This has been a long time coming, I suppose. These journals of mine have grown into a collection and, to me, these collections are maps, details and descriptions of changes which have taken place in my life. This is something which has taken shape and grown, just like a child who grows from an infant to a teen and from a teen to a young adult
This has become my baby as well as a piece of my heart.
This has become an outlet to me or a porthole that allows me to escape from the bullshit and the everyday norm. But there’s more.
These journals have become a way to reach you on a daily basis and keep me safe in a place which I have created, especially for us.
I have been working on my journals for years now. To be clear, the reason for my daily writing is both simple and true. I say the word, “true” because everything I write is true. If there’s anyone who comes to question my truth, then to them I would say that everything I write is true to me.
This is my little studio. This is my tiny place in the corner of the universe, small, but mine. As I begin this new adventure, I am writing to you and awaiting the unknown of a new beginning. This new place is small. Or, if anything, I can say this is a lot smaller than where I was before. However, at the birth of this new existence and stepping away from the previous comfort zone known as “more of the same,” I have a little place now. There’s a bedroom. There’s bathroom. There’s a little kitchen with a little counter to eat. There’s a living room. (At least I guess we can call it that.) It’s not much. It’s not big by any means or rich or extravagant. It’s humble. It’s small. And it’s mine.
I began this journey to become a writer. And I’m not sure if I know what that means anymore. Then again, I know what writing is. A lot of people write and a lot of people call themselves writers. But me, I am someone who took to the pen as a means of self-preservation.
I needed an outlet. I needed a savior and at a time when all seemed too far gone or when I seemed too lost to be reached or too broken to be redeemed, I had to find a way to replace my thoughts with action. More accurately, I had to find a way to replace my thinking with an action that was healing so that I could complete a task, each morning, to push me and keep me going forward as well as support me through this journey and keep my neck above the waterline.
Over the years, I have offered this with no mask or filter. I have revealed truths from the depths of my soul and, as well, I have openly and honestly revealed my mistakes as a person and faults as a father and as a man and a person.
Over time, I have managed to work this into a steady source of self-preservation; whereas, without this outlet and without you to be with me, I’m not sure how I would have come through the sporadic damages that come with daily life.
I didn’t come here for the food or the refreshments. I’m not here to please the critics. I’m not classical by any means. I’m me which is something that has taken me decades to say.
I was told that a smart man knows what he doesn’t know.
Well, I suppose this is true.
I’m not sure if I know much or not. Perhaps this is all relative and depending upon our perspective, the one thing I know with all of my heart, both fully and truthfully, I know that this is life.
I know that there are only a special and select few who can offer a warm hand during cold times. And further, I know that not everyone is around forever; however, there are those who were there in the beginning. There are those who deserve the title and to be called family.
And that’s what this journal will be about.
Like anyone else, I have a family. This is relative to me. To some, my family might be small. To others, my family might be big or even larger than life. To me, my family is all I’ve ever known. While distant now and spread around the country and partly the world and while aged and while some of my dearest loved ones and heroes have passed away, as I script my next rebirth, I plan to honor this with the warmth and the kindness that came from my upbringing – by any means necessary.
My culture and my background is all I’ve ever known. This is particular to me. I know where I sat at my family’s dinner table. I know where my room was and, perspectively, I know where my brother’s slept. I know where my parents slept. I know which side of the couch my Father chose to sit on.
This was him, my Father, or whom I affectionately refer to as The Old Man. I know where my Mother used to sit in relation to him. I know where my Mother used to keep her stash of cookies which, by the way, I was told that these cookies were for adults. I was told that they were not for children. To this day, I have not, cannot and perhaps will not ever eat a Stella D’oro S-cookie. But again, I digress.
I know where my Mother used to keep her coupons. I know where The Old Man used to keep his tools. I know where I used to hide my secret stash of adult, or nudie magazines, which I laugh about this now. I laugh because as I report this to you I see that kids today do not understand what kids from my generation had to go through when we wanted to see some extra skin. I’m telling you. We had to work for our porn!
But once more, I digress.
I am about to embark on a new journal. Like it is with any other journal of mine, I want to create something soothing. I want to create something healing. I want to tell you a story that helps you build pictures in your mind. I want to let you in on my little secrets.
Family . . .
At times like now, I know how my Mom would greet me if I walked through the door. I know that I would sit at her table and she would put a plate in front of me. She’d touch my shoulder in a way to let me know, “You’re not alone, son. I’m right here.”
I wish Mom was here. I know this might not sound tough or strong and I know that often my written sentiments might not match my appearance; me, a heavily tattooed man with a somewhat thick, New York accent.
At least to me, there was nothing as healing as one of Mom’s dishes. Like it was when I was a young, small boy and sick in the hospital, nothing was as healing as Mom’s touch when she played with my hair until I fell asleep.
Nothing was as lifesaving as the little stuffed animal who’s been my friend and who’s been with me since I was 8 years-old. His name is Tuffy. He’s been with me all over the world. But now, in a way, Tuffy is in transit and not with me, at least not yet.
My purpose for this journal is to create a sweet and touching sentiment that can allow for a sense of healing. This is for you and for me. It’s also for anyone who could use a touch of warmth at the moment.
This is intended to come with a certain magic. It’s a power. And I love the power of healing. I love the thought which provokes our best forms of nostalgia.
I love the idea of thinking about how it felt to come in from the outside when I was a young boy and the smell from my house would hit me and just like that, the baby was healed.
I am currently a man who is working through my own changes. I say this as a person, on my own now, alone and working through some of the predicaments that come with life.
This will be my means to replace thought with action. Although I admit to a sentiment of sadness for now; however, as I recall some of these events which I am about to share in this upcoming series, my intention is to release myself by allowing a nostalgic resource of love, care and support. I’m doing this to feel the calm, nurturing feeling like I did when my family was alive and well.
It is sad though. Yes.
All who live must die. And to follow this saying down to the end, not all who die have lived.
So, what does this mean?
To live?
To me, I suppose to live means to get some bumps and bruises. Maybe to live means to try new things; to see, to go, and to fall every once in a while and to scrape your knee. I suppose to live means to have a nightmare every once in a while or see a scary movie when you’re a kid and be afraid of the Boogeyman.
I suppose to live means to experience everything under the sun, as in every emotion and to live and to breathe, and yes, this means that at some point all of us will bleed – at least a little. We will all go through crushes and heartaches and breakups. Everyone will fall down but not everyone will learn the victory of resilience or what it means to get back up.
I will be writing the majority of this new series alone in a small, but new apartment. I will make this my station and more, I will make this as humanly touchable as I can.
My plan is to go from here and type until my fingers can’t type anymore.
Like anyone or everyone else, I am experiencing the death of an old or prior existence. I am going through a moment of loss and a temporary moment of restructuring.
I am rebuilding and while I admit to the lonesomeness of my new project, at least to me, I can write to you as if we are still very real. To me, this is how I can keep our conversations alive, even if they’re gone.
This is how I can recall and relive moments that I wish I could touch or grab or thumb through like an old photo album and if allowed, I can share this with you –
Now, another thing . . .
I have been asked who this “You” is when I write. And yes, I want to be absolutely clear – there is an actual “You,” but who this person is to me is more than just a piece of my heart. This person is part of my truth. This person is part of my love and part of my inspiration and part of my personal empowerment.
But to you . . .
I wanted to explain this to you because while I understand the literary world is a place with rules; I am not someone who likes to follow rules.
So, instead of being for the literary-conscious or the grammar nazi’s, I would rather put the rules to rest for now.
I’d rather speak to you as if I am writing a letter or telling you a story. To me, I am picturing your face as I type.
I am thinking of your smile. I am imagining the way you would laugh or how your eyes would close to envision something or how your head would nod in a relatable way.
Why am I writing this?
Well, much of my life has changed over the years. I have gone through whirlwind moments, higher than I have ever known before. But life has changed.
And so have I. So has the world. So has our relation to the people around us. So has the culture and the music and the fashion. Everything is changing. Even the food and movies and the humor.
Was it the pandemic that changed everything for us?
Was it you? Was it me?
Or has life simply turned a page? Maybe that’s it and time is allowing us a moment of correction.
All we have left is our memories. So –
My aim is to report to you, wholeheartedly and sincerely with nothing else and no other intention than to bring myself closer to you. And the same goes for you to me.
(I hope)
My family dynamic is not what it used to be. The closeness is scattered and everyone is distant. My Mother passed back in 2015. The Old Man died in 1989. My Aunts are gone. My Uncle has passed. Some of my cousins have died and yes, nothing is the same anymore.
There have been some fallouts over the years. There is distance now between me and some people, which is fine. For the sake of my sanity and my mental health, I think certain family separations had to take place.
However, I do miss the old family get-togethers.
I miss this with all of my heart.
You’d have loved them . . .
. . . and I can guarantee you this
My family –
They’d have loved you!
The Written Addiction 