A Letter From Self

There it was again. Another dream about me in my other lifetime.
And there I was, small again, a kid, and afraid of the old things that used to scare me when I was too scared to defend myself.
I remembered the way things were.
And I can still smell the old smells, like my Mother’s perfume or how her bedroom used to smell from the makeup and the hairspray she used to use.
I don’t smell these things in my dreams.
But I know about them
(If that makes sense)

I remember the smell from a honeysuckle bush which was not altogether bad but nor was this memory altogether good. And, so, it would be safe to say that my childhood went missing for a while.
Safe to say that I was missing too. Or safe to say that there are still unresolved demons and unresolved memories, as well as unresolved problems which no longer exist and yes, I have unanswered questions that somehow linger in my later years. 

I was so many different people in my life and yet, I was rarely myself, at least not when I was around people. I’ve always had to hide myself or lie or embellish or exaggerate so that somehow, someone would find me interesting.
I wanted to blend. I wanted to fit. I wanted to be more chameleon-like so that I could somehow take on the shapes and colors and the beauties of my surroundings.
But I was far from beautiful.
I wanted to stand out in some way but at the same time, I wanted something more miraculous than to just be another kid or another face in the crowd.
I have always wanted to be beautiful.
Not perfect. But beautiful.
or worthy
or wanted
or desired
and the list could go on.

I saw the old field yesterday. I saw the old junior high school too. They call it a middle school now.
Everything has changed.
The building is mostly the same and yet, everything about this place is different.
Everything about me is different as well. I am not small anymore. I am not defenseless. I am not puny or weak anymore.
I have grown and somehow, still, I can see how I am just as afraid as when I was a boy.

I was small as ever and looking to impress the bullies around me and secretly try to avoid them to keep from being afraid. i gave myself scars to act like i had battle wounds.
I drank the posion.
I smoked the evil things.
I swallowed pills and all forms of different euphoria.
The world was a different place back then.
And I was a different kid.
At the same time, I used to talk to high school students and speak with kids who are far younger than me and from different backgrounds and cultures.
At the same time, they all nodded in agreement when i talked about problems with status and social pressures.

Am I as petrified as I was back then?
I think I am.
I think I have grown and I think I have masked myself for so long that I overlook these fears. Yet, I keep them. I know them very well.
I hold them tight and I hold them closely to keep them from coming alive again. Yet, I think holding them as closely as I do only makes the unwanted come true . . .
(again)

It wasn’t all bad.
Even the bad stuff wasn’t so bad sometimes.
Even the wild stuff or the crazy things, like the longhaired years and the rebellious ones were not all bad either.

I grew up before the age of technology is what it is today.
There were no cameras at every corner and there were no cell phones, no video evidence, and there were hardly any pictures of me from back then.
At the same time, I never liked pictures of me.
I never liked the look on my face because I could always tell what I was thinking or what I was feeling.

In fact, an old friend shared a picture of me from when I was a small boy. And I need to place the emphasis on the word, “small” because I was far smaller than the other kids my age.
The picture was a group of us. And I could see myself.
I could tell what I was thinking and feeling. I could see my discomfort and yet, no one else knew. No one else had a clue what was going on behind my eyes and in my head.
I was fresh from an attempt on my own life.
The attempt was more like a test and superficial. At the same time, I was daring the ede to see if I could or would be able to push a little deeper and fall a little farther.

I remember . . .
I had that dream again.

I was back in the field behind my old junior high school. I was walking in the field behind the school.
We never had much of a football field.
And yes, the school has updated its landscapes and the building has been modernized to some degree.

I was alone. I could tell it was winter time.
This dream is taken from a real memory from back when I was heavily sedated with different psychedelics, such as mescaline and LSD.
I remember walking home at sunrise when the frost took over the grass in the field behind the school.
The sky was beautiful, to be honest.
I was high and coming off the mental trip which takes hours to process. My hair was long. My ears were wired with headphones that piped the music from a band called Lynyrd Skynyrd.
The song is called Tuesday’s Gone. And while I have mixed feelings about the time, people, places and things, there was something magical and something defiant about that memory.
I suppose this is why the memory lingers in my dreams, for some reason. And I felt like a crazy teenager should feel.
I felt rebellious and free and eager to be alive and nearly like an outlaw but safer, of course, because I was “alive and well,” in the comfortable streets of my crazy little suburban town.

Ah my town . . .
We had our share of local heroes as well as our local downfalls.
We even had a serial killer in our town. he was someone who used to keep the bodies of dead prostitutes in his garage.
No one knew, of course. He lived with his mother.
He was nerdy looking, quiet too, which of course, all of his descriptions fit his profile of what he was. A killer . . .
I used to pass this house all the time.
Or should I say I passed this house all the time.
And who knew?

That house is currently for sale now. . .
it’s going for a lot of money.

I wonder if the homeowners have to disclose the history when they sell the home.
Is this not important news?
I ask this because there used to be a law that you had to disclose when someone died in the house to sell the home.
I guess the answer would be yes.
“Did someone die here?”
Um . . .
yeah.

I guess no one would assume that multiple people died there.
So, I doubt anyone would ask, “How many people died here?”
I think the number is 17.
But hey, dig it; I wonder if this means anything to people anymore.
Or have we all become so desensitized?
Is a good deal on a house is far more important than how many people died it?

I have to say this to you as well . . .
I feel for the kids these days. I feel for their culture, or the lack thereof. I feel for their lack or real music or the feelings that hit when you walk into a record store and heard new music.
No one does this anymore.

I had that dream again last night.
I was dreaming about my old town.

I was walking behind the gymnasium and through the field at Woodland Junior High school.
I did not feel the same intensity that I usually feel when I dream like this.
There was nothing scary or hostile or impending, like the doom that used to await me.
There was no fear or struggle or some kind of underbelly feeling lurking in my soul during the dream.
it was neither good nor bad.
Just reflective.

Everything was more matter-of-fact and simple.
I have not walked behind the school in decades.
I haven’t listened to the song Tuesday’s Gone in a long time either. 

The summer nights and wild times are gone and left behind in my previous life.
But sometimes . . .
I look back
I remember
And somehow,
I feel the need to light a cigarette and hear some music.

Ever hear the son White Sun by The Doobie Brothers?
It’s another one of those “feel good” songs to listen to.
Even when nothing else feels good, the music is still good enough.
I’m sure you and I will talk more tomorrow.

So, for now . . .
I’ll see you then.