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
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