There are places which I have never been or seen in real life. However, there are places, like Memphis, or places even the idea of a rainy night in Baltimore that somehow reconnect me to songs from my young adult life.
Music . . .
God, where would I be without you?
I remember the feelings that used to come over me when I heard a song called Sweet Thing from Van Morrison.
I suppose I felt the same way when I heard van Morrison sing Into The Mystic.
This was another good one.
I remember the way I felt when I heard the introduction to the song.
“We were born before the wind.”
I swore that you have to be young and in love to understand lyrics like this.
I was young once.
I was in love too.
And maybe I was right about the music. Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe the sound of the music and the lyrics alone touched something deep within me—
and so, maybe there is such a thing as being a hopeful or hopeless romantic.
But either way, I’m not sure
I have to say this again.
I have never been tough.
No.
Not even once.
I have never been cool either.
At least, not really.
Of course, I had my youthful and momentary victories. I had the momentous occasions when I was alive beyond measure and felt stronger than a superhero.
I had these . . .
I remember a night out in the Greek section of Queens near a little club in a place called Astoria.
I was broke to say the least.
But no one knew.
I played my problems off like I was fine. I acted like money was no object, and what’s more; I acted “as if” but deep down, I believed that I was less-than. I saw myself as poor, weak, and almost inconsequential, insignificant, and trivial to say the least.
There was a girl at the bar . . .
She was from Baltimore.
She was beautiful to say the least, and tall, and as model-like as I could imagine.
At first, I thought she was just being friendly.
I assumed that people are kinder where she was from.
I assumed that people like her are nicer because being beautiful means that people adore you.
People worship you.
They admire you.
Right?
When you are physically beautiful, people bend rules for you, simply because of the way you look or appear.
I have met countless people in my young adult life.
But her . . .
this girl . . .
I remember her well.
She has value but not more than the value of a valuable learning experience.
I was surprised to know that she liked me. I was surprised that she liked the way I spoke because she loved my accent.
I am, after all, a New Yorker
I was surprised to know that someone “like her” would show this much attention like a man, “like me!”
We talked a few times after that night.
We called a few times.
But of course, the miles between where she lived and where I lived was a long-distance.
Hence, this was a problem.
A “so-called” friend told me, “you know you’re never gonna get girl like that again, right?”
There was another time when I was in my first few years of working as a real adult.
I met a girl.
She was exotic.
She knew nothing about ne,
She didn’t know about my life or my past or the position I held in my crowd.
And I say this with reason and mention my position with my crowd because there is something to this.
I was the wild one.
I was the crazy one.
Maybe I was the stupid one, or like the court jester.
I was the one who added flavor to the night by doing something wild or being bizarre.
I was like the madman of the bunch without a care of who says anything.
Without a care I say but we both know . . .
I cared plenty.
I was never the good looking one or the popular one. I was never the smooth one, although, I did try.
I tried to pull off my look. I practiced and I rehearsed.
I did what I could to be the mysterious one and the dangerous one.
I was far from dangerous but yes; I can say that without any doubt, I was unsafe and unhinged.
I was an attempt at a bad boy to put it mildly,
Or better, I was detached and more often, no one was more misunderstood than me.
I remember a night at Merc Bar on Mercer Street.
I was angry and growing angrier.
I was tired of the wiseass remarks and the battles of sarcasm.
I was more tired of the drunken insults, to which this is what made my position clear.
I was always the designated driver.
I never drank. I always drove. And to hear insults such as, “you’re only around because you never drink and you always drive us home,” made me live in a quiet rage.
I wish I had the courage to walk away and say “goodbye” without using the words, “goodbye!”
But I was too afraid of the silent lonesome nights.
I went into the bathroom.
I let my crazy side come forward as a means of protection. I did this as well as a warning to read that I do not play well with others.
“Don’t Fuck With Me!”
The bathroom had an attendant who handed out paper towels and other things.
He was a small man, short, and Spanish speaking.
he handed out towels to the wealthy patrons at a bar like this.
He stood when you washed your hands and handed you other things like dabs of cologne, hairspray, or whatever else the late night and wealthy crowds would need in their afterhours predicaments.
The hour was late.
I was growing with a rage that was burning inside of me.
I grabbed the hairspray from the counter and sprayed a stream of this across my lighter.
I started burning the walls and the door.
To put this short and to downplay this at the same time (because words are meaningful) and to dare the impact of my sentence; I lit the bathroom attendant on fire a little bit.
just a little . . .
which was an accident to some degree.
His hair went on fire, like POOF!
The flame went out fast but the damage was done.
The poor little attendant did not speak much English.
And so all he cold say was “no good!, no good!”
The friends of mine who were in the bathroom laughed. This man was not a man to them anyway.
They also left me alone for the rest of the night.
I assume lighting people on fire is enough to persuade silence from the other social bullies in my crew of friends.
Either way, who would like a person like this?
What girl would want someone like me?
The next day, one of my friends called to talk to me about the bathroom incident.
He told me that I crossed the line and that people were angry about me lighting someone on fire.
I asked him, “then why were you laughing so hard that I had to carry you out of the bathroom?”
His answer: “Well, that was different. And plus I was drunk. You don’t have that excuse.”
I never wanted my position in the crowd.
At the same time, I suppose I had a position nonetheless, and I was too weak and insecure to be alone or do my own thing.
And so . . .
I go back to the girl who I met at work.
She knew nothing about me. She didn’t know that I was the crazy one.
I could design myself in any way I chose with her.
And I tried to
Design myself, I mean.
We had a few lunch dates. And there was a night when she was out at the same place as me and another one of my friends.
We never spoke after that.
And again, another one of my friends informed me, “you know you will never get another girl like that again, right?”
I fast forward to now, to decades later and I move ahead in my story to where I am now, which is currently alone and currently, I am regrouping, recovering, and adding colors and changes to my everyday life.
I am here to be better—
The mind is an amazing, incredible and a terrible thing.
The mind is where the biggest problems grow like weeds. At the same time, the mind is a collaborating combination of the ultimate and ongoing question:
“Why?”
Why did I accept my roles in the different crowds?
Why did I lack confidence?
Why was I so afraid to stand out on my own?
Was this because I always believed that I was physically too different?
Was this because I swore that I was awkward or unsightly, or ugly?
Why do we live in the complexities of unhelpful thoughts?
I was the DUF (Designated Ugly Friend)
I was the crazy one.
I was the one you called when something went wrong and there was a calculative need for revenge.
I was the one you called because I would get up in the middle of the night with an unmatched loyalty.
Unmatched, I say because loyalty is a two-way street.
I never wanted this to be me.
No.
I wanted to be the one who was invited and included.
I wanted to be the charismatic one.
I wanted to be desired and seen and noticed and yet, there was always something that held me back.
There was always something that convinced me of an otherwise problem, which is that no matter how I dressed or pretended, at best, I would only be me.
And so, yes.
I sabotaged most of my years here on Project Earth.
I destroyed nearly all of the meaningful relationships that I had in my life.
I lied.
I scammed.
I womanized.
I cheated.
I imploded and I left behind unthinkable destructions.
In fact, I died countless times in my life.
I have never come to such an epiphany that I was reborn or born again nor was I deserving of these things.
This all started with the reflection I saw in the mirror. This all started with my confused expression and the imperfections, which I swore would doom me to a sole and lonesome death.
I swore that no matter what or how I tried, I would only be the older versions of me and that no matter what, I would never be better.
The funny thing is—
I remember what it was like to hear Van Morison sing about being young and wild and in love and hey, why not?
Why not me?
Why not have the dream?
or—
My fears regard my life as a warning of an upcoming and impending doom.
I have surrendered my position a long time ago.
I am done with the fragile aspects of the weak and bullshit forms of the male ego.
At the same time, I am like a teenager in the sense that I am that young boy, usure and unaware of what makes a girl happy.
There is no one else for me, except for “the one” to which I understand.
I get it
I know what time has done and what life has placed in our path.
her—
no one is better or more beautiful
no one smells like her
no one talks like her.
no one owns me like she does
I say this and at the same time
I am miles away and far, far from where I want to be.
My friends used to tell me about the girls I blew it with.
“You know you’ll never get another girl like that again, right?”
Man . . .
the girl I love and the girl who I will always love is far greater than the warmth of the sun and more beautiful than immeasurable beauty of the moon.
And dare I say it, she is more wonderful to me than The Greatest Mother, Mother Earth.
from head to toe
. . . literally
no one comes close.
Therefore, I need a visit to the beach.
I need some time with the “everywhere spirit.”
I need a prayer and a clear bottle for my message, which I will send out to sea.
Find me, my Goddess.
I am right here
Waiting
(so is the Seven Mile Bridge, if we take it)
