Sometimes You Simply Need To See Word After Word Go By

Tidal

It isn’t always about telling a story or making sure that you get your point across to a specific audience. It isn’t perpetually about making you sure you anticipate critique and use it to block the negative carefully. It isn’t even always about letting people read the words that you are writing.

Sometimes you need to write down words as they come into your head with absolutely no destination point in mind, no end to get to, and no saga to continue.

In the summer, blue skies always remind me of laying on my back in the scraggly grass that we had in Lancaster. It wasn’t quite nuked to death by the sun or dehydrated from the sun. It was so comfortable under the fruitless mulberry we had in the front yard. I would look up, and I would see this perfect azure blue to the sky. It wasn’t graduated, it wasn’t layered, it was a solid sheet of the color blue like you were looking at a color swatch in a paint book. When the clouds would come across like little pieces of popcorn, they would always be moving so fast because of the higher elevation that we were in in the desert. They would be there in the shapes that you would turn them into, and before long, they would be speeding away towards the valley to get turned into the movie stars shade and the beach bums weather reports.

The clouds coming over the mountains, coming in from the west, always looked like a giant foam from a wave that would take everything. All that you needed was to wait for just a second. Then there would be a thunderous cataclysm, and the valley would be washed clean of the gang-violence and the broken promises of employers who didn’t need to know your language to offer you a job no one would take for that kind of money. It would erase the pain from the broken families and the terror of the Nightstalker. Even if it had made it down to Millwood Ave, they would have found a way to make the wave wash the truth away and let them hang so desperately onto the alcoholism and deceit that kept the happiest family in the barrio together.

Water is the happiness I have trouble putting into context for someone who has never wanted to disappear in the Pacific and be found like a message in a bottle, thousands of miles away. We would go down to Malibu or Zuma, and they would wait with tapping feet as we tried so hard to get clean in the ocean in the Magellan called the Peaceful Sea. We would dance in the seaweed and the shells and try to keep our eyes open the entire time. We wanted a recording of the moments we got there, of the times when we were truly free. Sooner, always sooner, we would be back in the car driving up the PCH and back to the air that was so dirty you needed to breathe slower on the cloudy days if you would fall over and cough up blood.

We left the ocean, where there is no memory of ill or fault and only raw power and beauty. I fell in love with here, I honestly did. I have sat by the lake with a fifth of Whiskey and a folded over notebook trying to be Dylan Thomas with a heroin problem, or later on, maybe I was Coleridge without the heroin problem. I would write my nonsense prose, my rhyming couplets, my sing-song story poems, and at the end of the day I would walk back down 19 to the shit hole on the corner of 18 and climb into bed and listen to the same five songs I still welcome into my soul every day.

As things must go, days and weeks faded into months and years: death and love, more the latter than the former. I am blessed with beauty in my life that I do not deserve. I look into the eyes of three of the most beautiful creations in existence, and it stops my breath to know I had anything to do with how they have become the wonders they have become.

Sitting here, I never realized how much time had passed, passed with nothing to show for its passage, but scars I cannot heal from and trinkets I would gladly return.

Privilege

Raised Fist

Apparently, people enjoy it when I violently express my opinion via the written word, so feel free to skip if you don’t want to read that stuff. I will tag it #rawrz, so it is abundantly clear that is what is going on in the post, no tomfoolery here, no sir. Nope. Nuh-uh.

That hashtag, #rawrz, that was for this post here as well, for the record.

Ninety-nine percent of my life, I have been able to stay in my very comfortable, not disenfranchised, privileged, white lane. I say ninety-nine, not because of a sudden shift in my status. I mean it because, like all of us in a position of privilege in our lives, we need to take a step back and realize that is indeed the case. We need to see what we can do to help humanity. Not just reap the benefits of being born looking the right way, in the correct country, or whatever privilege schema applies to you.

I can whine and bitch like the “All Lives Matter,” “Not All Men,” and whatever anti-truth protestor slogan is the popular word choice. I can say stupid things like, “I’ve been to jail, I get the struggle.”

That’s what I am going to talk about today.

Yes, I have been to jail, or more correctly, prison. I was federally convicted on multiple felony counts. I was sentenced to a massive amount of time before I decided, with no shame, to turn states-evidence and give them everything I had on everyone. A rat? A snitch? Snitches and stitches? Yes, I have heard all of them and have scars that I can’t show you unless you know me really well.

Instead of the nearly two decades I was sentenced to, and I served seventeen months in isolated and protected custody at a federal prison of some reputation in New York. 

Now, boo hoo for me. I was taken into the system and changed, and I was disenfranchised or broken

No, man, no. I went to prison, yes. Things happened there that I still don’t talk about sober, yes. However, look at the paragraphs above. I got seventeen years where people who are, and let’s be honest, more melanated than myself, have received life without parole. Forever. In Hell. I was there for a year and a half. Some of the people I saw in there are not only still in there 25 years later, but they had been there since before I was born, for things that seem so very minor.

So that is how I checked my privilege, the way I took a step back, and realized I am indeed in a position that so many are not. I would never have met my wife, had my children, loved the people I have loved since then. All because I am a white dude in a country that favors you being a white dude.

I am not going to preach the rest of the word, that is not my place. I will direct you to where you can hear that word being taught by people struggling every day of their lives.

Please, educate yourself. Here’s a jumping-off point.

https://blacklivesmatter.com

https://www.allure.com/story/black-lives-matter-where-to-donate

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Lives_Matter

Pain, The Universal Equalizer

Brain Demons

I went to bed yesterday before dinner, hell, it was closer to lunch than dinner now that I think about it. I went upstairs to lie down because I had a migraine. I don’t bother trying to put the migraines in the “Top 10 I Have Ever Had” territory since they hit nearly every day. Still, I know when one is terrible, and I want to talk about why last night was unusually unsettling for me.

Generally, when I get a migraine, it is a miniature sun just behind my left eye. A heat that grows more and more intense until certain things occur, systematically and always in the same order a far as I can remember.

First, I will get incredibly nauseous. Anyone who has had a lousy headache, never mind any migraine activity, can relate to this. Think hangover headache with that still drunk need to puke.

Second, the vertigo sets in. Standing because an endurance sport and even sitting at an upward angle gets too much after a short time. I have never been a fan of the room spinning, I am sure I am not alone there. What makes it worse is that the spinning, again for my case, is multi-axis. The room spins yes, but then it does a delightful Rubiks Cube thing and does the same job on the vertical axis of my Universe.

Thirdly is what I like to call the buffet. At this point, I have put myself to bed or, if I am with someone in the know, been put to bed. Vomiting, Nose Bleeds happen most of the time. However, Disorientation, Cotton Mouth, Excessive Sweating, Chills, and Hot Flashes have been known to crop up. Plus, let us never forget, the ever piercing and growing pain of that fiery microcosm in the center of my skull.

Lastly, and it is always the last thing to happen before the end, I lose hope. See, no one ever talks about the psychological impact of being in constant pain. They are all busy telling you it is all fake, grab an ice pack, take two aspirin and be a man, or whatever gender expression you desire.

I cry a lot. I lay on my bed, and I weep, and I feel no shame in it because pain is a universal feeling. Not one of us alive has ever not shed a tear when our bodies’ pain has reached a certain point.

Irony? The crying makes the pain worse, and I feel more pathetic, and it is a cycle that goes on and on until one of two things happen, leading to the same conclusion.

One, I pass out from the pain. My brain gets to a certain point, and then some deep and reptilian part of it shuts off to ensure that I can survive the thing. It is a terrifying thing, lying in bed watching a show or even just staring at the wall. Suddenly, it is 8, sometimes 12 hours later. My seizures occasionally hit me like this, but unlike them, this is almost an instant thing, Ia m in Point A, then I am Point B. No dreaming, no waking up a minute to roll over, just straight unconsciousness.

Two, and I suppose this is the better of the two scenarios, I go to sleep. It is a dark and stormy sleep as the migraine isn’t gone. Like a thunderstorm at night, though, I can hear the thunder of the pain. Still, it is somehow distant, occurring in a slightly different locale.

Then, with both, I wake up, usually very early in the morning, and I fight again. I look forward to the battle because, one day, I will learn how to defeat them ultimately, or I will simply learn to deal with the pain better.

Now uplifting, but I needed to get it out of my head, and you were lucky enough to hang on for the ride.

Then, There Are Dark Days

Dark Days

Dark Days. Least fun of all the days there are, but they need to be spoken of regardless of our desire. These are not the anniversaries, those you can prepare for over time. These are not the birthdays, those you can steel yourself for those. Now, these are the days that were special for such hyper-specific reasons that no one but you both knew them.

What today is, for the point of this, doesn’t matter. Plus, even I like to keep certain things behind doors that only I and perhaps a very small few get to go into and discreetly look around before reverentially closing the door again.

I tend to be very snappish on dark days, a shorter fuse than even I have. I couldn’t tell you why. I suppose it has to do with trying to hold all of the other things back against, trying to not flood the mind with the negative bound up in the wonderful.

The problem with the dark is that no matter how hard you try, the light seeps into it. Usually, I am fully in support of this. Still, some things need to stay the same in our memory and not be purged away like a forgotten phone number replaced with some very Disney version of the facts.

It is better for the soul. I think that we remember it the way it was and not how we would have had it been. Sometimes there were fights when you want there you want to be kissed. You want there to be laughter, and all there was in actuality was tears. Disguising the dark with a rainbow is a disservice to the memory of the things that genuinely occurred. A false way of making yourself feel more like a real little boy instead of the puppet we all must infrequently be.

On dark days like this, I tend to hermit even more than I usually do and write or read a great deal. As much as I would love to tell you I am going to write copious amounts, I am most likely going to read comic books on my computer and try not to yell at my children. They have no idea why I am upset and why explaining it would only upset me more.

The weather is definitely not helping, although the clouds will most likely aid the temperature and not allow my brain to get to unparalleled pain levels. I don’t think we need to go anywhere today, so it will be a quiet day if nothing else. Even if I do have to go out, it is most likely for a quick little errand that will most likely do me some good to look at the sky instead of walls and ceiling.

I know I am the height of Bear Emo by saying things like dark days, but the words are in there, and all I am is the court stenographer. You don’t think I actually come up with all of this by myself, do you? No, the little gnome people in my head are awfully busy, and I have to say I don’t particularly mind.

So I will drink my first, and then my subsequent cups of coffee, look at my kind shoot other people on Xbox for a bit, snuggle the little guy, and then see if Stephen King’s kid is as good at comic books as I have heard that he is.

Take a second today, and just take a deep breath and realize that every second you think you can shrug off is retained in some way. You genuinely need to make sure that you enjoy every second of the good.

I Write, Super Secret Psychic Boost

I Am A Writer, I Write

Every time I write something, I get this very delightful endorphin rush. It is nothing like sex, getting the shit kicked out of me, or even chocolate. It is always there, though, a noticeable and delightful little buzz that lasts for a bit, usually just long enough to get to the next thing I need to do for the day.

So, by writing two, three, or even four of the blog posts that I do every day, I get to maintain a nice little mood buzz throughout the day, and, as a bonus, it even helps with my migraines sometimes.

I love to write, so it isn’t as if the entire thing is a chore by any stretch. It is easier some days than others, but I usually have enough juju to get me through a few of them. On the bad days, you will get the one. On the horrible days, you don’t even get that much. I am always thinking of the things I want to write, so I guess there is a little continuity there, if nothing else.

Today, for example, I am full of metaphorical piss and vinegar. I will be posting as much as I can to get the most out of my brain, which has been a deceitful cunt the last few weeks, and by doing this I may entertain you, I get my rush, the world gets more of my rambling and, best of all, I get the purpose of this, the super-secret mental boost.

So, since you have all digitally pinkie-swore never to reveal to a soul what I am going to tell you here, I feel free to spread the right and sincere message.

The Fucks.

True, it has been thought for decades to be merely a myth, however fraudulent this may sound my Family of Readers Gentle, I can tell you with all of the truth in my heart that it is a fact. When I write the short notes, the long narratives, or even the stupidest of laughable entertainment, I am rewarded by the Great Goddesses of the universe with Fucks.

Yes, for a short period, I am given the ability to implement a Fuck about something. I know it sounds impossible, but nay, it is so. I can care about things like television, music, and even Facebook memes in their deliciousness.

It is a short-lived thing, but it is sometimes worth it to get back to something that sounds normal in this bizarre world we find ourselves drifting in. It is this ability alone that has allowed me to spend nigh on one-hundred days with my children and insufferable YouTube.

When it leaves, it is not with a pang of sadness as all of us are so used to not having any Fucks . When the Fucks have left, or flown as they prefer to call it in their gibberish language, we are abandoned in the apathy of their absence.

So yes, as I transition to fancy word man back to the Bear in his living room, when I write, I get to care about the things I customarily don’t have the effort in me to care about these days. When I write, I say hello to more people, I love fiercer than I usually do and, most importantly, I get an opportunity to look down at myself and see the things I need to change to get back to a good baseline.

Take this with the obligatory grains of salt, of course, what helps me may or may not be due to deeply imbedded childhood trauma and escapism, so your mileage definitely will vary.

RAWZ