Reverie drops November 2017. There are plenty of updates to come, but the first is an informative one: Here’s the back cover (with text)!
Reverie drops November 2017. There are plenty of updates to come, but the first is an informative one: Here’s the back cover (with text)!
Whenever I go on vacation I generally have one major goal: to consume as much of the culture, history, and vibe of the place that I’m visiting as I humanly can. What this tends to turn into is a lot of museum visits, random conversations with people, and my personal favorite: hours/miles of aimless wandering. I move through a strange land, journal in hand, usually alone, and open to whatever life has for me. Usually this leads to as much awkwardness as adventure and I really wouldn’t have it any other way. My recent trip to Germany was no different…and yet, as with all things if you do them correctly, very different.
Sidenote: Germany wasn’t next on my vacation list. Or fifth. Or twentieth. Greece and Iceland, China and South Africa, they were to be my next educational conquests. But life happens. “Life” in this case being a super-close friend staying in Berlin for work for six months along with a friend from Stuttgart, Germany who I hadn’t seen in over five years. Both of whom showed me and amazing time (including but not limited to late night drunk bike rides and a cartoonishly ridiculous conversation with a pair of visiting Glasgow gays). Still, while I don’t believe everything happens for a reason (to believe something like that negates the joys of free will), I truly do believe my Berlin experience was meant to be…
I was sitting in the lower floor of a community center in Stuttgart, chilling with my friend and his band before their set. When discussing music and America the subjects combined and someone said, “Sometimes I wish Germans were as emotional as Americans.” Now, this was referring to the excitement and celebration around music. The American way of “letting loose and woo-ing and shouting at a concert or rave.” It was an interesting thought and one that had, even in my four days in the country, become clear to me.
There’s a stereotype about German people being serious, regimented, punctuality-obsessed, but that didn’t feel right. And, of course, that’s a stereotype based on seeing them through an American lens. In actuality, it’s a refreshing thing; a culture with a heavier reliance on thoughtfulness than feeling. In contrast our obsession with the way things feel as being just as or (or more) relevant than the facts of the way things are is as American as apple pie and revolution. One on side, it’s one of the most powerful driving forces behind the American Dream, the hope, faith, and passion that fuels our ingenuity, our insatiable drive for creativity and accomplishment. Another side is the idea that everyone’s feelings are valid (and they are, totally, from angle of an individual and their growth journey). But in a nation that values feelings over facts, false equivalencies are made (validity is given) to people whose ideas are factually wrong and our strength is eroded; we become more vulnerable to manipulation.
Perhaps one major contributor to the German way is that time in history that financial crisis, racism, and emotion lead to one of the darkest periods in modern history. There is a melancholy in the architecture of Berlin only heightened by the gray rainy skies. The wounds of the second World War appear healed in the minds of the young, but the scars still exist and always will and are in display so clearly on the surface that one can only imagine how deep it runs in the depths of the culture, the soul. Informative signs stand outside of monuments everywhere you go and after a while you become familiar with a particular sentence: “This [building/statue] was originally built in [XXXX] but was destroyed by Allied bombing and [rebuilt/restored] in [19XX].” Like I said, healing. Healing is a pillar of the culture and the education, sensibility, and willingness to compromise that comes with the process.
Don’t worry, I’ll get to the Holocaust soon enough, but let’s move to one of the most physical and well-known representations of the aftermath of WWII and the Cold War: the wall.
There is a park in Berlin where you can still walk the wall: some parts stripped to their foundation, others restored to their original form with guard towers intact, most long ruins covered in graffiti, a fascinating representation of history and rejection of history’s dark pull over present ambitions…history as a canvas upon which art and new expression can be formed.
The first step, of course, is admitting you have a problem…and I think that’s a logical step and a dominating strength of the country.
If your knowledge of German history is as shoddy as mine was, after Hitler and friends were dismantled, Germany was split in two (actually four, but meh), East Germany and West Germany. The German Democratic Republic and the Federal Republic of Germany. Super-restricted, regimented, nationalist dictatorship and capitalist democracy. Naturally people would try to escape from East to West (to be with family or simply to escape the East). Ninety-eight people in Berlin died trying to make the journey over the decades. There are plaques and small monuments in the places where the first people died during the escape. The wall came down in 1990, during most of our lifetimes. In fact there’s a prayer center near the center of the park where once a church stood before it was destroyed during the wall’s construction. It’s a place for people effected by the East/West split to come, pray, talk, reflect. Rightfully off-limits to ignorant outsiders such as myself.
There’s a place where the 98 faces of the people who died trying to cross to the west stand. Older women walk up and leave flowers. A class stands at its base, one by one standing and reading aloud their reports on one of the dead. It was a beautiful thing to see. I kept my distance because it wasn’t my place, my world, but watched on as old and young embraced their past in plain sight. One of modern history’s great symbols, the tearing down of walls as a step to healing, acceptance, and moving on.
THAT part of German history.
There’s a place in Berlin called the Topographie des Terrors – I’m gonna go ahead and assume a translation isn’t necessary. This is a large flat area surrounded by brick ruins where once stood the Nazi Headquarters. Now, upon these dark grounds sits a museum; a detailed history of the rise and fall of Adolph Hitler; its boisterous beginnings and hard ending…and a taste of what came next. It was the site that I spent the most time in. So much to consume. So much to understand. Millions upon millions killed in concentration camps for not fitting the concept of or accepting the idea of a perfect race, overwhelmingly Jewish, but also homosexual men, gypsies, political adversaries, Catholics, kids who listened to “Negro music,” the physically and mentally disabled (many asylums were basically transformed into medical kil-camps) and more so-called threats to society.
Obviously, this sort of thing doesn’t come out of nowhere. Germany was, like much of the Anglo-world, suffering from a depression, starving, hurting, and in a state of such emotional rawness comes a natural need to find sense and oftentimes that means placing blame. Though overwhelmingly white, straight, and male-dominated, Berlin had made a name for itself in Europe as a bastion of the arts and self-expression. Few cities boasted such acceptance of those “threats to society” in that time (see the flashbacks in the last couple seasons of Transparent). Such things are the first to be vilified the second something goes wrong. And the Jewish people, who have been routinely marginalized and berated, were growing in wealth and influence and had just been given complete economic freedom, placing a giant target on them (“Stealing business from the white man when he needs it the most!”) Hitler played on those fears, silenced anyone who didn’t think the way he did, and went on a bloody rampage as he built a doomed empire. Feelings of fear and anger unchecked can make a monster of anyone.
Sidenote II: The Topographie des Terrors wasn’t really on my to-visit list (I honestly didn’t know it existed since I kinda like to go light on the research to leave room for the unexpected). I came across it on the way to the Jewish Museum of Berlin. It was an especially gray, wet day. I was, naturally, not appropriately dressed and without an umbrella and hiding out under the plastic roof of a currywurst vendor where the server shook his head on my insistence on eating fries with my hands but also turned the heat lamps on for me because I was shivering like an idiot so we cool. I noticed the big dark sign reading “Topographie des Terrors” and anyone who’s spent fifteen minutes with me knows that no part of me can resist investigating something like that. I never did get to the Jewish Museum that day. After all those terrors and hard facts I needed to recharge so I met up with my friend and we hit the German gayborhood where we drowned myself in wine and met those aforementioned Glasgow gays, one of whom, named Gash, who proudly stated his goal for the evening in that thick Scottish accent was, “To fuck a twink.”
There’s a memorial to the Jewish people who died in the Holocaust. It’s a cold, gray thing. Hundreds of casket-shaped blocks rising from the ground. It’s massive and the farther you walk from the sidewalk, the more the ground dips. Eventually you’re surrounded by this blocks, rising up above you, blocking out the sun, forcing you to lose yourself in it, caught in the shadows they cast. It felt heavy, important. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that a few of the blocks had been vandalized by the words “Jesus” and “Rises” because…people.
The Jewish Museum I planned on visiting earlier in my trip, I saved for the last day. I’m pretty happy with that choice. It’s an excellent museum. My favorite of the seven that I visited (two of those seven included an awesome spy museum and a video game museum just to put this into perspective). The upper floors take you on an educational, clear, and interactive journey through the history of the Jewish people from the beginning. There’s middle floors housed the special exhibits: one called “A Muslim, A Christian, and a Jew” (by Eran Shakine) a simple series of artworks highlighting the similarities and shared circumstances of both groups and the second, “Golem,” about the monsters of mud from Jewish legend, animated by mystics to protect them (or their interests)…known also for breaking free of their creator’s control and wreaking havoc (an idea used in countless movies and books). I could go on and on about the those floors, but I’m here to talk about the Holocaust Tower…
The entire museum was designed by architect/artist superstar Daniel Libeskind and the very design of it is a piece worthy of study, a work of art housing works of art and artifacts. The basement of the museum is dedicated to the Holocaust, split into three paths: Exile (about the Jews who escaped), Continuity (about moving on), and Holocaust (stories of the people who died accompanied by artifacts of their lives – reading glasses, love letters, movie tickets, etc). At the end of the Holocaust path is what, from a distance, looks like a black wall. But when you get closer you see a handle, a wide door and the end of a hallway on a slight incline. This is the door to the Holocaust Tower.
Honestly, I might have missed it were it not for this boisterous and colorful group of older men and women chattering as they opened the door, disappeared inside for a few seconds, and left displeased over the fact that it was too dark to take any decent pictures. Bless their hearts.
On the wall beside me, in German and English, was the description. Also called the “Voided Void” it is “an isolated building splinter whose sole connection to the Libeskind building is underground. Daylight penetrates the [79ft tower] only through a narrow slit in the unheated concrete silo and any exterior sounds are heavily muffled [but magnified in volume] by the walls.” It’s a piece of art meant to make you feel trapped, alone, kept apart from the rest of the world.
Once the giggling tour group disappeared down the hall I opened the door. It was heavier than I thought it would be. A cold rush of air caught me off guard. I entered the bleak gray room, so dark that the door practically disappeared when I closed it behind me. I looked up, gazing at that sliver of white light, so far from me that it barely reached me. I walked the perimeter of the room, alone, distant walls disappearing in shadow as I moved away from them. The sounds coming from outside echoed in the room, the ever-present noises of the city. And as I stood there in the center of the room I felt my heart lurch forward. Moments later tears began to stream down my eyes as I was hit with this extreme loneliness, helplessness, that felt both so personal and yet bigger than myself.
This may come as a surprise to no one, but I’m not Jewish (Ancestry.com backs me up on this), but I had just spent hours upon hours in the past few days taking in stories about people, real people, and their fates. I also, as a black, gay man fall into a bucket of humanity often considered “threats to society.” This year I set out to learn about the American revolutions of the 60s and 70s so that I may better understand and engage the climate of today and so as I stood in the cold in that room I was joined by the battles fought by Frank Kameny and Barbara Gittings, Fred Hampton, MLK, Huey Newton, Sylvia Rivera and so, so, so many more. The ones being fought today by Black Lives Matter, Gays Against Guns, Dakota Pipeline protests, Southern Poverty Law Center, and countless other groups resisting the status quo as underlying currents of sexism, racism, homophobia and more rear their heads. Helplessness, loneliness, abuse, fear of death…these are not the traits of a single group but of all humanity. And as such all humanity has the responsibility to protect a group plagued by them…because while we may not have their exact experiences we do know how shitty those feelings feel…how they can burrow deep into a mind, an entire culture, and if left untended eat them alive from the inside.
There were moments in the tower that the feelings were too much. My eyes would dart to the wall, looking for a door that couldn’t be seen. But ultimately I came to crave it, the pureness of the fear and pain, to let it wash over me and truly impact me, allow it to change me, to creep into my vulnerabilities and force me to give in to it. I left the room, still alone, stronger in my vulnerability than I had entered.
Sidenote III: It was a few hours later that I felt weird about having an experience about a thing that may not have exactly been the thing I should have been reflecting on in something called the Holocaust Tower, but got over it. Art, after all, is meant to be interpreted and felt as only the individual engaged in it can.
And, since this is November 2016, I’m obligated to talk about Donald Trump…
Since we’re fresh off the heels of an election that defied “normal” in just about every way, I became a bit of a lightning rod for questions from any Europeans that I had an extended conversation with. “What were you guys doing?” “What were you all thinking?” “How did it happen?” “Are you going to just stay in Germany then?” There was a direct correlation between the length and passion of my answer and the amount of wine I’d consumed upon being asked. Usually though I’d rattle something about “feeling fortunate that I lived in one of the great liberal strongholds of the world (New York City), but being acutely aware of the villainized communities (including women) who weren’t so lucky beyond.” Then, since I had the whole East/West Berlin Wall thing fresh in my head I’d say that “the wall between the Republicans and the Democrats had taken a necessary blow. We can see each other more clearly now. This is a time of unstoppable, irreversible change after a deadly rollercoaster of a year for a lot of marginalized groups in the country…and a perceived attack on the white, male powers that be (but, hey, perception is reality!). Our melting pot is now a pressure cooker and our relatively young nation is experiencing yet another bout of growing pains…and it is up to us to decide what we become. And while we are pros at making decisions based on emotions there’s one that we let slip by far too often: empathy. Understanding. Some of my closest friends come in both red and blue. We should all be willing to engage peacefully with people who have beliefs that are different than our own. Challenging your beliefs, giving in to doubt, learning from others is one of the leading contributors to true personal strength…and thus national strength. But any sort of ill will toward people of a certain race, sexual orientation, gender identity simply because they were born that way is unacceptable. No one should fear for their life because they make someone feel uncomfortable. And THAT’S how I feel about this election!”
That was an example of a response I’d give after a lot of wine, by the way.
This was all a pretty bleak summary of my vacation, huh? The truth is that we all approach life with the mindspace that we’ve got from moment to moment and mine was desperately looking for answers…and the above is most of what I came away with. Honestly my trip to Berlin (and Stuttgart!) was incredible. I was only there for eight days and saw the tiniest sliver of what the country has to offer and am sure I’ll be back for more some day.
And, to be clear, there were some more traditionally wonderful moments on the trip as well: Meeting two brothers from Wisconsin who taught me how to use the subway system and then shared with me their hobby of scavenging in abandoned buildings, the bartender who explained (unprovoked) over and over again to my friend and I that he wasn’t gay but also didn’t charge us for any of our drinks, singing Christmas songs in this trippy apartment at the top of a spire, drinking mulled wine in a yurt, sitting back in a beanbag chair and witnessing an extrasensory multimedia experience of art from proto-surrealist Heronymous Bosch, rolling my eyes every time the very calm and quiet subways were ruined by loud boisterous groups of people who were almost always American, witnessing the assembly of a half dozen Christmas Villages, finishing reading my book on participatory democracy thanks to hours of cross-country train time, eating all the schnitzel a boy could want (not a euphemism), and, of course, seeing my friends who were both fantastic hosts and Mikey and Gash, the Glasgow gays.
Near the end of my stay in Berlin, my friend decided to show me this massive flea market. Unfortunately, the flea market was not happening that day. Instead we wound up in this crowded park; crowded because 95% of the people walked up and down this long stretch of cracked concrete. The path was flanked by an open field on one side and an incline on most of the other. People of all colors, all ages, gay, straight, couples, groups of friends, families, were enjoying a cool Sunday afternoon. Laughter and joyful conversation echoed all around. Everywhere you looked there was some form of art. Whether it be giant sculptures out in the field or the graffiti’d walls and curbs or a folk singing duo, a guy playing video game songs on an accordion or the woman in the Technicolor paper mache monkey mask rocking out on an air guitar. I looked to my friend and I said, “I found it. I finally found it. I’ve been living in the past…learning from the past…but this is Berlin. This is where I am. And it’s awesome.”
I’m a bad gay. At least that’s what one of my oldest friends told me, mere days after my coming out to her. Of course I was a “bad gay”! I’d only started coming out to my friends and family two days prior. Heck, I’d only come out to myself a week or two before, in which time I confessed my at once confused and passionate feelings to a boy who had come out years before, learned that the feelings were mutual, and endured a slew of his cautionary tales before being allowed to accept him as my first boyfriend. The barren wasteland of my sexuality had experienced its first drop of water; its first ray of sunlight; its first jolt of life. I had accepted my homosexuality or, more appropriately, my romantic feelings toward a person of the same sex. This was all so new. I was gay, yet it was so fresh a thing that I could not possibly be good at it. Bad was the only option for my twenty-two year old self.
While my dear friend intended the accusation as a joke, more or less (She followed up her statement by expressing her desire for the one gay friend that she finally had to be a “Jack,” not the “Will” that she associated me with), my insecurity around the “badness” of my own homosexuality vexed me deeply.
While I was (and am) no great playwright, essayist, actor, or illustrator, I had established the written, theatric, and graphic foundations for these skills years before. They were all a part of me that had been well-documented, well-explored; integral to my current self. I was intimate with them and them me. I understood them. In making my gayness public I was admitting a part of me rooted even deeper than the arts, biologically speaking, but one that I knew so little about…and it scared the shit out of me.
My boyfriend, this proto-partner of mine, had been in numerous romantic relationships before me. He’d kissed multiple men. He’d had sex multiple times. Had his heart broken. I was a gay virgin in a most whole and profound way. Educated in the Catholic manner, homosexuality was not a possible path for me. The only run-in I’d had with an openly gay person before college was a neighbor who died of AIDS when I was in grade school. Accepting myself was wrought with early onset fear and insecurity.
And then there’s The Struggle. You know about The Struggle, right? How many coming out stories involve such intense emotional, physical, and spiritual strain? Fathers beating sons whom they catch groping another male. Friends and family rejecting completely their offspring. My own boyfriend at the time was kicked out of his house and forced to sleep on a bench at the local train station for a couple days. Aside from my mother and I not speaking for four and a half months, I came out rather painlessly, every single friend and family intact. Sure there were dozens of awkward conversations (My grandfather blamed my “condition” on my male high school teachers who he’d convinced himself I’d been molested by). The boyfriend once told me, “You don’t truly know what it means to be gay because you haven’t really felt the hurt of it.” Those words haunt me to this day. I was doing it all wrong.
Thanks to him I lost my virginity, achieved my fair share of kisses, and experienced my very first heartbreak. All of these were great forward strides in my mucky march toward true successful gayhood. Though in the years that followed, two or three that included my transition from college to the so-called real world, I took a number of steps embarrassingly backwards. The pain from the heartache caused me to shy away from my romantic desires which is fine enough were they not so completely attached to my concept of my own homosexuality up into that point, that I buried much of that, too. I surrounded myself with friends that were exclusively straight. I even called myself bisexual which manifested itself in the physical world as a single awkward date with a single girl that ended the only way it could have…terribly. Whereas my original idea of myself as a “bad gay” was based mostly on ignorance, this latest definition was reactionary; a decided rejection of self. Twenty-five years old, living in New York, and utterly clueless.
The gays of New York City succeeded in making me feel even more behind the times; at least the ones that I focused on. I’d watch them walking speedily down the streets of Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen, sculpted bodies, fitted clothing, hair styled to perfection, exuding a confidence that radiated off of them like a forcefield. I studied them intently, a creeper on a bench or standing at a corner. I was at once in admiration and awe at the amount of work they had to put into themselves to look the way they did. At the gym. At the store. In front of the mirror every morning. I would picture them at the club, glistening with sweat, grinding, pulsating with one another. They were made for it. Gods of the dancefloor. I even imagined their Struggle to trump my own by a thousand. Then my eye would inevitably turn inward. I’d see the loose fitting clothes, the little tummy, the gradually receding hairline, the hairiness, awkwardness, and at the time, loneliness. How could I ever dream to be this highest caliber of gay (honestly, that’s how I saw them)? It wasn’t so much that I didn’t love who I was. It was more that I despised who I wasn’t. I’m not used to envisioning anything as unachievable, but I felt like I could never be a part of the gay community having never once even given it a chance.
Today I’m not the idiot I had been. My OKCupid account lists me firmly as “Gay.” I came to the obvious conclusion that gay people came in all forms and flavors and currently make up much of my close group of friends. I’ve had a couple more boyfriends, a few more flings. I’ve marched in some pride parades. Volunteered with gay youth and hope to do a lot more. Granted, old concepts of being that “bad gay” persist: I’m weird about public signs of affection. I still hold those Chelsea boys up as a standard. I loathe myself for these things and still feel a twinge of not belonging, though not nearly to the degree that I had. I’ll often announce that I’ve never been bought a drink at a gay bar, packaging the statement as a joke but myself and all those around me would have to be deaf and blind to not see my unrest that fueled those words and others like it. This is my Struggle. Like so many other things in this tale, mine just came a little later.
Do I consider myself a bad gay these days? Honestly, there’s nothing to gain from negative thoughts such as those, the thoughts that crippled the development of my sexuality for years. I have grown and continue to grow. Thirty now, I think only of meeting the man of my dreams, getting married, and adopting children who will benefit from my Struggle as I struggle to ensure they are raised on the conclusions of self-acceptance I learned much later. I will hold my husband’s hand as we stroll down the streets, confident and content. I will continue to use my art to further assist the fight for equality through truth and understanding. I will embrace my all as I welcome others to embrace their own. Am I a bad gay? No, but I will spend the rest of my life becoming a better one.
It was the Summer of 2007 and I was 23 years old. My first relationship had ended only a month before, leaving both he and I emotionally wrecked, reeling from the intensity of a love lost and the all-too-fresh anger we had inflicted upon the other. I didn’t know what it meant to be defeated until that Summer. The world felt heavy and dark, a hopeless place that I was destined to float through, eternally sad, eternally alone. And whether on purpose or not, people tend to attract a world that reflects the way they feel about themselves. I was no different. It was this law of negative attraction that introduced me to Rider.
What follows is our story or, more appropriately, the story of our paths briefly crossing.
Part One: Sweet Meet.
I was draped over my futon, an open box of Peanut Butter Crunch on my chest, my eyes bloodshot, staring dazed at the next episode of Will & Grace on Lifetime. Lord knows when the last time was that I’d shaved, showered, or left the house. I couldn’t have told you the day of the week or the number of times my friends had tried to call or text, to see how I was doing. They angered me, my friends. Partially because of the thought of them perceiving me as weak; partially because I knew that I was weak. Their calls were left unanswered.
As in many situations in my life, it was my mother that moved me to action. She stormed into my bedroom and threw a newspaper at me. She’d circled the address for a temp agency and told me to go. I cleaned myself up (enough) and dragged myself out of the house, into the car, and signed up to be a part of the temporary workforce.
Within a day or two I’d been hired to do small tasks around the area, but it was my last job that matters to this tale: One of the packaging machines had broken down at the old Hershey Chocolate Factory and they needed a bunch of people to count and package Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Hershey’s Kisses into tins. We were separated into two lines and were given our orders. My coworkers for the next week were mostly older black women or black men in their twenties and thirties, covered in tattoos, dressed in oversized clothes, jeans hanging well below their waists. I stood out as I always had amongst my fellow Harrisburg inner-city locals in my bright colors, nerdy graphic tees and fitted tech vest. I was ready to be the black sheep. I was used to it. And then Rider came along.
Twenty minutes late, he strutted in, head held high, a frown on his long mouth. His brown hair was styled like a wave frozen just before it crashed against the shore, and awash with highlights. His shirt and jeans were impossibly tight. From top to toes, he commanded attention with his attention to detail and style. Our boss gestured for him to join the line opposite my own. A good thirty feet between us, for the entire eight hour day, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
While the attention I’d offered this boy was nothing short of fascination and sexual attraction. Such was not the case with the other workers. Suspicious and annoyed by something so different, they muttered “faggot” under their breaths, would laugh at the sight of him or sound of his voice. I was seething at their unwarranted hate. My temper was so short then, my emotions so raw, but I said nothing. That was day one of ten.
On the second day when Rider entered the warehouse I waved to gain his attention. “Stand with me,” I said. He did. “I’m Trystin,” I said. “Rider,” he replied with a smile. A big beautiful smile. I felt a wave of accomplishment then. Something within the shadowy wilds of my mind shone like a dull light. In Rider I found a kindred spirit in a way I could not put to words. We shared something I couldn’t put my finger on. That small moment was the first since the breakup that I’d felt…life…inside of me. All I knew is that I didn’t want it to go away. And what I failed to know was that the something we shared was the very parts of myself that I feared the most.
Part Two: Chaos Kiss.
Rider and I hopped in my car almost every day to grab lunch at one of the many fast food restaurants in the area. We’d park and sit, chomping on burgers and listening to music. We’d talk comic books and how much we hated our job or how much our coworkers sucked. He’d complain about his boyfriend. Part of me loved that he had a boyfriend because I was terrified of getting too close to anyone and that made things easier.
Our time at the warehouse came to a close, but my friendship with Rider was stronger than ever. I’d pick him up and we’d go on rides or grab a bite, see a movie – stuff like that. Not long after he and his boyfriend broke up. He moved in with friends farther away. I’d still pick him up, of course. I’d travel anywhere to be near him; to feel like I felt like someone else.
It didn’t take much before our night drives, the emptiness and the quiet, caused us to open up to each other. Historically, at first. Rider would light a cigarette and the truths of his past would flow out as smooth and hypnotically as the smoke from his mouth: He couldn’t drive because he was on probation because of a DUI. His mother had kicked him out of the house because he was “too crazy.” They’d once gotten in a fist fight on their front lawn and the neighbors called the police. On an ecstasy trip, Rider had sex with one of his friends and she became pregnant and had a son. Rider was in the process of signing away all rights to the kid. During one ride he received a call that his father had passed away – a motorcycle accident. I asked if he was okay and Rider only replied, “I hate him. I’m glad he’s dead. He left me 20 grand in his will. That’s all I care about.” He was 19 years old.
It became abundantly clear that this person was not what one would refer to as a “good influence.” He was wild, trouble-prone, unapologetically himself, and fiercely flawed. At any other point in my life someone like this would seem alien to me. But when I could only see myself as weak, as lost, as broken; a creature mangled by the pain of week after week of screaming, of crying when I was sure no one could see or hear me. At that moment in time, to look upon Rider was to look upon the person I was becoming. This was my new and inevitable dark trajectory…and he would be the one to lead me there.
Our night rides were the thing I looked forward to the most in all the world back then. Chaos and freedom combined. Soon being near him wasn’t near enough. My hands would explore his body and his mine. When his lips touched my skin, the lingering pieces of the person of sadness I was peeled away, leaving only him and I. Empty. Content.
Part Three: Down the Rabbit Hole.
I pulled up to the baby blue single-wide late one night, to the sight of Rider racing out with a woman shouting behind him. He slipped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “I probably won’t be staying here much longer,” he said and took a drag of his cigarette. I pulled off and he asked, “Can we visit a friend of mine?” Of course I agreed to it. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t have said yes to at that point.
Rider guided me into Carlisle, a town close enough to Harrisburg that I’d known of it, but too out of the way for me to have ever visited before. I drove down empty, snake-like streets lined in rundown townhouses, doused in the eerie yellow from the flickering streetlights. Save for a stumbling drunk or a pair of kids standing on a corner, the place appeared a ghost town. “Park here,” Rider said.
We walked down the cracked sidewalk and to the front door of a house that resembled the rest; paint chipping, porch littered with old toys. There were no lights on inside. Rider knocked. Silence. “I don’t think anyone’s here,” I whispered. He told me to wait. I took a deep breath and took in the scenery. Seconds late a pair of eyes peered through the venetian blinds and the door swung open. Standing before us was a girl, no more than fifteen, and very much pregnant. She and Rider shared a friendly, excited hug, then Rider introduced her to me. We stepped inside.
The living room was dark; the only light coming from the cellphones of a pair of girls texting as they sat on an old mattress on the floor. “Hi, Rider!” they chimed in unison. A couple, maybe seventeen years old, were squeezed together on a recliner, whispering to one another as the girl, skinny, blonde, and pale, typed poetry into her laptop. It took a little more focusing on my part, before I caught sight of the man passed out on the couch. He was wiry, shirtless, and a cigarette butt remained between his fingers. His arms and torso were covered in only the most questionable tattoos: demons, flaming skulls, Confederate flags, and swastikas.
This guy, Alvin was his actual name, woke up, cursing under his breath as he climbed to his feet. He noticed me immediately and said, “Who’s the nigger?” At that point just about everyone in the room except for me gasped or shouted “Alvin, don’t!” …which is, of course, what people like that want. He repeated the word at me, fueled by their protest, then burst into a rant about how all the girls should keep their mouths shut; how he’s more of a father to them than their actual dads and they should be grateful. Shortly after that he passed out onto the couch again. All the while this was going on the boy on the recliner gently caresses the cheek of the girl who is on the verge of tears, promising, “Kristen, we graduate next year, baby. One more year and I’m taking you away from this forever. I promise.”
A normal-enough woman enters through the back door, into the kitchen. She’s wearing a business suit and toting a twelve-pack of Bud Light. Rider introduces me to her as the mother of the pregnant girl. Rider then hoists himself onto the kitchen counter and grabs me close. We make out like no one’s there.
Another character in this seemingly endless span of introductions, a pudgy man with a trucker cap and a thick mustache stumbles in through the front door, drunk. He approaches the mom, slaps her on the butt, downs one of the Bud Lights and starts to make out with her not three feet away from Rider and I.
The mood changes when the pregnant girl’s phone rings. She answers, “Hello?” Something about the way she said it sends her mom’s boyfriend into a rage. “That better not be who I think it is!” he says over and over. The girl darts up the stairs. Rider takes me by the hand and we follow her into her room. The heavy thuds of someone coming up behind us is clear, but the three of us are safe behind a locked door before it’s an issue. The girl talks to the father of her child as her mom, her mom’s boyfriend…and Alvin bang on the door.
Through all the shouting, I deciphered the details of the situation: The father of the girl’s child was in jail for a number of crimes, one of them being beating up the very girl he impregnated. Her mom’s boyfriend wasn’t only an over-protective father figure, but also the father of the girl’s jailed boyfriend. The girl was still in love with her ex-boyfriend/abuser and no one was too pleased about this.
Somehow everyone calmed down. Rider and I left that place and I snuck him into my grandparent’s house and spent the night there. Laying naked in bed, my body entwined his, already lost in peaceful slumber, I could not help but think how utterly unphased I was by the evening; how unphased and uncharacteristically calm I had been ever since I’d started this journey as the lonely worker at a Hershey factory. Remember how I said that we attract a physical world that reflects our mental state? I had accomplished that that night. I smiled, kissed Rider on the forehead, and drifted to sleep. Fulfilled. Content.
Finale: The Point of [No] Return.
The following days were great. Long gone was the sad, lump of a human I had been. A new era had dawned: One where I wasn’t a slave to loss or depression. Nor was I a slave to the arts, to the perceptions of how others perceived me; to constantly caring and concerning myself with the well-being of others. I was of the moment, in the moment, and I loved it! Rider and I would eat at fancy restaurants, guzzle a bottle of rum curbside, watch movies with friends, express our feelings for one another pretty much anywhere in whichever way we saw fit, addicted to the present and never taking anything too seriously.
And then we made a return to the pregnant girl’s house.
It was a pleasant enough Summer day. We approached the house and, before reaching the door, one of the girl’s opened it, ordered us to, “Come inside. Hurry! Hurry!” and slammed the door shut once we had done so.
The tension in the dark home was palpable with the two girls and Alvin peering out of the window as if in wait. In the dining room, the young teenage couple sat in the dark, the boyfriend listening to his girl read aloud dark poems of sadness and fear. Upstairs something crashed to the floor. The door slammed. And then an argument erupted.
One of the voices was that of the pregnant girl. Rider grabbed me by the wrist and we charged up the stairs to see her. She was in a shouting match with her mother and her mother’s boyfriend. It turned out that her ex had been released from jail and was planning on coming to take her and his unborn child away. The girl seemed to be open to the idea of running away with the guy who beat her – a fact that infuriated her mother’s boyfriend (aka the father of the abuser). He stomped into a bedroom down the hall with the mother and the daughter (and Rider and I), then back out and down the stairs, seemingly to separate himself and calm down a bit.
There were a couple lines of what I could only assume was cocaine on the nightstand. Empty beer cans littered the floor. The pregnant girl was red in the face, tears flowing. The mother and Rider were attempting to console her. I stood in the corner and watched this display of compassion; of terror and grief, feeling like a mere spectator watching a scene from a film. This was a moment I wasn’t living in with people I didn’t know and, like that, the loneliness found me once again.
Rider kissed the girl on the forehead and hugged her mother then, to me, said, “We should go.” I nodded and walked out of the bedroom and down the hall. As I approached the steps the father/boyfriend was ascending them. He stood close to me. It seemed as though he was towering over me while we were almost exactly the same height. I looked into his bloodshot eyes and saw a deep-seated anger and drive inside of them that sent a chill through me. The man, drunk or high, looked at me and growled through clenched teeth, “If that boy comes here I’m gonna do what I should’ve done years ago. I don’t care if he is my son. If he sets foot in here I’m gonna drag him into the basement, tie him up, and shoot him dead.” To dispel any doubt around his words, the man then reached and lifted the edge of his shirt, revealing a small shotgun pressed between his old jeans and his gut.
I only saw Rider a couple more times after that enlightening afternoon. More my doing than his. I remember going home after dropping Rider off. My home without racist, alcoholic uncles or coked-out mothers or murder-minded fathers. My bedroom with the X-Men action figures and the Looney Tunes posters and the shelf loaded with Gamecube games and philosophy books. My silly and short-tempered, but ferociously loving mother. My sister and cousins and friends who I had been absolutely pulled away from, who were all right there and ready for me upon my return. And of course, the loneliness, the heartache, the longing for things never to be returned- they were waiting for me as well.
The current state of my life could have been a lot better, to be sure. But in the stark juxtaposition between my own world and that of Rider’s, in having escaped into the darkest corners of his own escapism, I returned to my life. A life that had, I was reminded, beaten me down before…and would again. And each time, as I had done before, I learned, I grew, I made art.
I returned to college a week later. My last semester. Another in an endless field of opportunities to question and embrace my world. My life. One month later I made a new best friend; every bit the counter to Rider. Two months later I wrote and co-directed that year’s children’s play. A couple weeks after that, I graduated. Back in Harrisburg, I hopped back into fascinating world of temporary employment where I met a pair of married hippie managers who took me under their wing, stressing meditation, inner calm, and trusting in my inner strength (and the Universe) to provide my life’s next step. A few months later I visited my father, only to have a teenager girl ram her car into mine, totalling it. It was the resulting insurance check (and those hippies’ words) that financed my move to New York where I, six and a half years later, continue to live no one’s story but my own.
I remember the feeling I got when I looked at that fresh empty side. The possibility. The opportunity for me to put my pencil to nothingness and turn it into something all my own. Over the next half hour or so, my pencil and I created The Thunder Mammals, a team of mammalian super heroes who protected the Animal Kingdom from menaces within. Sure, I had made up my own characters by that point- tons, in fact -but that smack to the back of my head was the catalyst for a fundamental shift in how I looked everything.
I had a relationship to characters like Daffy Duck and Wile E. Coyote whom I would draw often and one as well with Super Kitty and Clay-Guy and others of my own cartoon pantheon, but the true difference between my attention on one group or the other was negligent. What my mother had taught me in that direct, swift way that defines her methods, was the power of ownership. Daffy was their idea. The Thunder Mammals was mine. Mine. And with that ownership comes a strengthened idea of individuality and, with that, strengthened creativity.
As my artistic relationship with Warner Bros. decreased dramatically and my own characters’ worlds grew into rich, enormous things, the lesson learned quickly spread into other facets of my life. What else was I pouring myself into that was not mine?
Suddenly, the world in which I had lived for over a decade appeared to be, for the most part, not my own. What did I feel about things that did not directly come from the opinions of my parents? What did I know about things that did not directly come from the books that other people had given me? I was nothing more than the receptacle for other people’s creations; a realization that allowed me to set forth on a quest to free myself from it.
In the coming years the word “why?” became my best friend. When I was told how to act, or what to think, or (a major theme in my Roman Catholic schooling and upbringing) what was right or wrong, I immediately rejected the answer and, if the question were one I had never heard before, asked myself how I felt about it; if my opinion was in line with the “me” I am always in the process of building.
I’m sure that a lot of people are reading this and going “Duh!”, but the more I do and the more people I see the more I am sure not enough people have actually received that smack in the head (metaphorically or otherwise) to get them to step outside of the socio-environmental boxes they were placed in. The reasoning behind this, I think, is a healthy blend of social conditioning, rationalization, and laziness (known also as an “addiction to easy”) – By the by, these three things are secret recipe for the perpetuation of a great many terrible, terrible events that have occurred throughout human history.
We often tend to congratulate ourselves too much, treating a mild victory as an overwhelming success. Certainly we should be proud of our accomplishments and congratulate ourselves for every good thing we do, but much like the teenage girl who treats the discovery of a pimple with a explosive emotional outpouring of someone who’d just lost a loved one , we tend to give our personal progress more weight than it deserves. I’m not saying that getting a tattoo or or boat aren’t steps toward becoming closer to the person you want to be, but so often do we glorify these surface things to the point of glazing over the deeper opportunities for embracing our individuality, sometimes to our detriment. This leads to people thinking things like, “Well, my hair is blue and this yacht is great, but why am I not totally happy and content?” The answer: go deeper.
The way it is.
When the strongest themes of one’s society mix with laziness and a heaping helping of rationalization what you get this is phrase “That’s just the way it is.” Basically, these six words, whether spoken aloud or kept within, are one of the most powerful forces blinding a person to their own creative potential, freedom, and individuality (these three things being the exact same thing, really). If you hate your job, why do you stay there? If you’re in an abusive relationship, why do you stay in it? “That’s just the way it is” is such a convenient answer. Not to mention its close friend, “You can’t have everything,” which, while technically true, allowing it too much pull is the equivalent of blowing off your own leg with a bazooka constructed of your mind’s self-defeat.
The truth is that these debilitating mantras are self-imposed prisons where the guard and prisoner are one. To act against them is to loosen their grip immediately. Search for a new job. Move out of the house of your significant other. Sure, these escapes offer varying levels of difficulty depending on the situation, but merely believing that such a shift is possible is a form of creative freedom.
Is it the way?
Okay. Great. We’ve got blue hair, a yacht, a new job, and are no longer being abused. That’s it, right? We have assumed our individuality and drawn our own life’s picture. All is well, right? RIGHT?
Ha, you wish. Believe it or not, this is still the surface. Physical, tangible things. Toys. Cars. Other people. Houses. Dogs. Jobs. Money. Important things, yes, but to reach the truth of your individual, creative self you must be willing to go deeper, to ask “why” to the very core of who you are.
Compared to this next part, the bad jobs and bad relationships are easy. No matter how we rationalize them, it’s obvious in our hearts that they are bad. When it comes to things like one’s religion or morality or philosophy, things that are sometimes so deeply ingrained in a person’s psyche that they seem as much a part of them as their genetic make-up, “That’s just the way it is” is a force so all-encompassing that it is simply “Correct.”
The African American side of my family comes from the deep south where certain things were a certain way for people of different races. Some of them today are distrustful of white people. I’d say something as simple as “I got an A on my Biology test today” and that would garner the response, “Aw, that’s great Trystin. Now don’t let those teachers try to put any of them white boys ahead of you even though they ain’t as smart as you.” Is this response coming from a place of utmost love and concern? Yes. Is it a dangerous bit of hate based on a generalized and (arguably) outdated assumption that is just as harmful to peaceful race relation as any teachers who might “put any of them white boys ahead of” me? Certainly. If my handful of relatives and others like them would consider the times and their own recent experiences instead of clinging to cultural-spun philosophy then maybe their tune would be different.
The product of a Catholic upbringing, my learned concept of right and wrong was a compilation of carefully selected and translated excerpts from the Bible, everyone’s favorite religious tome. Early on we learned things like “Stealing is bad” and “Killing is bad” and “Not going to church on Sundays bad”. Then as we matured, so did these excerpts increase to combat our newfound urges: “Sex before marriage is bad”, “Adultery is bad”, “Homosexuality is bad”. To many, too many, the words of this book are the be all end all of the core of who they are. These people are so deeply Catholic or Baptist or Jewish that their unique self (them as “Sarah” or “Rachel” or “Greg”) comes second.
To truly reach one’s full potential one must fully look into their own morality. They must first look at the whole and then tear it down piece by piece. The latter is where laziness can come in, too. People love their quick fixes and when they can get the answers to all their tough questions in a simplified single place, be it a bible or a political party, they hold on tight and then concentrate on that new car they’ve had their eye on. This stuff takes work!
Looking at the bible holistically we see the usual excerpts, but also some really odd and disturbing things like men sleeping with their daughters without the least bit of negative connotation and Jesus himself condoning slavery (in quotes that were used in the American South to support their pro-slavery views). And then, once the whole picture has been put together, go ahead and see it as a number of pieces, not one single lesson that you can be for or against. Just because you think killing is wrong does not mean you need to think missing church on Sunday is, too. Pre-made view sets are not YOUR view sets. The same goes for your parents’ morals and our little two-partied system. Pick and choose what you feel is honestly right for you and, if in the end your moral code seems an awful lot like the one you left behind… Fine! Great! When I drew a picture on that poster board one of the Thunder Mammals was a platypus and looked an awful lot like Daffy Duck…but he wasn’t. He was a conclusion I reached on my own based on a desire to create from within myself. And as I thought holistically and my worldview expanded from the resulting questions, that platypus (and just about everything else) changed as well.
I’ll have you know he looks nothing like Daffy today…except for, you know, having a beak.
I’ve got a novel in the works. Here’s a preview for chapter one of “The 7 Missing Tarot”…
Chapter 1 – In the cards.
“Son of a FUCK!”
I didn’t always curse like this. My parents would have never allowed it. They’d send me to my room without dessert or some TV shit like that…even though we weren’t allowed to watch much TV growing up. “A box of sin and temptation” and all of that. I mean you’d swear, too if you cut your leg while shaving in the tub. I probably shouldn’t have been so focused on hitting the high notes of Whitney’s Bodyguard theme. Or maybe I shouldn’t use an old razor I found under the sink. Regardless, blood is blood and my thigh is gushing like a motherfucker. My name is Okimbe- Kim for short -and I’m going to pass out now.
It’s roughly ten minutes later and I’m lying…laying?…lying in bed, my roommate Tina holding my hand. Her deadbeat-but-harmless boyfriend Dave is looming over her, scratching his head, his face dopier than usual. Something about me: I pass out at the sight of blood. So whenever I shave in the tub I make sure that I leave the door open and let Tina know so I don’t, you know, drown in the lamest fucking way ever.
Okay. So I guess you’re probably wanting to know more about me than some shit about passing out in tubs. Fine. To tell you the truth, my adult life pales in comparison to my backstory. Like, seriously. My life has been a series of uneventful stumbles and falls since the bad old days. I’m talking newsworthy stuff. Google my name- Okimbe Cuthbert…or Malawe -and you’ll see. Actually, don’t. I’ll just tell you:
You know those weird, creepy cults that pop up from time to time on the news? They’re always in the middle of nowhere on some compound and no one ever knows about it until EVERYONE knows about it. That’s where my story begins. I was born in a shack to a kidnapped twelve-year old girl who died in childbirth. My shit-eating fuck-brained monster of a father- the father of everyone who wasn’t kept in a cage, actually -was the undisputed and omnipotent ruler of the Malawe Compound.
Ogun, he called himself. He was dark skinned with tufts of wild graying black hair framing the entirety of his long face. He stood frighteningly tall, especially in my memory, long legs placing him up close to the heavens he claimed to have descended from. What I remember the most about my father, though, were his eyes: large yellow orbs, glazed over by drugs and delusions; piercing things that shone with the wrath of God.
I was five years old when the S.W.A.T. team stormed us, an army of white-skinned men brandishing weapons and armor like the demon hoards in Ogun’s sermons. I was washing clothes with sisters in the courtyard. My brothers were around, skinning food or hunting or berating the captives. We were all caught unaware. Ogun emerged from the main house at the sound of our screams. He didn’t lift his rifle a fucking inch before a dozen bullets dropped him on his porch. Two of my brothers and one sister, attempting to avenge our prophet-father’s death, were killed as well. All I could do was wail, wide-eyed, as curses and gunshots thundered in the air all around me. I wailed and I wailed, tears rolling down my dry dark cheeks. Wailed as I lost my father; my siblings. Wailed as a strong armored arm picked me up, kicking and screaming, and then hurled me into the back of a black van, promising over and over again that I would be safe now.
“Oh, settle down!” Tina scolds me in her sweetest voice as she applies some weird organic cream to my cut. She’s a skinny white girl with green eyes and blonde hair and dresses in expensive flowy earth tones. She’s been out of college as long as I have, but unlike me, her parents continue to pay her rent and give her an allowance so that she can skip around the city without the slightest care in the world. Lucky bitch. I love her though.
I pull my leg away. “That’s enough, Tina!” Shortly after, I realize that I’m only wearing a towel and her boyfriend Dave now has got front row seats to my goods. “Dammit!”
Dave smirks and shakes his head. Tina giggles as she pulls my leg toward her, once again covering up my ladyparts. “It’s cayenne and cinnamon infused, Kim! For once in your life shut up and let someone do something nice for you.”
My streak of independence (read: stubbornness) might originate from my dead biological father, but it’s more likely that my adopted parents were the ones who instilled those traits in me. Suck on that, nature. Nurture for the win!
After I’d been abducted (read: rescued) from the evil clutches of my fucking backwards backwater Georgian childhood, I was all over the national news. As the youngest and least corrupted of my siblings cameras were on me all the way through my adoption process, where upstanding citizen and (white) Protestant Minister Charles Cuthbert and (white) wife nabbed my high-profile ass and dragged me to a small (white) town in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. I was probably the only black kid for a hundred miles and grossly undereducated. Some would say I was born to be an outcast with a shit ton of anxiety and identity issues. And they’d be right.
More on this later, but for now just know that I was a semi-famous preacher’s daughter who spent my entire childhood in the fucking Whitebread, USA. Oh, and Mr. and Mrs. Cuthbert already had a two-year old son named Ricky, my brother, who I will certainly be talking about more later because he’s a goddamn brilliant mess and I love him more than life itself.
“We’re grabbing bagels at the bodega,” bubbles Tina from a room away. “Want something? My treat!” I can feel the bile rising in my throat when she say “my treat” because I know she knows I’m having money trouble and I know I shouldn’t be angry at her generosity because there isn’t a judgemental bone in her skinny freckled body.
“I’m good!” I reply, ignoring the comically timed rumbling of my stomach.
“You sure?!” It’s Dave this time. I can practically hear the beard and torn skinny jeans and filthy Chucks and flannel shirt and ironic trucker cap in his voice. Fucking hipsters…says the vegan girl with a degree in literature from Sarah Lawrence, an apartment in South Williamsburg, and a wardrobe almost exclusively comprised of locally purchased used (read: vintage) clothing. Ugh, me.
The star-crossed lovers go on their bagel run and I get dressed and do a quick review of myself in the mirror. Tired brown eyes: check. Full lips: check. Thick black hair with streaks of fading gold that doesn’t really know what its doing or where it’s going just like me: Uh huh. And a curvy body that could probably use a couple weeks of cardio, but oh well all my gross online suitors don’t seem to mind so whatever: Yep. Fuck Cosmo. Twig-ass models and shit. I look…okay. Okay enough. These thighs, though. Ugh, me.
Sometime between high school and college I really got into New Age shit. I started doing it to piss off my parents and that bible studies bitch, but it stuck. Astrology, crystal healing, numerology, I eat that stuff up. Because today feels especially directionless and bleak I decide to give myself a full-on tarot reading. The Celtic Cross. Classic. I reach into the wooden red box in the top drawer of my nightstand and pull out my deck. The deck and I walk into our little kitchen/living room/dining area dripping with art and half-dead plants and I take a seat at the faux-wood Ikea table. Let’s all take a quick second to praise Ikea, okay?
I promise you I’m not some weird hippy freak who’s always checking her horoscope and yammering on about Reiki and magic spells. I’m not. I love those things. But I’m not. I mean, it’s my religion, you know. I believe in it. We all draw answers from the collective universe in our own ways. Sometimes its putting on a pretty hat and singing to Jesus on Sunday. Sometimes it’s raping and killing girls in the middle of the woods. And, for me- right now, at least -it’s doing a fucking Celtic Cross.
I shuffle the cards with my eyes closed and concentrate on a question. Figure I’ll go with the old standard: What the fuck is my life?
I place the ten cards in the cross-formation, face down like so…
The first card represents the present. I got The Moon. It represents fear. Anxiety. Confusion. That sounds pretty legit.
The second card is the challenge – the main thing standing in your…my….way at the moment. Ah, and it’s good old Seven of Cups: fantasy and illusion. Like maybe it’s all in my head? Ugh.
Next card: the past. And it’s…the Eight of Swords. Not surprising. It’s all about loneliness or feelings of abandonment or imprisonment. I sigh.
Okay. Time for the immediate future. Oh. The Fool. This is one that rarely comes up for me. Despite the negative connotation of “fool” (one that completely fits me), it’s a pretty badass card. It’s a card of new beginnings, spontaneity, embarking on new adventures. If only. The only new adventure yours truly can go on is the quest for a new place of employ-
The apartment door swings open. “Heyy!!” Tina chirps.
“Gah!” The abruptness of her entrance scares the shit of out me and I end up knocking half my spread and most of my fucking deck on the floor. In fact, the only card that remains completely unmoved is that damned Fool.
Tina’s cheeks flush red. It doesn’t take much. “Oh, Kimbi! I didn’t mean to scare you!”
“Shit…” Dave slurs the word in that lazy baritone. He’s holding a full paper bag with both hands.
“Dave.” Tina commands, already reaching for the bag. “Give me that. You help Kim with her cards.” I try to protest, but that’s never worked before and it won’t work now. Dave lumbers toward me, the docile servant, and gets down on his knees, collecting my fate.
A warm wrapped bagel slams against my boob, stopping me from joining Dave and my fallen cards. “Here. Eat. It’s an everything bagel with vegan sausage, egg, and cheese. Your uzh.” Tina holds the item against my chest and makes her best angry face, which is fucking adorable- like an angry baby or puppy. Oh, and her squeaky-ass voice gets kinda deep and she basically sounds like a Muppet or some cartoon-ass shit. “Take it. Sit down. Dave’ll take care of your little cards.” Like I said: adorable.
I sigh. I moan. I sit my ass down on the couch and eat that bagel because I am fucking starving. That bagel had no chance. Tofu warped into more familiar non-vegan forms is annihilated between my powerful feminine jaws.
Midway through my breakfast I spot Dave at the table, separating my tarot cards into five piles. “What are you doing?” I ask him, spitting chunks of much-desired nutrients as I do.
He shrugs and says, “Organizing them.”
“Why the fuck-” I stop myself. Well, actually, Tina’s wide-eyed death glare stops me. Bitch doesn’t have an intimidating inch over ninety-nine percent of her body, but those fucking eyes, man. Prettiest fucking things in the world when she wants them to be, but upset her and you feel like you’ve been spotted by a pride of lions in the fucking Serengeti when she looks at you.
Once my bagel is sufficiently no more, I down a glass of orange juice Tina places in front of me. “Yo…” Dave begins. My insides are already preparing themselves for the stupid that’s about to happen. “Is this all of them…?” He sifts through the piles of cards with a face overwhelmed with confusion.
Certain of this guy’s incompetence, I march over and sort through the five piles, one each for Cups, Wands, Swords, Pentacles, and the Major Arcana. Fuck. The complete set was not accounted for. I get down on my knees and look for stragglers. Nothing. Fuuuuck. Using my incomparable powers of deduction (read: process of elimination) I count seven tarot missing from the deck:
I search the floor under the table again: nothing. My little red box: nothing. The floor around my little red box…This isn’t fucking happening. What is my life?
I get frantic, shuffling around my room, the living room, opening drawers and closets, digging in pockets, groping every nook and cranny of our little apartment with reckless abandon. I can feel the eyes of Tina and her pet boy boring into me, not quite sure what to do as I scuttle around like a fucking crack crab with my heart thumping hard and fast and my hands and knees coated with dust and the garbled curses I mutter to myself with every fucking fruitless attempt. I hate it when I get like this. Like, I can feel myself losing it, make no mistake. I can feel all the logic and the calm getting the shit kicked out of it by fucking crazy inside of me. The missing cards are just the trigger, really. A minor incident acting as a fucking catalyst, opening the dam of losses. It’s been almost a month since I’ve had a job. My financial security is nonexistent. Chills go up my spine over my daily realization of possessing zero marketable skills. I’ve been single for months. And the last time I’ve had sex- FUCK. And great. Here come goddamn tears…
“Kimby?” Tina’s voice trembled. She wanted so badly to comfort me but was terrified of approaching me sliding around on the floor, knocking things over and talking to myself. Who’s the scariest thing on the Serengeti now, bitch? Except instead of a ferocious lion I’m a fucking hyena with rabies, begging to be put down before I put down you.
I’ve never been diagnosed with panic attacks officially, but these fucking episodes, whatever they are, have been happening more and more lately.
“I’m fine,” I assure them in a heavy exhale, eyes bulging out of my head and sweat beads dripping down my face like a fucking crackhead in withdrawal. “Fine…fine…” I pick myself up from the floor and wipe the crud from my hands and knees. We’ve sucked at cleaning lately. I stagger to the table and sit down, my gaze roaming from my fraction of a deck to Tina and Dave then back to the deck again. “Missing…”
“I’m sure they’re around here somewhere!” Tina bubbles, no longer worried. “I’ll help look as soon as I put all the groceries away.” She smiles her pretty, pretty smile. I know in my gut that she’s wrong. Any new age person worth half a shit knows that missing tarot cards have meaning. Hell, more meaning than present ones. If I think about those seven cards for a fucking second it’s obvious. I mean, the Empress?! Come on! Come the fuck on!
Maybe the crazies haven’t fully worn off, but the knowledge of what I have to do next hits me like a fucking hydrogen bomb. Or the end of The Sixth Sense. My life is an empty, directionless, depressing hot mess right now and there’s no one to blame but fucking me. Okimbe fucking Cuthbert: certified idiot. The cards said as much. And I’ll be damned if the stuff I need to do to get out of this shit-nest I’ve built for myself rests in the cards that aren’t there. Or, more specifically, the unresolved shit from my life that I’ve been running from, hiding from, ignoring or straight up suppressing.
I guess I’ll be the Fool after all. Time to take impulsiveness by the balls and embark on that new fucking adventure into some old baggage.
Oh, and I’ll try not to curse so fucking much.
I despise avocados. I hate the taste and whenever my mouth comes in contact with that weird texture, my gag reflex is immediately triggered and I have to keep myself from throwing up for the next ten to fifteen minutes. True story.
You may ask yourself what’s so important about my beef with avocados to merit a post? Nothing, really, as from the segue I’m about to make: I feel there is something to be said about some of the reactions I get to revealing this little taste of Trystin Trivia. People’s eyes bulge and their mouths hang open and things like “No way!” or “What is wrong with you?!” or “How could anyone not like avocado!” are shouted into my face, which brings me to my point: People need to get a life.
How many times have you witnessed a reaction to something that was so unnecessarily over the top that you could have sworn you missed something? Something that leaves you saying, “Um, you do realize I said that I enjoyed LOST more than Battlestar Galactica and not that I just stabbed you mom to death and fed her corpse to sewer rats, right?” Seriously. We live in this ultra-connected world where we are constantly being pelted with other people’s exaggerated lives (via social media) or things that have been made to look really interesting by the media. This has lead to over-the-top being the norm. Most of we mere mortals don’t spend our days surviving hurricanes or with PR teams or paparazzi blowing up our every move to God-like proportions so we’ll take some menial little piece of our world and grow it our minds, obsessing over it until, to us, this comic book I started reading is on par with the discovery of life on Mars or a terrorist attack. And so, if someone speaks for or against it in any way, our reaction becomes crazily overblown.
The avocado reaction becomes a problem in that human beings are only capable of a certain spectrum of emotion. If we consistently tap into our high passion when it comes to things like kale preparation and Miley Cyrus’ new single, it not only lessens the largeness of truly earth-shattering events but it also holds us back from recognizing those events for the impactful things that they are. This is especially true when dealing with our own sense of self-worth and -expression. Investing too much of yourself in the menial and material can purposefully or inadvertently create a barrier that causes you to define yourself by your interests instead of who you are, effectively slamming on the emergency brakes of your growth as a person (though your encyclopedic knowledge of history of the New York Giants may be beyond compare).
I’m not trying to seem like some emotionless automaton or someone who is against enjoying the little things. Be excited as much as possible. Be happy as much as possible. Embrace the material aspects of life you love…even if it is an avocado. Please. Just don’t use that as an excuse to not be constantly seeking out new things and bigger things, tangible or otherwise, in the external world and within yourself.
And for everyone who thought this would post actually be about avocados, here are some fun facts!
Up next in Vs.: Sports!
A few years ago I worked in a very conservative, very white, very well-off community on Long Island. My commute involved two subway lines, the Long Island Railroad, and a twenty minute walk through this community. As far as colored folk go (or any folk really), I look pretty tame: slim bootcut blue jeans, casual shoes, glasses, a colorful graphic tee and hoodie. Or vest. Or hooded vest. Though my appearance never did stop the people of that community to lock their car doors, stop everything they were doing and scowl, or even call their kids to them as I drew nearer.
What I’m saying is that there’s racism. I get it. I’m aware and everyone should be because it’s real and it’s a problem.
The lady who glared at me as I heard the power locks click into place doesn’t know me. We’ve never met. Her sense of hatred, fear, disgust is based in something that is not at all because of me, but instead a generalization imposed on me because of my skin color. Why does she feel this way? Maybe it’s how she was raised. Maybe it’s the media. Perhaps it’s due to personal life experiences. Probably all three, each one fueling the other in some raging racist cycle.
As I, like many entities of the universe, enjoy some good cosmic balance, during the time I worked on Long Island I also lived in Harlem. Low-income, black, dirty Harlem. Basically the opposite of the community in Long Island. Interestingly enough, walking around that neighborhood dressed as I am, I would get nearly identical looks. Narrowed eyes and expressions that seemed to say, “You are different and therefore unwelcome.” People would snigger under their breaths when I walked past or mutter the word “faggott,” which, it turns out can be defined as a black person who dresses or acts “white” (granted, I’m also a faggot faggot but let’s not worry about that right now). Needless to say, I was feeling real loved that year.
What’s a dude to do? Look at the bigger picture, of course. It’s so easy, SO easy, to dwell on their negativity. Negativity sticks, you know. The all-knowing “they” says that it takes five good deeds to make up for one bad one. Sometimes I think it’s far more than that. For every person in my life that’s walked to the other side of the street, herded their kids away from me, or made fun of me for not “acting my race” (one of my favorite flavors of racism), there have been hundreds (family, friends, co-workers, strangers on the street) of all colors who have shown nothing but kindness or in the very least total indifference. The moment you let someone else’s hate create in you a generalized reaction based in hate, is the moment you become a part of the problem. Period.
Stay tuned for Round 2 of Vs. RACISM!
Up next on Vs.: Avocados (seriously)
Hiya, folks! It brings me great pleasure to introduce “Vs.,” a sort of sub-blog to my main blog posts that offer quick (or quick-ish) glimpses into my opinions on various subjects; everything from Death and Abortion to Avocados and the Lion King. Pretty much anything I’ve ever had a concrete opinion on, many of which I’ve never written about or even had the opportunity to squeeze into a dialogue before. And if the subject is big enough I’ll be following the initial post up with subsequent rounds (I’ve already started Round 4 of Vs. Racism so that’s fun). The goal here is to keep these short and sweet, but effective and release one every single week for the rest of my life. Ha. We’ll see how that goes.
Anyway, thanks and enjoy!
The first “Vs.” is RACISM! (round one).