But Teacher, I Am Trying (My Best)

The funniest thing is that I swore I would never grow old. Then again, this is something that young people say.
Or so, I suppose.
I swore that I would never walk the line or conform or be like the people I knew who became part of some kind of system that seemed to be lifeless or draining.

I never wanted to be the kind of typical 9-5 person who raced to get out of the front door and make it to work on time. I never wanted to be “that guy” while dressed in the typical or usual business attire with a newspaper tucked under one arm, a Styrofoam cup with hot coffee in the other and a briefcase in tow.  

I never wanted to be on the clock, so-to-speak, or leashed to a boss or healed to some kind of power that controlled the way I earned a living or fed and clothed myself.
Or suffice to say, I never wanted to be under the thumb of some kind of pissed-off supervisor who swore their job title was an extension of their manhood.
And yet, somehow, here I am
killing it . . .

I never wanted to be part of the society, which I detested for some reason, and to add a little color to this; I never wanted to be common or do commonplace things and talk about politics and argue about the price of gas.
No.
I never wanted this.

And here I am . . .
Killing it.

I never wanted to grow up or go so far that I would lose my roots and forget my core.
No, I never wanted to grow to an age where I would abandon my rebellions or surrender my position in the fights against the powers that be.
I wanted to keep my edge.
I wanted to nurture and groom my contempt to keep myself sharp.
I never wanted to be like those people who I see, always on their cell-phones, talking way too loud about their personal life, in public, no less.

I swore that I would never be like the undesirable versions of my Mother and Father or fight over meaningless things.

And yet, again, here I am.
Nailing it!

 
I never wanted to become like any of my so-called authority figures or like the older ones who would look down on me.
Never.
I swore to this.
I never wanted to be like those people who refused to explain things, and instead, they’d cancel my questions with answers that sounded like, “You’ll understand when you get older.”
But why?
Why not helpme?
Why not explain?
Why cancel me as if experience is the only teacher?
Was there no other way for me to learn?

I remember being young and thinking I had everything figured out, —and so, even if nothing was figured out, I always believed that I would somehow get over or find a way to pull a trick and manage to get by, —somehow.

I never wanted to be the kind of adult who lost sight of himself. And I never wanted to be the kind of man who was otherwise bitter or angry or like my Old Man on his bad days, I never wanted to be short or cold or bitterly quiet to those who I loved, and of course, here I am.
Nailing it!

Age is an interesting trick.
I swear, I have no idea how I got to where I am and at the same time; here I am.

There is a memory I have after a long night out with the boys.
I can assume I called them my friends, but then again, my version of the word and my definition of the term friendship have changed considerably since my mid-twenties.

I edge into my mid-fifties and think how different I am and at the same time, I still long for the same kind of closeness and personal connection.
I suppose the biggest difference now is I don’t need a long list of friends.
No.
These days a prefer my list of friends to be fewer and more valuable.

But either way, I digress.
I remember . . .
I was out late and on my way home.
I was considering the life behind me and curious about the life ahead of me.

I was alone in a different way. I was alone in crowds. I was alone in my intimate relationships. I was too afraid to love and too afraid to be unmatchabke and alone.
I knew who I wanted and I knew about her beauty. Yet, I was too afraid to show myself because what happens if I dropped the act and became the person I always wanted to be, and what do I do if I show her my truth and she turns me away because my truth is ugly or unattractive and what if she sees me and finds that I am ugly?
I was unhappy and yet, I masked my life with a smile and pretended to go along “to get alone,” and thus, I was in a soft to moderate state of unrest and eager to defy the world by daring the edges of life and death.
I was crazy . . .
. . . like a fox, I suppose.
Then again, some might say this is common or age appropriate. Some might tell me this is something that would work itself out with time, or that someday, I would understand when I was older.

I drove home from the city and had too much on my mind to go straight home.
I drove to the beach and stood on the sand.
I lit up one of my cigarettes and exhaled my first drag as if I was an outlaw or some kind of mysterious character in some kind of meaningless novel.

How do people live?
How do people navigate their way around this place.
Life is life. Love is love.
People are people.
Lies are lies.
And still, I wondered what I would become.
Who will I be in the years to come?
Would I be like some old fat has-been  who was more like a wannabe—and if so, what would my adult life look like?
Would I grow old and fat?
Would I appreciate the comfort and the convenience of Velcro shoes or smell like some old man who has a wife that packs the closet with mothballs?
I never wanted to be normal or regular or some kind of mute, uninteresting form of lifeless person.

I remember pulling up to my home after this, —and I remember sitting on the trunk of my car in my driveway.
I was looking at the sunrise.
I remember watching a man jog by my house.
I hated him. I hated his middle-aged yuppie appeal.
I hated his shorts and his headphones and is tube-socks.
I hated him and his representation of the life.

I don’t know if I’ll understand more about now when I grow older.
And I’m not always all too sure if I understand more about then, now that I am older.

I understand the feelings that come with being in a state of unrest and the crazy bouts we have as people.
I am, of course, a citizen in this otherwise crazy world.
I have lived here for more than 53 years.
And I get by too.
I don’t always get by as easily as I hope to or without snags.
But I’ve been able to ride this globe around the sun a few times.

I have seen ups and downs and no, the worries of my early youth are not the same as the worries of my young adulthood.
And although some of my younger fears have survived and remain, I am not as afraid of the dark or as worried about the monsters beneath my bed.

I am not worried about the bullies at school or what goes on in the locker room or afraid about the fights on the playground.
At the same time, my connection to bullies and the association I have with them are no longer limited by gender or size. Bullies in my life are not limited by muscular strengths, fighting styles, or anything otherwise because I have met different kinds of bullies.
I have encountered corporate bullying. I have been punished by people who are physically small and weak. However, age has shown me how that the pen is certainly mightier than the sword in many regards.

I think I could use a nice walk in Central Park.
I think I need a day to cut class and find myself elsewhere or anywhere but here—and more than anything, I think I need an hour or two with some loud music that screams about my rebellion.

I think I need to remember what I have forgotten so that I can let my future defy and forget about my past.

God . . .

I remember when I saw the Pacific for the first time.
I remember a night on the roof of a tall building, high above most, and I was looking downtown at a place called The World Trade Center.
The Twin Towers are gone now and so are some of those dreams that I had at that time.

I remember the times when love was this inspirational thing and yet; the thirst and the hunger of my lust allowed me to be ready at any time because, of course, when the figure of my lust walked by or entered the room, —I was alive in such a different way.

I swore that I would never grow old.
I promised that I would never be bitter like the enemies of my youth.
and here I am, doing what I swore I would never do.

I swore that one day, I would make it to where I wanted to be.
And –
I can’t say that I’ve made it.
I can’t say that I know what will come or what will happen tomorrow.
All I can say is I’ve grown.
I’ve aged.
I yell at traffic and sometimes I yell at my television.
I’ve yelled at my dishwasher for a good portion of time, the other night.

I’ve yelled and shook my fists at the sky, and I’m sure there are a few times when I screamed, “Hey you kids, get off my goddam lawn!”

Life . . .
I swear, it’s a trick.
Mom used to always tell me, “No one ever promised you a rose garden,” which means no one ever told us that life is going to be easy.

No.
life is a lot of things.
And I can’t say easy is one of those things.
I swore that I would never be so serious . . ,
and here I am
being serious.