Blog de Osi
You might be magic dude but you’re still an asshole
So this morning I awoke to the all too loud and repetitively annoying sound of my cat digging his claws into the side of my bed. Pop, pop, crack, rip, pop, pop.
"Ah Fuck! You gotta be kidding me."
I looked over at the clock, 1:45 pm. Not an unusual time to be awake but I felt like I'd been hit by a truck… knocked over into the ditch… and pissed on by a nomad while inadvertently yawning at the most inopportune time. I looked to my cat, who naturally gave me those big, beautiful, innocent, sterling green puppy dog eyes and exclaimed:
"You asshole."
After stumbling around for a while I looked at the clock again…
"8:15 am! What the fuck! Are you kidding me? What the hell am I doing awake at this ungodly hour?"
Apparently, in the haze of sleep deprivation, I mistook the 7 for a 1. I plopped down onto the couch, turned on the TV, and in a daze began watching some real life drama about a serial killer. I was desperately hoping to either fall back asleep or wake up for real. The thought vaguely crossed my mind that my cat woke me up for a reason. I tend to think annoying shit like that regularly, as if my cat was some magical creature attuned to the heavens and doing the bidding of the vast cosmos. Puke. The wise cracking joker who lives between my temples promptly responded, "Yeah, he woke you up for a reason all right. Reason is he's an asshole." Then my phone rang.
On the other end was a man. He told me his name, then spelled it, then spelled it again because my ears apparently don't work before 9am. Then he explained that he was referred to me by so and so who apparently claimed I was a genius. "Here we go with that genius shit again," I thought. Now I don't mind the word genius, and I would love to legitimately be one, but that word gets thrown around rather liberally in my presence. Usually it comes after I resolve some mundane IT issue like recovering a lost document, or clearing off a virus, or resolving an issue by restarting someone's computer. Not exactly John Nash shit ya know? So I assume this guy was calling me to for my geeky prowess. Nope.
It turns out this guy is an author, he writes horror novels, and wants to see if I can help with the upcoming release of his new book. It's a pretty open ended proposition, no real job specified, he just wants me to soak it all in and see if I come up with anything that could be of help. Maybe web design & development, or music/sound tracking for video trailers, or marketing ideas. Holy shit!
I am rather blown away by this. I have been specifically asking the universe to allow my professional life and my artistic life to merge. I want the two worlds to collide. I want to be paid to be an artist and here I am on the phone with an artist seeking my counsel. This is mind boggling. So far since I began this manifestation I have had three things fall into my lap. First there was the kid who wanted me to pay me to teach him how to produce electronic music; then there was the Saul Williams gig; and now a book project. Of course, none of it amounts to much yet; the producer kid doesn't even own a computer yet (I know WTF); and Saul Williams' people still haven't given the final word on the gig; and I don't know shit about releasing a book; but something is percolating. The vibe is flowing. The universe is throwing suits onto the bed, waiting for me to find one that fits. I'm quite tickled by all this…
Sorry, looks like I'll have to cut this short. My cat is now laying across my keyboard and attacking my mouse hand…
"You might be magic dude but you're still an asshole :)"
"Ah Fuck! You gotta be kidding me."
I looked over at the clock, 1:45 pm. Not an unusual time to be awake but I felt like I'd been hit by a truck… knocked over into the ditch… and pissed on by a nomad while inadvertently yawning at the most inopportune time. I looked to my cat, who naturally gave me those big, beautiful, innocent, sterling green puppy dog eyes and exclaimed:
"You asshole."
After stumbling around for a while I looked at the clock again…
"8:15 am! What the fuck! Are you kidding me? What the hell am I doing awake at this ungodly hour?"
Apparently, in the haze of sleep deprivation, I mistook the 7 for a 1. I plopped down onto the couch, turned on the TV, and in a daze began watching some real life drama about a serial killer. I was desperately hoping to either fall back asleep or wake up for real. The thought vaguely crossed my mind that my cat woke me up for a reason. I tend to think annoying shit like that regularly, as if my cat was some magical creature attuned to the heavens and doing the bidding of the vast cosmos. Puke. The wise cracking joker who lives between my temples promptly responded, "Yeah, he woke you up for a reason all right. Reason is he's an asshole." Then my phone rang.
On the other end was a man. He told me his name, then spelled it, then spelled it again because my ears apparently don't work before 9am. Then he explained that he was referred to me by so and so who apparently claimed I was a genius. "Here we go with that genius shit again," I thought. Now I don't mind the word genius, and I would love to legitimately be one, but that word gets thrown around rather liberally in my presence. Usually it comes after I resolve some mundane IT issue like recovering a lost document, or clearing off a virus, or resolving an issue by restarting someone's computer. Not exactly John Nash shit ya know? So I assume this guy was calling me to for my geeky prowess. Nope.
It turns out this guy is an author, he writes horror novels, and wants to see if I can help with the upcoming release of his new book. It's a pretty open ended proposition, no real job specified, he just wants me to soak it all in and see if I come up with anything that could be of help. Maybe web design & development, or music/sound tracking for video trailers, or marketing ideas. Holy shit!
I am rather blown away by this. I have been specifically asking the universe to allow my professional life and my artistic life to merge. I want the two worlds to collide. I want to be paid to be an artist and here I am on the phone with an artist seeking my counsel. This is mind boggling. So far since I began this manifestation I have had three things fall into my lap. First there was the kid who wanted me to pay me to teach him how to produce electronic music; then there was the Saul Williams gig; and now a book project. Of course, none of it amounts to much yet; the producer kid doesn't even own a computer yet (I know WTF); and Saul Williams' people still haven't given the final word on the gig; and I don't know shit about releasing a book; but something is percolating. The vibe is flowing. The universe is throwing suits onto the bed, waiting for me to find one that fits. I'm quite tickled by all this…
Sorry, looks like I'll have to cut this short. My cat is now laying across my keyboard and attacking my mouse hand…
"You might be magic dude but you're still an asshole :)"
Kernel
If you met your childhood self, would they be impressed with who stood before them? If you met yourself as a teenager would they still have hope upon your departure?
In my case I believe the answer is a resounding yes. My younger self would be quite surprised, no doubt, but pleased. See, when I was young I never even considered being an artist. I wanted to be an air force pilot, or the first NFL running back to never be tackled in a game. I wanted to be a toy maker, or the owner of a hot dog stand. I wanted to be a hero or a wizard or a space traveler. Back then art was not necessary. Imagination was alive in my everyday life, anything was possible, and magic dripped from the ether.
As I matured the magic began to fade. Imagination was pushed aside by work and the individual was traded for a number two pencil. Social life became less about who you were, how you thought, and more about how you appeared. Judgment was rampant, from cruelty on the playground to outright abuse amongst the family. Lights began to fade. Self-expression became a rarity. The ability to speak your mind, such a natural thing when you're four, became an albatross. It was then that art became crucial. Santa Clause was dead, children were starving, politics existed, meat became murder, and atom bombs were dropped by the so called free. The whole world grew dim and soon art became the last stand for magic.
So my life has been designed to nurture that space. I've built a place to exist freely and spend ample time expressing that existence. Sure I work, I pay the bills, I own a house, a car, and a lawn mower but I don't live in that world. I live in my art.
So this is my perspective on the world. I do my best to make light of it. I'm a rather jovial fellow actually. I rather enjoy making light of the dark. Day to day life is rather unbearable without humor. I'm hoping to find another to join me in this masquerade. Someone to laugh and play with. So, what do you say? Wanna sit in the back row of this theater and throw popcorn with me? I'm mean, it's either that or get caught up in this drama, aka the illusion we call our world. I'll understand if you decline but don't be surprised when you get tagged with a buttery kernel that suddenly wakes you from your slumber :)
In my case I believe the answer is a resounding yes. My younger self would be quite surprised, no doubt, but pleased. See, when I was young I never even considered being an artist. I wanted to be an air force pilot, or the first NFL running back to never be tackled in a game. I wanted to be a toy maker, or the owner of a hot dog stand. I wanted to be a hero or a wizard or a space traveler. Back then art was not necessary. Imagination was alive in my everyday life, anything was possible, and magic dripped from the ether.
As I matured the magic began to fade. Imagination was pushed aside by work and the individual was traded for a number two pencil. Social life became less about who you were, how you thought, and more about how you appeared. Judgment was rampant, from cruelty on the playground to outright abuse amongst the family. Lights began to fade. Self-expression became a rarity. The ability to speak your mind, such a natural thing when you're four, became an albatross. It was then that art became crucial. Santa Clause was dead, children were starving, politics existed, meat became murder, and atom bombs were dropped by the so called free. The whole world grew dim and soon art became the last stand for magic.
So my life has been designed to nurture that space. I've built a place to exist freely and spend ample time expressing that existence. Sure I work, I pay the bills, I own a house, a car, and a lawn mower but I don't live in that world. I live in my art.
So this is my perspective on the world. I do my best to make light of it. I'm a rather jovial fellow actually. I rather enjoy making light of the dark. Day to day life is rather unbearable without humor. I'm hoping to find another to join me in this masquerade. Someone to laugh and play with. So, what do you say? Wanna sit in the back row of this theater and throw popcorn with me? I'm mean, it's either that or get caught up in this drama, aka the illusion we call our world. I'll understand if you decline but don't be surprised when you get tagged with a buttery kernel that suddenly wakes you from your slumber :)
Peace and love was all that mattered.
I barely heard it over the voice coming through the phone. I immediately lost focus on what the nurse was saying. Creeping down the hall was the frail sound of my name coming from the bathroom. I immediately hung up. When I opened the door I found my grandmother learning against the wall, white as a ghost, struggling to say my name again. She held on just long enough for me to slip behind her and wrap her up. Then she was out. Thank god for four years of wrestling. If I learned anything it's how to fall while in control of another body, particularly a body that out-weighs me by 40lbs. I took her straight back, hoping to create enough space for us on the 4x4 square of linoleum. We landed in the seated position, grandma between my legs, still wrapped up tight with her back against my chest, my back against the wall. She was unconscious but unharmed. Quite cozy actually considering such a fall could have been deadly for a person in their 70s.
I held her tight and told her it was going to be okay. I knew one way or another there was going to be a sudden transition, either to this world or from it. A few seconds later she vomited up a pool of blood, and for a second I thought for sure it'd be the later. I was about to usher my grandma to the next world. A strange feeling came over me in that moment. There was no sadness, no fear, no panic, only a longing to help, to soothe her, to leach out every stitch of fear and to love her into the. Peace and love was all that mattered.
Thankfully, it was just my imagination running away with me. She came back to us in under a minute. First a few incoherent mumbles, then clear speech. I held her there until the ambulance came. It was the closest I'd ever been to my grandmother, and the calmest I think I've ever seen her. Part of me wished I could hold her like that forever. She has had a tough life, been through more than most of us ever will and few could ever comprehend. She deserves peace; she deserves calm, and the knowing that everything is okay. And my only thought today is how I wish I could give that to her.
So, the blood collected in her stomach was from a nose bleed she had had on and off for hours. This is also why she passed out. After a few minutes of an IV drip she looked right as rain. Turns out, she also has slight case of pneumonia so she will be in the hospital for a few more days but ultimately she is okay.
I still can't shake the feeling of that moment though. Cradling my grandmother with my whole body, covered in blood, telling her it was going to be okay. It was the most real, present, horrifyingly beautiful moment I think I've ever experienced.
I held her tight and told her it was going to be okay. I knew one way or another there was going to be a sudden transition, either to this world or from it. A few seconds later she vomited up a pool of blood, and for a second I thought for sure it'd be the later. I was about to usher my grandma to the next world. A strange feeling came over me in that moment. There was no sadness, no fear, no panic, only a longing to help, to soothe her, to leach out every stitch of fear and to love her into the. Peace and love was all that mattered.
Thankfully, it was just my imagination running away with me. She came back to us in under a minute. First a few incoherent mumbles, then clear speech. I held her there until the ambulance came. It was the closest I'd ever been to my grandmother, and the calmest I think I've ever seen her. Part of me wished I could hold her like that forever. She has had a tough life, been through more than most of us ever will and few could ever comprehend. She deserves peace; she deserves calm, and the knowing that everything is okay. And my only thought today is how I wish I could give that to her.
So, the blood collected in her stomach was from a nose bleed she had had on and off for hours. This is also why she passed out. After a few minutes of an IV drip she looked right as rain. Turns out, she also has slight case of pneumonia so she will be in the hospital for a few more days but ultimately she is okay.
I still can't shake the feeling of that moment though. Cradling my grandmother with my whole body, covered in blood, telling her it was going to be okay. It was the most real, present, horrifyingly beautiful moment I think I've ever experienced.
Must we all fall like lemmings?
Went to bar tonight. Didn't even think about what day it was. I've been so focused on music everything else is background. It was a pretty good night, saw some good bands, smiled at a few pretty girls, reconnected with some old friends. Pretty uneventful for the most part. Until...
I was pretty immersed in the last band when the first two left. We shook hands, said our goodbyes and I went back to watching the gig. The dots didn't connect until the show was over and I saw the condition my other friend was in. All three of them were drunk. Two people I love left the bar too drunk to drive and I didn't say a word. Not a fucking word!
Luckily my other friend had his cousins with him. I enlisted their help to try and get him home safe. It looked like it was going to work out. I walked with them back to their cars to be sure. Once we arrived it became clear he was still planning on driving himself. He was shuffling around, avoiding making eye contact, and holding his keys tightly in his pocket. We tried to talk him out of it. We tried to tell him it wasn't a good idea but he wasn't listening. Instead he looked us like we were crazy. I was completely baffled. Everyone knows what I've been through. How can you stand there and insist on driving when you know what happened with me? I put three people in the hospital, and came within feet of killing a fourth. And yet this guy insists on driving. I couldn't take it. I walked way. By the time I got back to my car I already regretted it. I drove back around hoping they were still there but they were gone. Both cars were gone.
Maybe I should have done more. Maybe I should have knocked him out and thrown him in the back seat. A black eye sure fucking beats a coffin or a cell. A black eye will fade but knowing you killed someone will haunt you for the rest of your life. But I can't go punching out my friends every time we hang out. Even if I did I won't always be there. If not tonight then it will be another night. Many of my friends still drink and drive on a regular basis. Some literally drink in the car. What happened to me doesn't mean shit to them. They still believe they are invincible. I can't save them.
On my way home I passed by the very spot where it all happened. It was the first time I've passed it without thinking about the accident. I was too consumed with sadness, guilt, and disbelief. My interlock went off two or three times on the ride. It was the first time that sound pissed me off. The sober guy is blowing into a tube while the drunks swerve on.
When I got home I put my key in the door and, out of habit, reached into my mailbox. To my surprise I pulled out a Fed Ex envelope. That's weird I thought. I didn't order anything, what the hell is this. I didn't dawn on me until I had the contents unwrapped and in my hand...
Today is the day. Tonight is the night. Right fucking now is when it happened! In my hand I held my three year chip. Not the one you get in the meetings but the nice shinny gold display chip my mom gets me every year for my birthday. This day is the most important day of my life. This is my triumphant moment and I can not muster a smile. One thousand ninety five days without a drop and I feel no joy. Right now all I feel is fear and sadness. Tonight any one of my dear friends could be dead or at best retracing my footsteps.
Oh how I wish they could learn from my mistakes. I wish I could upload my memories to each and everyone of them. If I could, I would disperse every horrifying second of those twelve hours I spent chained to that hospital bed. I'd push every pulse of petrifying terror that coursed through my psyche. I would spare them none of it. I want them to know just how real this shit really gets. I want them understand that everything you are, everything you hoped to become, can be lost in a moment. I want them to know what it feels like to wonder if you just killed someone. What it feels like to be treated as if you are the scum of the earth and at the same time know that you actually could be; you could be a murderer. I want them to know what it feels like to imagine that at that very moment police might be knocking on someones door to notify a family that their loved one was taken from them. And when they ask how and why, the answer will be you. That is a moment you can never take back; A mistake you will never undue. I want them to know what it feels like to lay on the floor of am 8 x 5 cell oblivious to the drunk splashing piss of the toilet seat and onto your freezing toes. I want them to know what it feels like to stare at the concrete wall trying to comprehend how this could be your only view for the next 10-15 years and yet somehow it is more than you deserve.
Above all what I want them to know I GOT FUCKING LUCKY. I didn't catch a bad break. I am the lucky one. Because of that night I will never drink or use again. And because of that choice I will never become the murderer I almost was. My mother will never have to identify my body. My sister won't have to come visit me in prison. And my nieces and nephew will always know who uncle Johnny is. I wish I could say the same for my friends.
Must we all fall like lemmings?
It pains me to see my footprints are not empty
I've tried to tell them that path only leads to the edge
But they are not listening
They did not hear me splash against the pavement
And the shadows eclipse stain
Tonight there is nothing celebrate
Tonight, I think it's best I pray
I was pretty immersed in the last band when the first two left. We shook hands, said our goodbyes and I went back to watching the gig. The dots didn't connect until the show was over and I saw the condition my other friend was in. All three of them were drunk. Two people I love left the bar too drunk to drive and I didn't say a word. Not a fucking word!
Luckily my other friend had his cousins with him. I enlisted their help to try and get him home safe. It looked like it was going to work out. I walked with them back to their cars to be sure. Once we arrived it became clear he was still planning on driving himself. He was shuffling around, avoiding making eye contact, and holding his keys tightly in his pocket. We tried to talk him out of it. We tried to tell him it wasn't a good idea but he wasn't listening. Instead he looked us like we were crazy. I was completely baffled. Everyone knows what I've been through. How can you stand there and insist on driving when you know what happened with me? I put three people in the hospital, and came within feet of killing a fourth. And yet this guy insists on driving. I couldn't take it. I walked way. By the time I got back to my car I already regretted it. I drove back around hoping they were still there but they were gone. Both cars were gone.
Maybe I should have done more. Maybe I should have knocked him out and thrown him in the back seat. A black eye sure fucking beats a coffin or a cell. A black eye will fade but knowing you killed someone will haunt you for the rest of your life. But I can't go punching out my friends every time we hang out. Even if I did I won't always be there. If not tonight then it will be another night. Many of my friends still drink and drive on a regular basis. Some literally drink in the car. What happened to me doesn't mean shit to them. They still believe they are invincible. I can't save them.
On my way home I passed by the very spot where it all happened. It was the first time I've passed it without thinking about the accident. I was too consumed with sadness, guilt, and disbelief. My interlock went off two or three times on the ride. It was the first time that sound pissed me off. The sober guy is blowing into a tube while the drunks swerve on.
When I got home I put my key in the door and, out of habit, reached into my mailbox. To my surprise I pulled out a Fed Ex envelope. That's weird I thought. I didn't order anything, what the hell is this. I didn't dawn on me until I had the contents unwrapped and in my hand...
Today is the day. Tonight is the night. Right fucking now is when it happened! In my hand I held my three year chip. Not the one you get in the meetings but the nice shinny gold display chip my mom gets me every year for my birthday. This day is the most important day of my life. This is my triumphant moment and I can not muster a smile. One thousand ninety five days without a drop and I feel no joy. Right now all I feel is fear and sadness. Tonight any one of my dear friends could be dead or at best retracing my footsteps.
Oh how I wish they could learn from my mistakes. I wish I could upload my memories to each and everyone of them. If I could, I would disperse every horrifying second of those twelve hours I spent chained to that hospital bed. I'd push every pulse of petrifying terror that coursed through my psyche. I would spare them none of it. I want them to know just how real this shit really gets. I want them understand that everything you are, everything you hoped to become, can be lost in a moment. I want them to know what it feels like to wonder if you just killed someone. What it feels like to be treated as if you are the scum of the earth and at the same time know that you actually could be; you could be a murderer. I want them to know what it feels like to imagine that at that very moment police might be knocking on someones door to notify a family that their loved one was taken from them. And when they ask how and why, the answer will be you. That is a moment you can never take back; A mistake you will never undue. I want them to know what it feels like to lay on the floor of am 8 x 5 cell oblivious to the drunk splashing piss of the toilet seat and onto your freezing toes. I want them to know what it feels like to stare at the concrete wall trying to comprehend how this could be your only view for the next 10-15 years and yet somehow it is more than you deserve.
Above all what I want them to know I GOT FUCKING LUCKY. I didn't catch a bad break. I am the lucky one. Because of that night I will never drink or use again. And because of that choice I will never become the murderer I almost was. My mother will never have to identify my body. My sister won't have to come visit me in prison. And my nieces and nephew will always know who uncle Johnny is. I wish I could say the same for my friends.
Must we all fall like lemmings?
It pains me to see my footprints are not empty
I've tried to tell them that path only leads to the edge
But they are not listening
They did not hear me splash against the pavement
And the shadows eclipse stain
Tonight there is nothing celebrate
Tonight, I think it's best I pray
Reveal
At first it seemed as if I might be a poem percolating, presenting, preparing to produce or pose the dope. This is how it usually starts: A word or a phrase bounces around the fatty tissue. Kicking up dust it clears Chi off Charlotte's wheel. It sticks to the creases, smearing down the cracks and then releases to find additional syllables stuck to the peal, strung from the feat. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. Eventually a lyric is formed... This wasn't one of those times though. Instead the word merely ambled carelessly, never quite forming or finding poetry or prose. On its last trip around surface it did bust out the morpheme morph though.
Picture the ellipses ( ... ) as a slow carousel spinning gaining inertia as it brings the next word or phrase around to the forefront of the mind. Imagine a swooshing sound too :) This is kinda what it was like:
Reveal ... Reveal ... Reveal ... Reveal ... Reveal ... Reveal ...
Reveal ... Reveal thyself ... Revealing ...
Revelation ...
Revelation ... is ...
Revealing thyself ... is ...
Revelation ... is ... revealing thyself ...
Revealing thyself is revelation
(Stop. Metal mind grinding halt. End carousel.)
"Um... Did I just have a revelation about revelation!? What the fuck?"
I couldn't be certain if I have heard this concept this before, nor do I have any idea if this makes sense or is relevant to anyone else, but it felt deeply profound to me. Revealing thyself is revelation. Or to reveal god simply reveal self. All my life I've thought of revelation as something that happened to you. Something that originated from beyond you and dropped in your lap. And never did I ever think of revelation as a course of action one could consciously embark on! I have always felt outkasted, jilted, left in the dust by mystical traditions. From as far as I can remember I have wished for the experience of revelation. I have digested story after story of random people who claim to be suddenly struck with revelation. Regularly, I have asked for such an experience. Many times I have set out on foot intending to walk until struck with revelation. I've contemplated locking myself in my room or retiring to a cave where I would wait for it. I've thrown away my bed, emptied my room, and pulled everything off the walls in hopes of triggering it. I studied religion and philosophy for years in hopes of finding it. I have even gone as far as to turn out all the basement lights and sleep with my back to an open door in hopes that a spirit might come fuck with me. Waking up to a ghost, yeah, I'm pretty sure that would be quite a revelation. And the most obvious of all, I did a lot of drugs. A few times I even intentionally overdosed in the hopes of waking to a revaluation...or death. Nevertheless, I never have I had a clear, memorable, experience of revelation... At least that's what I thought until tonight when that thought spun free in my head.
Upon further contemplation, from a certain lens, it seems my life has been a progression towards revealing my true self, a progression of revelation. Peeling back the onion I once climbed inside. Tearing down the walls I built to keep me safe. For years I denied my repression. I paraded my feigned freedom in everyone's happy little face. I named my albums as proclamations of independence and as an adherence to my true self, whom I thought I was oh so in touch with. Yet, all the while I sedated myself to escape him. I held back my emotion for fear of him. I bit off my tongue when no one was looking, distracted them with big words, and slid the flesh in my pocket, to quiet him. I have told many lies about I. Many more have I believed. Some served me well and protected me from harm. Others carried only knives. All have run their course. I've faced them head on in recent years and it seems the layers are falling away quite naturally now. The battle between I-n-I dissolves, with a wink and a smile, leaving only space, truth, the invite to infinity, and revelation. Revealing thyself is revelation.
In trying to place how or why this notion came to me tonight, a few moments sprout from memory. Speckled throughout the evening, in brief morcels, I found myself connecting in ways I normally would have stifled. These connections were spurred by spontaneous actions on my part that seemed completely out of character. They were little things like greeting the pets of a home as I walked in the door, and not just with a mindless pat, but with the solid weight of my full attention. This, by the way, lead to one dog cuddling with me on the couch while the other tried to hump my arm. There were other moments, like making eye contact when I otherwise would have looked away or naturally smiling as I greeted someone rather than smiling because I felt like I should. There were many moments to minute to describe but all of them had to do with connecting with the life around me, participating in the world, and generally just being present. And all occurred as a direct consequence of revealing myself. One moment however shines above the rest.
As I passed by her in the crowded bar I instinctively reached for her hand. I was holding it before I even realized what I was doing. There was no filter, no decision, just pure impulsive action. It was wonderfully out of character. Out of character and into the play one might say. It was revelation, a revealing of self. I allowed a feeling to rush up through me and effortlessly pass from me too her. I can't think of anytime I have ever done such a thing outside the realm of intimacy. There weren't really words attached to the gesture but it felt as if I was communicating a great deal. I just didn't want to greet her in passing with a nod, a hey, or some other passive recognition that we vaguely know each other. Ultimately it felt as if I was saying, you are important to me. It doesn't really make sense as we barely know each other, but this is how I felt and this is what I expressed at my fingertips.
As this was happening my Threshold Guardian was throwing a fucking fit. I'm sure you've met my Threshold Guardian. Also known as the guy who won't look you in the eye but looks at your nose so you don't notice; the guy who is so scared he's on guard 24sev; the guy controlling my face and turning on the blank stare; the guy telling me "Be careful cause if you start living your likely to get yourself killed." Yeah that guy. He's a real prick. Kinda reminds me of my boss actually. I wonder if their related ;) Anyway, he is basically screaming "What the fuck do you think you're doing? You don't know her like that. What makes you think she is gonna be cool with you grabbing her hand? That could be somebody's girl you're touching you idiot! She's totally gonna know you think she's cute now, you know that right? Dipshit. You just made shit all weird now." Despite the fervor of his kanipshin, he was so far in the recesses of my mind, all I heard was "Wah wah woh wah wah," and Charlie wasn't listening.
After that moment which consisted of the hands, a greeting, and a genuine smile, I continued on my way. Despite my verbose detailing, it was quite brief. But that wasn't the end of it. The next time I passed her I again found myself following appendages. This time my feet. Undeterred by her positioning by the door and the utter lack of space for me to sit near her I found myself riding the heel toe heel toe until I arrived by her side. A while later, brought about by a prickly pin sensation in my feet, I awoke from our conversation to realize I was kneeling by her chair, squeezed between her and the door, with people awkwardly pondering if they should face me with ass or the crotch on their way outside. I don't know how the conversation erupted or who initiated it, and I certainly don't know how I managed to hold the flow considering my critical thinker was locked away in my spleen, but I do know I was there. Fully present, fully invested, fully revealed. It was quite enjoyable. A moment I otherwise would have missed had I bottled the energy that sparked my hand. A moment I would have never saw had a bottle been occupying my hand. A moment that spilled from its bottle to lay a revelation upon my hand...
Reflecting on my life this evening I see that I've spent the majority of my time withdrawn or under-drawn if you will. Loosely sketched. Partially outlined. A watermark of the me that could be. Even in my boldest moments I appear through a filter. A tracing paper tiger caught by the breeze will lose sight of origin entirely. Even when revealed partially, rather than fleshing out, I pulled back and doubt. Ultimately leaving my imprint unfinished. It seems this is all changing now. And so I breathe a sigh of relief, and wait joyously for the next unfolding, until revelation is complete. Peace.
** Early in this piece I used the term I-n-I. This term is a central concept in Rastafarian philosophy. I-n-I signifies the connection with the self and the divine energy, ie we are all one with each other and our source. In various songs and poems I have use this concept but rather obscurely. I say "the battle between I-n-I." This usage signifies not only the link but the discord I have felt with oneness. The Rastas also use I-n-I as a substitute for me. So In my phraseology that means the battle with/within myself and/or god. The struggle between divine in me and distorted me who alludes he is nothing.***
Picture the ellipses ( ... ) as a slow carousel spinning gaining inertia as it brings the next word or phrase around to the forefront of the mind. Imagine a swooshing sound too :) This is kinda what it was like:
Reveal ... Reveal ... Reveal ... Reveal ... Reveal ... Reveal ...
Reveal ... Reveal thyself ... Revealing ...
Revelation ...
Revelation ... is ...
Revealing thyself ... is ...
Revelation ... is ... revealing thyself ...
Revealing thyself is revelation
(Stop. Metal mind grinding halt. End carousel.)
"Um... Did I just have a revelation about revelation!? What the fuck?"
I couldn't be certain if I have heard this concept this before, nor do I have any idea if this makes sense or is relevant to anyone else, but it felt deeply profound to me. Revealing thyself is revelation. Or to reveal god simply reveal self. All my life I've thought of revelation as something that happened to you. Something that originated from beyond you and dropped in your lap. And never did I ever think of revelation as a course of action one could consciously embark on! I have always felt outkasted, jilted, left in the dust by mystical traditions. From as far as I can remember I have wished for the experience of revelation. I have digested story after story of random people who claim to be suddenly struck with revelation. Regularly, I have asked for such an experience. Many times I have set out on foot intending to walk until struck with revelation. I've contemplated locking myself in my room or retiring to a cave where I would wait for it. I've thrown away my bed, emptied my room, and pulled everything off the walls in hopes of triggering it. I studied religion and philosophy for years in hopes of finding it. I have even gone as far as to turn out all the basement lights and sleep with my back to an open door in hopes that a spirit might come fuck with me. Waking up to a ghost, yeah, I'm pretty sure that would be quite a revelation. And the most obvious of all, I did a lot of drugs. A few times I even intentionally overdosed in the hopes of waking to a revaluation...or death. Nevertheless, I never have I had a clear, memorable, experience of revelation... At least that's what I thought until tonight when that thought spun free in my head.
Upon further contemplation, from a certain lens, it seems my life has been a progression towards revealing my true self, a progression of revelation. Peeling back the onion I once climbed inside. Tearing down the walls I built to keep me safe. For years I denied my repression. I paraded my feigned freedom in everyone's happy little face. I named my albums as proclamations of independence and as an adherence to my true self, whom I thought I was oh so in touch with. Yet, all the while I sedated myself to escape him. I held back my emotion for fear of him. I bit off my tongue when no one was looking, distracted them with big words, and slid the flesh in my pocket, to quiet him. I have told many lies about I. Many more have I believed. Some served me well and protected me from harm. Others carried only knives. All have run their course. I've faced them head on in recent years and it seems the layers are falling away quite naturally now. The battle between I-n-I dissolves, with a wink and a smile, leaving only space, truth, the invite to infinity, and revelation. Revealing thyself is revelation.
In trying to place how or why this notion came to me tonight, a few moments sprout from memory. Speckled throughout the evening, in brief morcels, I found myself connecting in ways I normally would have stifled. These connections were spurred by spontaneous actions on my part that seemed completely out of character. They were little things like greeting the pets of a home as I walked in the door, and not just with a mindless pat, but with the solid weight of my full attention. This, by the way, lead to one dog cuddling with me on the couch while the other tried to hump my arm. There were other moments, like making eye contact when I otherwise would have looked away or naturally smiling as I greeted someone rather than smiling because I felt like I should. There were many moments to minute to describe but all of them had to do with connecting with the life around me, participating in the world, and generally just being present. And all occurred as a direct consequence of revealing myself. One moment however shines above the rest.
As I passed by her in the crowded bar I instinctively reached for her hand. I was holding it before I even realized what I was doing. There was no filter, no decision, just pure impulsive action. It was wonderfully out of character. Out of character and into the play one might say. It was revelation, a revealing of self. I allowed a feeling to rush up through me and effortlessly pass from me too her. I can't think of anytime I have ever done such a thing outside the realm of intimacy. There weren't really words attached to the gesture but it felt as if I was communicating a great deal. I just didn't want to greet her in passing with a nod, a hey, or some other passive recognition that we vaguely know each other. Ultimately it felt as if I was saying, you are important to me. It doesn't really make sense as we barely know each other, but this is how I felt and this is what I expressed at my fingertips.
As this was happening my Threshold Guardian was throwing a fucking fit. I'm sure you've met my Threshold Guardian. Also known as the guy who won't look you in the eye but looks at your nose so you don't notice; the guy who is so scared he's on guard 24sev; the guy controlling my face and turning on the blank stare; the guy telling me "Be careful cause if you start living your likely to get yourself killed." Yeah that guy. He's a real prick. Kinda reminds me of my boss actually. I wonder if their related ;) Anyway, he is basically screaming "What the fuck do you think you're doing? You don't know her like that. What makes you think she is gonna be cool with you grabbing her hand? That could be somebody's girl you're touching you idiot! She's totally gonna know you think she's cute now, you know that right? Dipshit. You just made shit all weird now." Despite the fervor of his kanipshin, he was so far in the recesses of my mind, all I heard was "Wah wah woh wah wah," and Charlie wasn't listening.
After that moment which consisted of the hands, a greeting, and a genuine smile, I continued on my way. Despite my verbose detailing, it was quite brief. But that wasn't the end of it. The next time I passed her I again found myself following appendages. This time my feet. Undeterred by her positioning by the door and the utter lack of space for me to sit near her I found myself riding the heel toe heel toe until I arrived by her side. A while later, brought about by a prickly pin sensation in my feet, I awoke from our conversation to realize I was kneeling by her chair, squeezed between her and the door, with people awkwardly pondering if they should face me with ass or the crotch on their way outside. I don't know how the conversation erupted or who initiated it, and I certainly don't know how I managed to hold the flow considering my critical thinker was locked away in my spleen, but I do know I was there. Fully present, fully invested, fully revealed. It was quite enjoyable. A moment I otherwise would have missed had I bottled the energy that sparked my hand. A moment I would have never saw had a bottle been occupying my hand. A moment that spilled from its bottle to lay a revelation upon my hand...
Reflecting on my life this evening I see that I've spent the majority of my time withdrawn or under-drawn if you will. Loosely sketched. Partially outlined. A watermark of the me that could be. Even in my boldest moments I appear through a filter. A tracing paper tiger caught by the breeze will lose sight of origin entirely. Even when revealed partially, rather than fleshing out, I pulled back and doubt. Ultimately leaving my imprint unfinished. It seems this is all changing now. And so I breathe a sigh of relief, and wait joyously for the next unfolding, until revelation is complete. Peace.
** Early in this piece I used the term I-n-I. This term is a central concept in Rastafarian philosophy. I-n-I signifies the connection with the self and the divine energy, ie we are all one with each other and our source. In various songs and poems I have use this concept but rather obscurely. I say "the battle between I-n-I." This usage signifies not only the link but the discord I have felt with oneness. The Rastas also use I-n-I as a substitute for me. So In my phraseology that means the battle with/within myself and/or god. The struggle between divine in me and distorted me who alludes he is nothing.***
Parade of Lights
Hey the holidays are coming up! What should we with the taxpayer money this year? Should we feed and clothe the starving children? Maybe donate gifts to the families burdened by the bad economy? Maybe set up a few more beds for the homeless? Na, let’s light a bunch of shit up and have a parade. Yeah, good call.
Bring Them Home!
Today I see a lot of appreciation for our vets. Many people thanking them for our freedom. I must say I am baffled by these comments. What freedom is it you people speak of? And more importantly what freedom is it they are fighting for?
Since the wars began we have only lost ground on freedom. While they are off fighting, corporate greed and pocketed politicians steal every last shred of our freedom. Our bill of rights has been undermined and rendered useless by the patriot act; Our jobs are gone; Our homes are being stolen by banks, who if pushed, can't even prove legitimate ownership themselves; The air waves, long ago stolen from us, have only become more and more centralized and filled with nonsense and propaganda; And we can't afford a doctor unless we agree to sign into slavery for some corporation, and even then we might still be left destitute when a particular illness is left uncovered by a policy we have paid through the nose for.
So, where is this freedom you speak of?
Our brave men and women are dying for an idea that disappears before our very eyes. The only real threat to our freedom resides here. There is no legitimate threat overseas. Errant planes did not and never will take away our freedom. It was a good ploy though. Scare the sheep and they'll sheer themselves.
They are dying for nothing and this nation doesn't give a fuck. And so long as you believe otherwise, let me bold enough to say, you don't give a fuck either. If you really support these men and women demand that they all be brought home. Stop supporting this madness. Let these imaginary terrorists cross the ocean and come get us. Until then stop filling young people heads with all this bullshit rhetoric. There hasn't been a war for our freedom in over 200 years. Occupying foreign countries is not an act towards freedom. It's a page from Hitlers book and killing Muslims will never restore our freedom. Wake up people.
** Below are genuine historical documents from the referenced period. Utterly fabricated by JohnnyOsi :) **
Veteran’s Day 1783
Thank you veterans for dying for our freedom… Thank you cause that tea tax was real bullshit. It was getting so a common white man couldn’t even afford to own black people anymore. And bull whips, forget about it. I had to start whipping my boy with tree branches again. Thank god we were saved from that tyranny. Fucking British. Good riddance.
Veteran’s Day 1891
Thank you veterans for dying for our freedom… You have restored liberty to this great nation. Thank you for killing all those pesky Indians last December. I mean the gall of those redskins, fucking terrorists if you ask me. What do they think this is their land or something? Thank you for your honorable service.
Veteran’s Day 1845
Thank you veterans for dying for our freedom… Well not really our freedom but the freedom of European Jews. Too bad most of them were dead already. Damn. If we had only known sooner. So many needless deaths. I mean can you imagine annihilating millions of people? What an evil man that Hitler was. Truly the devil incarnate...
Hey but at least we got those damn Japs right! We sure showed them! God bless America.
Since the wars began we have only lost ground on freedom. While they are off fighting, corporate greed and pocketed politicians steal every last shred of our freedom. Our bill of rights has been undermined and rendered useless by the patriot act; Our jobs are gone; Our homes are being stolen by banks, who if pushed, can't even prove legitimate ownership themselves; The air waves, long ago stolen from us, have only become more and more centralized and filled with nonsense and propaganda; And we can't afford a doctor unless we agree to sign into slavery for some corporation, and even then we might still be left destitute when a particular illness is left uncovered by a policy we have paid through the nose for.
So, where is this freedom you speak of?
Our brave men and women are dying for an idea that disappears before our very eyes. The only real threat to our freedom resides here. There is no legitimate threat overseas. Errant planes did not and never will take away our freedom. It was a good ploy though. Scare the sheep and they'll sheer themselves.
They are dying for nothing and this nation doesn't give a fuck. And so long as you believe otherwise, let me bold enough to say, you don't give a fuck either. If you really support these men and women demand that they all be brought home. Stop supporting this madness. Let these imaginary terrorists cross the ocean and come get us. Until then stop filling young people heads with all this bullshit rhetoric. There hasn't been a war for our freedom in over 200 years. Occupying foreign countries is not an act towards freedom. It's a page from Hitlers book and killing Muslims will never restore our freedom. Wake up people.
** Below are genuine historical documents from the referenced period. Utterly fabricated by JohnnyOsi :) **
Veteran’s Day 1783
Thank you veterans for dying for our freedom… Thank you cause that tea tax was real bullshit. It was getting so a common white man couldn’t even afford to own black people anymore. And bull whips, forget about it. I had to start whipping my boy with tree branches again. Thank god we were saved from that tyranny. Fucking British. Good riddance.
Veteran’s Day 1891
Thank you veterans for dying for our freedom… You have restored liberty to this great nation. Thank you for killing all those pesky Indians last December. I mean the gall of those redskins, fucking terrorists if you ask me. What do they think this is their land or something? Thank you for your honorable service.
Veteran’s Day 1845
Thank you veterans for dying for our freedom… Well not really our freedom but the freedom of European Jews. Too bad most of them were dead already. Damn. If we had only known sooner. So many needless deaths. I mean can you imagine annihilating millions of people? What an evil man that Hitler was. Truly the devil incarnate...
Hey but at least we got those damn Japs right! We sure showed them! God bless America.
Seeds Grow Asshole
I’m pretty baffled by the way some people talk to their children. That is a little person in there, you know that right? Actually that is a little person who behaves pretty much exactly as you do. So if you hate your kid so much, try looking in the mirror asshole. Or keep picking on the 4 year old and wait for the day when she gets big enough to cut you in your sleep. Just another afternoon at the grocery store I suppose. Tell me what is so important about grocery shopping that we need to traumatize a the kid? It's not like this is a... well... actually I can't thing of any appropriate scenario for child abuse. Seriously I'd rather hear the kid making noise than you yelling at her...
This is all shit I should have said if I wasn't too busy trying not to punch someones mom.
This is all shit I should have said if I wasn't too busy trying not to punch someones mom.
Do You Like Apples?
The earth has officially spun upon its axis. I wouldn't be surprised if tomorrow I woke to a blue sun and a yellow sky. This NEVER happens…
Let me give you a bit of the history. When it comes to romantic attraction my usual game plan is:
1) avoid all eye contact
2) sneak looks but only when she’s not looking, and if she catches me, I look away
3) think about what I would say if my balls hadn't suddenly disappeared
4) observe every passing chance whist kicking myself
5) ultimately end the experience dejected wishing I had at least taken a shot and been rejected
Needless to say I attract women about as well as a moldy block of cheese. There have been a few instances where I actually put myself out there but usually by the time I make a move I've got myself so twisted up that I might as well be walking up with a big slimy green booger dangling out of my nose.
Now on with the story.
Last night I randomly cut off all my hair and shaved my beard. It felt good. I felt revitalized. And I'd like to think I looked pretty good too. I'd also like to say I did it for some normal reason but as you all know I’m not really normal. Basically, I saw a bunch of gay guys on Millionaire Matchmaker and decided I wanted to be pretty too. Weird but true.
Jump ahead to today. I'm standing in some eye glass store with my mom, hoping to find some frames that feel good and don't look like total shite. (This is no easy task when you have big black caterpillars for eyebrows). So, I'm starring into this case of frames completely dumbfounded when I hear "Can I help you find something? You looking for anything in particular?" I looked up and ... DING! If I could describe that first impression I would but my brain pretty much shut off and all I could think was "Holy shit!" I mean this girl had a vibe, and that vibe had me in the highlights.
I played it cool enough. I told her what I was looking for and described what my last pair of glasses looked like before they met their tragic fate in the blades on my lawnmower. Sadly, I wasn’t quick witted enough to actually tell her that story or even mention the lawnmower which by all rights is quite funny. Anyway, she immediately went off and found a handful of frames for me. This girl was good. So I tried each of them on, looked at my mom to see what she thought, and then looked at her to get her opinion. In hindsight, this was my first clue. Her responses weren't flat responses. They came with a smile that she noticeably tried to hide, and when she really like a particular pair her smile lit up the room. Naturally, I was clueless. My brain was too busy observing how much I liked her, daydreaming about being able to somehow let her know, and secretly wishing my mom wasn't there. I mean, I have ZERO game as it is, how the hell was I going to talk to this girl with my mom standing there!? The best I could do was stall. We went through about 15 frames and I definitely took my time. Each time I consciously made a point to look at her. Good job Johnny, I thought, at least you're not ignoring her.
Then it came time to pay. Now was my time. Do or die. At every pause in the transaction my brain screamed: Make a move man! Say something! I did no such thing. I walked out the same lame ass I’ve always been.
Here is where the universe (or whatever) helped me out though. Apparently, these days they can have your glasses ready in an hour. That meant there was still hope. For the next hour, while having lunch with my mom, I spilled all the mess clouding up my head. I told her everything. I don’t have a car; how do you ask someone out when the only spare seat on your ride is on the handle bars? What if I’m too old for her? What if she's just really good at her job? She probably doesn't actually like me. What the hell do I say anyway? How do you stand out in 2 minutes? How do you tell someone you like them when you don't even know them? And how do you say that without being just another of the thousand assholes who must hit on her every day? Blah, Blah, Blah.
Amidst the conversation my mom mentioned liking a pair of sunglasses there but said they were too expensive. I took note of that and by the end of the meal decided I was going to buy them for her. Rarely, do I get a chance like that. My mom is incredibly hard to buy for, her taste is very specific and usually way out of my price range. So at least this way I could do something nice for my mom and not have the day be a total wash when I failed to talk to the girl.
So, before we left the restaurant I decided to hit the bathroom real quick. No sense in adding the awkwardness of a full bladder to my situation. So there I am standing in full stream when my phone rings. Oh shit! I quick finished my business and answered the phone. It was her.
“Hi, it’s ******** from whatever whatever store...”
At that moment I mistakenly stepped away from the stall. To my utter horror this subtle movement triggered the LOUDEST, LONGEST, MOST RAGING flush I have ever heard in my freaking life! I was mortified.
As I walked through the mall I desperately tried to block it all out. Here it is, the big moment. I went in alone and scared. Our interaction was cordial, she showed me my glasses, had me sign something, handed me the box, and it was over. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything...
Then, I remembered the sunglasses. I felt a sigh of relief. I still had time. I asked her if she remembered which pair my mom liked. Neither of us could quite remember which ones they were and I was quite grateful. So, off we went to the glass case again. It gave me a chance to interact with her a bit more and I even got a couple more smiles as we fumbled around trying to guess. Finally we decided and off we went to settle up. (By the way we did manage to pick the right pair). I mentioned how my mom probably never would have bought them. She commented on how nice it was that I was buying them for her. I signed the receipt, she handed me the box, the was a brief pause, and I walked out.
Yup. I walked out. Didn’t say a word.
As I walked out of the store that old dejected feeling washed over me.
“Damn it Johnny! You missed your chance again...” said my ego.
That’s when everything changed.
“The hell did!” my spirit replied.
And with that I spun on my heal and headed back for the store. My feet felt like God was standing on my toes on the way down, sprouting roots as they pressed against the floor. I was fierce. Radio stations lost contact and stuttered due to the vibe I was emanating. EKG machines 20 miles away started painting Picassos. I was on fire. I was gonna take my shot.
Unplanned words flew out of my mouth as soon as I crossed the threshold. She wasn’t even looking but the resonance in my voice caught her attention like a lightning bolt.
“I’m sorry, but do you wanna get some coffee?”
My apology was not an expression of regret, quite the opposite actually. It was as if to say: I’m sorry but I refuse regret to this. My meaning was clear. She didn’t hesitate, she didn’t look away, she didn’t even blink. She gave me a big smile and said:
Yes.
I got her number. How ya like dem apples!
Let me give you a bit of the history. When it comes to romantic attraction my usual game plan is:
1) avoid all eye contact
2) sneak looks but only when she’s not looking, and if she catches me, I look away
3) think about what I would say if my balls hadn't suddenly disappeared
4) observe every passing chance whist kicking myself
5) ultimately end the experience dejected wishing I had at least taken a shot and been rejected
Needless to say I attract women about as well as a moldy block of cheese. There have been a few instances where I actually put myself out there but usually by the time I make a move I've got myself so twisted up that I might as well be walking up with a big slimy green booger dangling out of my nose.
Now on with the story.
Last night I randomly cut off all my hair and shaved my beard. It felt good. I felt revitalized. And I'd like to think I looked pretty good too. I'd also like to say I did it for some normal reason but as you all know I’m not really normal. Basically, I saw a bunch of gay guys on Millionaire Matchmaker and decided I wanted to be pretty too. Weird but true.
Jump ahead to today. I'm standing in some eye glass store with my mom, hoping to find some frames that feel good and don't look like total shite. (This is no easy task when you have big black caterpillars for eyebrows). So, I'm starring into this case of frames completely dumbfounded when I hear "Can I help you find something? You looking for anything in particular?" I looked up and ... DING! If I could describe that first impression I would but my brain pretty much shut off and all I could think was "Holy shit!" I mean this girl had a vibe, and that vibe had me in the highlights.
I played it cool enough. I told her what I was looking for and described what my last pair of glasses looked like before they met their tragic fate in the blades on my lawnmower. Sadly, I wasn’t quick witted enough to actually tell her that story or even mention the lawnmower which by all rights is quite funny. Anyway, she immediately went off and found a handful of frames for me. This girl was good. So I tried each of them on, looked at my mom to see what she thought, and then looked at her to get her opinion. In hindsight, this was my first clue. Her responses weren't flat responses. They came with a smile that she noticeably tried to hide, and when she really like a particular pair her smile lit up the room. Naturally, I was clueless. My brain was too busy observing how much I liked her, daydreaming about being able to somehow let her know, and secretly wishing my mom wasn't there. I mean, I have ZERO game as it is, how the hell was I going to talk to this girl with my mom standing there!? The best I could do was stall. We went through about 15 frames and I definitely took my time. Each time I consciously made a point to look at her. Good job Johnny, I thought, at least you're not ignoring her.
Then it came time to pay. Now was my time. Do or die. At every pause in the transaction my brain screamed: Make a move man! Say something! I did no such thing. I walked out the same lame ass I’ve always been.
Here is where the universe (or whatever) helped me out though. Apparently, these days they can have your glasses ready in an hour. That meant there was still hope. For the next hour, while having lunch with my mom, I spilled all the mess clouding up my head. I told her everything. I don’t have a car; how do you ask someone out when the only spare seat on your ride is on the handle bars? What if I’m too old for her? What if she's just really good at her job? She probably doesn't actually like me. What the hell do I say anyway? How do you stand out in 2 minutes? How do you tell someone you like them when you don't even know them? And how do you say that without being just another of the thousand assholes who must hit on her every day? Blah, Blah, Blah.
Amidst the conversation my mom mentioned liking a pair of sunglasses there but said they were too expensive. I took note of that and by the end of the meal decided I was going to buy them for her. Rarely, do I get a chance like that. My mom is incredibly hard to buy for, her taste is very specific and usually way out of my price range. So at least this way I could do something nice for my mom and not have the day be a total wash when I failed to talk to the girl.
So, before we left the restaurant I decided to hit the bathroom real quick. No sense in adding the awkwardness of a full bladder to my situation. So there I am standing in full stream when my phone rings. Oh shit! I quick finished my business and answered the phone. It was her.
“Hi, it’s ******** from whatever whatever store...”
At that moment I mistakenly stepped away from the stall. To my utter horror this subtle movement triggered the LOUDEST, LONGEST, MOST RAGING flush I have ever heard in my freaking life! I was mortified.
As I walked through the mall I desperately tried to block it all out. Here it is, the big moment. I went in alone and scared. Our interaction was cordial, she showed me my glasses, had me sign something, handed me the box, and it was over. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything...
Then, I remembered the sunglasses. I felt a sigh of relief. I still had time. I asked her if she remembered which pair my mom liked. Neither of us could quite remember which ones they were and I was quite grateful. So, off we went to the glass case again. It gave me a chance to interact with her a bit more and I even got a couple more smiles as we fumbled around trying to guess. Finally we decided and off we went to settle up. (By the way we did manage to pick the right pair). I mentioned how my mom probably never would have bought them. She commented on how nice it was that I was buying them for her. I signed the receipt, she handed me the box, the was a brief pause, and I walked out.
Yup. I walked out. Didn’t say a word.
As I walked out of the store that old dejected feeling washed over me.
“Damn it Johnny! You missed your chance again...” said my ego.
That’s when everything changed.
“The hell did!” my spirit replied.
And with that I spun on my heal and headed back for the store. My feet felt like God was standing on my toes on the way down, sprouting roots as they pressed against the floor. I was fierce. Radio stations lost contact and stuttered due to the vibe I was emanating. EKG machines 20 miles away started painting Picassos. I was on fire. I was gonna take my shot.
Unplanned words flew out of my mouth as soon as I crossed the threshold. She wasn’t even looking but the resonance in my voice caught her attention like a lightning bolt.
“I’m sorry, but do you wanna get some coffee?”
My apology was not an expression of regret, quite the opposite actually. It was as if to say: I’m sorry but I refuse regret to this. My meaning was clear. She didn’t hesitate, she didn’t look away, she didn’t even blink. She gave me a big smile and said:
Yes.
I got her number. How ya like dem apples!
The First Osi Production
Her name was Kiana. I had a serious crush on her, as did every other boy in our fourth grade class. It must have been rough for her that year. She ignored us most of the time. One day, in true ten year old fashion, we asked her who she liked. The question came to her in the form of a note. "Who do you like?" On the small scrap of paper she scribbled a single letter: J.
My heart leaped, that's me! Wait... is that me? Suddenly I realized I wasn't the only J in the room. Smart girl. Despite our relentless pestering, she never said anything more about the subject. So, come the end of the year, word gets around that she is moving to Oregon in the summer. What! No, something must be done about this! I at least have to tell her how I feel before she goes.
Thus my first production was born. Now at the time I had not yet developed any musical or poetic ability. At best I could bang on a snare drum with loose rhythm. So I collected a select group of love songs from the most popular group of the day... You guessed it, New Kids On The Block. I arranged the songs on a tape in a particular order and spliced in recordings of me professing my love to her in between the tracks. I waited until the last day of school to give her the tape. I remember approaching her, nervous, a scared love struck 4th grader. I handed her the tape, she smiled and looked at me with a slightly confused but flattered look waiting for me to say something. I froze.
The ice was broken when her friend promptly snatched the tape from her hands and threw it in the dumpster. Her friend, you see, was not moving to Oregon and she didn't much care for all this attention given to the girl who was leaving. I tried to stop her but there wasn't much I could do, she had the jump on me and I long ago learned not to hit girls. (That's the one thing my wife beating father taught me). I heard my hopes and dreams clank against the inside and land softly on remnants of the day's lunch.
I stood by the dumpster heart broken as I watched Kiana's Dad pulling up. She quietly got in the car and was gone. I waited until they were out of sight, gave a quick look to assure no one else was around, and then climbed in the dumpster. Filthy and heartbroken, with tape in hand, I silently walked home.
That was the beginning. I have recreated that experience over and over again, endlessly pouring my emotions into recordings that no one will hear. This is my life. It is what I do. To this day I still seek the purity of that moment. The blind hope that she would love me if she could only see me. I wish I could go back to that feeling. Instead my bulging heart is forever curtailed by the nervous anticipation that I will not be loved in return; that I am nothing. And so the recordings pile around me. Hoping to accessorize that nothingness and serve as proof that that I felt something once... at it mattered.
My heart leaped, that's me! Wait... is that me? Suddenly I realized I wasn't the only J in the room. Smart girl. Despite our relentless pestering, she never said anything more about the subject. So, come the end of the year, word gets around that she is moving to Oregon in the summer. What! No, something must be done about this! I at least have to tell her how I feel before she goes.
Thus my first production was born. Now at the time I had not yet developed any musical or poetic ability. At best I could bang on a snare drum with loose rhythm. So I collected a select group of love songs from the most popular group of the day... You guessed it, New Kids On The Block. I arranged the songs on a tape in a particular order and spliced in recordings of me professing my love to her in between the tracks. I waited until the last day of school to give her the tape. I remember approaching her, nervous, a scared love struck 4th grader. I handed her the tape, she smiled and looked at me with a slightly confused but flattered look waiting for me to say something. I froze.
The ice was broken when her friend promptly snatched the tape from her hands and threw it in the dumpster. Her friend, you see, was not moving to Oregon and she didn't much care for all this attention given to the girl who was leaving. I tried to stop her but there wasn't much I could do, she had the jump on me and I long ago learned not to hit girls. (That's the one thing my wife beating father taught me). I heard my hopes and dreams clank against the inside and land softly on remnants of the day's lunch.
I stood by the dumpster heart broken as I watched Kiana's Dad pulling up. She quietly got in the car and was gone. I waited until they were out of sight, gave a quick look to assure no one else was around, and then climbed in the dumpster. Filthy and heartbroken, with tape in hand, I silently walked home.
That was the beginning. I have recreated that experience over and over again, endlessly pouring my emotions into recordings that no one will hear. This is my life. It is what I do. To this day I still seek the purity of that moment. The blind hope that she would love me if she could only see me. I wish I could go back to that feeling. Instead my bulging heart is forever curtailed by the nervous anticipation that I will not be loved in return; that I am nothing. And so the recordings pile around me. Hoping to accessorize that nothingness and serve as proof that that I felt something once... at it mattered.
The Pocket Sized Version
9/11 was horrible and should be remembered. Yet, I find all this media coverage a bit self absorbed. How about instead of re-hashing the one tragedy we suffered 10 years ago, and acting like it is the greatest human tragedy ever faced, we talk about the tragedies we have caused since, and are currently causing. How about we talk about all the military families that have been devastated by our needless wars. Wouldn't it be cool if we could actually learn something from this? Wouldn't it be nice to grow from it? You know what I think about when I see the ruble of 9/11? The ruble in Iraq, Afghanistan, Vietnam, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and countless other places I've probably never heard of. Our great American tragedy is the pocket sized novelty version of what the rest of the world has suffered. But we're special somehow. Like our pain is more significant then the rest of the world. I am no more bothered by 9/11 than I am when they show us bombing people on the nightly news. Both are equally horrendous but we are so arrogant and self involved we don't equate the two. Nationalism is a childish notion. bleh.
The ranting of a boy on a bike.
What's the deal with drivers passing me on my left and immediately turning right? Seriously, that's just ridiculous. I ride on the side of the lane as a courtesy to you asshole the least you could do is not run me off the road. If need be I will ride straight down the middle of the lane just to make sure you zombies see me. Yeah, you're all now going to be 35 seconds later that you would have been had I not been there. Deal with it.
What is it about driving a motor vehicle that decreases one's humanity? I have had people intentionally draft me, ride my ass, honk their horns, and intentionally / unintentionally run me off the road many times. Really!? Where else am I supposed to ride? and since when did you become the most important person on the planet? Surprisingly I have even been drafted by a motorcycle. His leather bound impatient ass zoomed by me so close I could have yanked his arrogant face right off his bike. Naturally I didn't, but only because Mr. Miyagi has not yet taught me how to snatch flies out of the air. Soon enough fucker, soon enough... chopsticks to the neck!
So in closing if you are behind the wheel I ask that you please wake up and try not to get me killed. (And yes I do understand the irony of this rant coming from a man who, not so long ago, slammed into a parked police car doing 80mph)
What is it about driving a motor vehicle that decreases one's humanity? I have had people intentionally draft me, ride my ass, honk their horns, and intentionally / unintentionally run me off the road many times. Really!? Where else am I supposed to ride? and since when did you become the most important person on the planet? Surprisingly I have even been drafted by a motorcycle. His leather bound impatient ass zoomed by me so close I could have yanked his arrogant face right off his bike. Naturally I didn't, but only because Mr. Miyagi has not yet taught me how to snatch flies out of the air. Soon enough fucker, soon enough... chopsticks to the neck!
So in closing if you are behind the wheel I ask that you please wake up and try not to get me killed. (And yes I do understand the irony of this rant coming from a man who, not so long ago, slammed into a parked police car doing 80mph)
I am a four.
According to the Enneagram that is. I previously thought I was a five. I took an Enneagram test back when I was in college. My sister said I was a five and the test agreed. However, it seems, they were both wrong. I see now how they were so easily mislead. The five is the investigator, the lover of wisdom. At the time I was a philosophy/religious studies major. Even I myself thought I was a lover of wisdom and held knowledge to be of the most high. However, towards the end of my college career I realized the truth of what they had told me in phil 101. Nobody really knows anything ie. All that I know is that I do not know (Socrates). At that point my focus shifted. Wisdom lost all value to me and music became my greatest passion. The reason for this is simple. There was no magic left in wisdom. I remember reading about the five and thinking, yeah some of that fits but how boring. I remember being a bit disappointed. I really wanted to be more special than that... Ding! I also didn't read about the other types, which seems a bit unusual for the "investigator" ... Ding! Had I read about all the types as I know have it would have been clear that I am really a four. Possibly a Four with a Five-Wing, I dunno.
Elliot Smith
A good friend turned me on to Elliot Smith yesterday. I love it when that happens. In passing someone mentions something that changes my world. Elliot was amazing. He has quickly reached the top of my favorites. As I listen to these recordings I realize he is the reason I loved Good Will Hunting. While an exceptional movie in it's own right it's his voice that has always brought me to tears while watching it. I don't know how this guy slipped under my radar. His music makes my heart feel as if it's too big for my chest. A soggy bulging mess filled with everything I love, regret, and miss about life. Beautiful. I can only hope to be so beautiful.
Chick Flick Goes 4th Stepping
Friends with Benefits. I expected a rather mindless lustful escapade hardly worth watching. However, Mila Kunis is a culinary masterpiece the likes of which God hasn't cooked up since... I don't really know how to end that metaphor but you get the picture. I find her quite dreamy. Anyway, the movie actually turned out to be pretty good. That is if you like those sappy fairytale, posing as a non-fairytale, romantic chick flicks, which I do... Oops... Forget I said that... Gotta keep up the tough guy facade ya know...
**the paragraph above is all I intended to write when I began this post about 3 hours ago. What follows was completely unexpected and may seem rather odd given the initial context but this was my train of thought.**
There was a time when my brain actually worked that way, when I was imminently concerned with a facade. Although I didn't know it at the time, all my thoughts, actions, and feelings were filtered through a screen of protection. My brain was wired for self-preservation as if I grew up in some wild environment where, at any moment, someone could unsuspectingly attack you for little to no reason...
Oh yeah... that's right... I did.
From the looks of it one wouldn't think I came from such a landscape. I mean it's not like I was born in the Gaza Strip, or Antarctica , or Somalia, or Detroit. True we were poor but it's not like we grew up in a "dangerous" neighborhood. I was free to ride my bike, and run around without much fear. And rarely was I picked on. Hell I even made it through freshman hell week without so much as a dirty look, while other kids were being kicked, punched, slapped, and duct taped naked to light poles.
But that was the outside world. That place wasn't real. Those people weren't permanent and few of them had keys to any locking doors. It was easy to elude them. Shit, by the time I entered preschool I was already a hardened vet. I knew how to duck and dodge, dawn chameleon camouflage, and most of all, anticipate a blow. For me the real danger was home.
It was a world where common events like weekend daddy teaching his kid to tie his shoes, could begin with bunny ears and end with s child smashing into the foot of the couch after being violently hurled from the excruciating grip of a screaming madman; a world where terms like pussy, momma's boy, and little bitch were synonymous with son; a world where there was no Post in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and any symptoms were not only overlooked but served as an excuse to attack. My favorite of which were the nervous ticks that ranged from compulsive blinking and eye scrunching to a brutal involuntary head jerk that lasted for months. There's nothing like being called a fucking freak by the person who painted your face and cast you in the sideshow.
He was the big bad wolf. A wolf I loved dearly. A wolf I could never escape.
So, it's clear how I developed my faulty facade. It took a few years to build but has taken decades to tear down. I am assured now that I am not tough, I really never was, and I don't really care to be. I was born delicate, soft as pedals, and I like that about me. I rescue spiders from the drain; and I'd rather die than cause pain; I love love; I hate guns; I like crying; and I dig sappy chick flicks... I even think some guys are pretty despite their dicks. Yup, I am far from tough. The rest, like I said was camouflage.
In they come. Memories on flood... Sadly, many have paid the price for my disguise...
He called shotgun. Clearly he did. I heard it, he knew I heard it, and everyone else heard it too. He was a good friend, a friend that to this day I claim to love. I took the seat anyway. Fuck you I said, it's mine. He was being punked. I knew it, he knew it, and everyone else knew it too. It wasn't much of a gamble. This kid was pretty much the local whipping post. Don't get me wrong, we all loved him but he was an easy target just the same. The way I figured it, he'd object, I'd say "shut the fuck up," and that would be the end of it. Nope.
Before I could even get a cozy cheek he grabbed my head with both hands and tried to slam it into the door frame. A valiant effort indeed, but my years of anticipating blows paid off, and I shucked him before any damage was done. I clearly remember the initial surge of emotion. It wasn't anger or rage, it was pride and envy. The lamb had mustered the strength to bark back at the lion. I admired that. I wanted to pat him on the back for a job well done, brush the seat off and with a regal bow beckon him to take his much deserved throne. I did no such thing.
I desperately wish I had.
Immediately following pride was a calm, cool, calculated ruthlessness. I remember it clear as day. In an instant I assessed the situation, took account of everyone who was watching and decided: I have to make an example out of him. With that I picked him up, drove him back a few yards, slammed him to the hard concrete. Then I yelled something cliche and intimidating like "Don't even fuck with me man, I'll fucking end you." I had heard words like that before and they seemed fitting at the moment. I remember consciously wanting to appear out of control. I wanted to appear violent and scary. What wasn't apparent was that I controlled my throw to assure no serious harm was done; I didn't want him landing on his head, or breaking an arm. I knew the control would be masked by the high rate of speed and feigned rage with which I took him down. I'm certain the desired effect was made and for good measure I held him there for a moment letting everyone think something really fucked up was about to go down. I remember seeing the terror in his eyes. I got up slowly... allowing him to think it was over... then... as soon as he raised his head... I promptly stepped on his face and pushed him back down.
Pretty fucked up huh? I don't know which is worse, what I did, or the fact that I did on purpose, knowing how horrible it was. I recall apologizing as soon as we got back in the car (and away from any onlookers). I never really wanted to hurt him. It was all about appearances. But despite my attempts I did harm him. In fact, I terrorized him. To this day he walks around with that lodged in his gut. It sits on top of, or buried in between, the numerous other remnants of the violations he's suffered.
A Decade later, as we passed the singed foil back and forth, reminiscing about old times, quietly seeking the unintended death, we talked about that day. I apologized again, but I could see the pain was still there. I opened a wound I can never mend.
I was the big bad wolf. A wolf he loved dearly. A wolf he could never escape.
**the paragraph above is all I intended to write when I began this post about 3 hours ago. What follows was completely unexpected and may seem rather odd given the initial context but this was my train of thought.**
There was a time when my brain actually worked that way, when I was imminently concerned with a facade. Although I didn't know it at the time, all my thoughts, actions, and feelings were filtered through a screen of protection. My brain was wired for self-preservation as if I grew up in some wild environment where, at any moment, someone could unsuspectingly attack you for little to no reason...
Oh yeah... that's right... I did.
From the looks of it one wouldn't think I came from such a landscape. I mean it's not like I was born in the Gaza Strip, or Antarctica , or Somalia, or Detroit. True we were poor but it's not like we grew up in a "dangerous" neighborhood. I was free to ride my bike, and run around without much fear. And rarely was I picked on. Hell I even made it through freshman hell week without so much as a dirty look, while other kids were being kicked, punched, slapped, and duct taped naked to light poles.
But that was the outside world. That place wasn't real. Those people weren't permanent and few of them had keys to any locking doors. It was easy to elude them. Shit, by the time I entered preschool I was already a hardened vet. I knew how to duck and dodge, dawn chameleon camouflage, and most of all, anticipate a blow. For me the real danger was home.
It was a world where common events like weekend daddy teaching his kid to tie his shoes, could begin with bunny ears and end with s child smashing into the foot of the couch after being violently hurled from the excruciating grip of a screaming madman; a world where terms like pussy, momma's boy, and little bitch were synonymous with son; a world where there was no Post in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and any symptoms were not only overlooked but served as an excuse to attack. My favorite of which were the nervous ticks that ranged from compulsive blinking and eye scrunching to a brutal involuntary head jerk that lasted for months. There's nothing like being called a fucking freak by the person who painted your face and cast you in the sideshow.
He was the big bad wolf. A wolf I loved dearly. A wolf I could never escape.
So, it's clear how I developed my faulty facade. It took a few years to build but has taken decades to tear down. I am assured now that I am not tough, I really never was, and I don't really care to be. I was born delicate, soft as pedals, and I like that about me. I rescue spiders from the drain; and I'd rather die than cause pain; I love love; I hate guns; I like crying; and I dig sappy chick flicks... I even think some guys are pretty despite their dicks. Yup, I am far from tough. The rest, like I said was camouflage.
In they come. Memories on flood... Sadly, many have paid the price for my disguise...
He called shotgun. Clearly he did. I heard it, he knew I heard it, and everyone else heard it too. He was a good friend, a friend that to this day I claim to love. I took the seat anyway. Fuck you I said, it's mine. He was being punked. I knew it, he knew it, and everyone else knew it too. It wasn't much of a gamble. This kid was pretty much the local whipping post. Don't get me wrong, we all loved him but he was an easy target just the same. The way I figured it, he'd object, I'd say "shut the fuck up," and that would be the end of it. Nope.
Before I could even get a cozy cheek he grabbed my head with both hands and tried to slam it into the door frame. A valiant effort indeed, but my years of anticipating blows paid off, and I shucked him before any damage was done. I clearly remember the initial surge of emotion. It wasn't anger or rage, it was pride and envy. The lamb had mustered the strength to bark back at the lion. I admired that. I wanted to pat him on the back for a job well done, brush the seat off and with a regal bow beckon him to take his much deserved throne. I did no such thing.
I desperately wish I had.
Immediately following pride was a calm, cool, calculated ruthlessness. I remember it clear as day. In an instant I assessed the situation, took account of everyone who was watching and decided: I have to make an example out of him. With that I picked him up, drove him back a few yards, slammed him to the hard concrete. Then I yelled something cliche and intimidating like "Don't even fuck with me man, I'll fucking end you." I had heard words like that before and they seemed fitting at the moment. I remember consciously wanting to appear out of control. I wanted to appear violent and scary. What wasn't apparent was that I controlled my throw to assure no serious harm was done; I didn't want him landing on his head, or breaking an arm. I knew the control would be masked by the high rate of speed and feigned rage with which I took him down. I'm certain the desired effect was made and for good measure I held him there for a moment letting everyone think something really fucked up was about to go down. I remember seeing the terror in his eyes. I got up slowly... allowing him to think it was over... then... as soon as he raised his head... I promptly stepped on his face and pushed him back down.
Pretty fucked up huh? I don't know which is worse, what I did, or the fact that I did on purpose, knowing how horrible it was. I recall apologizing as soon as we got back in the car (and away from any onlookers). I never really wanted to hurt him. It was all about appearances. But despite my attempts I did harm him. In fact, I terrorized him. To this day he walks around with that lodged in his gut. It sits on top of, or buried in between, the numerous other remnants of the violations he's suffered.
A Decade later, as we passed the singed foil back and forth, reminiscing about old times, quietly seeking the unintended death, we talked about that day. I apologized again, but I could see the pain was still there. I opened a wound I can never mend.
I was the big bad wolf. A wolf he loved dearly. A wolf he could never escape.
True Democracy
In a true democracy we, the people, would be Big Brother. The white house would be wire tapped with cameras in every hall. The feeds would be live and online. No action unseen. No decision unheard. The public office would be made public again.
826 days layer
Today I am eligible to get my drivers license back... You'd think that would be something to rejoice over. You'd think I'd be at the DMV right now but I'm not. In all honesty I don't want a car or any of the burdens that go along with having one. I like not being heavily dependent on oil. I like not adding to the destruction of our planet and it's inhabitants (by the way SUVs with Meat is Murder bumper stickers are freaking hilarious). I like not being subject to the insurance racket. I like that I can work less and live more without all the expenses that go into having a car. And most of all I like the lack of power. I mean, it is pretty hard to accidentally kill someone with a bicycle.
I have been the cause of numerous accidents. I can remember three major ones at the moment. The first one I pulled out in front of a mom with her three kids in the back seat. Graciously, everyone was okay. The next time, I hit an old man on a bicycle. He shattered his arm in the fall. The third one, I hit a parked police car at 80 mph. The car had two people handcuffed in the back and a police officer standing nearby. Graciously nobody died but people were hurt. I can imagine only one thing worse than laying in a jail cell wondering if you killed someone... laying in that cell knowing you did.
So yeah, I can't say I'm all that keyed up about getting behind a wheel again.
In my imaginary list of pros and cons the cons are a massive bunch. They are scrambling just to stay on the page. The letters are squeezing ever closer together as sentences run up the side desperately trying to get the last word in. The entries are so numerous that the alpha cons, vying for a top spot, are squeezing in above and crossing out lesser cons while the bitch cons, loosing all viable real estate, are flailing off the page and splatting on the floor by my chair. The pros, on the other hand, have but one soldier. One measly little word. Six minuscule letters conspicuously sprawled out across multiple lines, spanning the entire width of the left side, hopping to appear more significant. Sounds pretty cut and dry, right? The gavel sounds and the cons have it!
Wait. What was that word again... People. Ah, Fuck. I thought this was going to be easy. There is absolutely no visual comparison between the two. Damn you conceptual significance! People. Not an easy factor to ignore. It can be said that people are the only reason for living at all. Actually, I have said that. Connection is the whole point. It is the only justified purpose I can see for existence.
My lack of transportation has greatly hindered my ability to connect. By nature, I am already a bit of a hermit (the way Bill Gates is a "tad bit" rich) and my inability to easily go where people are only intensifies my isolation.
I can't drop by my sisters house and visit with my beautiful nieces and nephew or stop by my mom's for one of those long conversations we used to have. I see my family when there is an event or when they are running errands and happen to be near by.
As for my friends, that's even worse. I have always been horrible at initiating and it's far worse when I know I will have to ask them to pick me up. It feels like calling someone up and offering them a chore. "Hey wanna hang out? All you have to do is pick me up and drive me home. It's no big deal just an extra hour or two out of your day." Yuk. Needless to say I never make that call.
And girls? Shit, forget about it. Do you know how hard it is to make out in the back seat of a bicycle? Nearly impossible :) I have not so much as approached a girl in over two years. Initially that was by choice as my sobriety was the priority. But now it's simple low self esteem. I have never been a flashy guy, nor have I ever wanted a girl who fell for fancy cars and such but who falls for a guy with NO car. I mean, who the hell wants to be a taxi for my ass. Let's face it I am not pretty enough to pull dates on a bicycle. "Na, it'll be cool. You can ride on my handle bars." That didn't even work when I was 12.
And my music. I don't want to even talk about that. Even when I do manage to wade past all my other issues preventing me from booking a gig transportation always delivers the kills shot. As I Barry Sanders past my lack of confidence and Chuck Norris through my fear of rejection the question "but how will I get there?" slips into my cranium ninja style and... Initiate destruct sequence... Dreams dying in 5 4 3 2...click. TV on Brain off.
So it seems the scales are more balanced than I initially thought. Unfortunately, balanced scales are the death of the Libra. I guess I have to wait for fucking sign. I hate that.
I have been the cause of numerous accidents. I can remember three major ones at the moment. The first one I pulled out in front of a mom with her three kids in the back seat. Graciously, everyone was okay. The next time, I hit an old man on a bicycle. He shattered his arm in the fall. The third one, I hit a parked police car at 80 mph. The car had two people handcuffed in the back and a police officer standing nearby. Graciously nobody died but people were hurt. I can imagine only one thing worse than laying in a jail cell wondering if you killed someone... laying in that cell knowing you did.
So yeah, I can't say I'm all that keyed up about getting behind a wheel again.
In my imaginary list of pros and cons the cons are a massive bunch. They are scrambling just to stay on the page. The letters are squeezing ever closer together as sentences run up the side desperately trying to get the last word in. The entries are so numerous that the alpha cons, vying for a top spot, are squeezing in above and crossing out lesser cons while the bitch cons, loosing all viable real estate, are flailing off the page and splatting on the floor by my chair. The pros, on the other hand, have but one soldier. One measly little word. Six minuscule letters conspicuously sprawled out across multiple lines, spanning the entire width of the left side, hopping to appear more significant. Sounds pretty cut and dry, right? The gavel sounds and the cons have it!
Wait. What was that word again... People. Ah, Fuck. I thought this was going to be easy. There is absolutely no visual comparison between the two. Damn you conceptual significance! People. Not an easy factor to ignore. It can be said that people are the only reason for living at all. Actually, I have said that. Connection is the whole point. It is the only justified purpose I can see for existence.
My lack of transportation has greatly hindered my ability to connect. By nature, I am already a bit of a hermit (the way Bill Gates is a "tad bit" rich) and my inability to easily go where people are only intensifies my isolation.
I can't drop by my sisters house and visit with my beautiful nieces and nephew or stop by my mom's for one of those long conversations we used to have. I see my family when there is an event or when they are running errands and happen to be near by.
As for my friends, that's even worse. I have always been horrible at initiating and it's far worse when I know I will have to ask them to pick me up. It feels like calling someone up and offering them a chore. "Hey wanna hang out? All you have to do is pick me up and drive me home. It's no big deal just an extra hour or two out of your day." Yuk. Needless to say I never make that call.
And girls? Shit, forget about it. Do you know how hard it is to make out in the back seat of a bicycle? Nearly impossible :) I have not so much as approached a girl in over two years. Initially that was by choice as my sobriety was the priority. But now it's simple low self esteem. I have never been a flashy guy, nor have I ever wanted a girl who fell for fancy cars and such but who falls for a guy with NO car. I mean, who the hell wants to be a taxi for my ass. Let's face it I am not pretty enough to pull dates on a bicycle. "Na, it'll be cool. You can ride on my handle bars." That didn't even work when I was 12.
And my music. I don't want to even talk about that. Even when I do manage to wade past all my other issues preventing me from booking a gig transportation always delivers the kills shot. As I Barry Sanders past my lack of confidence and Chuck Norris through my fear of rejection the question "but how will I get there?" slips into my cranium ninja style and... Initiate destruct sequence... Dreams dying in 5 4 3 2...click. TV on Brain off.
So it seems the scales are more balanced than I initially thought. Unfortunately, balanced scales are the death of the Libra. I guess I have to wait for fucking sign. I hate that.
Everything There is to Know about God
In this post I will fully explicate and delineate every last bit of knowledge about God mankind has acquired over the course of all human history. I will incorporate the wealth of resources found in any and all religions as well as all scientific finding. Ready? Let's begin.
...
The end.
...
The end.
Jack Hammer
Satisfied with her meal she packed the cardboard and wrapping back into the bag and tossed it aside. There was a trash can two feet from her. A little MJ wrist action would have gotten it there. I sat appalled next to the trash can as I watched the wind drag her refuse into the street. She didn't even flinch, she barely noticed. Apparently this is where she keeps her trash. It struck me how different our perceptions were. I would never do such a thing. She thought nothing of it. I could hardly restrain the urge to pick it up, shoot her a disparaging glance, and slam her garbage in the receptacle next to her. Nevertheless I sat quietly and observed my reaction to the bag. A few moments later I watched a branch drift from the tree overhead to land in the street. It didn't bother me at all. I had no urge whatsoever to pick it up. Apparently I have not been socialized to be appalled by the things trees throw in the street, only humans. What's the difference really? Both come from trees, both are useless, both will degrade over time, and both lay motionless atop the concrete...
It was then the smile broke. Here I was upset about a silly bag when all around me, as far as the eye could see; the world was littered with concrete and tar! We human's are funny little creatures with our ideals, morals, causes, and low functioning pea brains.
A creation that functions at a mere 10% of its potential; any inventor worth his salt would deem this a failure and flush it down the toilet. I think god is slipping... unless that's what the rain means. This sphere is 90% water. There have been grand floods. Is it possible that earth is his porcelain throne; And we but dirty little floaters on their way down the cosmic sewer? Fairly tales claim this is his image. Logic suggests severe degradation, poor resolution. Then again who can trust 10%?
And yet this is my brain, topped out at 10% and every neuron miffed about this little bag. As if I really honor our great mother earth. As if I sit righteous in my teepee admonishing the white man. If I really cared about our mother I'd take a jack hammer to her breast and free her of these monstrosities. I'd chip away the caked on cosmetics. I'd peal the concrete layers from her face in hopes she may breathe again. But no, instead I just sit here.
A minute later our bus came puffing along and we both boarded, leaving the bag, the concrete, and our mother earth untouched.
It was then the smile broke. Here I was upset about a silly bag when all around me, as far as the eye could see; the world was littered with concrete and tar! We human's are funny little creatures with our ideals, morals, causes, and low functioning pea brains.
A creation that functions at a mere 10% of its potential; any inventor worth his salt would deem this a failure and flush it down the toilet. I think god is slipping... unless that's what the rain means. This sphere is 90% water. There have been grand floods. Is it possible that earth is his porcelain throne; And we but dirty little floaters on their way down the cosmic sewer? Fairly tales claim this is his image. Logic suggests severe degradation, poor resolution. Then again who can trust 10%?
And yet this is my brain, topped out at 10% and every neuron miffed about this little bag. As if I really honor our great mother earth. As if I sit righteous in my teepee admonishing the white man. If I really cared about our mother I'd take a jack hammer to her breast and free her of these monstrosities. I'd chip away the caked on cosmetics. I'd peal the concrete layers from her face in hopes she may breathe again. But no, instead I just sit here.
A minute later our bus came puffing along and we both boarded, leaving the bag, the concrete, and our mother earth untouched.
Ding!
It was one of those phone surveys. You know the type. "Hello this is so and so with such and such organization, we'd like to..." CLICK. Normally I just hang up there but I've been rather pissy today so I decided to play along. The speech was prefaced by stating that the call was regarding voting. I started off by saying that "I don't vote because it's all a crock of shit." Despite this, the lady decided it was still worth continuing, which I found rather delightful as I calculated precisely how many times I might get to answer e) none of the above; it's all a crock of shit! Anyway, the call was to judge the effectiveness of arguments for and against some new legislation. We went through a series of questions to which I had to rate how much the argument persuaded me. As a studied philosopher the premise sounded quite appealing to me. I love critiquing arguments. Unfortunately, out of 20 or so questions I failed to hear a single argument. An argument is "a coherent series of statements leading from a premise to a conclusion." Arguments follow a logical progression from facts or at least assumed facts to conclusion. Yet, every single question contained a mere statement of opinion. No premise, no supporting facts, no progression, no therefore, nothing. I was baffled. You mean to tell me, there is a whole call center full of people, reading this script all day long, and not a single one of them actually knows the difference between an argument and an opinion? Not to mention the 20 or so college interns who pooled their drool boxes together to write this shit? Wow. Here is the kicker; the poll was to gauge my voting position on whether or not we should increase funding for higher education. Ding! That's the sound of me hitting myself in the head with a hammer. I figure its time I did something to catch up with the rest of the population.
Justice Served
Today I was sentenced. The experience was far from what I expected and strangely beautiful. The judge saw right through me as I hoped she would. She saw the truth, the struggle, the recovery and the fear. A wise a noble judge she was. With her head in her hands I watched her own struggle. She knew my dedication to recovery was real... she also knew it could all disappear in a moment. Such is the way of the addict. Nine months is a long time to remain sober but it is far from eternity. She voiced her concern that I had not hit bottom, a fear I myself struggle with. I know there is farther to fall. The question is will I have to. Have I awakened enough to never fall asleep again? Or is this a fleeting blink of lucidity in a continuum of slumber. Only time will tell. We both knew that. A cold hard reality pressed against the radiant hope of tomorrow. In the end she made her judgment. Her gavel sounded with more truth than I would have heard in its absence. She gave me sixty days of work release, more recovery classes, community service, and a years probation. She gave me more than I wanted, less than what I deserved, and exactly what I need. My recovery is strong but far from impenetrable. Sixty days will do me good. I must never forget the gravity of my situation. I was inches from murder, and a click from suicide. Someone could have died that night. That is what is at stake. Choose life or discover the reality of death. Today I choose life, tonight that means jail, and right now I am smiling.
Osi 3.0
Apparently I just turned 30. I hardly noticed. Had I not been awake I may have missed it entirely. No tingle, no twinkle vision, no sprouting wings, and no twilight beams. I did have a little itch between my toes. Maybe that was it...
Wow the republican response was absolute garbage.
I really expected more from that side. Basically they said they agree with everything the president wants to do except the public option. And what ideas did they present in it's stead... The only idea I heard was to open up health care across state lines. Did I miss something? Really? Is that it! Come on now. Health care is too expensive all across the nation how exactly is that going to help?? I can get bend over from across Kansas now instead of locally. Thanks dick. That little speech was truly pathetic.
The bottom line is I need health care. If you already have health care you can keep it and you won't be taxed for my health care. So what the fuck is the problem?
I have back spasms that from time to time completely immobilize me and put me in agonizing pain for days. They also constrict the disks in my lower back and pinch my nerves. The last event has left me with only 25% of the feeling in my right leg from the knee down. And what can I do about it? Hobble like jackass. Grab a crutch. Trip on my foot and fall on my face. Pretend I can feel my foot and hope I don't end up walking on my ankles.
If you have health care you can kindly shut the fuck up.
I am thoroughly disgusted. After all this uproar I really expected a better response from the republican side. But no, it's all propaganda and falsehood. If you have health care and you don't have answers to my problem then please spare me your ignorance, and shove your arrogance where the sun dies. I am a hard working American who makes a good wage and I can't afford a doctor. What the fuck is that?
So much for freedom. So much for liberty. So much for happiness. Where is our liberty when we are dead. Where is our freedom when we can no longer walk. Were is the pursuit of happiness when we are in chronic pain.
I turned it to Fox immediately after the presidents speech, just in time to hear the anchor completely misquoting the speech to say that the public option will be funded by almost entirely by medicaid and medicare. WTF. Obama said exactly the opposite. To everyone at Fox, I beg you, kindly... swallow the barrel and pull the trigger. Thanks.
Fuck you, fuck the government, and fuck the profiteers. And thank you Barack for at least the illusion that you are trying. Godspeed. Goodnight.
***This rant was brought to you by johnnyosi paid for by the lack of felling is his toes***
The bottom line is I need health care. If you already have health care you can keep it and you won't be taxed for my health care. So what the fuck is the problem?
I have back spasms that from time to time completely immobilize me and put me in agonizing pain for days. They also constrict the disks in my lower back and pinch my nerves. The last event has left me with only 25% of the feeling in my right leg from the knee down. And what can I do about it? Hobble like jackass. Grab a crutch. Trip on my foot and fall on my face. Pretend I can feel my foot and hope I don't end up walking on my ankles.
If you have health care you can kindly shut the fuck up.
I am thoroughly disgusted. After all this uproar I really expected a better response from the republican side. But no, it's all propaganda and falsehood. If you have health care and you don't have answers to my problem then please spare me your ignorance, and shove your arrogance where the sun dies. I am a hard working American who makes a good wage and I can't afford a doctor. What the fuck is that?
So much for freedom. So much for liberty. So much for happiness. Where is our liberty when we are dead. Where is our freedom when we can no longer walk. Were is the pursuit of happiness when we are in chronic pain.
I turned it to Fox immediately after the presidents speech, just in time to hear the anchor completely misquoting the speech to say that the public option will be funded by almost entirely by medicaid and medicare. WTF. Obama said exactly the opposite. To everyone at Fox, I beg you, kindly... swallow the barrel and pull the trigger. Thanks.
Fuck you, fuck the government, and fuck the profiteers. And thank you Barack for at least the illusion that you are trying. Godspeed. Goodnight.
***This rant was brought to you by johnnyosi paid for by the lack of felling is his toes***
The demon gets the finger and a smile.
For the past five days or so I have been dealing with a pinched nerve. Today has been the worst yet. The pain is horrendous and I am loosing feeling in my foot and leg. It kinda feels like I'm sticking my big toe in a light socket over and over again. So, reluctantly, I went to see the doctor. He confirmed my diagnosis and said I may have nerve damage. He won't be able to tell that until I get the inflammation down. I've been through this before. Now comes the moment I was waiting for, the prescription. Every addict knows an MD like this. It's standard procedure, item number one of the junkie cookbook. Find a guileless or idiotic doctor and milk them every chance you get. This guys doles out meds like he's Willie Wanka. And there I was standing in his office. The prescription is three fold. Two meds to reduce inflammation and swelling; I can't ever remember their names because they don't even register on the junkie meter; and the wonderful narcotic Vicoden for the pain. My response... "I am an addict and I am in recovery." He didn't seem to understand the relevance of this. He even tried to say Vicoden isn't addictive! Hmm... yeeeea and sex only feels good when you're in love. Whatever. Clearly he didn't get it. This guy might as well be standing on the corner whispering as you walk by. I could have faltered. It is okay to take pain meds when necessary. But in the heat of the moment, despite the beast inside me writhing his greedy little hands, I refused. The demon got the finger and a smile.
As for the possible nerve damage, that will take another visit to ascertain. First I have to get the inflammation down. I am not worried though. I don't believe in permanent anything. I don't even really believe in a physical world per say. It's all an illusion, a game of earth consciousness. I will learn what I need and the problem will disappear. Que Sera Sera.
As for the possible nerve damage, that will take another visit to ascertain. First I have to get the inflammation down. I am not worried though. I don't believe in permanent anything. I don't even really believe in a physical world per say. It's all an illusion, a game of earth consciousness. I will learn what I need and the problem will disappear. Que Sera Sera.
We loved you Michael...
We loved you Michael... and I am sorry for that.
I am saddened not by your death but by the idea of your life
...or at least the life I imagine while reading between the print
Always on stage, an icon at eleven
Ever surrounded by vultures and fainting adoration
An Outcast of the most peculiar kind
The human condition is appalling really
Always striving to be more, or at least look the part
Every now and then one is spawned who truly is something special
They sparkle in our eyes and send twitches to our feet
We parade them upon our shoulders for a time
Plaster their image on our chests
Mimic their every move and collect replicas of their garb
Professing our undying love and devotion
Then... We tear the limbs off whole
Remove hair by the handful
Cleave the tender heart in greedy little bites
And fight over the scraps until there is nothing left to devour
Then, chests heaving, we circle our smug faces around the bloody mess
and mock the remnants
As your skin lightened and your nose thinned
We sharpened our claws
As if this mess wasnt our bidding
Our savior, Our demon
Truly our Marilyn, our Manson
The lonely king... You paid such a high price
I hear there were scuff marks everywhere you stood...
I hope you still felt the magic then
Dancing in the bathroom, no one looking
I hope there were moments of purity then
Moments of beauty, moments of peace
You are free now
Free to be grand or simply ordinary
Free to be the child we never let you be
Free of that pesky aging body
Back into the fold child, the burden is lifted.
The world will miss you
Sadly, I think we missed you when you were here.
I am saddened not by your death but by the idea of your life
...or at least the life I imagine while reading between the print
Always on stage, an icon at eleven
Ever surrounded by vultures and fainting adoration
An Outcast of the most peculiar kind
The human condition is appalling really
Always striving to be more, or at least look the part
Every now and then one is spawned who truly is something special
They sparkle in our eyes and send twitches to our feet
We parade them upon our shoulders for a time
Plaster their image on our chests
Mimic their every move and collect replicas of their garb
Professing our undying love and devotion
Then... We tear the limbs off whole
Remove hair by the handful
Cleave the tender heart in greedy little bites
And fight over the scraps until there is nothing left to devour
Then, chests heaving, we circle our smug faces around the bloody mess
and mock the remnants
As your skin lightened and your nose thinned
We sharpened our claws
As if this mess wasnt our bidding
Our savior, Our demon
Truly our Marilyn, our Manson
The lonely king... You paid such a high price
I hear there were scuff marks everywhere you stood...
I hope you still felt the magic then
Dancing in the bathroom, no one looking
I hope there were moments of purity then
Moments of beauty, moments of peace
You are free now
Free to be grand or simply ordinary
Free to be the child we never let you be
Free of that pesky aging body
Back into the fold child, the burden is lifted.
The world will miss you
Sadly, I think we missed you when you were here.
Thank You
To everyone who came out tonight, and on previous nights to support my art, Thank You. It truly is an honor to look into a crowd and see so many beautiful people. I love you all dearly and I am grateful to have so many precious connections. What a privilege it is to be allowed to lay myself to bare in the safety of such a wonderful family. It means the world to me, tonight especially. I'm afraid I could never repay the experience in kind.
The rebirth is complete. The dream lives on and the demon chokes on his tongue. Silly demons.
I am me again... or perhaps for the first time. 10 years ago I decided to live clean and sober. In trade, I promised myself I would find the same beauty I once saw from atop altered mind states. Tonight I made good on the promise. Tonight I caught a glimpse. I could taste it bubbling up as I spilled onto the stage. And in the moments after, I saw it in each of you. I felt it in every handshake and every hug. It lies in the awkward moments between words. It creeps behind the nervousness and drifts between spirits when we aren't looking. There is magic in us yet. Santa Clause is dead and the Easter Bunny never laid a fruitful egg but mystery still exists today.
Thanks to all of you for giving me this experience. May I never forget it...
The rebirth is complete. The dream lives on and the demon chokes on his tongue. Silly demons.
I am me again... or perhaps for the first time. 10 years ago I decided to live clean and sober. In trade, I promised myself I would find the same beauty I once saw from atop altered mind states. Tonight I made good on the promise. Tonight I caught a glimpse. I could taste it bubbling up as I spilled onto the stage. And in the moments after, I saw it in each of you. I felt it in every handshake and every hug. It lies in the awkward moments between words. It creeps behind the nervousness and drifts between spirits when we aren't looking. There is magic in us yet. Santa Clause is dead and the Easter Bunny never laid a fruitful egg but mystery still exists today.
Thanks to all of you for giving me this experience. May I never forget it...
May 28th @ Herman's Hideaway
Four months later JohnnyOsi returns to the stage. Much has happened since the fateful night of January 28th. My entire world flipped was on it's head and shaken for loose change. Left in the dust were many illusions, artifacts, and twisted neurons. Music was not amongst the rubble. This dream won't die that easily. Despite everything music is my life, and performing is my passion. I will need all the support I can get though. My goal is to pour myself out beneath the lights without pouring anything back in. In another month I may be spitting lyrics to a crowd of steel bars and concrete walls. So come one, come all, this may be the last time I see any of you in a while.
Thanks for your support, JohnnyOsi
Thanks for your support, JohnnyOsi
What does it mean to be an alcoholic?
What is an alcoholic? You don’t have to sleep under a bridge to earn the title. You don’t even have to drink everyday. The deciding factor is this: Do you drink when you don’t want to? Put simply, one drink is never enough. Should I choose to drink there is a good chance I will continue until I pass out or smash into a police cruiser; whichever comes first. Last time it was the latter. What a difference a day makes huh? One day, one beautiful catastrophe.
Everyday I see the sick and dying. The other day I watched a young woman go into seizures at the local detox as I sat patiently awaiting my futile breathalyzer. I’ve got months of solid zeros, this lady can’t keep from killing herself, and I can’t help but remember. I know exactly how she feels. It would have been a bottle that got me too. One filled with liquor… or pills… or one broken into shards and dragged across a life line. Instead I’ve been given the gift of sanity.
So many are still battling this demon. The beast that surfaces from thin air, grabs hold, and shakes the sense out of you. Even those with long term sobriety still speak of this demon and recent battles. I have yet to do battle, this time I am different. My demon was buried, along side my depression, anxiety, and mood swings. I am at peace.
So what is so different? I have but one answer… Sugar. I abstain from forms of sugar. I know it sounds ridiculous; how can a harmless thing like sugar be the cause of all this madness. How can sugar propagate life threatening addictions, severe depression, mood swings, and anxiety? We all eat sugar everyday!
Everyday I see the sick and dying. The other day I watched a young woman go into seizures at the local detox as I sat patiently awaiting my futile breathalyzer. I’ve got months of solid zeros, this lady can’t keep from killing herself, and I can’t help but remember. I know exactly how she feels. It would have been a bottle that got me too. One filled with liquor… or pills… or one broken into shards and dragged across a life line. Instead I’ve been given the gift of sanity.
So many are still battling this demon. The beast that surfaces from thin air, grabs hold, and shakes the sense out of you. Even those with long term sobriety still speak of this demon and recent battles. I have yet to do battle, this time I am different. My demon was buried, along side my depression, anxiety, and mood swings. I am at peace.
So what is so different? I have but one answer… Sugar. I abstain from forms of sugar. I know it sounds ridiculous; how can a harmless thing like sugar be the cause of all this madness. How can sugar propagate life threatening addictions, severe depression, mood swings, and anxiety? We all eat sugar everyday!
90 Days
Today I celebrate a birth. As it is with all newborns, every month is special. Today is three months since the fateful day I woke up in the hospital. It is amazing what can change in such a short time and utterly baffling what we can allow to persist indefinitely. I am nothing close to who I was 90 days ago. The residual stain wears away with each passing day. A year ago I started humming a tune to myself. That tune developed into a song. That song, a prayer. That prayer, a reality.
"I don't know who I am at all
I've been everyone but me
and no I'm so, so lost
Well come on God and give me a sign
I don't know where I'm going
I have never believed in you
and I think that now it's showing
Cause I'm so low
I may never rise
I've been living this long
But never been alive
Well that is how I've felt for years
and now I'm near the end
Death is coming one way or the other,
and I hope
when it comes
I'll breathe once again
I'll breathe once again"
While struggling through each day, trying not to kill myself, I made my call to God. She appeared not to care. I didn't expect her to. Little did I know I had set into action a chain of events that would change my life drastically. The events of January 28th were far from graceful... yet full of grace. The absolute best and the worst of me, encapsulated in a single day. God and Devil painted on either cheek.
I once wrote "I am left here, a slave with no chains." A decade enslaved to whirling mind, devastating moods, crippling panic and fantasies of razor blades. Ironically it took real chains to free me. 12 hours chained to a hospital bed, heavily sedated, drifting in and out of consciousness, waking evey few minutes to find it wasn't a dream. The nightmare was real. Am I now a murderer? Am I now the villain to be cursed in eulogy? What happened to the sensitive boy I once was? In the fire, my distortions melted into nonsense and the boy was reborn.
L.I.P. JohnnyOsi
Died January 28th 2009
Born January 29th 2009
The beast I battled, fatally wounded, short of breath, huddles in the shadows licking his wounds with severed tongue. He won't be rising today. Instead it is I who stands tall. I am Osi, the dying and rising, and I breathe once again.
90 days
"I don't know who I am at all
I've been everyone but me
and no I'm so, so lost
Well come on God and give me a sign
I don't know where I'm going
I have never believed in you
and I think that now it's showing
Cause I'm so low
I may never rise
I've been living this long
But never been alive
Well that is how I've felt for years
and now I'm near the end
Death is coming one way or the other,
and I hope
when it comes
I'll breathe once again
I'll breathe once again"
While struggling through each day, trying not to kill myself, I made my call to God. She appeared not to care. I didn't expect her to. Little did I know I had set into action a chain of events that would change my life drastically. The events of January 28th were far from graceful... yet full of grace. The absolute best and the worst of me, encapsulated in a single day. God and Devil painted on either cheek.
I once wrote "I am left here, a slave with no chains." A decade enslaved to whirling mind, devastating moods, crippling panic and fantasies of razor blades. Ironically it took real chains to free me. 12 hours chained to a hospital bed, heavily sedated, drifting in and out of consciousness, waking evey few minutes to find it wasn't a dream. The nightmare was real. Am I now a murderer? Am I now the villain to be cursed in eulogy? What happened to the sensitive boy I once was? In the fire, my distortions melted into nonsense and the boy was reborn.
L.I.P. JohnnyOsi
Died January 28th 2009
Born January 29th 2009
The beast I battled, fatally wounded, short of breath, huddles in the shadows licking his wounds with severed tongue. He won't be rising today. Instead it is I who stands tall. I am Osi, the dying and rising, and I breathe once again.
90 days
Sometimes God bares teeth
I have had substance abuse issues since I was a teenager. For years I have battled with my addict mind. And in a flash, my faulty perceptions melted into a pool of nonsense. Being chained to a hospital bed for 12 hours not knowing if you killed someone will do that to a person. I am a good man and I can't let a little thing like alcohol take that away from me. I got lucky and I need to do everything in my power to assure I never put people at risk again.
I have been fooling myself for years. Comparing myself to addicts worse off. I am not a daily user, not even weekly. I don't "need" to use in a physical sense. But does that really matter? All it takes is one night, one false move, one good intention gone awry. I could have killed someone that night.
I am scared. Partially because of the possible jail time. But if that is my penance I will accept it. Mostly I am scared of the future, the long term. I know how my brain works. I know how easily I can convince myself that it is okay to use especially after a long stretch of sobriety. I have been there before. What will I tell myself in 6 months, a year, two years? I must never forget that night. I must never forget the consequences. The choice to use is literally one of life and death. I may get away with it for a week, a month, a year but eventually the road only has one destination... death... and worse than my own death, possibly the death of another.
There is no joy to be found in use, only suffering, I see that now. I have always "known" that but addicts have a funny way of twisting the truth. There can be no distortions now. I can not allow "rock bottom" to fall further than this. This is the moment of truth.
Stay clean or face the teeth again.
I choose clean
I have been fooling myself for years. Comparing myself to addicts worse off. I am not a daily user, not even weekly. I don't "need" to use in a physical sense. But does that really matter? All it takes is one night, one false move, one good intention gone awry. I could have killed someone that night.
I am scared. Partially because of the possible jail time. But if that is my penance I will accept it. Mostly I am scared of the future, the long term. I know how my brain works. I know how easily I can convince myself that it is okay to use especially after a long stretch of sobriety. I have been there before. What will I tell myself in 6 months, a year, two years? I must never forget that night. I must never forget the consequences. The choice to use is literally one of life and death. I may get away with it for a week, a month, a year but eventually the road only has one destination... death... and worse than my own death, possibly the death of another.
There is no joy to be found in use, only suffering, I see that now. I have always "known" that but addicts have a funny way of twisting the truth. There can be no distortions now. I can not allow "rock bottom" to fall further than this. This is the moment of truth.
Stay clean or face the teeth again.
I choose clean
Sobriety
I broke my sobriety last night. 55 days sober gone. Two lessons learned. One, I need to do something about my moods or lasting sobriety will be impossible. Two, I am no longer capable of moderate use of anything. After 55 days of absolute sobriety I drank myself into vomitus oblivion in a matter of roughly 4 hours. There is no brake, no clutch, and the hill always leads down. I have burned my gears. I have lost all ability to control or manage my use.
I relished that numbness though. A breath of heaven. A brief moment I felt okay again. For a second I felt normal. But that moment fades as quickly as my impending death grows on the horizon. I need another way. I need another answer. I need another escape route. Self medication is no longer a viable solution to this crashing state of mind, and I am too old to go out in a blaze of glory. At this age death by overdose is nothing more than sad and pathetic. So I begin again. Day number one. Hour number one. Breath number one.
I fear it is hopeless though. If addiction itself were the root cause of my troubles I would have no fear but the substances are not in and of themselves the problem. I am not an addict in the physical sense. My actions are conscious. My use is deliberate and my self destruction is intentional. I am not driven by chemical dependence. The ease at which I achieved 55 days seems to prove that. Getting clean has never been hard for me. Staying that way however is another beast.
I am clearly driven by a dire need to escape. With full self awareness I choose oblivion over my functioning state of mind. My walking state of being is a festering sore I can never seem to soothe. I haven't felt okay without the help of drugs since I was a child. How strange is that? While sitting in the eye of the storm I felt the most calm. Somehow I held it together then. Somehow I found joy then. With a knife at my mothers throat and the faceless man violating my dreams I still managed to breathe. But I was only a child. How could I have been so strong then and yet so weak now? That storm passed years ago and the further from it I get the greater the tremors become. I am falling apart. I can barely function.
I quit my job to peruse my dreams. At least that's what I tell people. I am an honest man but we can't help the lies we tell ourselves. The truth is I quit because I couldn't take it. I did my best to drop out of the world because I can no longer successfully be a part of it. Constant anxiety, relentless mood swings, and a thumping sense of dis-ease in the most benign situations keep me locked inside. I am not normal and I can no longer pretend to be so. I am a recluse, the sad man who hides in the shadows because his fairy tales are no longer luminous.
I have to find another way. The must be another way.
Day number one. Hour number one. Breath number one. I begin again.
I relished that numbness though. A breath of heaven. A brief moment I felt okay again. For a second I felt normal. But that moment fades as quickly as my impending death grows on the horizon. I need another way. I need another answer. I need another escape route. Self medication is no longer a viable solution to this crashing state of mind, and I am too old to go out in a blaze of glory. At this age death by overdose is nothing more than sad and pathetic. So I begin again. Day number one. Hour number one. Breath number one.
I fear it is hopeless though. If addiction itself were the root cause of my troubles I would have no fear but the substances are not in and of themselves the problem. I am not an addict in the physical sense. My actions are conscious. My use is deliberate and my self destruction is intentional. I am not driven by chemical dependence. The ease at which I achieved 55 days seems to prove that. Getting clean has never been hard for me. Staying that way however is another beast.
I am clearly driven by a dire need to escape. With full self awareness I choose oblivion over my functioning state of mind. My walking state of being is a festering sore I can never seem to soothe. I haven't felt okay without the help of drugs since I was a child. How strange is that? While sitting in the eye of the storm I felt the most calm. Somehow I held it together then. Somehow I found joy then. With a knife at my mothers throat and the faceless man violating my dreams I still managed to breathe. But I was only a child. How could I have been so strong then and yet so weak now? That storm passed years ago and the further from it I get the greater the tremors become. I am falling apart. I can barely function.
I quit my job to peruse my dreams. At least that's what I tell people. I am an honest man but we can't help the lies we tell ourselves. The truth is I quit because I couldn't take it. I did my best to drop out of the world because I can no longer successfully be a part of it. Constant anxiety, relentless mood swings, and a thumping sense of dis-ease in the most benign situations keep me locked inside. I am not normal and I can no longer pretend to be so. I am a recluse, the sad man who hides in the shadows because his fairy tales are no longer luminous.
I have to find another way. The must be another way.
Day number one. Hour number one. Breath number one. I begin again.
Peace and love was all that mattered.
I barely heard it over the voice coming through the phone. I immediately lost focus on what the nurse was saying. Creeping down the hall was the frail sound of my name coming from the barroom. I immediately hung up. When I opened the door I found my grandmother learning against the wall, white as a ghost, struggling to say my name again. She held on just long enough for me to slip behind her and wrap her up. Then she was out. Thank god for four years of wrestling. If I learned anything it's how to fall while in control of another body, particularly a body that out weighs me by 40lbs. I took her straight back, hoping to create enough space for us on the 4x4 square of linoleum. We landed in the seated position, grandma between my legs, still wrapped up tight with her back against my chest, my back against the wall. She was unconscious but unharmed. Quite cozy actually considering such a fall could have been deadly for a person in their 70s.
I held her tight and told her it was going to be okay. I knew one way or another there was going to be a sudden transition, either to this world or from it. A few seconds later she vomited up a pool of blood, and for a second I thought for sure it'd be the later. I was about to user my grandma to the next world. A strange feeling came over me in that moment. There was no sadness, no fear, no panic, only a longing to help, to soother her, to leach out every stitch of fear and to love her into the. Peace and love was all that mattered.
Thankfully, it was just my imagination running away with me. She came back to us in under a minute. First a few incoherent mumbles, then clear speech. I held her there until the ambulance came. It was the closest I'd ever been to my grandmother, and the calmest I think I've ever seen her. Part of me wished I could hold her like that forever. She has had a tough life, been through more than most of us ever will and few could ever comprehend. She deserves peace, she deserves calm, and the knowing that everything is okay. And my only thought today is how I wish I could give that to her.
So, the blood collected in her stomach was from a nose bleed she had had on and off for hours. This is also why she passed out. After a few minutes of an IV drip she looked right as rain. Turns out, she also has slight case of pneumonia so she will be in the hospital for a few more days but ultimately she is okay.
I still can't shake the feeling of that moment though. Cradling my grandmother with my whole body, covered in blood, telling her it was going to be okay. It was the most real, present, horrifyingly beautiful moment I think I've ever experienced.
I held her tight and told her it was going to be okay. I knew one way or another there was going to be a sudden transition, either to this world or from it. A few seconds later she vomited up a pool of blood, and for a second I thought for sure it'd be the later. I was about to user my grandma to the next world. A strange feeling came over me in that moment. There was no sadness, no fear, no panic, only a longing to help, to soother her, to leach out every stitch of fear and to love her into the. Peace and love was all that mattered.
Thankfully, it was just my imagination running away with me. She came back to us in under a minute. First a few incoherent mumbles, then clear speech. I held her there until the ambulance came. It was the closest I'd ever been to my grandmother, and the calmest I think I've ever seen her. Part of me wished I could hold her like that forever. She has had a tough life, been through more than most of us ever will and few could ever comprehend. She deserves peace, she deserves calm, and the knowing that everything is okay. And my only thought today is how I wish I could give that to her.
So, the blood collected in her stomach was from a nose bleed she had had on and off for hours. This is also why she passed out. After a few minutes of an IV drip she looked right as rain. Turns out, she also has slight case of pneumonia so she will be in the hospital for a few more days but ultimately she is okay.
I still can't shake the feeling of that moment though. Cradling my grandmother with my whole body, covered in blood, telling her it was going to be okay. It was the most real, present, horrifyingly beautiful moment I think I've ever experienced.