Posts Tagged ‘buddhism’

Jerry Wick and Jenny Mae: Violence

November 11, 2016

There was a tenseness discharging from the kitchen, small invisible globs that melted through the walls and open doorway into the yellow painted living room. The clamoring of pots and pans, slamming of the oven and a thick muffled grumbling. My brother eyed me, and we left through the front door, outside behind the changing leaves of the large maple tree that hovered above the Cutants gold-colored house the bright blue sky promised something better than what was going on behind us. We started making our way down the street, “Bela! Zoltan! Come back here! NOW!!” yelled our father in his thick Hungarian accent. “yeah, Dad?”

“Come here!” his eyes glared from the top of the porch.

“what’s up?” we were hesitant. Deliberate.

“I did not give you permission to LEAVE!”

This coming from man who wasn’t home to make us dinner most days of the week, a man who never put us to bed and who certainly didn’t think to provide direction as we fended for ourselves during most waking hours. “C’mon, Bela” my brother spoke as we sauntered back to the house, taking our time because perhaps, just maybe, he would calm down in the fifty feet we had to walk. Glaring at us, his eyes ordered us back into the house and we went into the kitchen. On the table were eggs, toast and fried potatoes with onions. “Eat!” he commanded and as we ate slowly, my eyes settled on the runny wobbly eggs, I felt nauseous. “I’m not hungry” the words slipped out of my mouth on a velvety whisper. BAM! His fist landed hard on the table, a sudden burst of rage. The milk splashed out of my glass, staring at its soft waves, I slowly scooped some egg onto my fork and swallowed, a slight gag as the lobby mass of egg caught in my throat. Why couldn’t he just flip the fucking things over and fry both sides? “Don’t you fake being sick, I made those eggs for you and you WILL eat them!”

That night as I laid next to my brother I felt safe under his words, he was always my protector, shielding me from the anger of our father and of any neighborhood bullies. “Don’t worry Bay, he doesn’t mean it, he’s just under a lot of stress.”

The party was in the back of a large brick building that housed the excellent Monkey’s Retreat, a bookstore that stocked “HATE” by Peter Bagge, titles by Daniel Clowes, Re-Search magazine and a plethora of other underground books, comics and zines. Monkey’s was run by two Brooklyn transplants, Rosie and Daryl whose thick New York accent made them almost as exotic as the reading materials on their shelves. The party held in the rear of the building was bustling, the New Bomb Turks were filming a video for their next record on the large indie Epitaph. Against the back drop of streamers, confetti and other assortment of party-like fair, people swayed, above the yammering of voices. In the back of the room, sitting on frayed couches a group of us drank from keg beer and the small metal flask I had brought filled with Maker’s Mark. My girlfriend had stayed home, studying for her last semester of classes before graduation, slowly tiring of the episodic binge drinking that would hurtle her man into a series of blind nights.

I held court with Jerry, we felt splendid as we made the woman around us laugh, holding court while some of the cameras rolled and soon with the prompting of Jerry, I shed my clothing, walked to the keg on the other side of the room, and filled our plastic cups. He cackled at me and soon even this grew tiresome, and I winded my way through the crowd, a small feeling of anxiety climbed up my shoulders and soon, I breathed in the air. Outside a group of people gathered around smoking cigarettes, cracking jokes and discussing music, books and the general gossip of High Street. The video shoot had ended and Bill and Jim for the New Bomb Turks were laughing, Jenny pulled on my shoulder as we gabbed in a small circle. “Hey, Jim Shepard is really fucked up, maybe he needs to go home?” We all looked at Jim, he was leaning against the brick wall, next to a spray-painted wall that spelled “Art Force One” his head slunk down so his chin rested against his chest, as if his next was a broken hinge, eyes closed he nodded up. His band, V-3 had recently put out their major label debut, “Photograph Burns” an album that was tighter than the other muddled pastiche of sounds that he had caught like a rusted hook from the inside of his clever mind, a mind that held secrets that in retrospect must have been as dark and scarred as Jim had looked now, head dropping down as he leaned against the stone wall. His songs were a play-by-play of the decaying of the American dream, filled with bleak observations that celebrated the depressive thoughts of a man that never quite fit in, songs titled “Hating Me, Hating You” and “End of the Bar”, the highlight was a lonely ode to variety of women, an inverse commentary of “California Girls” this one stinging with the slow burning sound of 4 am emptiness with Jim’s deep sing-song of a voice  carving out sound, “Bristol girl always giving you crap about this and that, London girl always giving you crap about this and that, find another human willing to put up with you.” You don’t know if he’s singing about the woman, or more likely, himself. The record wasn’t selling, as the pop-punk, shit explosion of Blink 182 and Wax was going to save the record industry.  “look at him, is he ok?” Bill remarked, as is we were looking at the video of the slow-motion crash of the skier from the Wide World of Sports. Jim lifted his head, saw us and made his way over, he crookedly walked into a young well-groomed man who looked more out of place because he tried too hard to look in-place. Jim accidentally crashed into the man, toppling the beer from the man’s hand, Jim kept walking as the fellow suddenly grabbed Jim’s shoulder and threw him to the ground. It was a flash, like a car accident, foisting his hands into Jim’s side, Jim hugged the man tight and bellowed, “Jesus, stop! I’m just a lonely alcoholic! Leave me alone! Stop!” His voice was as crumpled as his body, broken and bruised.

Unthinking, I dropped my beer, flicked my dark plastic glasses to Jenny and pulled the up the man, my fists dotted his head and chest the fight was over as quick as it took the plastic beer cup to roll across the gravel driveway. “Help!” I heard the voice below me, Jim Weber pulled me off and I heard Jenny say, “There’s Bela, fighting again, he has such a temper.” Eric Davidson’s girlfriend walked up to me, as I tried to calm down, blood splattered over a homemade silk-screened tee-shirt that had “Blood Family” written across it, “Jesus, Bela. You just beat the shit out of my hair dresser.” “Mother-fucker” to know one, while someone handed me a beer. Jim Shepard had gathered himself up, his clothes filled with tiny bits of gravel and beer. “uh, thanks Bela, I don’t know what that guy’s problem is.” When I got home, my girlfriend looked at me aghast, “what happened? Were you in a car accident? Oh, you are bleeding so much!” “

“I’m ok, it’s not my blood, I was in a fight.”

“What do you mean, a fight?” eyes aglow with surprise.

“yeah, sometimes I fight.” I said, slipping past her.

“You do?!” as if she just discovered I was secretly a woman.

“yeah, sometimes.”

From the other room, I heard her say, “what the fuck?”

The house was filled with broken things, a hole there and there, a chipped telephone there and smashed plates in the garbage can. There were times I went to the hospital because of hitting a wall, or putting my arm through a door, learned behavior from the earliest times in my life. Therefore, we can’t have nice things. There were other times where cars were filled with dents, or CD’s smashed, plates thrown or tables topped in a fit of explosive rage. Jenny came home one day, after I had tried to vacuum the house and surprise her. The vacuum was new, money saved from a waitress’s paycheck, it caught on the rug, and clogged. Outside the sky was melting into the atmosphere, the house thick with humidity and frustration, we could not afford an air conditioner. Wanting to please her by cleaning, I flipped the machine over and saw nothing. “Fucking piece of shit!” Grabbing the vacuum by the long metal handle, it was chucked out the front door into the yard just as she was walking up. Skidding across the lawn, she gazed down at it, as if it were a slow-moving ice puck as it rested near her feet. “What the fuck, Bela? What is your fucking problem?” “It’s a piece of shit, doesn’t work!” Pulling it inside, taking the machine apart she started giggling, “what’s so funny?” I asked as I drank a beer on the couch in the other room. “You are such an idiot, Jesus.” She walked in with a long white tube-sock dangling from her hand, “you fucking vacuumed up a sock. And because you destroyed one of my things I’m going to destroy one of yours.” She ran upstairs and locked the stairway door behind her. Standing in the back yard, gazing up at her as she climbed onto the back-porch roof, she held the first Galaxie 500 record on the small imprint Aurora. “What the fuck? Don’t you destroy that record! It is so hard to find!” Laughing and slowly taking the black vinyl from the white sleeve she paused, took a sip of her beer and as if she were doing a slow teasing strip tease she turned, swung her sun dress in the air, took another sip of beer and placed the record on the steamy roof. “Hey, it’s not funny anymore!” “You destroy one of my things, I’ll destroy yours”, tossing her head back she jumped upon the record and shimmied the record into the roof. It was utterly destroyed.

The end of the summer was fast approaching, and rural Ohio felt as if it were burning one corn stalk at a time. Tractors hummed across the valley from our house, grasshoppers jumped hither dither, while the laundry blew rhythmically across the backyard, a simple ballet of fabric and wind that was being replicated countywide in that instant. Rick’s brown sedan crackled into the driveway, Jimi Hendrix blaring “you gonna be ok, man? Do you think your mom can give me $20 to get back to Athens?” He had driven 2 hours to Catawba, to get me home. School was starting in a few days and I didn’t have a ride back. Speaking to my brother the day before he explained, “I can’t come down and get you, I have football practice, and mom isn’t coming to get you either.” My mother and step-father had wanted me to return from my summer working in Athens about a month earlier, knowing that there was nothing in Catawba to do over the month of August I stayed, continuing to clean chickens at Case Que Pasa, drink beer and be on the search for teenage sex. Rick had agreed to take me under the condition that he have gas money to get home, he had to work back that night. Eric Zudak had come with us, he could placate an angry mother, who came outside upon hearing the snapping stones of gravel. “Hi, Bela’s mom” Eric spoke first, his erstwhile charm trying to break the burning anger of a mother waiting for her son to be home weeks ago.

“Hello Eric, how are you?”

“I’m good, Bela’s mom.”

“Bela, come here I need to speak with you.”

“Ok, but we need to give Rick $20 for gas.”

“You didn’t discuss this with me, come inside and we will talk about it.”

Angry and frustrated, she glared at me, “you could have come home a month ago, and now you want me to pay for your friends’ gas?” “Uh, yeah, he drove me 125 miles to get home because you didn’t come and get me.” “Bob, come here please.” She yelled behind her, Bob, her husband the minister came out of his office. He looked like Andy Griffith, wearing a blue sweater over a buttoned-up shirt and carrying his wooden pipe. “Why the fuck is he wearing a sweater?” I thought. He didn’t address me but looked at my mother, “yes?” “Do you have twenty dollars to pay Bela’s friend for gas?” “I suppose, but didn’t you tell him he’d have to pay his own way home.” “Jesus, he drove me home, because you wouldn’t come and get me, you didn’t have to spend a dime on me this summer because I worked and stayed with Erica! Just fucking give him the $20 to get home.” “Don’t you talk to your mother that way!” Taking the money from his hand, my mother went outside and thanked Rick for driving me home. Bob and I went at it in the living room, I heard Rick and Eric drive away.

“Well that was fucking embarrassing. Guy drives halfway across the state to bring your son who you have seen all summer and you don’t want to pay him.” Full-on teenage rebellion bounced out of my sweaty mouth, I had grown up that summer, both physically and emotionally, breaking out of the isolated pimply shell that had been burnishing for years, I had found myself in the back kitchen of Casa, on darkened train tracks drinking whiskey mixed with grape Kool-Aid, various record stores and uptown college parties. The turntables cranking out the new sounds of the Replacements, R.E.M., the Smiths, and the Tom Tom Club, was the soundtrack that summer. Small town, Ohio this wasn’t. “I said don’t talk to your mother that way!” Bob bellowed. Turning, I thanked him for the $20 and reminded him, “you guys could have easily picked me up and seen Erica but you decided not to!” In my room, I put on an R.E.M. tape and blared it, pacing, with blood rising into my ears, I wanted out. Suddenly, the door flew open, Bob all 6 foot two of him stood scowling, “go apologize to your mother!” “Get out of my room, she should apologize to me for leaving my friend hanging!” I didn’t back down. He lunged at me, pulling me into him and tossing me across the room into the wall, a small end table buckled under my legs. While I was a bit stronger, I was still only 125 pounds or so, surprisingly I had no fear and I rushed him, arms flailing, into his stomach. Just as quickly, he turned me into myself and chucked me headlong into the wall where a chunk of plaster fell into my soft curls, my glasses fell into the floor. My mother appeared behind him, “what on earth is going on here?!” Horrified she looked at both of us. “Apologize to your mother!” “Fuck off!” He made his way towards me, “Stop it! Stop it!” wailing she stepped between us.

 

Violence was always present, like a silent spring just waiting to be sprung, from father to son. Alcohol didn’t help. Later, I would learn, depression and Attention Hyper Activity Disorder would help fuel it, as impulse control is greatly compromised in people with ADHD. Nearly 18 years later, struggling with addiction to alcohol, sitting on bare knees in the summer oven of Gainesville, Florida, thousands of pieces of glass surrounding me like rice on a wedding day, behind me, the large upturned dining room table directly to my back, I realized then that something had to give. Over the course of the next few years, sans alcohol but adding meditation, support groups and various sober activities, I tried to make sense of my anger. At times, it is there, especially when frustration settles in, it moves quietly within me, and I see it in my son when he is frustrated. Turning inwards, he can fling his small soft fists into his head. At these moments, a deep sense of shame fills me, as I do not want the rage to be handed down. In the nearly fifteen years after putting down the drink I have not bloodied myself or anyone else but have had uncontrollable rage, that continues to frighten those whom I love the most, a towering yell from my chest can freeze everybody present. And then, suddenly as soon as it rose and exploded it is gone and I am left with the small quiet space of unease at what just transpired.                                                                                                                                                                                                                     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ht6J5stphHs

 

 

 

Advertisements

Jerry and Jenny: Fear, the devil and Archie Bunker

October 16, 2016

The television flickered in the living room, bouncing shadows off the stairwell, and the white walls of the living room, quivering lights made the other room almost vibrate within the otherwise dark house. Archie Bunker bellowed at his forever-suffering wife, his voice overwhelming the confines of the small shrill speaker from the black and white television, meanwhile I crouched under a blanket at the foot of the stairs, counting and checking my breath as it heaved inside my head; surely my father could hear me breathing. Laughter poked through the white twinkling lights of the television, they splattered over the walls and it was a comfort to hear my father laugh, a deep yawp the cut through the fear that seemed to grip me whenever I laid down. Life was a daily trial, as the mornings and early afternoons where spent braving anxiety that caused a child’s mind to stumble and worry, only to adjust on the playground then back into the classroom as the mind wandered, climbing up the posters of numbers, maps and playful cats and puppies that adorned the classroom walls. After school was a time of great relief, building rocket ships, tanks and caves from the prickly branches of various bushes in the neighborhood, exploring abandoned houses and playing pick-up football, eased the ill-fitting mood the fell over my mind like a shawl during school. At night, it could turn to stark cold fear, if I was unable to crawl into bed with my brother, who would at various times let me sleep at the end of his bed and at others would order me to “grow-up, you’re going to have to learn to sleep at night on your own someday.” Oddly, it would take me nearly thirty-five years to learn this lesson.

The comfort of my father’s laughter would help, soon I would curl up on the hardwood floor, the yellow blanket with the frayed corners that I would hold to my cheek, a soothing tactile comfort for a lonely scared kid, I would soon slip off into a deep slumber. Waking up briefly, while I heard my father’s heavy breaths as he cradled me in his arms and carried me up the stairs. Rubbing my eyes, looking up he excited the room, back to his own room that was littered with dog-eared paperbacks the appeared to have crawled in slow movements over his room, like they were small bulky insects exploring the world outside of their rocky abodes.

Realizing early on, I understood he was a lonely man, an immigrant not just in one country but two, fleeing Budapest at the age of four, into Austria and finally to Caracas, Venezuela where at the age of ten he was neither here nor there, not physically nor mentally. My two charming uncles, assimilated well in Venezuela, both filled sharp humor they, who in-the-end always identified as Latin while, their older brother, my father was left to grope for a place of origin. Perhaps it was the ever-moving sense of a changing idea of identity that he must have grappled with, along with the constant transient nature of my upbringing, there was an almost genetic predisposition to being an outsider, even when alone.

After divorcing my mother, he became a monk, spending his days in ivy covered brick buildings of the monastery, whose walls would echo the soft clatter of footsteps, where the quietness of the Lord’s campus could pardon the most reticent nature of humanity. Perhaps.

We would visit him, a broad smile expanding across his face, making his black moustache dance a tiny jig across his upper lip, in his brown robes and sandals, he did, in fact appear at peace; even to his littlest child. When he left the cloistered life, something turned inside, and slowly the safety of my father turned to mistrust as I grappled with swinging mood fluctuations that could result in shouting and violence. My mother had remarried several times at this point, and at the age of ten I attended a church camp where the instructor believed that Satan was walking the streets, and could, quite easily find a place to dwell inside of little boys and girls. “The Exorcist is a true story,” she explained over a plate of Nestle Chocolate Cookies, “if you don’t pray and keep guard, you too, can get possessed by the devil himself. He finds his way into your heart and mind through television, movies and of course rock and roll.” If I had hair on the inside of my body, they would have stood straight on end, mortified, I wanted to rid myself of her words. I asked my mother if the movie was true, could people be possessed? “No honey, it is a movie” she spoke while driving the car, she AM radio blasting out bits of soft-rock hits, perhaps the devil did reside in the easy going tunes of David Gates and Bread?

Going straight to the authority on all things God, I asked my father then next time I visited him and my new step-mother, “Dad, it the Excorcist true?” Sipping a glass of burgundy wine, his eyes peering through gold wire-framed glasses, “Of course it is true, you must always be on guard of the devil.” He swallowed a hearty piece of beef, and stabbed a tomato, “The devil could be anywhere, in a store, on the street or even a restaurant, and he will be charming, maybe even seem nice at first.” He took another gulp from his glass and looked over his wife, her lip quivered a tad and her eyebrows scrunched together, “Bela, yes, he can come at any time, it is why you must pray and go to church. You might see him at the playground or a party, most likely he will be a gay man.” At this, she lost me, “a gay man?!” I asked myself, that makes no sense. Turning off my ears at that point I was ready to pack up my twelve-year-old self and go back to my mother’s, this made no sense but the seed of fear had been planted. The weekly dinners with them always ended in this, a discussion of evil, Satan and to be vigilant and to attend church as much as I could. “But I do go to church, every Sunday, the Methodist church with mom and Bob, don’t worry we go.” I would answer while planning on how I could leave dinner early. “Oh, God doesn’t recognize the Methodist Church, you must go to the Catholic Church” my stepmother would answer as her face grew darker, more serious, my very soul was at stake. “I have to go, I have homework.” That summer between 12 and 13 was a time of constant fear, especially at night when even soft brushes of wind could startle me my deepest core, and while at the same time I was making an effort to distance myself from a father that grew longer in stature but much more distant, an almost statue-like presence in my life, who was harder and harder to relate to. Whose constant paranoia and fear of evil stood in pointed contrast into the stories I read of Christ, as I had delved deep into the New Testament and within a few years after graduation I would return to the Catholic Church, not out of fear but as a spiritual migrant. The rituals, and the deep quiet of the wooden pews, lending a salve to a drinking problem propelled by inner uncertainty. Eventually, the exploration would be solidified in eastern philosophy, and a keener understanding of suffering, and that in the end a breath is just a sacred as a prayer.

My children laugh and go to bed, relatively easy on their own, there are mornings when my bed is stuffed to sides with a clamoring of elbows, knees and feet fighting for space, somehow they migrate to their parents’ bedroom but the nightmares are few and far between. I desire them to laugh and not to fear the world, a world filled with forts, with comic books, with music that moves small limbs in extraordinary positions. Where bedtimes is a time to celebrate the day and a map to the new day of tomorrow, where differences are celebrated, and always a lesson to learn, to help, to be chip away at the loneliness that is a part of everyone, because in the end love should be on a child’s breath not fear.

Jerry Wick and Jenny Mae: Stuff Collected, Stuff Discarded

February 22, 2015

There are shelves and shelves of books along the bedroom, the hallway, the living room and almost as much bunched together in cardboard boxes, piled high with thousands upon thousands of unread pages, the mountains of thoughts that went into constructing these ideas and stories maybe never be climbed as the tomes sit unread. At some point, in some strange dimension, they call out to feel affirmed, wanting eyes and brains to soak them up, all in order to continue living. The thought of immortality, transcribed into the printed word. Along the wall of the bedroom, stands a six foot shelf packed with past and future memories, long-playing records, most of which have been listened to multiple times, etched in the mind of the listener as much as a childhood Christmas is branded into one’s consciousness. Collections breed dust, a finger tracing along covers and spines, marking time with bits of dirt, dried skin and sunlight, and as I wipe the memory on a blue pant leg, itself a document of age with faded denim declaring that these pants are older than half the people alive in the world, a thought bubble up, “why do I have this shit?”

Years ago when our world consisted of trading news and record reviews off of Xeroxed copies and crappy blurry black and white impressions of even crappier photos, Tuesday mornings were reason for weekly celebrations as boxes of new records arrived, bearing new and old sounds to fill all the cracks in our lives, the door to the record store would open inwards and right there in the path to enter the store was where a small batch of seven inch singles stacked against one another. There would be a fight to thumb through them between customers, as people would jockey for new releases to lift them, even for only two or four minutes tops, out of the inner squalor of their lives.

It was during these halcyon times where my roots set in, as the sound of needle to black (or white, red or clear, if you were lucky enough) vinyl was a mini-vacation from life, and the community that was built around small round plastic cylinders impacted me almost as much as the sound of the music itself. there were those who were audiophiles, the ones who needed to have first editions, or colored wax, who may purchase two copies of a record, one to play and the other to sit on the shelf, untouched by human hands and ears. Stillborn. There were others, like myself, whose sole purpose was to be transported by the sound, and if we were lucky enough to get a rare record or pressing then it was just the icing on top of the melody, so to speak. Most of us did manage to get first pressings as procuring these hidden treasures was a weekly if not daily affair, but in the end that was not the goal. Some were blessed enough to this sort of listening for a living, a mini-miracle in our lives that allowed to LISTEN TO MUSIC ALL FUCKING DAY, AND GET PAID FOR IT!!! Holy-fucking shit, even.

The hallway is stacked with books, boxes of CD’s (I recently unpacked nearly 30 boxes of CD’s and alphabetized them) and tubs of children’s clothes. The house I live in is old, built in the 1870’s, it’s tall and thin, as if it were an adolescent boy–all elbows and creaking voice but the voice comes from the old wooden floors, the thin walls that shudder when the wind smacks into it in the middle of the night. The Ohio cold winters give no respect to age, even old blue houses just a long-jump from High Street. As such, the house has little closet space, the ceilings are tall and there are plenty of window, which is one reason why it is a beautiful place to live, as the sun and shadows of the day make the various shades of light dance through the house. Sparking bits of action against the bone-white walls while I hold a cup of coffee, there is no need for television in a house like this. The house was purchased from friends, Jake had tore down the original garage, probably built in the 1940’s with his bare hands, carrying the burnished and battered wood into a trailer to be hauled away. He built a two-car garage with a studio on top where Moviola would craft timeless indie-rock sounds with the aid of Rolling Rock and gallons of wine, I was privy to some of these recordings as I made Moviola practice the starting point of my weekly Wednesday night adventures for a number of years. The outside of the house resembled the face of an old man, cracks, creases and the peeling paint showed the experience of a weather past, the house look stark, withered and lonely. Jake had moved out and wanted to sell it, with his help, we redid the floors and fixed painted the frayed exterior (which now resembles an old woman’s face, shrouded in pale blue make-up). There were no soft feet hitting the floor at that time, just my wife and I and when our daughter was born there was still plenty of space in the house. Soon, our son was born and I packed up half my music and 3/4 of the books that sat quietly in the little boy’s room. I had two yard sales, selling roughly 1,000 LP’s and ended up taking five boxes of books to the used book store place that gives a person less than Spotify does for a stream. And yet, space was still a commodity.

Children collect things, not out of any sense of greed but because of interest, every moment is a discovery a chance to step into another portal of the world, be it a comic book, the scribbling of bold markers on typewriter paper, blackened sparkled stones or a handful of acorns handed to a father on a walk through the park. These things stack up, in one corner of our house there sits several brown grocery bags, stuffed with homemade maps, sketches of houses, animals and super-heroes, homework assignments and glued school projects made out of wooden tongue depressors, plastic rhinestones and cut out magazine photos, the only thing missing are uncooked macaroni. There are several years of these, even the parents don’t want the arduous task of sorting them out, they sit in the corner collecting more dust and becoming forgotten memories.

My son has a collection of stuffed animals, although there is only one he uses to sleep with, a tiny 6″ bean-baggy bear that he calls “teddy” the rest are nestled together in several wooden storage bins on his shelves. The animals lay atop one another in the ultimate cuddle-fest but the boy never picks them up. At various points throughout the year we ask him to go through them and pick out some to donate, and suddenly the young child’s attachment to these multi-colored, plush animals grows with such ferocious intensity he will toss himself upon the floor, writhing in frustration that he can’t explain. His body grows rigid, feet flexed and his face contorted, “noooo, I need that one! it’s my favorite!!!” He says this for every single one, even the shitty anti-freeze colored Care-Bear that his sister got from a friend eight years ago. Soon, the boy wins, it isn’t worth it and truth be told, the line of records, books and other artifacts that I collect do not provide him with an example of less is best.

Several years ago, I went through boxes and boxes of old fanzines, photos, old flyers for concerts I promoted, leftover unsold homemade tickets for said concerts, poetry and paintings I had collected over the years. The vast majority of these stemmed from the early to mid-nineties, I had quit promoting shows by the late nineties, when my alcoholism and depression had grown to such a “I don’t even care about live music” stature that going to shows was a drag, and once I put a drink in me I didn’t want to stop—even to make it to the show. This is a ritual that has been performed again and again, mostly when moving but also, coincidently with life events such as the birth of our children, the moving of children’s rooms and, at other times when the weight of ownership gets too deep and the urgency to purge takes over. The garage is stacked high with boxes of these things, they are in no order, just piled on one another–haphazardly with nary a concern for order. Zines with long-forgotten names such as “Spank”, “Wiglet” and “Feminist Baseball” are getting friendly with flyers whose existence are a testament to events that actually happened, although with the vapor of time, alcohol and the slippage of the mind, it is difficult to trace the events that I hold in my hands to what transpired. They are in essence, just smoke in my mind as my hands collect the thin dust of age. These things happened, I can see it as I hold a flyer from 1993, “The Ex w/ Tom Cora, V-3 and Guided By Voices.” I remember painting flyers on newspapers, I did this for a while, unfolding the newspaper, painting the black rectangle and using white paint to announce the show. I would paint several of these, they were bold and easy to do, I usually added a small drawing of my dog drinking and smoking a cigarette at the bar or other times, a baseball cap, something, anything to keep it simple and noticeable.

There was one evening when I went to an afterhours party and there on the wall was a framed flyer I had done of a Sebadoh show, with Gaunt opening up, it was a simple flyer, with a wiener dog over the black frame. I was shocked, I sat there drunkenly and stared at the flyer, and one of the women who lived there asked me why I was staring at it and I told her that I had made it. An odd feeling, later that night, her roommate with whom I had a crushing crush on, asked me to stay the night, conflicted I went home as I was living with my wife. My alcoholism had not yet pushed me to the breaking point of crossing lines. Small things alter our lives forever. Inevitably when I hold that old flyer of Sebadoh in my hands, the yellow paper even more yellowed and crisp around the edges, the thoughts of Lou Barlow and company slaying a packed Staches house are not what cross my mind but of the missed opportunity of sleeping with that beautiful woman.

SEBADOH_n

The objects hold memories, some false, some faded and others that have shriveled and withered away as if they were the last brown leaves on a towering oak tree in the middle of February, cracked and frayed, not yet knowing that the time to burst loose for the moorings of its brittle stem passed months ago. Bruno can remember small tall-tales I told him at bedtime from three years ago, as I wrap my hands around his soft body he grins and buries his head into my neck, “daddy, can you tell finish that story about the boat and the daddy and the little boy fishing when the bad guys were after them?” Thoughts go in rewind, “what the fuck story is he talking about?” I think, “hey, I don’t know what story you are thinking of buddy,” I whisper in his ear. “You were telling it in bed one time, remember that little boy had the plans that the bad guy was going to take over the world? And then they fooled the bad guys by fishing, and the little boy caught a Red Snapper. Remember, Daddy?” This was a story I had made up some years ago to get him to sleep, it sprang back, “oh yes, the one with Mr. Terminus who was fooling everybody. That one?” “Yeah, that one. Can you finish it?”

In my own life, I recall very little of my childhood, it falls between the cracks of my mind, rolling in the ether of my mind like coins dropped on the ground—they are there but not, what is real and what isn’t? I don’t know, at times I believe they are true but then I pull a metaphorical sheet over the memory, did the babysitter really do that? Did I really paint a picture with my grandfather? The memories that I’m certain of are there, most are funny and some are painful, mostly the ones with separation from my parents—my dad especially, like a carving in my psyche. I can touch them, almost glide my fingers through the burnished memory of sitting in the backseat of my mother’s car as my father looked through the window, tears streaming down his cheeks as we drove away. And again later, when I was ten, how he glided down the aisle of the Piedmont propeller airplane to give me a final hug as I was flying back to Virginia. Fast forward to my early twenties, when after a long argument, I asked him to leave my apartment after not seeing him for nearly a year, he bounded back up the metal fire-escape and we hugged each other tight, tight enough to force more tears out of our hardened eyes. We would try harder, for maybe the ten minutes after he drove his white Volkswagen Golf away from my house, I’m guessing that’s the last hug I ever got from my old man.

When I was seven or eight my brother and I were at a gathering of Venezuelans held at a party hall somewhere in Columbus, it was loud and I can recall vividly talking with a Vietnam veteran who showed us the bullet that was still suck in his knee, he let me put my hands on top of the knee, and move my finger over the bump made the bullet, like a roly-poly bug of violence. Later that night there was dancing, swells of Latin-Americans gyrating and twirling, in the middle was a thin-tiny elderly man who was leading the throng of party-goers, shimming and swaying his hips, a smile as large as a Volkswagen Beetle stuck on his face. Wide-eyed we soaked it in, stealing sips of beer and daring ourselves to venture into other hallways and empty rooms, I can recall the sweat dripping down my back. Later that night my brother and I sat in the hallway, exhausted, our backs to the wall when suddenly the double doors from the dance-hall burst open. The elderly man staggered, put both hands on his knees, wobbled some more and started running towards us. He was at least twenty-feet away and then suddenly as he ran he vomited with such force that his dentures rocketed from his mouth and slid down the hallway. As if in slow motion, the fake teeth skidded past me, just a few feet from my lap, in a small flood of pink puke until they came to as stop between my brother and me. I eyed those teeth for a good ten minutes while the grandfather was escorted to the rest room until a long dark haired woman came with a brown napkin and picked up the poor man’s teeth.

Some people say that “the mirror doesn’t lie”, which is bullshit because one of the gyms I run in has one of those mirrors in front to the treadmill that makes a person look thinner a trick to make everybody running that our bodies are transforming in front of us, with the flicking of sweat as the MP3 player pulsates, the illusion is obvious but it’s easier to believe in the dream than the reality of the treadmill. There are lines of people stationing themselves atop curved metal machines, complete with book holders, flashing lights and with flat screen televisions perched above them to help distract the fact that each person is pretending that their body is that of a child. On the televisions are images to help propel the sweat from our bodies- sports shows, talk-news and action movies, all an effort to pre-occupy ourselves and to help inspire the declining athlete in all of us. On my headphones is a wealth of music, all slipping into my ears, transporting me back into my bedroom in high school with the pulsating clamor of the Jesus Lizard shaking through my legs, my balding sweaty head bobbing up and down. No longer a forty-six year old, perhaps I am twenty-five again, as David Yow gets hoisted above the crowd, his jeans more burnished than mine we hold him high and in a flash, as he leans into us, back arching towards dusty ceiling panels, this small gathering of music fanatics has won. We are one, spilling beer and yelling at each other, in unison as the din of guitar, bass, drum and yowl (yow–l) cover us as if we were all playing under a parachute in second grade, pulling our knees in tight, giggling as the fabric billowed above us. We are all grinning now. Suddenly the song switches, my head snaps up, neck waving side to side, I could be riding my bi-cycle with feet stretched straight out as I glide down Sunnyside Drive, seeing how far this yellow bike with coast or I could be standing next to the corner of a black, tarnished stage, singing at the top of my lungs for a sweetheart that only lives in between the notes I hear, “they seem to assume possession, change your expectation….you changed in…” and when the song ends everybody pulls a little into themselves and nod as if we all felt the universe giggle. When on the treadmill, I push the song backwards, to get as many giggles as I can. It’s always been easier to listen to a song than to listen to you, or anybody else.

When the last bubble of Natural Light popped up and then out of my glass, all those years ago it took quite a while to let wobbly feet find themselves, as I started drinking in earnest around the age of 15 or sixteen, stopped for a moment for my mind to catch its breath when I was 22 and didn’t let up until that last speck of a beer bubble shattered the ceiling I had been living under. Some six months of after-care, at least 300 12-step meetings and therapy found me in a bookstore, holding a gift certificate sent by my sister for my thirty-fourth birthday, I was counting time it was all many can do after trying to regain control of mind, body and the spiritual aspect of ourselves. Time meant a cushion from the last drop of turmoil that entered my bloodstream and for me that meant another day farther away from wanting to no longer breath as all the breaths I had taken before, fueled by risky behavior, loathsomeness and alcohol had finally ended up suffocating me. I pulled out a yellow book, “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” and after reading two pages, the realization that I perhaps there was something I was that I never knew I was. And that finally breathing was enough.

I once had a very nice girl-friend who said I always reminded her of this song, because she always smiled when she heard it, can’t get sweeter than that.

My very nice ex-wife once cried when listening to this because she said it reminded her of our lives together:

I have a wonderful phone video of my kids dancing their skinny little asses to this:

I have a very fond memory of Ron House singing this with Yo La Tengo at an in-store at Used Kids probably 1992 or so:

Recent memory of driving through New Jersey singing this at the top of my lungs:

Jenny Mae used to sing this all the time, like daily for about a year:

played constantly with my wife in summer of 1999 while we were in Italy/Germany/Netherlands

my daughter was born as we listened to Jacques Brel:

Jerry Wick & Jenny Mae part 49: Thinking 1985/2012

August 4, 2012

Thinking. 1985/2012

Weaving through traffic, driving the first new car I ever bought on my own at the age of 40, music blaring as I sing along as if I am in a bullet traveling 45 miles an hour through downtown Columbus. The songs reach back to childhood (Springsteen, Rolling Stones, Woody Guthrie) to my twenties, (New Bomb Turks, Superchunk, Sinead O’Conner, Dinosaur Jr, Matador Records) and then into the present, (Allo Darlin, Sea Lions, Luke Roberts), giving me moments of elsewhere while waiting for a mini-van to get the fuck out of the way. Watching pedestrians as they bustle with bags and briefcases across steamy downtown streets, all the seriousness that a suit can imply, stuck on faces that look straight ahead; no doubt they are thinking of jobs to be done. In the car, contemplating visions of the past while guitars blast into my ears, I invariably think of a father long gone–a man who choose to vacate his family years ago, I think of Jerry, who is always just a flicker of thought and finally of Jenny and what her life is like these days.

Bruno shouts from the back seat, “daddy, punk rock, daddy, punk rock” , leaning down I skip from a Puccini aria to the Dogmatics, and he is pleased. One day, he may have the faint impression of a memory, sitting in the back seat as his father dodges slow cars, singing along to the soundtrack of Bruno’s childhood. I feel alone. Sensing that all the other inhabitants feel the same as I do, constrained to their bodies, thoughts limited to their own experiences, yearning to feel together if not for just a moment. But with the knowing of the isolation that rises again, the feeling that not only intercourse can relieve because the moments after intercourse are a reminder that yet, again, we are all alone.

It’s a science fiction experiment, these bodies of our, like tiny droplets of rain, hurtling towards the soil until our souls splash and explode against the concrete and dirt of our lives. Swallowed by the force of the ground. It is the music that keeps the feeling of life while sitting in the white Volkswagen with a boy in the backseat, shouting above the din, “daddy, more guitars, daddy, louder.”

The phone rings, yet another example of science fiction come to fruition, “hey, just want you to know, I’m still alive.” It’s Jenny, in the hospital again. “shit is crazy over here,” she explains, her voice muffled from the sheer tiredness of life, “but they can’t kill ole Jenny.” She has the memory of an elephant, at moments she is able to conjure a piece of the past that, even if I were there I would doubt that it would happen, some of it so surreal and outstanding that I scarcely believe that it happened. “I was thinking of that one time we had that New Year’s Eve party in that hotel in Springfield with your brother and all his fucked up friends. Remember?” Searching the moldiest canals of my mind, past exams I took, under papers I wrote, children saying the most fucked up shit, I bump into the memory, sheltered away some twenty-seven years ago. “Um, yeah sorta.” “Remember, you and I went and fucked in that broom closet and then went back to the party . We paid that security guard $20 to pretend he was arresting Donny Acuff, and then the guy got fired and ended up back at the parsonage partying with us all night. And what’s her face killed Russ, your goldfish? Boy, you told that bitch off.” Pulling into the parking garage, I try to balance the memory with the idea that part of my job is to advise treatment, justice and compassion in court today. “er, yeah, I remember that, but I can’t really think about that right now.” “That shit was funny. Anyway, I’m doing ok, trying to figure out how to get my legs working, and I failed my HUD inspection.” Jerking to attention on this last note, “What, how can you fail a HUD inspection when you are in a nursing home and have been in the hospital for two weeks?” I ask, flabbergasted that some moron at the Columbus Metropolitan Housing Authority would do such a thing. “Do they know you are in a nursing home?” “Yup, of course they know. They said I still had to do it, so I called a friend to go over there. Everything has to be fixed within ten days or I will lose my Section 8 voucher. But my friend said he’ll fix it.” Thinking to myself, the same friend who beat the shit out of you last month.

“Find out who your worker is over there and I’ll send a letter over and make a few phone calls.” There is a pause, “I don’t know who it is, all my paperwork is at the apartment and I can’t leave here, fuck, I can’t walk.” blowing an air of frustration, with cheeks in full puffed mode, I answer, “Ok, I’ll find out.”

Being poor is not easy, especially in America where people tend to be shuttled between bureaucratic paths that resemble something between a Kafka story and the story of the little girl who feel down the well, at times frustratingly sad but also bold in the ironic malice of workers whose job it is to guard the most basic rights of the poor. I see this on a daily basis, the vilification of the poor and mentally ill, as if those who are blessed with opportunities had in some astral manner, earned these opportunities. The belief that being born into opportunity gives someone the license to dis-empower the powerless.

Every state in the Union has its own laws and guidelines for social workers, counselors and outreach workers, with some states requiring a four year college degree plus the passing of a licensure test to practice the art of helping. Others, have laws that have a minimal requirement, with any four or two year degree sufficing in allowing, someone, usually with good intentions to work with the poor, mentally ill, homeless and addicted. Sadly, in the midst of slogans, uninformed opinions, we, collectively wage war on the underclass as if brandishing their shortcomings in front of them, we will somehow protect our own. Draconian voting laws, every form of stereotype, whether under the guise of patriotism, religion and or capitalism is used as a weapon to keep ourselves from looking at what is barely ours. A fragile shell that is protected by the opportunities that most of us are born into. It is a skinny path we walk, one filled with dangers that can dart suddenly from the underbrush of our lives, in the form of an accident, cancer, job loss, addiction or mental illness. I choose to do what I do as a way to relieve my own guilt for the underprivileged and at times, I do it with a chip on my shoulder, as I have no use for the shaming of the people I choose to serve. I am blunt with the truth as it is the only way I can make sense of the suffering I see, perhaps, I do it to make sense of  the confusion I was brought up with or maybe it is a calling.

There was a large farm next abutted next to the tiny chuck of yard where the tiny ranch house stood, a house that resembled one of millions in America, this one set right of the old National Highway. Three small bedrooms and an unfinished basement where Jenny and her younger sister slept, a piece of 1970’s frayed green carpet kept bare teenage feet from slapping against the concrete. Upstairs their little brother Tony slept in the same room with another younger sister, Megan and down a “hallway” that consisted of two medium steps from the closet sized bathroom was the parents room. This was the third house the family had lived in over the past four years, all of them less than a mile apart. The farm behind and next to them was abandon, the silo standing as a white beacon of failure to every passerby. This was the mid-eighties when the scorched-earth polices of Reagan capitalism cindered many a family farm, but the workings of these policies were cloaked in the feel good speech of an old actor who while robbing the heartland blind made us all feel a little safer. Jenny and her siblings each raised a lamb for the annual Clark County Fair, active members of 4-H, they realized the fragile lesson of life, death and the meaning of the cycle of hardship. The sheep would be slaughtered after the fair, and hopefully each child would be able to sell the animal for a good price, money to be invested in college, a car or to help the family out.

After school, we would climb into my tarnished Ford Mustang, bits of it chipped at the bottom with bucket seats that sat so low to the ground you could swear you could feel the heat of the asphalt under your ass. She would run the sheep, who by nature are not the brightest animals, trying to get them in shape to tone the muscles that would soon be ripped from bone and consumed. The animals would stare at her dumbfounded as if she were an alien, they had no reason to run in circles, besides they thought, “it’s hot and we are wearing wool for christsakes!” I would laugh at her efforts, drinking sun-tea while her mother shook her head, “it looks silly, I know, but she wins every year.” This was true Jenny won a lot of contests, her intelligence hidden by her quick wit and outrageousness. She won first place in the State of Ohio Soil Judging Contest sponsored by the Future Farmers of America, as a junior in high school although she was neither a  farmer presently or in the future. She twice won the State of Ohio Wool Judging Contest sponsored by the FFA. She was in the National Honor Society and was warned by several teachers to be wary of me, due to my mischievous nature and poor grades although I came from a long line of professors and professionals.

We would walk the abandon farm, in the cold and the warmth of spring, trasping over withered husks of corn, clumps of dirt that remained unmoved season to season, the massive wooden doors of the farm remained locked, shackled together with a rusty thick chain. We tried in vain to get into the barn, with the simple reason to unhinge our teenage lust in the dark shadows and moistness of mildewing hay that was waiting for us behind the tethered doors. The raspy corn would crunch beneath our shoes, the wind would sail across the unproductive patch of earth that surrounded us into our chest, holding hands the questions of our adolescent minds abounded as if compelled by the chilly wind. She would explain things to me as we stepped over forgotten plants, pockets of dirt that remained upturned and why certain crops could grow in Ohio and how crop rotation works. This was all new to me, I had assumed through my lens of persecution that farming just involved listening to Hank Williams Jr while riding on a tractor and telling nigger jokes. Of being provincial and dismissive of outsiders, like myself, although it would take me nearly thirty-five years to come to terms that I was an outsider nearly everywhere I went, including, at times my own house. The lump of distaste and protection I had accumulated over four years in living in rural Ohio slowly melted during this time, and an understanding of the wisdom, care and struggles of my classmates and neighbors came into focus. As Jenny called me out on my class snobbishness, one that was rooted in a liberal sense politics, as we were by all accounts poor in a monetary sense, I felt more at ease in my surroundings.

Nestled in the dirt roughly 200 yards back from the farm, her own house a dot in the distance, we found the carcass of a cow. Almost complete, it’s bones, weathered white  and picked clean by birds, rodents, bugs and seasons, we crouched around it in awe. Who would let an animal die out in the field, let alone wouldn’t the animal be noticed? “How does this happen?” I asked, crouching down, examining a hip bone, half buried into the dirt, the white bone resembling a conch shell in the middle of Ohio. She pulled it out, clumps of dirt sticking to its side, it was too cold for any insects, “it’s weird, huh?” I took a few steps back, resting on my haunches, keeping my balance with my left hand I felt something hard in the dirt. There was another carcass and soon we noticed roughly four or five cow skeletons. It as if we had managed to slowly walk into a cave, and slowly brushed a beetle off our arm and noticed that there were thousands crawling around us. “Christ, look at all these fucking bones.” The sky was gray, with soft rolling clouds hanging above the earth as if they were licking their collective lips readying themselves to unleash a torrent of cold rain. A splash of lightening shattered in the distant. I looked at Jenny and she stared at me, a large thick raindrop exploded between us. Wind seemed to gurgle in our ears, and she tried to put the hip bone back where it had submerged, as if it were never disturbed. “I don’t know why anyone would let these poor animals die out here and never collect them”, she said more to herself than me.