Pulling a Trick- Entry Five

This is something that I need to get off my chest. Then again, this is a journal entry, so, what else would this be used for?
Am I right?
By now, I suppose that you and I have talked enough for you to know that I need this place. I need this, right here, as in this moment or as if to say, I need you.
I’ve always needed you.
I need this interaction which takes place just between us. Because of this, I am somehow saved or cured, at least for the moment.

I suppose this journal or my poems is one of the secrets that I use when I look to pull some of my tricks which, again, isn’t about basic magic. This has nothing to do with pulling a rabbit out of a hat or turning a handkerchief into a white dove.
And I admit that I’d love to be able to pull a trick like this. Imagine?
I could say hocus-pocus and snap my fingers . . .
But magic has different meanings to me, at least in some regards.

I am not sure why I am where I am. I say this humbly and with all sincerity. I am not sure if I deserve what I have or if I realize how fortunate I am.
I know that I should count my blessings. I also know that like many others in this world, I forget to see how precious our life can be.
I take too much for granted.
But there’s a word for this.
I think it’s called being “human.”

Yes, it is safe to say that my body is well enough that I can move. I can still walk. I have aches and pains and the usual wear and tear, which is normal for a man in his early 50’s.
But life could be worse (always)!

At the same time, I am thinking about people who have lived their life, and I mean real life. I am thinking about the students that I have met. I am thinking about some of the people I have had the opportunity to meet with and the people who I have had the honor of hearing about their life.

I don’t know . . .
Who am I?
Am I special?
Am I just ordinary?

And please, before we slip into the lands of self-deprecating judgment or before we slide into the assumptions of a self-defeating dialogue, I want to be clear about this.
I want to be heard. Since this place is only filled with you and I, then please, if I may, let me speak freely. Let me just get this out.

I do not look at myself or see me as the person that I used to be. I know who I was. I know where I’ve been. At the same time, I know where I haven’t been.
I make no claims to say that I am the king of the hill or at the bottom of the barrel. I do not come here to say how I lived through hell, and somehow, I came out alive and lived to tell my story.

I remember back before Tommy died.
I remember when he asked me, “How come?”
He asked, “Why you?”
Chris had a memory of me too. This was from when we were “back in the day.”
He told me that this was the memory that always came to his mind whenever my name came up.
He remembered a moment when I had to make a run for it. He remembered what I did with the package that I was holding.
Chris laughed and shook his head, and then he said something to the effect of, “and look at you now.”
We laughed at the fact that we were a bunch of crazy kids who dared the edge. At the same time, we shook our heads because neither Chris nor I could answer about how we survived.
Chris passed away a few years back.
I miss him.

He died after Tommy. I told Chris about what Tommy said.
I told Chris about when Tommy said, “How come you made it out, and not me?”
Chris told me not to think about this. He told me. “You know how it is.”
But he also mentioned to my credit, “I think a lot of people wondered why it was you who got away.”
“But I’m glad you did because who else could I talk to like this?”

I remember an afternoon in late July of 1989.
I was sitting with my back against a wall of a local deli. I was in the middle of a nod and drifting or weightless like a dried leaf that was circling around in the sweep of a small wind.
I remember watching the leaf, turning in this mini tornado, across the pavement.
East Meadow Avenue was in front of me and the intersection at Prospect was to my right.
I remember.
I mention this because I can recall watching a dead leaf blow around in the somewhat emptied parking lot of a place called The Meadow Dairy. I suppose the representation of the weightless leaf and the submission to the wind is a good comparison to emulate the opiate results of a deadly euphoria.
I was high, weightless, and drifting.
I was painless yet aware that I had spread the disease to someone else. I shared a bag with a new contestant of an otherwise game between suicide demons and martyrs.

I will not reveal the real name, however, I can say that “Anthony” was next to me.
His eyes were at half-mass, or to be clearer, in the case of someone’s eyes being the window of the soul, the windows to Anthony’s soul had the blinds half shut and his soul was temporarily indisposed.
And then Craig walked by, laughing at first, assuming that maybe we were drunk—but no.
He knew.
I remember Anthony was saying something to me before Craig arrived.
I was hardly listening.
He told me, “I’m never doing this shit again.”
I rolled my head to my left so I could look at Anthony.
My eyes were half closed. My jaw hung opened and my mind was altered.
The infection in my bloodstream caused me to submit to a sickness that could never be perfected. I know I was just another contestant in the game. I knew there was no way to win this game. There was only a way to prolong or placate the demons by a dose of more euphoria.
But there’s never enough.
The results dwindle, which is how the demons win—or how they keep you on the dangle and offer you more to keep you in the game. They keep you flushed, but not without interest.

“I’m never doing this shit again,” said Anthony.
“Yes you will,” I told him.
Then I went back to me semi-conscious state which is when Craig came by.
“Nice,” he told me.
“Infect somebody else, why don’t you?”
Anthony told Craig, “Shut the fuck up.”

Craig walked away.
I slipped back into my nod, but I knew it,
Craig was right.
Although Anthony is not the real name of my friend, and while I somehow made it out of that life — I still submit that names, places, and dates are always changed to protect the less-than innocent.
“Anthony” is dead too, by the way.

I do not blame myself for this.
I understand the laws of engagement and the rules of the game. This infection is highly contagious and more, this is socialized and demonized. But again, the Devil knows how to pull a trick too.
In fact, the Devil’s best trick isn’t when he tells you, “come here!”
It’s when he tells you to “Stay away,” and that’s what draws people in.

I think about the tricks that I pulled back then. I think about the foxhole prayers and the times when I saw unthinkable violence and realized, “Holy shit! I almost died.”

I remember listening to parents talk about the losses of their children due to an overdose. I have listened to children or young adults who told me about the passing of their parents. I have spoken with people who lived with or knew someone who died by their own hand, or similarly to a list of my old friends, I have listened to the stories of people who buried their loved ones after finding them dead from an apparent overdose or with a needle in their arm.

I am no one other than me.
I am often unsure why it was me and not someone else.
I used to struggle with the idea that perhaps I don’t deserve what I have—and maybe there are people who might agree with this idea. Maybe there are some who will say that I don’t deserve what I have and that maybe I deserve hell, or that yes, the life of their loved one was worth more than mine.

I have no time to argue or debate this. I have no time to argue or debate whether I deserve to be alive or whether I am a good person or a bad one.

I am me.
I never said I know anything more than anyone else.
I never said that I am better or free from sin.
I have sins. I have skeletons in the closet.
I was never a good boyfriend.
I was not a great father.
I did wrong.
Yes, I did.

I have secrets. I have mistakes that haunt me and memories that creep in my dreams. 
I am not able to hold myself above anyone nor will I allow myself to be beneath anyone.

At the same time, I had the chance to speak with a roomful of students last night. I had the chance to listen to them. I had the chance to speak with them.
I don’t know any of them other than from our little group.
At the same time, I love each and every single one of them.

I want them to be better. I want them to be a hero.
I want them to be their own hero as well—and please, with all of my heart, see the world as it is. Let yourself rise to the occasion.
Pull off your trick.
Don’t quit.
Do not submit to the lies or the ideas of being a tortured soul.
Find what you love to do and never let this go.
And love . . .
Love with all of your might and all of your heart.

Fuck fear.
Let fear be the best motivator of your life.
Let this turn you into the champion and the hero you are supposed to be.

Please—

Avoid the noise in your head and avoid the doubts and insecurity. When (or if) you think or feel or if you find yourself in a struggle, face it. Don’t run.
Don’t look to escape it.
Step up and face it.

I wasted decades not being loyal to my truths and because of this, I allowed myself to miss out on moments of greatness.
I let myself give way to disbelief.
I let myself submit to the ideas that something about me was wrong or too flawed. Because of this, I allowed myself to submit to a life that was substandard at best.
I hurt people. I lied.
I made mistakes.
But I’m working on this.
I allowed my depression to drown me in my emotional quicksand and thus, I allowed too many years and too many opportunities to pass me by.

And here’s my trick –

I don’t know why I am where I am.
I don’t know if this was just luck or if there was a greater purpose for me.
I don’t know if I was part of something infectious or if life is just a case of happenstance.
Who knows?
Does anybody?
I don’t know what Tommy would say to me right now.
I don’t know what Chris would tell me.
I don’t know what Jeff would say.
I don’t know what Mike the Rocket would tell me or what “Anthony” would say.

Maybe they’d tell me they’ve been watching.
Maybe they’d yell at me and ask, “What the hell are you thinking?”

Maybe they’d say that I’m still alive and that there’s still time, albeit short or fleeting—but again, maybe they’d remind me of the saying, “enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think,” which, in my eyes, this means: It’s go time kid.

We can’t fuck around anymore.
If you see something, go for it.
You want to change, do it.
You want the life you’ve always dreamed of?
Then make it so, kid.
Don’t let your miracle be a waste.

And as for miracles—

I remember when I was young. I wanted to quit. I wanted to give up. I never thought much about the idea of living clean.
I mean, the idea was great and all, but I never thought someone like me could play the game straight, and still get ahead.
I was about to quit and go back to the demons I used to dance with.
There was an old man with white hair and a white bead.
He was always happy.
I fucking hated him.
He always had some kind of positive affirmation or some catchy little slogan to say to me.
I used to tell him to go fuck off or get away from me with that.
He would still smile at me and tell me, “Keep coming back.”

He used to tell me, “Don’t quit before the miracle happens.”
One day, I flipped.
I asked him, “What fucking miracle?”
I was miserable. I wanted to quit.
I literally hated everyone and at the same time, I believed that everyone hated me.
What miracle?

I blew up. I let everything go and I started yelling.
I screamed at the kindhearted man.
His smile went away.

He looked at me, lovingly, like a father would look at his son.
How long are you clean?
I think I had about 90 days at the time.
“90 days, huh?”
“Son, with all that you just told me and with all you just showed me, the fact that you’re still here with 90 days and the fact that you didn’t quit—if that’s not a miracle, then I don’t know what a miracle is.”

That man saved my life that night.
I’m still here.

I can never repay what I owe.
But I can pay the kindness forward.
I am no guru nor do I want to be.
I am not a saint, by a long shot.
I’m no different from any other lunatic here on this place which I call Project Earth.
I have a story of my own. I’ve done wrong.
I have regrets and likewise, I have consequences to pay.
But with all of this being said and confessed, I know there is good in me.
I know that I have done “a thing or two.”

I might not deserve what I have, and I might still be working on the interest with the demons from my past—but for whatever this is worth, and whether I deserve the honor I received last night, or not—if it’s okay with you, I think I’d like to see this as a means to an end.
I think I want this to be the way I pull off my next chapter.

I need to view this as a wakeup call.
I think I’d like to see this as “real life” and whether I come from wealth or poverty, or whether I am good enough or not, or deserving or not, everyone has a story and everyone is recovering from something.

My story is not better or worse.
It’s just mine.
I used to have a purpose in mind. However, the last year of my life has led me to losses and caused some confusion. But make no mistake, I promise you this—

I won’t quit before the miracle happens.
That train ride can wait.
I have a trick to pull and grown folk’s business to take care of
and, oh yeah …

Hey, Jeff . . .

Watch over me, will ya?
That last phone call before you died meant a lot to me.

I never had the chance to thank you for it
But I will…

One day.