“I start this entry on the tail-end of a cigarette and halfway through my second beer. I nearly lost myself today to the vortex of the couch but escaped just in time to accidentally see a person I respect play a killer show.”
While I mostly work these posts out through free-flowing journal entries before considering titles, I must admit I worked backward on this one because I thought the title was funny. I also suspected it would be easy enough to write about my past and my future, considering the level of expertise I should have on the topics.
This turned out to be hubris, and I’ve written at least 4 journal entries trying to give this head a body. As it turns out, I have very little idea where I am going and often have trouble associating with my past, clouding the memory of where I’ve been.
One of my favorite things to share about myself is that I’ve lived many lives — but it’s hard for my current self to recognize the main character in memories from these drastically different lifestyles.
James (the freelance journalist who writes about drugs) doesn’t easily connect with James (the youth ministry intern). Events from more than 5 (maybe less) years ago feel like fully formed memories from some other person. Only when I discover the lessons and consequences still within some crevasse of my brain do they feel like mine.
I’ll connect the event to some inflection I make when I’m jesting with friends, or an emotional wall built so long ago that it’s fallen into ruins, but I’ll notice it still supports some trace of a personal defect I thought I’d already repaired.
Then, like some horror movie where the monster turns around to reveal the face of the hero that has been chasing it all along, I’ll see that the subject of my introspection was me and let my jaw hang, dumbstruck by the revelation.
I began this latest attempt with a walk to one of the nearby bars. I was prepared to grab a beer and sit outside to journal until I recognized the person singing on stage was someone I’d long respected as a local journalist, comedian, and politician. I knew they played, and I had always wanted the chance to catch their performance but had no idea they’d be just down the street from me.
Sidebar: you have to check out his absolutely killer public comment opposing our new stadium for the Titans.
At any rate, I wound up setting my journal on the bar and sitting through the majority of his set, skipping only one song to step outside and begin writing this while it was fresh in my mind.
After his performance, I nervously walked up to introduce myself and decided to begin the trek home. Only somewhere between my first left and my second right, I altered my course and began meandering.
It was dark out, roughly 8:30/9, and the weather was perfect. I draped my light jacket over my right arm and let the cool breeze tingle, chill, and relax my skin. I wasn’t sure where I would stop next, but I was pretty sure I needed to walk around in the dark.
As a kid, I loved sneaking out of the house and going on overnight adventures (sorry, Dad, I can’t remember if I’ve told you that yet but good luck grounding me now). I lost my love for the nighttime along with most of my comfort in public when I got mugged at gunpoint years ago.
It was New Year’s Eve and my roommate, and I were walking in with fast food when two gentlemen asked if I “had a light.” I’m more angered by their cliché way of mugging me than I am by losing my $20 phone and $15 cash from my wallet.
The officer told me I needed to get a gun which I thought was very cool of him considering my report was of two men pulling a gun on me while my back was to them. I still laugh at the idea of me slowly turning around, pulling out my own gun, and saying “No, you give me YOUR money.”
The point is, if someone puts a gun in your face, give up the fucking phone, man. Fuck that cop.
As I walked, I began thinking of the late-night adventures I’d had as a kid — that building we could climb the antenna scaffolding to the 3-story roof, scootering through neighborhoods to get to primetime spots at 2 am, smoking hookah and walking around as the sun starts to rise.
I’d regularly pull all-nighters and just hang out with friends — on one occasion, I even spent the entire night attempting to learn guitar. I was not as fearful of being without sleep as I’ve become as an adult, and I miss it greatly.
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How does someone tell the difference between “growing up” and repressing your true character to fit into normality? Is the former a gentle way of saying the latter? And how can I own my past and not become its servant?
I think I’m too close to my own life to answer these questions honestly. Part of me wonders if that’s shared by other people as well but a larger part of myself feels like everyone is so goddam certain of everything. Maybe my uncertainty is my own fault, an addiction I can’t kick, and I could release it like a kite in the wind if I chose to.
When I finally reached another bar (I walked past the first couple I saw), I ordered a patty melt and another beer to sit outside and continue my journal. Old emo songs, dad rock, and other throwbacks played on the radio and others commented on how funny it was to hear, for example, Creed.
A gentleman who was by himself approached the group seated between us and asked them if it would be okay for him to smoke weed. They laughed it off and assured him they were cool, and he began walking towards me.
I prepared myself to explain what I do for work as an assurance that I’m not square and maybe have an interaction with another person. These are things I build up inside my head and practice rapidly as I see people approaching, worried I’ll be left without a response and look foolish as a first impression.
Instead, he set his glass down on my table and asked me to watch it while he went to the car. It was a fair thing to do — I’ve always been more of a “watch my drink” guy than a “wanna hit a joint with me” guy, I suppose. He never asked if I wanted a hit but passed it readily to the group he apparently didn’t trust to watch after his drink.
The joke is ultimately on him because I heard him brag that he brought the bud from Florida, and I know for a fact that their weed sucks.
I realized I’d never be invited into the conversation when they immediately began discussing sports teams. Sports are a conversational shortcut most men have to instant connection, but I was born without it and can’t even pretend to follow along.
I understand the rules of most sports, but most people don’t seem to want to chat about the rules too much.
Finishing my burger alone, I downed my beer and began the ~1.5-mile trek home. All told, I walked 5 miles, collapsing in bed around 11:30.
It was a far cry from my days of youth, I felt unable to leave my home the next day (despite not even being hungover), and 11:30 is honestly not that late. But, for me, it was a small victory (and technically still an hour or two later than I normally go to bed).
For these few hours, I left the orbit of my world, walked around inside the collective universe of others, and reminded myself that I belonged to it. Whether it’s the simple protection over a drink for an ungrateful stranger or stumbling into a concert I might well have made plans to attend had I known — tonight, I existed.
I’m not sure what the future holds for me, but I know it’s going to be better than my past and at least as good as my present and I suppose that’s as much as I can ask for. My life has been in a bit of a tailspin and I’ve been having a bit of trouble telling up from down, but I feel myself returning to my body.
These shakeups always end with me being better off than I was beforehand, but I’m exhausted by them. I’m working to make this my most coordinated tailspin ever and look closer to a dazzling stunt than a devastating catastrophe.
The lonesome friends of science say
The world will end most any day
Well, if it does, then that’s okay
’Cause I don’t live here anyway.\I live down deep inside my head
Well, long ago I made my bed
I get my mail in Tennessee
My wife, my dog, my kids and me-Lonesome Friends of Science, by John Prine
On Where I’m Going
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