Being Honest With Fiction

Save the notes, kid.
It’s time for you and I to begin.
It is time to start over again.
They say it is always best to go to someplace familiar, or as it is with me in this case, I have to go back to where I started.
The beginning.
Or maybe I should just retrace my steps. You know?
Maybe I should do like they tell us to do when we lose something.

In the beginning, I had no idea what to expect. But then again, who does?
I did not know how to play the game. I did not know the rules.
I had no talents and nor did I have any experience to base my understanding of how to play the game.

No, I had to learn.
Then again, I have learned that not all of what we’ve been shown was taught to us by the right teachers.
Therefore, perhaps I have come here to unlearn or to deprogram myself.
And so, here I am.
Back to the old drawing board.
Back at square one.
I have come back to the beginning to update my thinking and improve myself to be one day better than I yesterday. 

In the beginning, it was only the beginning ad I was just starting out. yet, I am at another impasse because I am far from new or just starting out, and still the game can be a mystery to me.
But in the beginning, my beginnings were still young.
They are growing old now. I know.

My youth –
I was unaware and scared. I was afraid of the days to come.
I was afraid to be seen and petrified to be ignored.
Which was worse?
I don’t know.
But more than anything, in the beginning, I wanted to arrive and evolve and to be more than just “average.”
I wanted to enjoy this thing called life. I wanted to hold and see and touch beauty for the very first time.
I wanted to be a “part of.”
I wanted to belong.
Yes.
I wanted to fit without shoving myself in or pushing my way into the center.
I wanted to be involved and yet; I pushed myself in so often that I failed to feel the compliment of being invited.
I understand this though.
And I know why I did what I did.
I just wish I was brave enough to never do it
(of that makes sense)

For me, the beginning was poetry.
For me, this was it.
Me. You.
Us.
This was my only sanctuary.

In the beginning, I had no idea what to do or what to expect. I had no clue how to understand the social cues or how to read between the lines and thus; I was both vulnerable and gullible, all at once.

I did not believe in myself or in my looks or abilities and therefore, I had no faith in this thing I call “me.”
I had no basis to relate the process of my life.
There was no familiar ground to step on because in the beginning, everything is new, or strange.
And so, to find a safe ground or better footing was difficult for me.

It has always been crazy to me how the interest in darkness can often outweigh the attraction we have to the brighter things in life. And yes, I see people all around me. They never cease to amaze me and yet, I am seldom amazed but more baffled by more of the same old bullshit.
I view us all like travelers who drive slowly along the interstates to notice the roadside accidents
People drive by and look at the tragedies, as if to be grateful or otherwise, I suppose the morbid curiosity says something like, “better them than me.”

I have always wondered about the fascination over Greek tragedies. I think about the sad movies that take chunks of life and expose the deceit that we fear the most.
They draw pain into artwork and Hollywood has made quite a living with this

I have movies, which I cannot watch or see or talk about because of course, I either watched them once before, or otherwise, I experienced them personally.

I cannot see certain things on film because they remind me of things.
I am reminded about the bouts between you and me.
And then there is me against the world, or elsewise, this is me “right here.”
And as for anyone else, the world and you and everyone else is on another side.
I am alone.
And so, if this is a case of me against me or I against I, then I also have to include how this is me versus you because if I am you; then you have always been me too
And hence, I must continue. 

In the beginning, I was small or younger and yes!
Absolutely.
I was young enough to dare and not consider the consequences.

I was young enough that I did not have to understand the relevance of age or be denied the due process of being a youthful offender.
And speaking of being a youthful offender, I have this to offer you.
Never speak without an attorney.
You have the right to remain silent.
Remember?

And ah, all the Miranda rights and the so-called loopholes you see lawyers use on television or nighttime dramas are far from true.
I tried that game.
That fiction was not my reality; and nor did these loopholes exist when the handcuffs were on my wrists.
I remember . . .
Someone in one of the holding cells warned me, “You’re just a little kid. What the fuck are you in here for anyway?

Too light to fight. . .
. . .Too thin to win.
That was me.

Safe to say that I did not have a “doing time” kind of body and nor could I have been the man I needed to be to survive in that place.

Ah yes, but this was me.

In the beginning, I had better ideas and better intentions.
And I know I tried to get over,
I slipped a few jabs and dodged a few landmines.
I got lucky.

But in the beginning, I had no idea about how things would play out.
I was new to the ideas of disappointments.
I was fresh for the let downs.

But at least I was younger then. I was supposedly resilient.
Supposedly, that is.

I was young enough to believe that I could “ante up!” and try again.
But no.
I think I gambled too much or too often.
I went “all in” too many times.
And I lost too much.

I dared the judges.
I dared the court appointed attorneys.
I dared my blood pressure and the thin line between life and death.
And I did this too many times.
Way too many . . .

There are different beginnings and countless endings.
This is true. And somewhere between the beginning and the end is the meat that fills the flesh of my life.

I have spoken to you about this in my journal called the book of firsts, and yes.
I have had many firsts, the same as you or anybody else.
We were the kids in the neighborhood.
The bad ones.
The crazy ones.
We were the kids with the background and the stories that were more like popular secrets.
This is also known as culture, and also known as living with dysfunctional symptoms, and this was what it meant to be alive and well, and living in a little suburban town called East Meadow.

There was a line in the school cafeteria. I view this as a breakdown of the social organization chart, which defined and described us all.
I could call this a separation of status. Maybe this was a division of popularity.
I could call this the different echelons of cool or I could define this as the difference between the wanted or the undesirable.
This is where we all split between the pretty, the ugly, the athlete, the so-called nerd, and the outcast or as we called ourselves, the burnouts.

I was one of them.

I think school is a scientific experiment. All of us were delivered to the school each day.
All of us were divided by class, skin color, smart or stupid.
We were divided by ethnicity, race, religion, creed, and any other socially dividable aspect you can think of.

Yes.
I was that one.
I was that kid who could hardly read.

And just to put this out there . . .
Or just to argue with the question that every therapist asked me.
Please allow me to respond like this:
How do you think that made me feel?

Who the hell wanted to be called learning disabled anyway?
Learning?
Is that what this was called?

In the beginning . . .
I wondered if I knew how to learn anything at all.
What did I learn, except how to survive or how to defend myself?
I learned to hide from the social jabs that came from the educational bullies and the playground punks who kicked the shit out of me.

In the beginning, I suppose I assumed that I would find my way.
Somehow.
In the beginning, I supposed life would be like I was taught in school.

– Play fair
– Take turns.
– Don’t hit.
– Don’t hurt.
– Say please
– Know when to say “I’m sorry.”
– Chew with your mouth closed.
– Always be sure to wash your hands.
– Find a buddy
– Hold hands.
– And make this your life.

Imagine how simple the world would be . . .
. . . if only

And so, I hope that this journal will help me account for something.
I hope that this will bring me somewhere.
I hope that this will open a door for me
Or maybe two.
Either way, this is another beginning 

So, on we go.

Let the real fiction begin