Sometimes, sitting in my hometown, in the backyard of where I lived with my mom, I’d get this electric vibe. And I just knew it was it. The lawns were all landscaped beautifully, flanked with colorful, aromatic gardens, the high school down the street procured spirited, energetic (sometimes violent) adolescents and that gas station two blocks down sold Donut Stix for $.75. The contour of my mind was completed by a rhythm from without — meditation took a back seat to aural absorption.
And it threw all kinds at you. At this one job there was this ex-junkie. And it’s going fine, going fine, continually, and then things just blow up. There’s a sautee pan slammed into the bus tub at 100 decibels. There’s the declaration that, upon cooking a burger for oneself, “I’m gonna have a hell of a time shitting this thing out!”
And then there were just the little moments that were supposed to be good. And yes, I have to admit, sometimes I know that I was raised by a pretty good mom. I can, that is, just let go, sometimes. And shit, I get it too. My mind races through everything. I have a fear of abandonment because I’ve BEEN abandoned. My mind races to murder. It races to brutality, the machine, wheels churning, homelessness, treachery and suicide. And then I turn the page. A new day begins. Maybe my “self” is more fully formed or maybe I just never fully became myself, kept part of my ambitions wrapped up in that colorful shrubbery I swear I saw when I was 17, outside of the movie theater, tripping on shrooms.