Conversation With A Record Store Clerk (#Post 419)

*This will be my final post for a week or so. I will be finishing a short novel, which I hope to self-publish in full on this site. Thank you.

 

I am not a conversationalist. At least this is what I tell myself. When I do engage in interesting conversations with certain people, I often find it a relief to get out of my own head for a bit. I then wonder to myself, what would I be like if I was more of a conversationalist? What would I be like if I actually struck up conversations with random strangers? But I don’t. Normally I keep to myself and pretend not to see other people.

Maybe if I took a small dosage of a certain psychiatric drug I would be more of a conversationalist? Or, maybe if I drank beer or consumed marijuana on a regular basis I would be more interested in talking with other people? What would it take? In my normal state of sobriety I don’t really want to talk to anyone. This is why I was so surprised when I walked into the record store yesterday and started up a conversation with the record store clerk.

I startled even myself when I said, “Hey, how are you doing?” Startled, because when I said this I was actually interested in hearing his response. Normally I am not. I use this question in the same way I use soap, it’s a habit. Do I really care about the response? I’m not certain. I am often asking the question before I know I am asking the question. Hey, How Are You Doing? It’s a question in a can that I have been trained to pull from without thinking about it.

Hey, How Are You Doing?

Hey, How Are You Doing?

I feel bad about how often I have disingenuously utilized this question. I try not to do that anymore but like all bad habits, it sneaks in. For whatever reason, I meant it this time. Maybe it was because I have a deep respect for anyone who works in a record store.

Walking into a record store (for me) is always a feeling of walking into a happier place. A record store is a place filled with endless possibilities, endless new discoveries. Very rarely am I more excited about life than when I walk into a record store. What new discovery will I make today? I am no different from a child walking into a toy store or a religious person walking into their holy space. My mood is instantly lifted every time I walk into a record store.

“Oh, I don’t know. I am existing I guess,” the record store clerk replied in a defeated kind of way. Shoulders hunched, back bent from carrying too much psychic weight as Sade played on the sound system. I don’t know why or what this says about me but immediately I could relate. I stopped at the counter and he moved towards the counter. I wanted to hear more of what he had to say.

“Other people just really suck, you know? The mass human beings just fill me with such disdain and disgust. I really don’t like other people at all. Such a selfish and ugly species, destroying everything we touch. Like cattle or something. Just a really stupid people. You should see the crap I have to sell everyday. I don’t know man, I just don’t like other people one bit,” he said while looking me straight in the eyes.

He looked like a nice guy. A guy that was once a cute kid deeply loved by his parents. He had wide brown eyes and a boyish smile. His hair was short, black and parted to the side but his style (Guided By Voices t-shirt and black jeans) indicated that maybe he stopped caring about fashion after the nineties ended.

“I understand man, I really do.” I meant what I said rather than saying something I did not mean just to be nice. I have found myself thinking similar things about other people from time to time.

“Other people can be really troubling, I know. I get it. We are in a really difficult period in human history. I get it man,” I said.

“You do?” he said with a smile breaking through what I assumed was a permanent grin on his face.

“I do, I really do.”

“You know, I think my day just got a lot better. I am so happy to know that I am not insane for feeling the way I do,” he said.

“No, you are not insane at all. I get it and don’t disagree with you but the question is what are you going to do with the set of circumstances you have found yourself in? You live in this society surrounded by people you have immense disdain for. What do you do?” I asked. I was hopeful that maybe he would provide me with an answer.

“Suicide?”

“Didn’t Albert Camus write that the only real question is whether or not we should kill ourselves?” I asked not thinking that he would know.

“Yeah, but Camus advocated against suicide in favor of making life as meaningful as possible within the meaninglessness of life. In his book The Myth Of Sisyphus, Camus wrote about how we, like Sisyphus, are doomed to have to roll the boulder up and down the hill every fucking day for a lifetime and that we should learn to make the best of it even though none of it means anything and it all sucks,” he replied. I was impressed.

“I thought Camus thought that suicide was the only reasonable answer given the situation human beings have found themselves in?” I asked.

“No, he argued for making the best out of a life that would always be filled with suffering and ultimately has no meaning. That is existentialism,” the record store clerk replied.

“I see, I guess I had that one backwards.” I was slightly embarrassed by my ignorance but glad to finally get it straight.

“So then what do we do?” I asked him again.

“Roll the boulder with a smile? I don’t know man, I just spend most of my time reading and listening to records. Outside of work that is all I do. I am a consumer of culture. A culture whore. I consume but do not produce. I don’t produce anything. All consumption with no production. I just read and listen to records. It’s pathetic, I know.”

“I dont think its pathetic at all. How old are you?” I thought he might say 32 or 33.

“I am 40 man,” he said as if it was something to be ashamed of. As if he should have all of this figured out by now.

“40, that is tough. It definitely gets harder at 40, I know,” I replied sympathetically.

Again his eyes opened wide and his back straightened. “Really. Thank you for saying that. I really appreciate that. Everyone is always telling me that No Everything Will Be Fine, Everything Is Ok, Don’t Get So Down but no one seems to acknowledge how much harder it actually gets. I am glad you do.”

“Yeah, it does get harder,” I said. I wanted to say: Yeah it does get harder especially if you have a lot of self-judgement, are working retail and have a strong dislike of other people.

He kept looking around the store trying to see if his manager was looking at him and getting frustrated that he was taking up so much time having a conversation with a customer. I didn’t want to get him in trouble, so I started moving the conversation towards an ending point.

“Reading and listening to records all the time is not a bad thing. Someone has to do it in order for there to be writers and musicians,” I said. “Some of the greatest artists, musicians and writers were obsessive consumers of culture.”

“Yeah I know but I am not producing anything, just consuming.”

“So what? That is great that you have something you love to do!”

“Yeah but I am not consuming stuff that the mass of people consume. I can’t stand all that crap. I consume obscure books and records that no one reads or listens to so it can feel really alienating and isolating,” he said while looking around the store.

“I know man. I like all of that stuff as well. It does make you an outsider,” I replied.

“Thank you, an outsider. That is exactly what I am. A doomed outsider.”

“Oh common, you are fortunate to have discovered and cultivated an interest for music and books that the mass of people have no idea exists. Don’t look at it as a bad thing. By working at a record store you are just buying time. Buying time so that you can spend the rest of your time reading and listening to records. It’s a very noble pursuit in a time where most people’s interests are shaped by massive advertising and entertainment companies making a fortune from figuring out how to feed the mass of people a steady diet of mind numbing crap filled with propaganda,” I said.

I really wanted him to know that he was not alone. That we were floating along in the same boat.

“Maybe so, but I’m not producing anything. A person should produce something.”

“You just need to stop judging yourself for that one. That is your real problem. You got to just let yourself enjoy what you love doing. Stop beating yourself up about it. Listening to obscure records and being a reader is a perfectly productive way to spend a life.”

It seemed like he was becoming a bit lighter. Like his mind was backing off from the beating it was always giving him. He told me about his two divorces and his recent break up with his girlfriend. I asked if the decline of these relationships had anything to do with his misery. He said no, then yes, then definitely his first two marriages but not the recent break up with the girlfriend. I asked him his name.

“Anthony,” he said.

“I’m Randall,” I said reaching out my hand to shake his. I felt like I was meeting someone who I could be good friends with but probably never will be. We seemed to be similar in many different ways except that he was still spending much of his time beating himself up. I like to think that I finished with that long ago.

He looked around the store again, this time he looked worried about being reprimanded by his manager who was walking around the store pushing a cart filled with records and then filing them away into their correct resting place.

“Well, I am going to go buy a record. It was really nice talking with you,” I said.

“Really nice talking with you as well,” he replied.

I walked further into the record store, ready to make a new discovery.

The Climbing Tree

When I was a very young boy, maybe six or seven, I used to love it when my parents would bring me to the park by our house. It was not all the grass, open space, wild life and swing sets that I loved. It was the climbing tree. When my parents and I would arrive at the park I would run away from them as fast as I could. In the distance I could hear my father’s voice yelling “slow down kid!” But I did not. I ran towards the climbing tree and then once I got to it I would climb up the tree as quickly as I could. The reason why the tree was called the climbing tree was because it was easy to climb. Everyone was always climbing on it. It looked as if it was bending towards the ground because so many people had climbed on it. The top of the tree was only about ten feet off the ground and the length of it was around thirty feet. I would quickly make it up to the top of the tree and straddle one of the trees branches. Beneath my feet, which were hanging in mid-air, I could see the top of my fathers balding head. I would stretch out the tips of my feet and try to touch his balding spot. He would always look up at me and with a perplexed grin say, “Knock it off kid.”

As a teenager I spent a lot of time in that park. Girls would jump on the guys backs and we would have a race to see who could get to the climbing tree first. The girls would laugh out loud and kick the sides of their male carriers and yell, “faster, faster!” The rule was that whoever lost the race had to tongue kiss in front of everyone. We would all climb quickly to the top of the climbing tree and sit around in the shade of the branches and leaves. It would take a half hour or so to convince the shy losers that they had to make out in front of us but when they finally did we all watched as if we were studying for some kind of exam. It became so silent that you could hear the interaction of their tongues. We would spend hours mingling in the climbing tree. When someone brought it, we would drink alcohol and smoke weed. We carved our names into the branches. Sometimes we would couple off towards more private areas of the climbing tree. It was up in the branches and the leaves that I had my first contact with bare female breasts (I remember thinking that they felt like water balloons). At some point during the day or early evening a parent would always come, stand at the foot of the climbing tree and shout out, “Time to come home lovely children!”

When I returned home during college breaks I would see a few high school friends of mine who were also home. We would meet in the climbing tree, smoke weed and spend hours in the branches and leaves gossiping about what happened to various people we knew in high school. We had no idea then that those were some of the final times we would spend together before going our separate ways.

After graduating from graduate school I returned home to live for a year or so. I was unable to find a job so I spent a lot of time reading novels and writing in my journal in the climbing tree. The sound of the leaves rustling in the wind would often lull me into a restful sleep. I would look up into the blue sky and contemplate eternity. What did it mean to be alive? What did it mean to die? Was there any meaning at all? I would look for various familiar names carved into the branches. My name was still there. It had a heart next to it and under the heart was the name of the girl who let me touch her breasts. The last I had heard about her was that she was married and in a medical residency program. I still had no idea what I was going to do with my life.

After living in Portland, Oregon for a year I returned home for a visit. I was in need of a break from my impoverished life and despite my parents frustration with me, I needed some love and financial support from them. I was working as a bartender in a seedy little bar in downtown Portland. I hated the job. Between the constantly gray weather in Portland and the fact that I had no idea how to improve my life situation, I had fallen into a deep depression. One evening after my parents had gone to bed I decided to walk over to the climbing tree. I brought with me a fifth of whiskey and a joint. I climbed to the top of the climbing tree and straddled one of the branches in the same way that I did as a little boy. I wondered if the branch was high enough and strong enough to hang myself from. I felt like a complete failure and I hated myself for not being able to accomplish more in my life and I hated my parents for giving me so much anxiety and grief about my failures. My friends all seemed to be independently finding their way in life but when it came to independence it felt as if I was constipated. Stuck. In a moment of despair I carved “FUCK LIFE” into the branch I was straddling. The next morning I awoke on the grass, directly under the climbing tree. I had a painful bump on the side of my head and the left side of my body was sore.

A few years later when my father died, I returned home with my wife. After the funeral my wife and I went to sit in the park. While sitting on a park bench we got into a fight. Rather than being sad about my father’s death, I was still angry at him. I took my anger out on my wife. After our fight, my wife and I were not getting a long very well so we never ended up going to the climbing tree. The day after the funeral we returned to Portland.

When my mother died a few years after my father, I returned home with my daughter. I had been divorced from my wife for over a year. After my mother’s funeral I brought my daughter to the climbing tree. I let her make her own way up towards the top of the tree and I followed slowly behind her. As I climbed I could feel my heart palpitating in my chest. I was short of breath and I felt tightness in my chest. When I finally was able to make it to the top of the tree my daughter and I sat silently together in the branches and the leaves. My daughter asked me why her grandmother did not move or talk at the funeral. I did not want to fill her with anxiety about mortality, so I told her that her grandmother loved to sleep. “All those people were there to watch grandma sleep?” she asked me. I told her that grandma was really good at sleeping her way through life and sometimes people like to come and watch her. Then my daughter asked me if I had played in the climbing tree when I was her age. I told her that I had. Together we straddled one of the branches and watched our feet dangle together in the air. I held her tight to my chest and when I looked down towards the ground I could vaguely see the top of my father’s balding head. The day that my daughter and I were returning to Portland, I quickly went to visit the climbing tree with a sharp kitchen knife in my pocket. I slowly climbed the tree and had to concentrate hard in order to maintain my balance. When I found the branch where I had carved “FUCK LIFE” into it, I used the kitchen knife to scratch it out.

After selling my parents home I bought a house in the suburbs of Portland. I had fallen in love with a woman who was a psychotherapist and together we had two children. Even though I was much too old, I returned to school and became a psychotherapist. My wife and I started a private practice a few blocks from our home and for the first time I was beginning to feel good about my life. It had been almost a decade since I had last returned to the climbing tree but my wife and kids wanted to see the tree that I was so often talking about.

My three kids, my wife and I returned to the park for what I knew would be the final time. That day was sunny and I could swear I smelled the far away ocean in the afternoon breeze. All kinds of multicolored bugs hovered all over the grass as my family and I walked to the climbing tree. The tree looked as if it had aged so much from all the years and people who had climbed around on it. One by one my family climbed up the trunk of the tree. The climb was not so easy for me anymore. My back hurt, my temples pulsated and I felt like my chest was going to cave in. Halfway up the tree I looked up at my wife and kids who were all waiting for me at the top. They yelled down, “Common old man you can make it!” I put my head down and continued to climb. When I made it to the top I felt one of my daughters use her hand to pat the balding spot on top of my head. Short of breath and slightly wheezing I looked up at her and said with a smile, “Knock it off kid.”

We all sat together in the branches and the leaves and I told them about various memories that I had about hanging out in the climbing tree. We all found my name with the heart carved into the branch. Strangely the girl’s name had faded away. When I told them about the first time I kissed a girl in the tree my daughters all yelled out, “gross dad!” My daughters then climbed around on the branches and I sat silently with my wife. We observed all the names carved into the branches as if we were looking at art work that was centuries old. I saw a lot of my high school friend’s names. It had been more than thirty years since I had seen any of them. My wife put her arm around me and I cried a little. I noticed the spot where I had scratched out what I had written in my moment of despair and I decided not to tell my wife about it. I watched the birds and the squirrels and then climbed over towards one of my daughters when she  yelled, “Look! A butterfly cocoon!” We studied the cocoon and then we all carved our names into the branch, just under the cocoon.

My wife and kids climbed down the tree and I told them that I just needed a moment alone. I maintained my balance by holding on to a branch and I looked around. I could see the vague outlines of a lifetime of memories. I saw myself as a little boy, I saw myself in high school and I saw that young man drunk and deliberating over hanging himself from a branch. I could not help but think that if it was not for that tree I would no longer be alive. I leaned over and gave the climbing tree a kiss. I put my aging face up against one of its branches and I thanked it for everything it had given to me over the years. I told it that not a day would go by where I would not think about it. I felt stupid saying these things out loud to a tree but I believed that someplace beyond my human ability to perceive, the tree understood me. I then looked down and saw my children and wife running around in the grass. Slowly I climbed down the tree. Step by step by step until I had made it firmly onto the ground. And then just for fun and without purpose I yelled out, “Time to come home lovely children!”

It was not long after that day that I heard that the climbing tree had fallen down.

 

 

The Box Collector

I would sit there hiding behind a heap of weeds and overgrown rosemary plants, spending my afternoons watching. People would always come, but on average no more than two a day. When a person walked up to the back of the building and stood at the edge of the descending stairway, I would lift the binoculars that I kept wrapped around my neck and try and get a good look at them. Their shoulders would always be hunched in defeat. Some dressed nice but others looked disheveled. When I got a glimpse of the person’s eyes I would notice the same thing every time. There was blankness, as if no one resided behind those eyes anymore. No matter who they were, everyone who walked to the edge of that staircase would always stop for a minute or longer. They would look down the stairs as if they were staring into an abyss. In those moments I would always feel this uncomfortable sensation come over me because I knew that I would be the last person seeing them alive. I knew that in that moment I could jump out from my hiding spot in the bushes and try and convince them to remain alive, but that was not my role. I was just a spectator and as a result I would always remain in the bushes, waiting for the person to walk down the stairs towards the box.

The city in which I live started the box program a year or so ago, around the time I lost my last job. They started the program in response to the immensely high suicide rate that the city was experiencing. The economic recession was in full swing, banks were swallowing up everything that hard working people owned and jobs were vanishing like mist on a hot summers day. The majority of people who live in my city are middle class people who take great pride in their homes and jobs and when they found themselves without either suicide seemed to become a popular solution. Entire families were killing themselves. At one point it seemed as if everyone was doing it: teachers, electricians, gardeners, construction workers, architects, dentists, chiropractors, therapists, housewives and children. The cost of sending out paramedics and police to the scene of the suicide, hospital and clean up fees were all causing the city to go broke. In response to this crisis the mayor decided to sign into action the box program.

The box program is the cities alternative to messy suicides and to having to pay to send paramedics, police and clean up crews to the scene of a suicide. The program offers individuals the opportunity to climb into a brand new clean white box long enough for someone who is over six feet inches tall to fit comfortably in. Inside the box is a single, complimentary cyanide capsule. There are no questions asked and the individuals final moments can be spent in complete quiet. The person climbs into the box, swallows the cyanide capsule, lays back and then closes the box lid over them. Simple. Every morning city officials come and collect the box and then leave a new one in its place. Bodies are cremated and this is the end of the story as far as the city is concerned. “Everybody Wins,” was how the box program was initially marketed to the general public. For about a year now the box program has been incredibly successful. It seems as if those who want to commit suicide much prefer this method to the more messy ones.

The white box sits against a cement wall in the back stairwell of the cities community center, which was shut down some time ago. The box is on the ground, in the left hand corner and the head of the box is pushed against a locked black door with a sign on it that reads, “Do Not Enter.” Beside the box there is a smaller box of tissue papers and several pamphlets, which offer individuals information about why suicide may not be the best option for themselves and/or their families. On the lid of the box, in bright red letters is written: Please swallow the capsule first and then place box lid on top of the box BEFORE lying down to rest. Thank you.

During my time observing from the bushes I witnessed a few individuals walk down the stairway and then a few minutes later walk back up. I was always glad when I saw this. It was as if the person was getting back something that they almost permanently lost. Their eyes were always bloodshot and filled with tears and they looked as if they were about to collapse. I always wondered to myself why they decided to come back up from the depths. Did they read the pamphlet about suicide prevention and then decide to give life another shot? Or was there someone else already in the box?

It is well known in my city that those who want to participate in the box program should show up first thing in the morning so as to get an available box. The boxes do fill up quickly and even though on many days they are empty way into the afternoon, it is still considered wise to try and get there early. Few things are as disheartening as showing up to commit suicide and then seeing the lid already on the box and knowing you have to wait another day, maybe more. Must be difficult to return home after you assumed you were leaving for the final time.

I would hide in the bushes and observe people participating in the box program a few times a week. I really did not have better things to do. For some reason engaging in this activity added a certain element of excitement and adventure to my life that was not there before the box program. In a strange way I felt as if watching those people gave me a kind of purpose. I would pack myself a bagged lunch, bring a foldable stool and a pair of binoculars and then claim my spot within the weeds and rosemary plants. I would wait there in the bushes behind the community center until I could catch a glimpse of a person who was heading down towards the box. I found it strange that I was so morbidly fascinated by this, so much so that I was willing to spend 4 or 5 hours hiding in the bushes.

It is fascinating to see a person in the final moments of their lives. In my head I constructed a narrative, trying to make sense about what brought them to this point. I was also curious to see if I would recognize any of the individuals who showed up to participate in the box program. It was always the strangest sensation when I recognized someone that I knew. I saw my third grade teacher, my old therapist, my dentist, an old dog trainer my family used to use, a girl who bagged groceries at the local supermarket that went out of business and my parents gardener. Even though my heart would always pound when I would realize that I knew the person- I still never did anything to stop them from climbing into the box. It was not my place to do so- they had made up their own minds and I knew that I needed to respect that.

When I initially lost my job as a librarian I also struggled with suicidal thoughts. I did not know what was going to happen to me or how I would survive economically. I felt like a failure. Bills were piling up and all of a sudden a chronic feeling of impending doom invaded my life. Suicide seemed to be a less painful way out from the difficult situation I found myself in.

Before I became a regular observer watching from the bushes, I was one of those people who made their way down the stairway and into the box. I climbed into the box and held the cyanide tablet in the palm of my hand. I looked around and saw the tops of trees, birds and I could hear the distant sounds of the little league baseball team playing on the old baseball field not far from where I was. As I held the capsule in my hand, I was violently shaking. I felt a wave of fear come over me, since I was not sure about what came after death. I also felt like I was not a hundred percent ready to leave this life. I read through one of the pamphlets besides the box, searching for a sentence that would give me the strength to want to continue to live. Fortunately, I realized that even though I was broke, depressed, without a job and with little hope I could still enjoy being. I could still enjoy the pleasures that hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling and touching had to offer me. I heard the distant and beautiful sound of a bat connecting with a baseball and decided to put the cyanide capsule down and make the most of whatever life I still had left to live.

Since that day when I managed to climb out of the box I have been fascinated with those people who are in a similar situation that I was in. Maybe it made me feel less alone to see others who were struggling just as much as I was. When I saw a person stop before those stairs I was convinced that I knew what they were thinking: “Do I really want to do this?” “I don’t think I can take any more of this life,” “I am such a failure,” “I just don’t want to live anymore, death will be easier.” When they decided to walk down the stairs I knew that they had just made the biggest decision of their entire lives.

For the past month or so I have decided to quit hiding in the bushes. I think that I have seen enough from behind the weeds and rosemary. Ironically enough, several months ago I applied for a position with the city working as a box collector and last week I was fortunate enough to get the job. Every morning, seven days a week, I come with my partner to collect the box. I still find it interesting that there is never a day where there is not a body inside the box. We lift the box together, carry it up the stairs and then put it in the back of a long white city van. I then take out a new white box and put it in the old box’s place. My partner is in charge of lifting the box lid and placing the cyanide capsule inside the box. We both try and leave the area in as nice of a condition as possible so that those who are going to participate in the box program spend the last few minutes of their lives in a clean space. The other morning when we were bringing a box up the stairs I noticed something that made me laugh out loud. My partner asked me what was so funny and I said, “nothing.” What I noticed was this older gentleman hiding in the bushes, dressed in tan pants and a green button down shirt observing us through a pair of binoculars.

A Few Things I Forgot To Tell My Therapist

I spoke to my therapist for my allotted fifty minutes today. Because I did not feel like driving to the office I spoke with my therapist on the phone. I was sitting in my garage staring off into space for most of my conversation with her. I did not have much to say and it was one of those conversations where what I did say did not seem to accurately mirror the feelings that floated around inside of me. As time floated forward I tried to speak of things that I knew I needed to talk about- but no matter how hard I tried I just was not in the mood to talk about myself. I had spent most of the morning and afternoon alone in my garage- the silence had over taken me and I just could not get into the psychotherapy flow. However, once I got off the phone and a few hours passed, I realized there were several things that I forgot to tell my therapist.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I have been spending a lot of time, too much time, calling myself names like “idiot,” “stupid,” “jerk,” “fool” and “asshole” (to name a few). Accusing myself of doing the wrong thing or of being in the position that I am in life and punishing myself for it. I know of no greater psychological pain than to chronically punish ones own self. When I engage in this kind of internal torture I fall into a kind of depressive limbo where getting things done feels as difficult as solving that rubik’s cube thing that was popular in the 80’s. I spend my days hovering around like a hawk with its wings spread in the sky- but going nowhere. It looks effortless up there but in here it is requiring a lot of  energy, so much so that when it comes time for bed I am asleep before I am able to turn out the lights.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I spent all day yesterday counseling one of my old students who was on the verge of committing suicide. She is 18 years old and ran away from home over a year ago. Her father was abusive and her mother enabling. She refuses to return to the homestead and has been left living on couches, struggling for cash (can not get a job because she does not have a green card even though she was born in America) and a few months back managed to almost take her life. She is suffering from a terrible affliction- hopelessness. She feels alone and like there is only one exit. I could relate with her- it was frightening how much I could relate. I made her and myself write down this passage from a Langston Hughes poem:

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
…And places with no carpet on the floor —
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now —
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Talking about my problems today after hearing about hers felt futile. I have a roof over my head, people who love me, a couple of dollars in my bank account, a dog, a cat, a phenomenal therapist and a lover who takes care of me, really who am I to engage in self-absorbed narratives? A part of me thinks this way at least. The other part of me agrees with the Buddha. Life is suffering= rwe all suffer (some are better than others at hiding or repressing their suffering) and even though my life situation may be better than many others my emotional pain is still very real and deep. Even though I have much to be grateful for there is still this uncomfortable emotional pain. There are still splinters.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I have not shaved in over a week because I do not care what  look like. Where once I took a great deal of concern and care with regards to my image- I now give it maybe twenty minutes of thought a week. Shaving is often the first beauty practice to go when one loses interest with their image. The next thing to usually go (for a man at least) is the flat stomach and my tummy is beginning to take the shape of a round ball.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I have started to talk with birds that skip around and sing in the branches of the tree that sits just outside my bedroom window (more about this large oak tree later). It is only fair- they sing to me and I talk to them, thank them. I have also started reading them poetry at night. This is an exercise that I have been doing the past week. I will drink a bottle of organic white wine, smoke one of my fathers cigars and then rather than turn on the television I will go outside and read poetry to the birds whom I can not see sitting in the trees but I know they are there. Some of them start to sing as I am reading to them.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I have been drinking alcohol everyday. Alcohol seems to create just the right kind of alchemical reaction within that thing that is often refereed to as a soul. I like and need its temporary effects. I have also been doing Yoga almost everyday- just to assuage my guilt. However I am no fool. Drinking wine and beer on a daily basis is a Faustian bargain- short term gain for long term pain.

I forgot to tell my therapist that most of my socks have holes in them and my underwear is becoming tattered as well. I know that I should care about these things– but I do not put much importance in things anymore. I have learned that things come and they go, why try and get rid of the holes?

I forgot to tell my therapist that I cry everyday.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I have resorted to hugging trees for consolation.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I would rather spend my time with a dog than a human being.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I am spending a lot more time now just being present and having little concern for the future.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I am neglecting many things that should get done.

I forgot to tell my therapist that my lover is feeding me well, caring for me and that I enjoy the time that I am spending with her. Life does feel much easier now.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I feel claustrophobic in the shower.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I have this strange compulsion to dress in a black suit and walk around the country club in which I am currently staying.

I forgot to tell my therapist that I now know what was meant by “dark night of the soul.”

Oh, and finally I forgot to tell my therapist about this large oak tree. The one that sits just outside my bedroom window and is making this deep, long, languorous, yawning sound every time even the slightest breeze blows. The tree sways from side to side and has started to rub up against the house. I can see where it is putting pressure on the wall besides my bed. The sounds it is making are hunting, melancholic- so beautiful to my ears. It is as if the tree is trying to tell me something and I just keep carefully listening hoping that one day soon I will find out.