I am thinking of the days of old, or the days of my yesteryear, only the years are decades ago.
There I was, alive and well, and a crazy young man on the prowl.
I remember as if it were yesterday yet, I remember this as if it were something that happened to someone else. Or maybe I recall this as if this all happened to me in a past life.
Or maybe this was only a dream.
But I was there. I know I was.
Maybe I was just a witness or perhaps these memories are like sitting down to watch a long movie with subtitles—and sometimes, I was able to keep up with the words and other times, no.
Not so much.
I remember walking amongst the madmen and the wild festivities of a town that is otherwise known as New York City. And yes, San Gennaro, downtown.
Little Italy—
I recall this well enough, stained like a nicotine memory of me and my pack of Camels, a lighter of course, which was handy in my pocket. And me, a sway and a swagger, or a strut; or if accuracy means anything to my truth, I can say that I was trying to find my perfect approach.
More to the point, I was trying to solidify my place in this world.
I wanted to be cool.
Or wait, no. I wanted to be more than cool.
I wanted to be sexy. I wanted to be dominant.
I wanted to be wanted, and needed. And more . . .
I wanted to be desired and pursued.
I was young and hoping that I could find a way. I was looking to perfect myself, as if to be a craft of my own, or as if to be calculative and crazy, but sane enough to know when to turn “it” on or off.
As usual, I was looking to pull off my trick.
I was trying to find my stage, if at all possible.
I wanted to pull of my trick and make some kind of magic happen.
At the same time, I knew that I was not a magician.
I was only trying to play the role.
I tried to learn how to stroll, as if to be carefree or unaffected. I wanted to look unconcerned and unmoved by whether the world came or went.
There was no difference between hard or easy—there was just life.
I wanted to be “that guy,” or that person, or that alternate being, different from the rest of the word, and unique. Of course, I wanted to be cooler than anyone—and even if there was someone who was cooler than me, either way, I was too busy being unmoved to care about things like this.
I wanted to be impenetrable yet, I wanted to be there, or to be in the middle, and to be in the mix so that I could control the world, like a valve to which I can control the floods. I could allow myself to go or stay, to release a thought, or to be reserved, and all of this would be a decision made by my own will.
I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to be sexy. I wanted to feel this way too, and not just think or wish for it. I wanted to know it.
I wanted to pull off my approach, as if to find that sexy appeal and become so masterful at my approach that I was nothing other than unstoppable, or undeniable, and more than anything, I would be irresistible. Of course, I would be confident too, like James Dean, mysterious and dark, yet cool enough to bestow a light that beamed as I walked into the room.
I have always wanted to be this way. Even now, decades later. I want to feel needed. I want to be more than included and more than invited.
I want that spark that ignites the fire inside of our life.
I want to be able to walk downtown and feel that old sense of craziness yet, I would be free enough to live in the moment that, again, I would be unaffected by typical thoughts or ideas that say times like this are only limited.
I want to feel a surge of music, as if to enjoy the notes which can either be bluesy or jazz-like, and yes, I want to be so cool, like the sound of the cymbals to a drum, before the saxophone chimes in and takes up the scene. You know the sound of the cymbals, right?
You know what I mean?
A few beats from the drum to introduce the music, which is about to arrive, and then here it is. . . the sound of the cymbals, as in, tee-ti-ta-tee-ti-ta-te-ta.
I am not as smooth as I once was. Or perhaps I never was.
Smooth, that is.
I understand my memories of yesteryear, and I understand the parts which make sense to me now. Only, back then, my life was confusing.
To me, I saw my life as if it were like reading the subtitles to a foreign film—and sometimes, I was able to read and keep up. But other times?
Not so much.
I am, of course, misguided at times and misplaced at others, and yes, I am always searching and hoping that I will find my way home, in whichever way that word home will be.
I want to find that space. I want to be “all in” without fear.
I want my life to be as perfect as breakfast down by Chelsea, New York City.
I want a reason to dress up.
(to impress you)
But alas, I know who and where I am.
Or where I am not.
I have gone missing. I’ve been lost. I have run away and come back and wondered the age-old question of, “I wonder if anyone would miss me.”
I wonder if anyone would notice if I left.
I wonder what would happen if I vanished and went away?
Would anyone realize?
Or would I simply vanish like last Tuesday, or like a dirty napkin on the pavement near Bleeker Street.
I want to restart my life.
Yes, I think this is what I have to do now.
I have to face the strain of my changes.
I have no better choices.
Or maybe I don’t have to change at all. Perhaps all I want is to lose track of what happened so that I can release myself from the burdens of regret and stop overthinking or always assuming, and always considering the worst-case scenarios are bound to take place.
I have lived, loved, and lost.
I have died more times in a figurative sense and nearly, or quite literally, I have almost died more times than I’d like to consider. But then again, who wants to learn their lessons from games like this?
I remember the festivals though and, of course, the Great San Gennaro, the Bishop of Benevento, Naples, Italy, and another dream of mine, which may or may not escape me—flying away on an airplane bound for destinations in Europe, Italy, the Amalfi Coast.
I was told by someone, there was a lady who was listening to one of my podcasts in Rome. Can you believe that, Rome, of all places.
I’ve never made it there. But I suppose my voice did, at least somehow.
I sure wish my body was able to follow.
I always wondered if I would be anything without someone.
I wondered if I could be lovable. Would I be wanted?
Could I be in love and so mutually swept away that nothing in the world could stop me.
The answer is yes.
I think so.
I used to think that I had to be impenetrable.
I am not.
I used to think that I would have to be cool for someone to really love me—and then again, since transparency is important, my biggest fear was that when the day came and the gates were open, and when we made the jump to light speed, I would be seen for who I am (or was) and then, of course, my fear was that I would never be rejected and that I would be enough for someone to love me on a full-time basis.
Life predicated upon lies is not an easy start.
Yes, I know this.
This does not mean that everything will always lead to a tragic finish.
However, in the end, I know where I want to be.
I know that my life has changed and that I have changed as well.
You’ve changed too.
I guess we all change.
I still wish I could perfect my stroll. I wish I was irresistible.
I wish I could feel the meaning of the word, “charisma,” and take on that good old James Dean appeal.
Some people might say I have it.
Some people say nothing.
Some people might notice.
Some might not.
Either way, I still wish that I could take on that nonchalant appeal, as if to be unmoved and unbothered, and to whichever way the wind blows, so it goes, and I wouldn’t care either way.
So cool . . .
It’d be nice to enjoy the city the way I used to.
At the same time, the streets can become a young person’s game.
I’m not young anymore. Not to mention the fact that I am through with the games.
I just want the dream. . .
You know? I want the life . . .
And maybe a good sausage and peppers from the festival in Little Italy –
because to tell you the truth, that’s not a bad thing either.
Right?
The Written Addiction 