’m sorry if I haven’t done enough. 

I’m sorry for my friends in the LGBTQ community. I’m sorry that the rights, honors, and privileges  of this nation do not apply to you because your love does’t match an ill-quoted text predating the Dark Ages. I’m sorry that some people believe their religious opinions are worth more than your basic happiness; I’m beyond sorry that love itself is being assaulted via religious zealotry. And I’m sorry that the second most powerful person in the country is about to be a discriminatory crusader against your basic human dignity.

To my younger family members, friends with children, and all of the successive generations, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that your predecessors prioritized private interests and money over environmental responsibility. I’m sorry that clean energy is still considered fringe and obscure because of a coalition of politically connected rich vampires. I’m mostly sorry that you’ll never get to see so many of the amazing animals of my childhood because we stand at the beginning of the next mass extinction. I’m sorry you will grow without seeing such beautiful, remarkable creatures.

Personally, I’m sorry to those whom I have let down. Some I have failed because I could not live up to their mantle while others I have distanced from due to beliefs. I’m sorry that I am not the idealistic dreamer I once was, but I am not sorry for still trying to be.

And you. Those trace elements in this nation who suddenly feel embolden and able to promote your rhetoric. You know who you are. I actually am sorry. Not for you though. I’m sorry that your traitorous vitriol is rising from the dark recesses of time, polluting the flawed yet perfectly imperfect dream called the United States of America. I’m sorry that honest, hardworking people are not subjugated to your presence and your hate. I’m sorry that the Founding Fathers, who rebelled against oppression and fascism, have you as their heirs. I’m just sorry that you don’t get what this country stands for and that you never will. And while you spread intimidation and fear… I am NOT sorry, for I will be standing side by side with the true soul of the nation. I will stand by women; I will stand by the LGBTQ community; I will stand by minorities and the oppressed; and I shall stand with immigrants and refugees seeking a better life in the land of dreams like my very own Grandfather.

Now to you, the reader… the audience. I’m sorry for going on such a rant. Wait… no, I am not sorry, for the message is important to hear. I apologize simply because I have one single favor to ask of you: do not sit idle. Begin again the dialogue between the red and the blue; view your countrymen and women as brothers and sisters… not political adversaries. Know your neighbor before you hate and condemn them. I implore you to remember the dream that Revere, Hamilton, Washington, Jefferson, and Adams fought and bled for. That all men are created equal; that we are indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

The phrase I most often ponder regarding this country is “E Plurbus Unum.”

“Out of many, one.”

We become one.

So live as one,

laugh as one,

cry as one,

stand as one,

fall as one,

Rise up Again as one.

Out of many,

we become

one.

Fleeting Thoughts 9/29

Where the fuck you going?
Lately all I've seen is shit.
I've spoken to Mercury,
finished the Queen of the Sirens.
Remember those well-laid plans,
torched and burned by unladen
people
living a beautiful life.
Nod to those who do,
take those compliments;
really where is the heart of the oyster, kid?
Happiness is buried, died with a simple matador call.
A paycheck for accounting purposes
fucks you over happily; everything
slaughters the lamb.
I want to see better, cried Moses.
Time to go, screamed the indomitable voice. Bur the bar, save the Druid.
I tried to apologize at the door but
caught you too soon in the dismissive hello/goodbye.
Why can't people be honest and say love or hate?

Splinters

Is it possible to completely lose one's way, to stray so far from who they were and what they believed in, and still find a way back from the gutter?

I've been asking myself this question a lot lately. Far longer than I'd even like to admit. Sadly, my tagline isn't metaphorical prose but a despondent mirror image of this bitter, broken bard. In the early hours of the morning I toss and I oscillate in and out of sleep. But I never get rest, because what rest is there for the damned?

For much of my adolescent and adult life I've struggled with my mind. I've always spent more time in my head than out with the rest of the world. Some of this was a defensive mechanism... a means to cope with social anxiety and shyness. Much of it was a general disinterest in the seemingly mundane realities of life. I was always more interested in the 'What If' over the 'What Is.' I suppose mentioning that I'm fairly emotionally...scattered... is necessary. So a lot of factors caused me to behave as I did. And one of my greatest, if not my only, method of coping with myself and my place in the world was to write. From scribbling on cocktail napkins at 4:30am at the Liar to spending entire afternoons clacking away on my 1933 Smith & Corona just to feel the keys beneath my fingers... my only true addiction was to the page and the world.

Mine was not a passing fancy nor a causal habit, though. I was committed to the craft, to the practice, to the life. I made a many great sacrifices along the way to preserve that which I held highest... sacrifices which I still bear the scars for. It ruined friendships, ended relationships, and at times made me more isolated than I could ever imagine. And yet through all of it, as Green Day put it... it was worth all the while. Instead of spiraling out of control and dying young from excess and apathy, I was able to channel my demons and my saints into something other than myself. I could be surrounded by friends I'd never met;  I could travel back in time and revisit places and people; I could play god and shape worlds more hopeful than this bleak backdrop we move through blindly. And the most important part of this diatribe is how I keep speaking in the past tense.

Everyone who ever commits to putting words to the page in any creative manner knows what it's like to lose their flow. Whatever you want to call it... you know what it is: a gumption trap where your verve, your motivation, your inspiration, and your very hope just comes crashing down like shoddy scaffolding and leaves you bloodied and laid bare. Sometimes all it takes is reading a favorite author and a couple of days to pass; other times, it takes several weeks and gallons of your preferred spirit. Some intermittent insanity also helps. I've been there enough times to know.

But what happens when you lose the voice? When no matter what you do, the silence in your head just grows louder and louder till you want to break every knuckle on the concrete and scream till there's no more sound to be had.

I never thought that I could lose who I am... who I was. All that I ever was. Little did I know, my entire life could so easily be shaken and broken by one of the most important people to me. That sort of betrayal and heartbreak is something that can't be forgotten. Yet despite my very stern, finite nature I tried... several times... to be forgiving. Only to be perpetually rewarded with disappointment and pain. I took on responsibilities for other people, bearing burdens that should never have been mine in order to keep my loved ones afloat. I became the anchor... and while everyone remained afloat, I slowly drowned. Before I knew it... I had become someone, something I no longer recognized and utterly hated.

I recently spent time at one of my closest friend's place, with his fiancé, brother, and sister-in-law. I'd known the brothers since childhood and grew up with them. While they laughed and bantered with each other and respective partners... I festered in the corner, the social cancer that my circumstances had made me. And they weren't the exception: old friends reach out to connect, and I hear about how their lives are progressing. All the while, mine is simply passing. Each day I try harder to shut myself off from everything, lest I hurt anyone else.... and so I can't be hurt anymore.

This is a fucked up, self-pitying, narcissistic monologue, isn't it? But guess what: no one's got a gun to your head forcing you to read this! I mean... there might be a sniper scope with your forehead dead center... but best not to worry about these things. The reason I chose to write this, the reason I needed to impulsively write this is because I need to find my faith again. My life has changed drastically lately, and I'm struggling to understand and accept these changes. I don't believe in some white bearded misogynist sitting on a throne deciding fate; I don't believe in god's son/god itself/some abstract spirit redeeming me for sins I didn't commit; I don't believe in any heaven where everyone is a virgin. I believe in the power of prose, the impact of inflection, the magnitude between the margins. And while I slowly self destruct, held upright solely by my required day job... I'm trying to find my way back. My odyssey back to a better time, a better self. I have to believe I can rationalize the good and the bad of life through the page once more.

And while I'm waiting for faith... I take my sacrament in cheap vodka

Moving On

     It's hard to describe the feelings around finishing a novel. And I mean a real book... not some formulaic piece of detritus that's more than likely complied by rhesus monkeys addicted to cocaine, locked in a chamber (I'm calling you out, Ms. Picoult). No... I mean a real book, something that you've spent months of your life on. Because unlike certain charlatans, a novel isn't just a five-step process pumped out in a couple of weeks.
   
     No, a first draft of a manuscript is something so intimate, so personal... it's almost impossible to describe it with accuracy. You spend so much time locked away in your head and in your room (or wherever you work), spending countless hours with people that are only real to you. You develop relationships with them. You start to view your protagonist as a friend and your villain as... well fuck, a villain. Pretty straightforward, isn't it? But it's entirely natural. After all, if you're putting in the amount of time that your work deserves... then it's inevitable that you start to connect with these figments. You know absolutely everything there is to know about them, more than even potential readers will ever discover. They are your lovers; your siblings; your parents; your children. They are you.

     For a long time now, I've had a set tradition for when I finish a novel. I feel like that's one of the few stereotypical procedures in writing that I actually agree with. No matter what's going on in my life, whatever obligations I have... it's the same. I buy a bottle of Glenlivet 12 and I drink, usually alone, while I listen to early Bob Dylan. I can't honestly say how this tradition of mine started, but it's been around now for so long that I can't think of doing anything else at the end of the long road called writing. I can't really even explain why I do it. Yes, I love scotch... and Glenlivet is a personal favorite. And Bob Dylan is the greatest song writer of all time, at least in my world. But how those two came together? Who the fuck cares? They did and they still do, so let it go.

     What really matters is the ritual itself. I've tried explaining it before but it usually falls on relatively deaf ears. And I don't blame anyone for that: in fact, it's a strong probability that it's my inability to appropriately articulate my feelings at this point. The best I can do is provide a parable... a story from the past.

     It was several years ago and I was a relatively new arrival in the City of Angels. I hadn't met a lot of people yet and coming from years in the same place, New York... I found it distressing. A few nights before I finished the book I was working on, I spent a night at the Frolic Room in Hollywood. A remarkably old and unpretentious place situated on Hollywood Boulevard, it had served as a watering hole for countless names from Tinseltown lore. I was sitting at the bar, several martinis deep, when I had an idea for the last chapter. I pulled out my Moleskine notebook and started jotting down ideas, written in my hieroglyphics-meets-chickscratch shorthand. I was so consumed and distracted by the images and sensations passing through my mind that I oblivious to the young woman sitting next to me, asking me what I was doing.

     When I finally snapped back to reality, it turned out I had been effectively ignoring her for almost twenty minutes. Normally such an action would drive people away, but this chestnut haired bhikku wouldn't give up so easily: on the contrary, my obsessive focus seemed to increase her curiosity. Once I was part of the routine world once again, she pounced... striking up a conversation. She repeated her question, asking me what I was working on. I replied, demurely and dismissively, talking about the idea for the chapter. When she found out I was writing down ideas for a book, a crocodile grin spread over her face, her eyes alight.

     "You're working on a novel," she asked. "What are you doing in this town, then?"

     I couldn't help but laugh at the outburst. Turns out, she was a New York transplant who had come out to Los Angeles for college and had yet to find her way back. I remember making a joke about how I felt bad for her, leaving NYC... to which she laughed and simply said,
     "Any place is interesting, as long as you make it so." Despite the fact that I was older and had experienced a lot more in my life... those simply words put a pause in my mind.

     We ended up going back to my place where, unlike my usual encounters with women at a bar, all we did was listen to records and drink whiskey. We both fell asleep on my couch around the time the sun broke the horizon. We spent a lot of time together over the next couple of days: despite our incredibly adolescent friendship, I felt a spark of kinship with her. And so on the night that I finished the book I was working on, I called her and asked her to come over.

     She arrived soon after. I had waited on uncorking the Glenlivet, but the minute she was in my apartment I put on "Bob Dylan Unplugged: Series 4 - Live at the Royal Albert Hall, 1966" and poured two glasses of Glenlivet. We spent some time in silence, listening to music and drinking the scotch. But as the night progressed... I sunk into a melancholy.

     She couldn't understand why. She asked if I was unhappy with the book, if I was giving up on writing. Of course, the answer to both questions was a solid no. I just felt sad. She couldn't wrap her head around it; she kept telling me I should be happy and, more importantly... proud. I felt joy for finishing the piece, and I was immensely proud of it. But I had spent almost a year with those characters, walking in the world I had made for them. By finishing I felt as if I were losing dear friends. And thanks to the maudlin tones of Dylan and the effects of scotch on the brain, I started thinking about the life I had left behind in New York. I remembered every crazy night with my friends and family at the Four Faced Liar; I remembered afternoons spent outside the Music Inn, playing sitar with guitar toting troubadours; and I remembered all of the people that I had lost in those years, friends who were taken and lost to chance and consequence.

    That's the whole point of this, I guess. There is a bittersweetness in finishing a book, an action where you create a whole world and the people who inhabit it. They become a part of you, people you actually laugh with and who are crutches when your actual life becomes painful. When their time comes to an end and it's time for you to say goodbye... it brings to mind all of the lives you have lived, all of the past memories that you can never reclaim and the friends you can never embrace again. Finishing a manuscript is a metaphorical death, and as such... it reminds us of death. And the reaction is the same: we mourn all that we've lost... yet we also celebrate all that we've gained.

    At least that's how I do. Hence... Bob Dylan and Glenlivet 12.