4/52: Show Me the Way

National borders are the corporate constructs of a failing enterprise
We pledge our fealty to the institutions that bargain lands and goods with human lives
Bombing missions and carbon emissions buy our admission to a flooded future
Empty divisions like nationalism paint dark, splattered visions like shredded sutures

Dear Internauts,

On Thursday, I went to the open mic held at Patterson Creations in Attleboro, MA which looks a little something like this:

While there I played a few songs and listened to some cool music, as well as got a chance to meet with Jermaine Patterson, the owner, who has developed the space with a goal toward promoting the arts and artists. He spoke of going to clubs and venues and making note of whatever he wished was there as a way to continually design this space into something better. He and the other musicians there were very encouraging, though it's obvious the place needs to be found by more people. They have plenty of different events going on, so please check it out.

To give you a sense of the time 'twas had, here are a few quick doodles I penned while trying to remember the words for the songs I might play:

 This past week, I also went to a job fair. It was small and crowded, and as with pretty much any job fair, made me feel like I was getting stitches with steel wool on the inside of my ribs.

I did have one interview, which turned into me planning a trip to the DMV tomorrow to take a test for a specific kind of driving certificate so that I can maybe become a temporary substitute van driver. 

Also, I saw the film Twentieth Century Women, written and directed by Mike Mills, which was absolutely charming. One of those rare dramas that allows its cast to fully inhabit imperfect characters, both addressing and disregarding expected roles and decisions. 

Still no word on insurance yet, but I was able to get some meds for a short while. The hope is that I'll be able to do all such adult things like get a job and insurance in order to pay for the meds that will enable me to be sane enough to do all such adult things. 

Honesty, I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but in some ways I think we could all benefit from a psychotic break. Having the chance to be stripped of all sense of self and normal emotional function is a good way to finally prioritize. We act like maturity is some kind of armor, but really the idea that one needs to constantly be wearing this heavy armor against the world or if one has it held on for them like a shield are both great ways to avoid growing up. Such confines stunt your growth. Thinking that whatever comes after me is okay because I have such and such a mantra about peace or faith or hope or the inherent goodness of humanity can be helpful. However, at some point, we all likely face a situation that is too much for our self-assurances. We're back into a wall and realize that no matter what we may believe about ourselves or the abstract "world" out there, sometimes what we face can never be made to be or even seem okay. 

My whole life, there have been adults looking down at me and telling me that whenever I face trouble in life, I just need to have more faith. I just need to pray more or study the bible more or give more of my money or time to some program. There's the solution. Or maybe I should work harder in school or

listen more to my superiors or my peers or to the vague, quite changeable idea of god. Nothing I could ever do or achieve would ever be enough to solve any problem I faced, while with every new problem the answer was always to do or achieve more and more and more and more and more.

When I've been most depressed, it wasn't trying to put on a brave face that lost me friends. People don't want real nearly as much as they say they do. I'd get messages from folks I thought had no issue with me just for them to tell me how much they hated how sad I always seemed. Only years later did a doctor finally tell me there was something medically wrong with me. For the longest time, I thought I simply wasn't displaying the joy of the lord strongly enough. And no matter how hard you work at it, even depression is gonna make it next to impossible to pretend at happiness.

I wanted to make the comparison to a physical illness. I could write something about how when you're sick in any other part of your body no one tells you how much they dislike how broken-legged you are all the time. Except, of course, that's not true is it? Not every building has wheelchair accessibility. Being chronically tired or in pain is very damaging to any kind of interpersonal relationships. It would be so much easier for everyone if we could only be sick on their time scale and in ways that they understood.

But we're not. We can't be. We won't ever be easy for others to understand. I don't get you the way you wish I did. Even the simplest things can get boggled up in my brain and spill out horribly if I can even get anything close to words out at all. Humanity is innately community-based both in our need for one another and our need to differentiate from one to another.

After taking the test tomorrow,  I'll be trying out another open mic. The key is to keep playing, to keep reminding myself that despite all the ways in which I don't fit in with the puzzle of human society, I can write and perform a few songs that might mean something to somebody. So I'll keep trying to be more me. How about you?

I know this week's post is a bit more scattered and short than many before. Trying to keep a regular schedule doesn't always mean I have anything much to say. Though I can touch on different topics of pop culture, politics, etc, I'm not sure how much my voice won't just be another bit of spitting in the wind. Feel free to let me know if there's ever anything you'd like me to touch on, contact me whenever at odistabettor@gmail.com; twitter.com/odistabettor; facebook.com/odistabettormusic; or through the comments below. As always, I'm just trying to figure my way from one moment to the next, still writing songs and stories, still looking for art and meaning. Still hoping there's notch in this rock I can use for a handhold. 

- Odist

#NoBanNoWall

3/52: Transcendental Weirdification

...something about frosted mini wheats being the most disappointing milk pouring experience of all breakfast cereals...

Dear Internauts,

Yes, I know, it's almost midnight. I almost didn't post and I'm only on week three. Now, I could sit here and go on about all my reasons/excuses, like how my mom came up to visit this weekend or I've been both exhausted and in a weird head space due to my meds still being out of wack or how the Pats are goin to the Super Bowl. I could do that...

In fact, I just did.

Three weeks into this new adventure and I'm still just about as lost. Gotta get these meds worked out, 'cause I can already feel the weirdo side-effects kickin' in from withdrawal. Pain and sleeplessness are one thing, but an imbalance in psychoactive pharmaceuticals can get weird. I mean, dream after dream after dream of waking up while not being able to actually wake up kinda weird. Get so tired from this cycle that the logical part of my brain fails to recognize the increasingly nonsensical nature of each new dream scheme kinda weird. Super grateful for a dream about defending mutant rights alongside the X-Men because at least that has a kind of cohesive internal logic to it kinda weird. Almost enjoy watching the AFC championship game despite never having much interest in professional sports or the ability to follow along with even the simplest of athletic proceedings kinda weird.

Switching topics now before the weird transcends the kinda.

In writing fiction, I think a lot about the roles that characters play as both representations of relatable humanity and symbolic packages of poetic truth. Recently, I've been considering the role of the antagonist, more specifically that of the VILLAIN. While many of my favorite non-heroes tend to have aspects about them which serve as grips for the intrepid story-climber, to humanize or anesthetize or synchronize, there is also something so fascinating about evil at its most vulgar, most absurd, most diabolical.

How do you create a character who is simultaneously complex and connecting while they also slaughter and mangle and assault and abuse and horrify in the creepiest, most nauseating ways? Can you portray evil in a way which is obviously evil as done by a character who isn't in their description and execution, far from the obvious? Can you make us fall in love with a villain without romanticizing the acts of their villainy?

Sure, there are layers and matters of meaning to be found in the way in which a work winds its wires through the wills of the willing audience to see and be that which they unwillingly may find entertaining. We enjoy the dark and the light in fantasy, partly, I think, because of the license of the unreal to help as process a more disciplined and constructed sense of self in relation to the other during our more real life. Surreality is intertextual.

But what of the license fiction can give to a perception of facts, such as in the case of encouraging stereotypical classifications of those with whom our most common interaction is fictitious?

While I've been privileged to grow up within a culture where those who fit many of the same basic categories of shallow classification as myself are presented with an extraordinarily broad palette of temperaments, moralities, occupations, abilities, and social requirements, only all too recently have I come to see how unusual this is. Growing up, I wanted to be a jedi (like luke, obi-wan, anakin etc...), a superhero (like batman, spider-man, angel, green arrow, cyclops, captain america, etc...), an adventure or warrior or scientist or athlete or artist or musician or actor etc...etc...etc...

I constantly saw a face like mine on the TV, at the movies, and on comics and novel covers. The leaders I was taught to look up to or respect were more often than not older versions of the kid I saw in the mirror every day. I've had so much experience with media painting white cis males like me as protagonist (or even just the most common character in a statistically misleading crowd scene), that I never had much reason to feel suspect of this narrative. It took some very patient people to explain to me the limitations of this perspective. It takes an introspective vigilance and a very purposeful, regular quest for empathy to continue to question what is presented to me as normal.

When someone expresses concern over their voice not being heard, it's not that hard for me to change the channel or keep scrolling or just accept that I don't get it, but just because I'm comfortable with the way the world works doesn't mean that the way the world works is working. If my first response to someone saying they've been hurt is to talk over them about how I'm not hurt or how at least I wasn't the one who hurt them, then all I'm doing is ignoring their pain to placate my own immature need for constant pampering.

For instance, human rights are, in a very general sense, inherent. Inalienable rights are yours as a person by nature of being a person. Far as I'm concerned, that's the only requirement. So if you are being denied any of those rights, the sympathetic perspective from me as your fellow human being is NOT to start a measured discussion over the political ramifications or the logistical requirements or the respectability issues of what it takes to make sure you are no longer denied those rights. If I see you, my fellow human being denied your rights, the only step that makes any sense both logically and ethically for me to take is to support you in making whatever changes you deem sufficient until those rights are no longer denied.

They are your rights. They belong to you. They are not mine or your parent's or your church's or your government's to dole our to you as we deem fitting or feasible. To deny them to you is to steal from you. To treat you as less than worthy of those rights is to deny your very existence. To say that your inalienable rights should be less than mine is to say that your existence matters less than mine does.

So, if you happen to we happen to see somebody maybe post something or hold up a sign or wear a t-shirt that declares that their existence does matter, the only justifiable response is to carry that refrain and be proud of and happy for them for that statement. It's not a time to be offended as if they said anything about your existence not mattering, 'cause nobody said that. It's not a time to get up in their face and discourage them from believing that their existence does matter. It's not a time to equate a statement of basic human ideology with some sort of hate crime.

The belief that one's life matters is a belief that should be celebrated, encouraged, and lived out with all the strength you can muster. The belief that every life matters is not a tool for shouting down someone else's belief that their life (as part of every life) does matter. In case we need still yet another reminder, if an enormous movement of people feel the need to bring up that a specific group of lives matter, there's probably something going down on an enormous scale to make that reminder necessary. If at any point we find in our society that anyone's life is being treated like it does not matter or if they are being denied rights as if there existence is not of the same caliber as our own, then the problem is NOT that they're making too much of a fuss about it and it is NOT that they picked the wrong time to bring it up or the wrong method to face it and it is certainly NOT that everything was so much better or simpler or greater at some time or place in the past when we didn't have to think about it. The problem is simply that they are not being treated justly.

If there is injustice anywhere, it is an affront to justice everywhere.

I don't support a policy of policing the world in some giant fascist occupation whenever we get a hankering to go fix a leaky pipeline. I don't support a policy of killing our fellow human beings under the license of war or democracy or liberty. AND I don't support a policy of locking our doors and shutting our gates and closing our eyes to the needs and disparities in the world either. I don't support the kind of nationalism that forgets that we are all people and the blood which binds us is far thicker than some water or some line on a map between us. I don't support the greed and arrogance which declares any nation to be first if it means that any person is pushed to last.

Because, honestly, I'm just a twenty-six year old writer trying to live in this world, and I really do believe that Jewel was correct when she sang, "In the end, only kindness matters."

But fuck politics, right? It's all a big circus. You don't need me to tell ya how to live. I'm just supposed to sing songs and fail at adulthood then write some run-on sentences about it for you few folks to read if you get bored. What do I know?

Well...

The other night, I saw the movie Split. I think it's one of my favorite, if not my favorite Shyamalan movies now, with the performances of the leads, McAvoy and Joy, being phenomenal and unique. Now, I can completely understand and will not try and argue with anyone who sees this film as just one more example of a movie painting someone suffering under mental illness as evil, as the monster. It's definitely the most plain message of the film that the character most obviously dealing with mental illness is, yes, the villain of the piece, and is, yes, monstrous, and is, yes, a monstrous villain due to the nature of their illness. However—and I will attempt not to spoil anything while being completely real with you here—I think the true beauty of the film is found in its portrayal of how its leads both deal with the trauma of their past. They've both been through a lot, and though the essential conceit of the film is to paint the way in which McAvoy's Kevin has neurologically dealt with trauma to be something akin to a supernatural evil, it would be dismissive of both the performance, the script, and mental illness as a whole to say that the dark sides of his character are all that there is to the character. The other lead character, Casey, is a far more subtle example of the kind of internal strength blossomed out of pain by which the mind learns to persevere, and I feel it is in this contrast that a brilliant study of human potential and, ultimately, hope shines through. Based on the trailer or even on your perspective after watching the film, I would not necessarily fault you for believing this to be a scapegoating of the mentally ill via some absurdly sensationalist, adrenaline-junkie-esque vilification of a dubious diagnosis. However, as with my perspective on most story-telling media, I'd prefer to give all this hard work and talent the benefit of the doubt and believe Split to be a celebration and reaffirmation of our ability to continue finding reasons to keep living and to keep hoping, despite incomprehensible anguish and mistreatment (especially early on in life by those we're supposed to be able to trust). No matter your lot, in sickness and health, in safety and danger, you can keep taking one step after the next and find even a little corner of light in the dark.*

No matter how trapped you may feel from bars within or without, there is, deeper still, an infinity of possibilities.

Yours in transcendent weirdness,
Odist Abettor

p.s.- played at an open mic in rhode island the other night. gotta get out there and play some more. get back into the scene. this is a music blog after all, right? but what would you have me right about, how radio hip hop and pop have the stupidest lyrics and the same beat for every song? nah, that would prob be too divisive...

*If, as likely, I didn't make it clear enough—this isn't me saying you should go see this film. What I got out of it is just as likely plenty of folks won't. There are already far too many films where a character with mental illness is painted as a monster either because of or in heavy relation to that illness. This kind of harmful stereotyping shows up in society and its sickening. Also, this is a horror film with a lot of freaky, disturbing stuff in this movie. It's not for me to say what you should or shouldn't see, and this isn't a movie review blog. If anything, this is simply my attempt to explain something i found very affirming in a time when much of life was very disheartening.

2/52 - What If Can Be a Waste of Time (but this blog isn't...probably)

Dear Internauts,

If you'd like to keep track at home, this post marks the first time I've been on schedule for pretty much anything in my entire life. The idea of posting a blog a week (meaning, of course, waiting till Sunday night and then just kinda winging it) wasn't simply a new challenge but a reaction to last years goal of writing a blog a day. That lasted about two days, and so far this is doing about as well.

How was this past week in your life?

Hear any decent speeches? Watch any decent films? Listen to any decent original cast recordings of Broadway stage productions of musicals based on the lives of historical figures?

Before we proceed, you should know that the current recording project is also proceeding. We proceed as it proceeds at a different speed. Believe me, I'll see to informing you as the news on that front pours in.

For a long time now (either a few months or maybe the past eighteen years), I've been working on a novel-length endeavor involving some original characters that are always floating around in my head. Sure, I've written short stories and poems and songs, but never something of this great length. Even when, having completed all 50,000 words of NaNoWriMo some Novembers past, I still never reached the end of the story. Like so many others, I've been unable to grasp that golden fleece of simply finishing a work.

"Most people never finish the books they start. I’m guessing 97 percent. So if you can just finish the damn thing, you’re thousands of miles ahead of most other writers. So just finish it." - Douglas Coupland

Perhaps if I spent less time reading about writing and more time writing, I'd have actually written something by now. Instead, I have folder after folder, which, if they were not digital, would have long since burst with the scraps of plot ideas, character descriptions, witty snippets of dialogue, and the ever elusive whole chapter of nearly there story.

My attention span and energy level are often in dueling flux, and while this could easily be ascribed to some millennial affect of the digital age, I'd like to believe it has more to do with the imbalances of neuro-pharmaceutical tide pools in my tilting cranium. Similarly, I'd like to believe that, had I been in regular therapy, under the spell of prescription medication, in my teenage years, much of my life would have occurred differently. When I say that I'd like to believe this, I mean it in that tragedy can sometimes be easier to digest than monotony.

I used to think, wouldn't it be so terrible if I wasn't in fact mentally ill?

What if I'm not crazy at all, I'm just crazy?

What if all the inner turmoil and outward damage I've caused wasn't because there's something actually wrong with me, but rather that there's just something wrong with me?

In other words, what if I'm not bad because I'm sick but sick because I'm bad?

What if my failure to connect with other people on the level I believe them to be connecting to one another isn't because I'm an introvert with social anxiety disorder, a somewhat exclusive set of interests, no marketable skills, an inability to find common ground in socially acceptable topics within normal conversational parameters, and the haunting belief that everyone in the world is out to get me?

What if it's because I'm just a shitty kinda guy?

Plenty of other people have seemed to believe that, so is it too dismissive of me to assume that everyone who thinks I'm a jerk must be so far off-base? Is it arrogant of me to believe that every time someone has taken their anger out on me, it was some kind of deflection, bouncing off toward me through an arc of unfairness?

How many people should have to tell me that the world would be a better place without me in it before I start to think that, at very least, I might not have what it takes to live in their world?

And how many times could all my fears, doubts, anxiety, and dangerously debilitating self-destructive tendencies been assuaged if, instead of praising me for how hard I worked to be the perfect son, boyfriend, friend, leader, delegate, student, writer, christian, employee, etc...

What if just one person had thought to ask if I was okay? What if all my voracious vim and vigor had less to do with wanting to be my best and more to do with fear of being anything less?

Hindsight may be 20/20, but if I spent all my time looking back, I'd likely run into something I should have otherwise been able to avoid.

All that to say, this novel outline I've been working on since I was a wee lad has no become a graphic novel outline, despite my feeling of inadequacy as a writer and an artist. The key, I think, is to continue pushing ahead. I can focus on fixing things in later drafts. Taking the lessons I've learned along the way from paying attention to outside influences and learning from my past mistakes, I can create something otherwise never made. For now, though, the key is to keep moving forward.

Just keep writing. Just keep writing. What do we do? We write.

(and draw.) 

Yours most indubitably,
Odist Abettor

P.S. - Here's a lovely little animated video I ran into recently. Taking a bit of a spin on the old story of Job.

P.S.S. - Also, forgot to mention—I spent Saturday morning working with my uncle's brother replacing blinds at a big, fancy house. Mostly I held stuff and moved stuff and packed stuff and tried to follow directions without breaking anything. It's nice to see someone in their zone, working hard at something they are both good at and enjoy doing. Back in high school, sometimes the cast parties for plays and musicals would be held at the houses of the more affluent families in order to facilitate more guests. I never felt comfortable in those houses, but felt more uncomfortable at parties in general, so it didn't much matter either way. Though it's never an exact science telling what kind of nightmares I'll be host to at the end of the day, I was spot on when it came to one prediction in particular. After having spent all morning trying to carefully balance heavy boxes of fragile materials while teetering on the edge of an enormous indoor pool, specifically one with the plastic cover drawn tight, my subconscious has discovered a brand new symbolic totem of doom. Yay! Still, despite the fact I'm not sure if I'll ever enjoy the kind of work I got to do, it was something of a refreshing shift to feel somewhat useful.

1/52: Ghost Stories (Don't Call it a Comeback...or Do)

Dearest Internauts,

I write to you from the hallowed halls of a big chain coffee shop, where the comfort of corporate familiarity now serves more to accent my sense of migrancy...migrantitude...migrance...alienishness than to provide the kind of womb-like serenity only available to those scant few of us with no clear memory of our time as fetal matter save a haunting whiff of disappointment following after us ever since that first existential ejection into this mad, mad world.

Speaking of familiar faces, as of the end of this past year, I have shifted bodily from the regular study of one set of advanced humanoid countenances to an entirely different—and by degrees further genetically removed, though reportedly no less humanoid—conglomeration of relations. In order to bridge the permutations of my intractable neural masonry during this transition from one colloquial synthesis of "home" to a more abstract, though no less Brobdingnagian formulation of the same sentiment, I theorize that what may unfold is a precept and presupposition-shattering reimagining of one of our cultures most poignant, fragrant, flagrant segments of sagacious gauntlet-tossing:

To the turn, Go big or go home!
I humbly submit, Go big AND go home!

And that, my cheeky little wunderkinds, is how this neurotic bard found his feet once again padding tracks through Massachusetts snow, that yawning glaze of snarky paper teeth, not too far from the city in which 9 out of 10 doctors agree I was most likely born, I have found a place with the family of my mother's sister.

After three years of burrowing deep into a tiny, padded cell by the angelic grace, unending patience, and newly discovered friendship with my gravity-defying Mother and Father, I was more than overdue to jump back in the deep end of the pool. Just like when I was a bubble-limbed tadpole at the local Y, I knew there was no use in a slow wade. In the tradition of most major life decisions, I both waited till the very last instance—having first decided to go in early 2016 and only actually going as an extension of a year-end holiday visit—and, despite that procrastination, just sort of did it.

But Odist, you're totally thinking right now, how did you go from running for your life FROM this Northeasterly wonderland to running for your life TO this Eastnorthernly landerwond? Well, that, dear reader brings us to the start of a new series, whose name may change but for the moment I deem to call...

HOW THE $#!& DID WE GET HERE!?!! 

AKA, The Road to New England: Part the First

I started this here bloggity blog in the months between dropping out of the college I'd planned to go to since before I could snap my fingers. Having faced off against the roaring parademons of higher education brand depression, anxiety, and disillusionment (plus some other quirky maladies), I'd entered into a phase of redefinition. How could I have fathomed that the steep slope I'd been cascading down in my new, early-post-collegiate young adulthood would mutate into a hack and slash-fic free fall? Well, maybe if I'd been just a bit more genre-savvy...

I went to see this woman in Philadelphia, you see, a raven-haired opera singer I'd loved in my younger and more vulnerable years who'd somehow plot-twisted her way back into my cast of characters. As often occurs when we revisit with remarkable people or places after so much time, we struck an old refrain akin to the thematic callback of the "I want" song from just before the intermission of your average stage musical. While knowing logically that I'd packed up, planned, and preemptively postluded for my move the next day, the howl of my sixteen year old ghost would not be ignored. So, as you may have guessed, we spent this lovely, midsummer afternoon scrambling from store to store in search of a perfect birthday present for the boyfriend she hadn't told me about until we got on the subway. Of course, that was not the catalyst for my grand self-revelation to come. I will have you know I offered some wonderful gift suggestions, and as can happen when two people who are legitimately fond of one another's company spend time in close proximity, it wasn't that bad of a time. Recalling my forthcoming departure, a rare sort of confidence filled me as I'd only last felt when I slammed the door on some BS degree. We actually talked about how things had been, how they still were, and how despite all that apparently still was, IT just wasn't.

Then we got back to her block and passed her neighbors house. A few preteen kids were hanging out on the porch in that way only preteen kids can hang out on a porch. My past-tense-paramour tended to power walk at the most chill of times due to her height, which was, admittedly, both endearing and intimidating. Passing that porch, she broke into a pace and form not often witnessed outside of competitive speed-walking. I stumbled to catch up (though my stride-per-height is average, my balance or lack of usually discourages sudden shifts in acceleration).

Outside her front door—by now it was fairly clear I wasn't to be asked inside—I asked her the cause of her mushroom burst, my earlier devil-may-sigh confidence having run its course. (Get it? RUN.) Those kids are bad news, she told me from the top step. They would usually yell out obscenities at her, her housemates, and anyone who crosses their path. We got lucky this time, but they're just such foul-mouthed delinquents [insert a long list of the type of horrendous and absurdly vulgar abuses of the spoken word usually reserved for Tarantino rough drafts, but all too often find ample imagination for fuel in the bamboozled brain of pre-adolescent rebel-types].  And their parents don't even care that they skip school all the time. You should see the kind of stuff they write on the sidewalk and even on our house if they're not just throwing shit at it. I seriously can't stand them. And they've gotten so much worse over the summer.

Not wanting to end on an even more diminished note than this duet called for, I whistled up some weak muzak idealism to the tune of how hopefully a teacher or counselor or maybe some other patient, caring adult would find their way into the lives of these kids and help them find a more positive, productive kind of self-expression. I said something about it being a matter of environment, social pressure, and a clear cry for attention.

Had I sooner recognized my vague homily as patronizing and unhelpful, I would NOT have added what I foolishly thought was an affirmation of her character—maybe one of those positive influences could be from a neighbor even. I don't think I went on to quote from the book of Esther about being put in such and such a place for such and such a time as this, but I mean, what's one more inch of cement on my shoes if I'm already napping with Neptune.

This is someone I truly care about, I thought...on the drive home.

If I'd been paying better attention to the colossal weight of anxiety, loneliness, and self-degradation this human being I "truly care about" was radiating the entire day and well before, maybe I could've spent the day being a real friend. Maybe the jealousy and feelings of ineptitude I heaped into my afternoon mood could've been pulled aside and replaced with a smidge of empathy. While she had an anxiety attack over finding the perfect gift for yet another guy she expected to leave her if she wasn't exactly right, I could've spent less time thinking about what this day meant for my inner soap opera, and how I just can't catch a break. When every expression of dissatisfaction translated in my head to a chance for me to swoop in and save the damn day, it actually turned out that some of the exact same youthful immaturity and egocentrism which had shattered our teenage dreams could show up to crash the party even when it appeared like such an adult and tasteful dinner party or cheese tasting.

I had gone looking for ghosts, but I foolishly thought I wouldn't be haunted in return.

In case you're wondering, her response to my trite babbling was simple.  "No, you don't understand. It's hopeless. Sometimes, some things, some people are just hopeless."

And I honestly thought that it was this stark contrast with my idealistic belief that there is always hope which gave me the burst of philosophical determination to head out on my next adventure. Long after I've concieveably moved on from the guy I was and how I felt on that day, full to the brim with conversation— my mind is still tangled in wild knots over how much can be communicated with two simple words like 'it's hopeless'. And maybe if I'd been listening like a decent friend on that day, I wouldn't find myself so freshly considering a few more simple phrases, like I'm listening, I hear you, and I believe you.

Stay tuned for Part Two of How The $#!& Did We Get Here !?!! as well as an update on my current recording project with producer Joe Casey, the novel outline turned graphic novel outline, my thoughts on music, movies, and munchies (like spicy spinach/black bean/sweet potato quesadillas), and the ongoing ravings of a songwriter trying to find a job and a gig in a brand new town.

Respect,
Odist Abettor

“Ah, yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it...or learn from it.” -Rafiki (The Lion King)