From Me to You

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I feel…shattered. Bent and broken beyond repair. I feel angry. If I am honest with myself, I don’t want to be here. I want to close my eyes and erase the past five years. They were not worth it. I think I have given everything my all. I have nothing left. I don’t have anything left to try. I went out. I had a great time. Should I feel sorry for that? I did nothing wrong. Yet… I have been called everything. If I am even more honest with myself. I don’t fucking care. There is nothing good in him. Nothing in him that feels any shred of emotion for me and I am okay with that. Nothing in him that makes me feel loved. He stares at me most of the time. A distant cold stare. For a while I waited. I hinted. I wanted to feel special. Feel like I was someone important. At times he even managed to fool me when around other people. His usual distant demeanor would change. He would hug me. Cling to me at times. But I hate it. I now know why I try to paint a more realistic picture of him around people. It’s because the jealous part of me wants everyone to see him as I do. See him for the empty bastard that he actually is. see him for the phony person that seeks attention for people. A liar. A person who paints an image of himself that is far too fictionalized. A person whose sole focus in life is himself. If I am even more honest with myself, I would admit that I hate him. I have for a very long time. I cannot stand to be near him. I cannot stand to have him touch me. I detest everything about him. I have never hated anyone as much as I do him.  

If I am even more honest with myself then I would admit that I didn’t mean any of this.

Too Much Blood

People are losing sight of what is important. At this time, I too, am unsure of what is right and what is wrong. It seems at times that society is telling me hate. Hate everyone and everything. I am tired of hating who I am supposed to hate. I am tired of being filled with so much anger. I am tired of looking at the news and seeing nothing but death, hate, cowards, and more blood. I am tired of looking at lost lives that should have been, could have been… something GREAT! Someone who might have been a poet, a lawyer, an artist, a husband, a son, a mother, a wife, a whole wonderful person. But now they forever lay at rest within the folds of a box, decomposing simultaneously with the world. These images shake my world. The face of little boy with the crooked teeth and hopeful eyes break my heart… and then I wonder what he will stand for, what his death along with the others will stand for…  what will it mean? Will his death mean more death? Will it mean revenge? Will it mean that we should start another war? Fill the streets with blood? Kill until the pain begins to fade? Point fingers until everyone has been persecuted?

The world is a terrible place filled with terrible people. Maybe there is no hope for any of us. The hate seems to stretch across all continents. The random moments of kindness that occur every now and then aren’t enough to pacify me anymore. The woman dancing along to her favorite song isn’t enough to make me smile. The perfectly planted flowers along the street are pathetic.

It’s spring. The time of year with life begins anew. However, there is nothing new about this year. It is a mirror reflection of the past. Sometimes I want to escape it all. Buy a house in the middle of nowhere with no connection to terrible things around me. I feel too much like a puppet on a string. I am tired of hating people because of the way they hurt everyone else. I don’t want to hate anyone but I hate them. But I won’t allow myself to want to see more blood. I will not wish for anyone’s death the way people do on the internet (including myself in the past). Sometimes it easy to write something out of anger, but I am starting to think that we are becoming too comfortable with death, too desensitized to care unless it happens here in the U.S.A.

My Chemical Romance

Lots of my favorite bands have closed up shop, opting for a life rather than being the soundtrack to mine and all the other mindless self-indulgent music lovers. However, hearing that My Chemical Romance has disbanded is… well disheartening, but I understand. I understand that they could not forever roll on like the stones because let’s admit it; the truth of the universe is that the stones will be playing in death. Their mark is forever seared into the sounds of humanity. But so are many other bands and the egoistical part of me wishes My Chemicals Romance would give up their youth so that my ears will be forever pleasured by the sound of Gerard Ways voice till my liver spots have liver spots. But I know this is wrong… so I suppose I will just wish them well. In fact, I hope that they enjoy it because they damn well deserve it. The music they have written has aged with me.

I am thankful for that.

 I am thankful that they provided me with the soundtrack to my teenage angst. Those years spent blocking out the world was totally awesome. High school would have been terrible without MCR. Shit, college will be terrible without them. The lyrics have grown on me. I have entire nights listening to the same song on replay countless times. I have danced and head banged (sometimes awkwardly) around my room, screaming till my lungs hurt as I felt that euphoric high seeping through my veins (not drugs just insanity). But it was amazing. I have enjoyed every moment of playing air guitar alongside Frank Iero. Ray Toro, Mikey Way, Matt Pelissier, Bob Bryar, Frank Iero, and Gerard Way thank you all for providing such kick-ass music for my otherwise boring life. My only regret is that I will not be able to see you perform live. This summer I was hoping to go to my first concert and possibly see you… since that is out of the question I shall do the next best thing. I will listen to your music as I hike part of the Appalachian Trail this summer. MCR will forever live on through my playlist. 

Keep Tight Your Knowledge- An Encounter With A Pedophile

 

         Knowledge is key. The key to what though? Unfortunately everything. There isn’t anything that cannot be accomplished with knowledge. There isn’t a shred of innocence that can be protected. Knowledge constructs, destroys, and revives. A moments glance around you can testify to the truth in knowledge. With new knowledge brings new innovations, but how can something so natural and amazing seem so untrustworthy? Is knowledge not supposed to allow for growth and development? Should all experiences in life be accepted as new knowledge, a new outlook on life? I was five when my world changed. The yard and its complexities had never managed to breach my wall of innocence, yet it had without my knowing. As a child trust is something that came without explanation and in abundance. The familiar faces graced with a smile were a comfort that protected me from the outsiders. It’s not until that you find yourself on the opposite end do you question why?

        Life in a third world country is particular. We live by our own standards. We keep mum about the important things yet the inconsequential are often the loudest. My yard as you know by now was special to me. I adored the pounding of the rain and the calm that washed over this makeshift haven. I will always remember the few faces that still take home in my mind. It seems that so much has been erased leaving nothing but the inconsequential. Why is it that we remember the things we oft wish we would forget? Torture of the mind, that’s how I like the think of it. I often think my mind is that of a masochist, enjoying the agony of remembering each heart wrenching sadness. Why else would I remember when so much time has passed? Why is this knowledge so important that I hold relentlessly when so much has been lost? Why did I not guard my childhood secrets safely?

       I love cats. As a child I often brought all of the stay cats into my grandmother’s house. She would keep them for a while letting them serve their only purpose. Mice. There was such a large abundance of cats roaming the yard and the constant replenishment, which as a child I just assumed was magical. I needed no reasons, they were there and I loved them. Each and every one of those dirty, slightly angry, fluffy, soft cats. This was the knowledge that tipped my world. The fact that I love cats would place me in a situation that would stick with me forever. Is it unreasonable to ask that when we are born that we come prewired to lean that knowledge should not always be shared? Why does it take us ages to realize the importance of our information? What are we without knowledge? My name, my height, my blood type, my hair color. What if I woke up one day unaware of myself. Everything I know would be lost to me, including me.

            At the head of the yard Mrs. Dersy lived in large house. As a child it struck fear into the hearts of the neighborhood kids and me. Since the house itself was held up on stilts, the bottom which was previously blocked in had started to decay. The wood was black to boot and the deeper you walked in the thicker your fear would grow. A long frail looking set of stairs lead up to the second floor. They often wobbled and the weather worn wood looked as if it would give way with each step. To say the house had an ominous presence would be an understatement. What was once a new spacious house was now old and tattered. Mrs. Dersey lived with her three children, her two sons and her daughter. The house was divided into two parts that separated the siblings from each other.

           There was a boy who lived there. He was tall and his skin was perhaps the lightest in the yard. Oddly enough this had probably made him more handsome because in a country filled with brown skinned people, the lightest is still the fairest. He was trusted by everyone including me. I was small for my age even then. My bone peeked through my skin and my hair was long and black. I was often covered in mud and thoroughly enjoyed chasing the other kids around the yard. All was good. No in fact all was great. Life was trouble free and I was always in the watchful eyes the people who I trusted. I heard it takes a village to raise a child. But what people fail to realize is that it takes one person from that village to ruin that child. People who hurt you are never those are far away, no those who hurt you are often close. Close enough to touch.

       I loved cats. I loved cats as much as any other cat loving child could get. Kittens were my favorite because I rarely got to see them and they were miniature. Kids tend to have an obsession with small things and I was one of them. It was like any other day. I was running around the yard with my cousin. Then I saw him. As a child I thought he was like an uncle, someone I had been around countless times. Someone I trusted. He called me up stairs, telling me that the cats had kittens and he wanted me to see them. He told me that my cousin should stay behind that she would see the cats later. I stood down in the yard staring up and the rickety stairs and without hesitation I went up. Step by step I made my way up until I was within his grasp. He led me to a room filled with the regular old junk. The inside was dark and musty. I followed willingly. He told me to sit and like a good little girl I sat still. Anticipating filled me as I waited to see the cats. I loved them and I had hoped that I could keep one. My legs barely hung off the bed. When he came back he said nothing. He was longer smiling and his body loomed over my small frame. He was a giant and my four year old body was small and defenseless. He leaned down and whispered something long forgotten. It was only then that I realized that he was without clothing yet this rang no bell in my head. Why is it that we never teach our kids that moments like these are not okay? There I was a child in a situation that would alter my life to this very day and unknowingly I sat. He stood before me with towel wrapped around his waist and nothing more. His body pressed mine into the bed and all I could do was ask for the kittens.

      I had come to see the kittens and there weren’t any. And like a sheep to the slaughter I had delivered myself into the hands of a pedophile. It is without doubt gut wrenching to honestly type these words without lying and without cringing.

      As a child I did not understand nor did I know what he was doing. I was sheltered from everything. He continued to grind himself onto my body. I cried. I was scared and I am not sure what made him stop but he did. He got off of me and before he could do anything else I ran. I ran through the house and down the stairs until I was with my cousin again. I grabbed her hand and pulled her along with me. I remember looking back at him. He was standing in the door frame a smile on his lips. I never told anyone and now that I am older I realize that had I told anyone they would never have believed me. Like I said the inconsequential are often louder.

Knowledge is a scary thing, I liked cats and he knew.

World Class Crap- Will No One Stand Up?

Will no one stand up?

There is a new trending website that harbors the delinquents of modern day bullying “WorldStar Hiphop.com”. This website is not infamous for the collection of videos oddities that can range from pranks to suicide. Recently I had the dismay of witnessing a man jumping onto train tracks, ending his life as the guffaw of onlooker’s recorded his death, not for evidence, but for “World Star Hip Hop”. The lack of sensitivity was staggering. The spectators’ eyes lit up with zeal as man plunged to his timely death. Never was there a word of sympathy, of condolence or pity. There was nothing but callous laughter.

Another video depicted a woman on a train in Los Angeles handing out “retribution” to another woman in order to teach her that bullying is not acceptable. The redundancy is inebriating yet everyone sitting on this train must have agreed with the retaliatory because no one spoke up.

When did whipping out a phone during a crisis become a societal norm? The train carried several people but instead of standing up, instead of reaching for their humanity to call the cops, they recorded this “epic moment”. But I am no better. While my first thought wouldn’t be to seek trivial internet fame I wouldn’t jump up. I think we all have those moments that give us the opportunity to be brave, to step away from the numbingly automaton-like slumber and stand up for someone or something.  

Or as Elizabeth Swan from “Pirates of Caribbean” puts it “There will come a time when you’ll have the chance to do something courageous, to do the right thing.” To which Jack Sparrow responds “I love those moments. I like to wave at them as they pass by.” And though the idea of jumping in is valiant, it is dangerous. The technological generation is sadistic. They are desensitized and find solace in Hammurabi’s code. An eye for an eye.  The price for justice is too high or is it? Change demands action. Action demands conscious awareness. Nothing comes with ease. Generations have paved the way for the freedom to be and it almost seems like we are ready to cave.  Where is the blood rushing vigor that fueled the movements that brought us here? It is impossible to save the world but passing on the promise of a better tomorrow by not supporting sites that profit from hate filled teenage angst is one way to make a better today. In fact, I challenge you. Give up your seat on the bus to that person who needs it. Hold the door for that professor even though you might not like that undeserved F. Take out your phone and dial the cops when something goes wrong. Do not  seek cheap internet fame. I challenge you to do something and not wave as those moments pass by. Hell, even Jack Sparrow managed to do something. Stand up in any small way you can, because one small act of kindness is still better than none.

Over The Edge And Beyond- Insanity of my people

“THE EDGE, there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” 
― Hunter S. Thompson

My Uncle Little- maybe he went over far enough to not return. Far enough to escape himself and the ever watching eyes whose gaze never flickered except for that brief moment in which he managed to escape it all. Even his earthly sins. How perfect can we be?

My family is insane. Not the normal kind but certified insane. I am not ashamed to clearly state that my grandmother has earned her degree (which is due to my uncles timely death because when is death every untimely?) or that my aunt who lives in Guyana once threw her kids out of the window.

They landed in a bush and it was a first story flat so really no harm done… kind of.

I have never personally met these peculiar family members of mine but there is mysticism in my family, a certain lure to these people who have committed heinous acts out of what I call insanity. A charm even.

These stories have been passed down with a flare of dramatics and a sense of ludicrous impossibility. Who would believe it? Why would anyone want to believe that my uncle Little once marched out of the prime misters house with the man’s gutters pass the armed guards with every intent on selling it and NOT returning to solder it like he promised them? But I tell you that’s what happened!

My uncle Popeye tells the story all the time. He tells with a gleam of insanity and mischief and a deep yearning for the “good old days”. He says my uncle looked at both of the gun toting guards and simply told them he would come back. That’s a laugh.

You see my uncle was insanity at its purest sweetest form.

He was a five foot tall dark muscular man. Like an athlete. Maybe if life had given him the opportunity he might have been an Olympic swimmer or something of a dare devil who thrived on the exhilaration of free living. My uncle was wild and as cliche as it sounds he reminded me so much of the wind.

He was blithe, a destructive force to everyone around him and even himself. Roots were never his thing. The idea of being grounded would have never worked.

He was a drifter.

An alcoholic.

An angel without purpose.

He was astonishingly strong and often compared himself to the great Samson. His hair was his strength he told me. And maybe it was. It flowed down in long locks and trashed wildly about without care. His face was small and thin like my mothers and his eyes were kind when he looked at me.

I didn’t see the drunken madman with the golden front tooth. No I saw a swash buckling pirate who once got bitten by a snake because he dared to swim in the snake and alligator infested water. He dared to walk out of the man’s house with his god damn gutters. I am sure there was a mischievous flicker in his eyes. I am sure his cheeks bared a trusting smile as he walked out of there…….

I miss him when I hear these stories.

But then I have such unbelievable tales of his life. Some of them are beyond believable but I believe them with all of my heart because the smile of my families face when they tell the story says it all. It’s true. This is why I cherish them. I cherish my crazy aunt. Who the hell knows what was happening in her mind at that moment that she threw the kids out the window? All I know is that every time the story comes up it brings a knowing smile to their face even mine.

I am a part of an insane family. Call it what you will but its mine.

Life has thrown rocks at us, not lemons, so why not have a rock fight and laugh to the last broken bone? Besides life isn’t perfect, people aren’t perfect. Call us morbid for laughing at our pain and insanity but if you can’t look back and laugh then why bother looking back at all?

Journalism?

So as I previously stated I am back in the institution. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. I think I am really starting to like it. The English department is wonderful and I thoroughly enjoy being a Journalism student. The problem is… well I don’t know if this is for me. I want to be a writer but it surely isn’t easy… how does one know that they are meant to be a writer? Will anyone every read my work and think “hey this is damn interesting” or anything along those lines? AHHHHHHHHHH I think I really need to start having a shot to calm my nerves. I am not fan of alcohol but if it will bring out the writer in me, bottoms up!