Category Archives: Non-fiction

May 21, 2012

Exposed

By welcometoflavorcountry

I climbed Mt. Mansfield in Vermont last fall. It’s the tallest of all the peaks in the Green Mountain state. The temperature at the bottom was mild – in the fifties, but not any colder than what one would expect for Vermont in early October. It was a stereotypically beautiful autumn day in New England, colored leaves and all. I was comfortable as my body got moving and blood started flowing beneath long-sleeves and an undershirt with a hoodie and stocking cap. I wore my jeans and hiking shoes and fought my way past groups of college friends and Quebecois that had emerged south of the border to treat Mansfield as though it was much greater of a challenge than it really was. Poles and Camelbaks. Extensive amounts of Mountain Hardware, North Face and Columbia gear. Commands relayed in French and me repeatedly saying, “excusez moi” or “pardonnez-moi” and sure that I was mispronouncing even those simple phrases.

Above the tree line are cairns to help the hikers find their way to the top. At times I was forced to scramble up rocks over six feet tall. Exposure was greater here and by now the height was over 3000 feet. The wind started to whip hard against my face as my body alternated between sweat and chill. Fingers started to go numb and layers were taken off and placed back on to combat the temperature fluctuations between my body and the outside air.

Eventually, though, when I found myself high enough, there couldn’t be enough layers and I wondered why I hadn’t brought gloves. I was famished but had no food. I carried with me some water but I was going through it all too rapidly. I began to get just a sense of what it might be like to climb Mt. Everest or some other great peak. And what it might be like to feel so bare that I would die up there. But preferably alone and not with so many Quebecois weekend tourists.

At the 4000-foot level there was a slight leveling out of the mountain and to my left I could see, up in the cold mist, a path that lead to the peak. There were people milling about, coming up, going down and moving around on the various trails. French and English were spoken and suddenly the serious Quebecois with their poles and wintry gear didn’t seem to be so foolish as the temperature had dropped to the low thirties. I couldn’t feel my fingertips.

I have always had a drive that spurred me to do things beyond where most people stop. That drive has never led me to the insane or suicidal but I’d like to think it has aided me in doing some greater things than I might have otherwise performed. And yet, when I reached that plateau, I knew I was in over my head. I hadn’t dressed appropriately and the slight, non-insulated, cotton pockets of a hooded sweatshirt weren’t doing anything to help fight the sting that the frigid wind whipped against my hands and ten fingers.

At this point I had no doubts about receding down the side of the mountain the way I came. The wind attacked me and I was left exposed above the tree line. It’s often said that the trek down a mountain can be just as hard as the way up because the body is worn and the mind isn’t as sharp. It fools itself into believing that the real work is done. I felt exhaustion and a sense of hurry the likes of which I hadn’t experienced in quite some time. But finally I made it down the mountain; my muscles screaming, my body drained but slightly warmed.

Being with you exposes and exhausts me more than any of that.

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March 19, 2012

Life After God

By welcometoflavorcountry

Spirituality is harsh, but life after God is fierce and lonely. I will not romanticize life with God, however. Life with God is fiery and built upon fears and self-righteousness. My life is built upon ferocity of a different kind. The type that enlightens and objectifies something else: my existence.

Life after God is heart breaking. It is full of attempts to fill that God-shaped hole in your figurative heart with relationships, art, people, literature, film, sex, and the like. It seeks to find community, alternate spirituality, and endurance to run the race. There are no answers in a life after God. Stumbling? Yes. Exhilaration? Occasionally. Happiness? No.

Life after God is prolific. There is a need to write about nothing else but life after God. In all its ways, shapes and forms, the literature increases. But writing existed with God. The answers then were God, God, and God. It sufficed and made sense.

I never gave any thought to life after God. It happened gradually. It emerged with an appreciation for, but in no way influenced by, Slayer. On the other hand, it was also influenced by intellect and an unquenchable drive for answers and a way to disprove all that I knew. One day, on the walk home from the bus stop after work, it clicked. There was no Truth because truth is subjective. I had thought it over and I had lost. But a part of me knew I had won.

For the first few months, life after God was invigorating. There was so little guilt. I felt free to do what I wanted, so I did nothing at all. I had no reason to do anything different. There was no freedom that changed who I was. I still wanted to do good, to be gentle, to find some truth after God. I kept reading, kept watching films, went to work, talked with my friends, listened to Slayer, and got frustrated with life. I was no different than I had been before.

Life after God offered no explanations – it erased them. All truth was now my own to create. Suddenly, I knew very few things. I wanted to treat others well. I didn’t want to change my moral foundation. I just wanted to stop being sure of a heaven and a hell. I wanted to stop feeling like I had to apologize for the actions of other Christians. I wanted to not be sure of anything. I am still sure of very little. I cannot commit to causes. I’m okay with that. It is the only honest way to live.

Life after God is introspective, even more so than before. I search out answers and find more questions. Often times they are the same ones I have been asking for years: What am I doing here? Who will I become? Is this all there is?

People have yet to criticize me for living a life after God. Most of the people I knew who had a life with God no longer do. And the ones I do know who have a life with God seem to avoid the subject of divinity with me. They do not ask me what I believe and I can’t decide if it’s because they already know or because they’ve figured it out without me having to say a word. Or perhaps they are closer to a life after God than I realized. Perhaps they know if they asked me, they would realize that I was right. There are no answers. Existence is strange. I wish they would go from belief to un-belief and help me to figure things out.

Life after God is honest. It says, “I have no answers.” It claims no superiority except the ability to question indefinitely. It doesn’t have to deal with contradictions or intellectual gymnastics. The only honesty is in truth and the truth is that we don’t know anything. It may be hard to accept that, but it makes me happy in however small of a way to know I’ve found truth. I’d rather be lost than lying to myself about something I don’t believe. Fully accepting a belief system requires a disconnect I don’t know that I am capable of.

Life after God lacks community. I went to church events constantly when I was involved with God. I was president of my youth group at church. I went to church Wednesday night, Sunday morning and Sunday night. I went to youth group parties, retreats, church conferences, Christian music festivals and Bible studies. I sang praise songs to God. I raised my hands to worship Him. I spoke in tongues once or twice. I danced in praise of God. I primarily spent time with other Christians, enjoying their presence. There were debates over Biblical passages; the political implications were clear. It was Yahweh or the highway.

There is no more freedom from depression and anxiety in a life after God. It existed before and I tried my best to keep it in check, but to little avail. In the midst of singing praises to God, I exuded misery. I relied on my emotions to help tell me what God thought of me. If I was a loved child of God, then why the depression? Why the down, down, down? What did God want from me? I read and studied the Bible (read it through five times in five years), took advice from those more knowledgeable in spiritual matters and did my best to keep my head high. We didn’t know anything about depression or mental illness. That wasn’t covered in the Bible except to say that God could heal me of my mental illness and anxiety. He didn’t and I haven’t found an answer in my life after God except to know that I can only rely on medicine and therapy rather than someone to answer prayers. Even with a combination of both, I figure why bother? I’ll go with what has proven itself to me: science and medicine. It can often be dubious but it’s something that has shown some promise. God doesn’t keep his promises.

Life after God requires me to start from myself. All I know is me. I am a human being, first and foremost. I extend from there. I extend very little because there is not much else I can know. I feel comfortable in my room. I know that much. I want to help others receive information and learn. Learning brings about freedom, even if it’s not the freedom one would hope for.

In a life after God, I’m reminded that this life is the only life I will get. I try and make the best of it but most of the time I’m content with letting this life go.

 

Other thoughts: sometimes I wonder if it is too late to feel the same things that other people seem to be feeling. Sometimes I want to go up to people and say to them, “What is it you are feeling that I am not?

Please – that’s all I want to know.”

Perhaps you think I simply need to fall in love and that maybe I’ve just never met the right person. Or perhaps I’ve just never figured out exactly what it was I wanted to do with life while the clock ticked away.

Whatever.

Like most people, I’ve bottomed out a few times; in motel rooms, say – alongside naked bodies close by in cities I can’t recall – looking at phones with nobody to dial. And I’ve been hooked on a few things, too, and lost months and years there, but I think I came out of it with my brain cells intact. And how much would this matter, anyway? –Douglas Copeland, Life After God

8 comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in Non-fiction

March 12, 2012

Dear Sir

By welcometoflavorcountry

Earlier this year a man, whom I’ve never met, from my aunt and uncle’s church in the Midwest, sent me a letter informing me that people at their church were praying for me and that Jesus loved me, etc. I never wrote him back, but if I did it would have gone like this.

Dear Sir:

Thank you for your letter. It was very kind of you to think of me and take the time to write. I’m glad that you have had the opportunity to know my aunt and uncle and attend church with them these past few years. They are very kind, caring people with good senses of humor. Although I don’t get to see them very often, I do enjoy when we have the opportunity to spend time together.

However, I must admit that I was unaware that people at your church were praying for me and am not sure why. Perhaps you could share with me what has been said? While I do admit I have faults and while I appreciate you admitting you have them as well, I’m not sure that any of them are things with which you should be too concerned. I feel as though I am doing fairly well in my life, all things considered.

If this is about the depression I have experienced this past year, then I can assure you that hurdle has generally been cleared. I don’t feel as though depression is something from which I will ever be fully freed. And that’s okay, I suppose. I’ve gotten as used to it as I can. But otherwise, while I still deal with the existential problems, I generally feel much better than I did.

However, if this is about me leaving the church, I’m afraid that I can’t do much to help you. Throughout my years, I have read a great number of things that have caused me to question Christianity. Eventually I had no point but to leave the faith in which I was raised, the faith that you and my aunt and uncle share.

I could go in depth about why I no longer care to be a Christian, but I doubt anything that a stranger would write to you would cause you to change your mind or help you understand why I left my faith. The gist of it, however, is that I can no longer intellectually find solace in Christianity, and without some proof to back things up, I have a hard time placing my allegiance with it. Faith is ultimately – and rightly so – an absurd notion, and I have a problem placing my faith in anything too absurd. Too much of my life has been spent on fragile emotions that waver and I need some solid footing that I can rely upon. Faith in Christ is too tempestuous for the level of comfort I need in my life.

Whatever the case may be, I do appreciate the kind thoughts and that you cared enough to write and let me know people are thinking of me. It’s always nice to know that I matter to someone, somewhere. However, I do think your time may be better off spent meditating on your own lives and how to improve them. Perhaps you could use the time you normally spend in prayer to instead help better others or yourself: volunteer at an animal shelter, become a big brother, paint a picture, or read a book.

Beyond the uses that prayer can provide as a form of relaxation and meditation for the self, as well as assisting an individual to focus on others and learning to be thankful for what one has, I have always had trouble understanding the point of intercessory prayer. My beliefs are such that I firmly believe that anything you pray about in regards to my life will only come about when or if I decide it should.

Still, I do appreciate you taking the time to write and appreciate that there are those who are thinking of me. If nothing else, THAT is comforting.

Sincerely,

Andy Lehman

2 comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Non-fiction

February 6, 2012

Dear Andy

By welcometoflavorcountry

Dear Andy in 1998,

Just a heads up, but you will want to live in Vermont one day. No, for real. Why? I don’t know.

I don’t know how our thought process works. These things just happen. No, I’m not turning into a hippie. It’s just peaceful up there and simple and I guess deep down I want some of that suburban culture, but within the sphere of my own interests. I don’t want subdivisions, but I do want a Target nearby. I don’t want cookie cutter, modern houses, but I do want to go to the gym.

I want to live in a place that is interested in the environment and has liberal values that match my own. I want a place where I can meet my elected officials and have them know me by name. I want a place where I can go hiking with ease and can afford my own home.

I know you won’t understand this. I know it will seem antithetical to what so much of your life has become and I don’t entirely understand it either. WARNING! SPOILERS AHEAD The city (guess which one!) hasn’t treated me poorly at all. I actually like it here, too. But I miss seeing mountains (Yes, you’ll live near them at some point. Crazy, right?) I miss the opportunity to go hiking with ease. (You’ll come to like that, trust me.) And in some ways, I miss having a car. (You don’t have one anymore. Sorry.) In the city it’s not so necessary, but out in Vermont it might be kind of important.

As you well know, we’ve always been late bloomers in life. And by that I mean in so far as what we desire and when we get to that point. I know relationships are one area where this occurs (oh no, trust me, you’ll get into some doozies) but also as far as knowing what I want. And I know I have conversations with you (and the other versions of you) frequently. I try and explain why I’ve chosen to do the things I’ve done as though you’re going to come back and castigate me. As though you’re going to accost me when I’m fumbling for my keys to get into my building one night. I know you’re dead. Just like thirty-two year old Andy will be dead in six months, too. There’s a lot to learn in six months. It may seem like that length of time lasts forever but as you get older it starts to fly by. You’ll see it start to pick up once you’re in college but it really gets going once you hit your thirties. It can often feel like it still takes forever for things to pass but you’ll begin to understand that old people are right when they talk about time flying by. Yeah…old people. I’m getting to be one of those, Andy.

And twenty-six or twenty-seven year old Andy is going to feel as though he doesn’t want to live in a college town ever again after his experience in Bloomington (yes, you’ll live there – sorry for the spoiler) but things can change in five or six years. Things don’t seem so complicated and my honest desire for partnership is stretched to the fullest I feel it might ever become. I’d rather learn how to work on a house and make things look nice. But I also am okay with a utilitarian hovel. I don’t need much. Perhaps just a rental property where I wouldn’t have to do all the work. We’re always so late on things, Andy. At times it’s embarrassing but our immaturity in regards to certain things isn’t as much in the forefront as you might expect. So we can fly under the radar about a number of our problems.

I’d like to try and find my place. I may not be able to understand how things turn and change – my emotions included – but I also don’t know why I’m so stuck on making sure I explain things to you and all the rest of us.

Best,

Andy

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January 2, 2012

Stop tempting me!

By welcometoflavorcountry

“Stop tempting me! Stop tempting me!” she cried out, far after when I had tried to kiss her on the cheek.

“Alright, alright! Sheesh,” I said as I sighed.

There was play in her voice and heavy amounts of alcohol on her breath. She had in her hand a small packet of cocaine and I wondered if these were some of the “party favors” her friend had promised us would be at his friend’s gathering by the ocean.

Her friend told us of the party when we sat in his beefy pick-up truck at two a.m., having had driven us to her place from the bar.

I hadn’t thought we couldn’t go – I reminded her she had a dog who needed let out to go pee and would need to be let out again in the morning. And we couldn’t take the dog with us – her friend said he wasn’t comfortable making that call since the event wasn’t at his place.

I wasn’t too keen on going out to the coast and drinking the night away. Although I was sure, as a relatively mellow individual, it would be a night I wouldn’t forget. Not to mention great fodder for my writing. I decided that despite her inebriated state, I would let her make the final call. When I am with her I don’t hold back. I say yes to everything she wants to do.

She flubbed her way through half-spoken sentences until it emerged that she thought it would be best to look after the dog and leave it at that. I got out of the white pick-up and that’s when she paused in the truck. I couldn’t tell what was happening until she showed me the baggie with the white powder inside. It wasn’t much – maybe enough for a few lines.

As her friend drove off she said, “I’ll do it if you do it.”

I smiled. “No thanks.” And that was when I tried kissing her – as she groped in the dark for that connection between her key and the lock at the front door.

Her boyfriend wouldn’t have liked any of this much. I don’t know if I cared. It was hard to care when we both knew she was with the wrong person. But she had made a commitment and I struggled to respect that when I could only see how much she clicked with me. How she told me I have the things she loves but never in such a direct manner. She was probably oblivious to all she did to me, because the alternative is that she was malicious to a disturbing degree. I prefer to think she’s splendid and flawless and that’s my right, even if it bites me in the end.

The dog was happy to see us and I let him out. He took a long piss in the courtyard behind her apartment – peed like a bitch, but was so relieved he could have cared less. We got ready for bed. I slept in hers, alone. She slept on the sofa bed with the dog.

In the morning I woke first. I took the opportunity to read and write. I talked to the dog. I drank a glass of water. She slept. I wanted to go curl up next to her, take the back spoon, and wake her to the sensation of my breath on her neck.

When she did arise, she did so with a groan and lazy attempts at movement.

“I drank too much last night. I’m really hung over,” she stated with a weight on her voice.

I asked her where the coke was.

“What coke?” she asked.

“The coke your friend gave you last night.”

“What friend?” she asked and I could tell she honestly didn’t know what I was talking about.

“The friend of yours that drove us home. I don’t remember his name. He had a truck. Was kind of a bigger fellow.”

“Oh! Luc!” A pause. “He gave me coke?” she asked, surprised. “I don’t remember anything from last night.”

“Nothing?”

“I remember Lacey and I did shots at the bar but after that I don’t recall anything. What else happened?”

I mused to myself. “Besides getting coke from your friend?” I paused. “Eh, nothing.”

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November 9, 2011

One Truth

By welcometoflavorcountry

In the darkness there is one truth. One truth I know of and one truth I have seen but one that I cannot find. I don’t know where to go to find it. I just know I want it. There are too many blank spaces and I wish I could go somewhere to hide and protect myself. I wish I could find an answer to the various questions I had. The ones I always have about where to go and who I am. These were not sufficiently answered for me in college. At a Christian college they try and instill in you the values and moral background you will need to make it in a secular world. See what you are made of. I am made of nothing. I rolled and defused the situation as best I could – I held on to many truths in my mind but over the years they dissipated until they ceased to exist.

I took classes on foundations of Christianity according to one university. And I interacted with humanism, various world religions, post-modernism and existentialism. And existentialism won out. There were no other theories that matched my belief structure except to be honest and say that nothing matched by belief structure. It all happened so gradually that in many regards I never noticed when it had solidified itself entirely into my values. The classes, the school taught me the reasons that this won’t work: GOD, God and god. Okay – I can try and live with that. *Fast-forward five years* I cannot live with that.

The point is to help you lead a moral life amongst the degradation that is occurring all around you. Here are your core beliefs. We want you to be prepared to take your faith into the world and offer a defense to the arguments you will be receiving. But what about this and that and the other? What about historical inaccuracies? What about interference with the copying of the text? Or the problem of evil? I’m hearing one side, but when can I hear the other? And the argument – they’re multiplying so fast nowadays. They’re assaulting the faith like never before with their goddamn logic and persuasive tactics.

When does faith acknowledge it can’t be reconciled with intelligence? When can faith admit that it doesn’t hold water to anything? Trying to square one’s beliefs in something that cannot be measured scientifically is what it is: a matter of faith. Something which not all of us have, nor is it something all of us want. Not anymore.

Come back to faith, they would say to me, without answering my questions or even offering viable alternatives. Come back to our community and to live with our collective sense of culture; of the rights and wrongs and approvals and disapprovals.

Giving up faith in God was the hardest thing I have ever done. It left me directionless and alone – cut out of purpose and community the likes of which I never felt I belonged. All the things I had hoped to be a part of were no longer there, nor will they come back. I will likely never go back to being a believer. I cannot check my intellect at the door and jump back into that pond and be baptized in that holy spirit. Despite how people may pray for my soul, I do not know where I would go or how I might go about finding it.

Despite the difficulty in giving up on God, in another sense it was also quite easy. I never felt as though I totally belonged to Christianity. It wasn’t because I questioned – for a great period of time I hardly did much of that. No, my concern was with never feeling a part of their culture. The evangelical culture that existed in the Midwest and all the things it brought along with it. The specifics based on geographic location. I tried to fit in. I tried to accept the role of some things but grew increasingly disillusioned with it all: the culture, the people, and the ideas. The notion that you had to hand in your mind and accept what the pastor said. You had to accept what your parents or peers believed. The underlying insistence in never questioning, never asking “Why?” They didn’t have the answers anyway. They didn’t know any better. They had never asked the questions in the first place – they just wanted to secure their thoughts.

But at least I was honest. At least I am honest. I can imagine there are those who pray for me. Somewhere there are those who pray for me, pray for my soul, and pray that I might accept the loving kindness of Jesus back into my life. He’s waiting there for me, you know? But I am aware of his cultural context. I am aware of the anthropology, of the sociology, of the historicity. I am aware of the translation problems. I have seen the ways in which he isn’t consistent and the predictions that never came true. I have too many questions that have never been sufficiently answered.

I wonder how many other souls I can persuade to question and let go and find a form of damning humanity? Not humanism, not secularism, but a sense of horrible, horrible freedom. A sense of loss the likes of which one may never come close to filling. At least my happiness is genuine. At least my happiness is honest and direct. At least my happiness – the little there is of it – is ready for possibilities. It’s ready to blaspheme or curse or cry out for an escape from the blackness that all too often ensnares it. But it doesn’t seem to find that peace. It doesn’t seem to find a release from the black-gloved hand that ensnares it. My heart doesn’t expand, it doesn’t deflate, but it beats. It’s still beating.

6 comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Non-fiction

October 17, 2011

Annihilate this week

By welcometoflavorcountry

I got to the show late. When I arrived, there were four hundred kids crammed into not many more square feet. I missed the band I wanted to see and saw another one in which I only had a half-hearted interest. With so many people in one tiny place, it felt hotter than a summer day in Savannah.  Sweat dripped down my back and ran the curvature of my spine and between my butt cheeks. My glasses took five minutes to defog from the humidity while perspiration dripped from the ceiling. Everyone coated in sweat; the people emerging from the room like newly baptized souls.

The band I wanted to see

I felt old but at least I had the right clothes on: band t-shirt and black jeans with Chuck Taylor sneakers. I tried to fit in. The only people older than me were the members of the band in who my interest was only half-hearted. The singer was gruff and didn’t seem interested when I went up to talk to him after their set. He’s a friend of a friend but didn’t want to make conversation.

The band I half-heartedly wanted to see

When the last band – that I didn’t care about one bit – played, someone jumped off the windowsill next to which I was standing and punched me in the side of the head. It was an alternative form of stage diving that I didn’t see coming. In the process my glasses flew from my face. I imagined them getting trampled – the cheap Chinese-made frames not withstanding the weight of footsteps from nineteen year old boys clad in black band t-shirts, wearing Chuck Taylor shoes or steel-toed boots. I saw myself walking home sans glasses, blind to anything more than a foot in front of me. In the shuffling that occurred in the next three seconds it seemed like an eternity. I pictured myself ordering new glasses or deciding to wear my back-up pair that everyone had commented made me look like a disturbing 1970s movie character. A mustache would solidify me as a full-fledged child molester. My mom told me I looked creepy in them and that my dad had glasses like that in the 1970s. Which made me ask if she thought dad was creepy in the 70s, a question that she didn’t answer.

Really mom? You don’t like them?

The glasses are, in one sense, a hilarious look, but in another regard they are unhealthy for my psyche and I detested the thought of all the questions and comments I would get.

I couldn’t see anything and it was too loud to say to people, “Excuse me, can you please stop slam dancing for a minute and look around for my glasses? Thanks!” I saw something in front of the guy to my right. What I assumed to be my glasses seemed suspended there in front of his shirt. I took them from mid-air and expected them to be in two pieces or bent beyond repair but they were miraculously okay.

That potentially disastrous outcome averted, I tried to catch the band’s vibe but didn’t know any of the songs and just kept seeing all the overblown testosterone in the pit. I know I used to be the same way, but those guys seemed to take it up a notch from anything I remembered as a teen. I grew tired of the scene and decided to go drinking. A cast of depression hadn’t been cut away like I had hoped it would through my concert experience. In an infrequent urge, I decided it was a good night to get drunk, but when I headed to my favorite dive, the sight of the bouncer outside made my heart sink. Full house. I sighed, turned back around and headed to the subway station. If I couldn’t get drunk in public I would just do it at home on my own.

When I got off the subway by my apartment, I entered, for the first time in my life, the liquor store two blocks from my house. Everything was behind the counter save some bags of chips and a fridge of Pepsi. I asked for a minute to look at my choices of beer in the fridge behind the proprietor. I didn’t go for whiskey, which, in hindsight, would have led to a quicker trip into inebriation. Instead I deferred to my favorite and went with a six-pack of hard cider. I was genuinely cordial with the owner and thanked him for the chance to move me toward obliteration. Ten bucks was all it took, which was convenient seeing as to that was how much the show cost. And since I didn’t have to pay the cover due to my tardiness, things seemed to have worked out okay. I made my way back home, the cider tucked away in a paper bag, housing the possibility of forgetting the depression, so long as the alcohol didn’t exasperate it. A brief hesitation and then I found myself in the kitchen, gulping one down before I realized I wanted it on ice. With a glass finally in place in my hand I sat at my desk ready to do myself in. Annihilate this week.

I’m so tired of doing so many things alone. I have become a companion to loneliness – or it to me. I’m making so many memories in my life and they’re all on my own. These are primarily the ones I want to forget. Nothing good arises except the chance to write of it. The things I prefer to write of are my adventures with others. All my friends – those with whom I can truly bond and crack myself open live far away. I make do with what I have and try my hardest not to let my room trap me in to my feelings of desperation and despair.

I went online and saw a friend’s name, thought to call her and we talked for near an hour. All her, little of me. At the end of the talk she said, “I have talked too much. How are you?” This was asked with sincerity and I knew she meant it. I knew she loved me.

“Things are okay,” I replied and smiled my first genuine smile of the evening. And it wasn’t the alcohol – things had turned just through reaching out.

We said our goodbyes; I hung up and grabbed a book, lay in bed and read until I couldn’t stay awake. On my desk, a sweaty glass, quarter filled with hard cider slowly melted the three ice cubes that bobbed inside.

4 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Non-fiction

October 10, 2011

Failed Tweets from a Protest March

By welcometoflavorcountry

This past Saturday I went to the camp site for the Occupy Boston protest movement. I wanted to see it first hand after having read so much about it. There was a protest of a few hundred at the Federal Reserve bank, lots of people just watching, dozens of tents and an abundance of protest signs. While I sympathize with their concerns, my experience with organized religion and general cynicism (amongst other reasons) has left me hesitant to involve myself with any formal movement – no matter what it is – so I considered myself more of an observer than a participant.

Thus, when the group decided to go on a march, I said to myself, “Why not? I don’t have anything better to do,” and joined them from the sidewalk. I decided to tweet the whole thing, only finding out later that my account was fucked up and none of the tweets got posted. Thankfully my phone saved them, so I present to you my failed tweets from a protest march. See photos and video from the march here.

At #occupyboston. Wish people would fuck shit up so I could get pepper sprayed.

I guess I’m joining a spontaneous march. Sure why not? #occupyboston

Stereotype of marches makes me think Im gonna hear: What do we want? White power! When do we want it? Now!

Or: We’re here! We’re queer! Get used to it!

To clarify: those chants arent happening and I dont go to white power rallies.

#occupyboston march just ran into a movie shoot. For real.

Movie people are PISSED. WE’RE FILMING A MOVIE HERE! Guess some ppl r used to always getting their way.

Lots of wrong ways down one way streets with #occupyboston.

Press here: AlJazeera, AP, Boston Phoenix. Lots of pic taking. #occupyboston

Occupying Quincy Market. Lots of people treating this as some kind of novelty. Tourists with cameras. I hate everything.

Literally marching thru Quincy Market. #Occupyboston

Some guy: what u want is socialism! Dude in march: yeah so? #occupyboston

Weve been picking people up along the way. I think a number of them are drunken fratboys. #occupyboston

Going thru quincy market again. Marcher to me: at this point I think we might just be pissing people off. #occupyboston

Couldve sworn I heard an old man end an argument with a marcher by sincerely saying: I cant read! #occupyboston

Noticed marchers with phone # written on bodies in marker. Guess its in case they get arrested? #occupyboston

Chanting JOIN US! sounds creepy. Stop it. #occupyboston

Gotta admit cops have been really cool so far. Sounds like famous last words before a riot… #Occupyboston

While I do enjoy hearing chants my headphones are playin #blackflag First Four Years. Smash the state! Or work thru yr depression.

B curious to know how many people r pissed at this or support it. Looks on peoples faces say alot. #Occupyboston

Lots of car horns in favor of marchers. #occupyboston

Back at camp. Thx to BPD for not pepper spraying or arresting us! #Occupyboston

1 comment   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Non-fiction

September 26, 2011

Hostel

By welcometoflavorcountry

In a hostel in San Francisco I see reflections of reflections. I keep headphones in my ears so I can hear the songs that have been stuck in my head the past few days. I want to make sure I keep them in there a bit longer. Everyone is minute compared to me. I see people in their bedwear who don’t give a shit. They all have their stories that I don’t care to know about. They will make their way to their next location and I to mine. They will get married and have children – elucidate their adventures with their kids. I will just write and write because it’s the new photography. I will do as those before me have done and seek to inspire others based on my impressions of an adventure. I will leave out the depths of loneliness and the sense of wanting to leave – to be home in my own comfort.

I may have seen generic human beings before in my life in such dense masses but never amongst foreign nationals. People really do suck no matter where you go in the first world/industrialized nations. People in the third world are boring, too. They don’t do anything interesting except survive. But at least they are honest.

On the other hand, everything and everyone has a story, a reason why they don’t think about this shit or why they’re so boring. I have enough stories about my boredom to fill a book. Even in the midst of those things that should be exciting I insist there’s nothing else to do. I can’t see myself engaged with a higher level of worthiness in the world of human beings.

I can purposefully cut myself off from everyone if I want. I only desire to talk to them under my own circumstances: when I need it and they don’t want to listen, or when I yearn for that invisible touch and no one is around.

But I’m old enough to be a teacher or professor, not old enough to be a parent to these children. I loiter, hoping for an interruption, yet I don’t want a break to the music in my head or the pen pushing these thoughts. I contradict myself constantly.

In my head I seek a screw to tighten the loose nut that causes this break. Where are the punks and the kids who will turn into me? I’ll talk to that college-aged transient. The one that also has a screw loose but listens to a band whose name neither of us can be sure we are pronouncing correctly.

I wake up surrounded by unknowns. We are working and living two different shifts. Some stranger stranger is sleeping on the floor. A wanderer – a new friend perhaps – to the bodies on the shelves around the room. They all bedded a few moments ago. It’s time for me to go to work. I need to start worrying and feeling alienated from humanity. It’s not quite a full-time load, but it keeps me busy on weekends. Over the years I’ve come to think of this as a natural disposition. It’s not so odd, is it? I was raised well enough to be kind about it to myself but my melancholic state argues that I should also consider such viewpoints as self-hatred, self-loathing and belligerence towards others. I don’t like these options, although many of them seem reasonable in my lonelier moments.

I guess that I always figured I’d be lonely. Never figured I’d find anyone at all. Still don’t know if I will. I don’t know if I should force myself. Probably not. I’m interested in other loose nuts but I know I need the tightened screw.

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July 20, 2011

The End of the World

By welcometoflavorcountry

A version of this was originally in issue #20, March 2010.

On occasion I have been known to think about the end of the world. Death is the final outcome of all of our work. It’s what we fall back on when our normal gig gets boring. And frankly it’s not too bad of a gig because it’s a surprise. We may have some various ideas about what is waiting for us on the other side, but nobody truly knows so we’ll just wait and see. I feel good in saying that I don’t know what will happen to me. I’m not going to be so cocky as to say I know we go to Heaven or Hell or to say that I know nothing happens. I just don’t know and I’m okay with that. Many groups – both religious and non-religious – use death as a scare tactic. It’s a mystery in which bad things could potentially happen (although good things could happen too) so some folks try and scare us into accepting their ideas of salvation as a way to avoid being tortured or punished for an eternity (or a limited time, depending on your theological views).

I’m sure we’ve all heard stories about someone who spent their last few dying hours or days terrified of not existing. And I suppose we’re all wired differently but not existing doesn’t really scare me. Mainly because I’ll be dead, so I won’t care. I’m not necessarily concerned with leaving behind a legacy; I’m concerned with doing the best I can to affect others around me in a positive manner while I’m alive. So if I approach death while waiting in a hospital room or some such place, I’m not going to freak out. I will instead reflect on my life and know I did the best I could. I can’t really change the past anyway; I can just do the best with today. I suppose that’s all anyone can ask.

I think some people have legitimate fears and concerns about death, but at the same time I think that there must be some emotional or personal issue that causes them to act in a way that I would say is irrational towards that which we all must confront. And in that regard, I’d rather go when I wasn’t expecting it as opposed to when I’m ninety-something. Surprise is always a good thing, especially when you’re dead and can’t enjoy it.

Perhaps some think I treat death with too much triviality. And perhaps I do. But I also know that where there is reverence towards something man-made – a social or cultural rule to which I belong – I feel responsible to get others to question that idea. I’m not saying I demand people be happy at funerals (although I would like to have the music at the end of “The Price is Right” played at mine, in the hope it puts a smile on peoples’ faces), but I would want them to understand why we go through and perform the rites and rituals we do when someone close to us dies. If people want to make death a big deal, I want to put it into perspective.

I’m not interested in losing my loved ones but it’s not as though it comes as a shock. From a young age, we kind of knew the gig would be up sooner or later – both for those around us and ourselves. How can we teach children and young people a new way to look at death and all that surrounds it? I would never want to have someone think that a human life can be taken lightly, though. This is a hard thing to figure out. I guess this all stems from me feeling nonchalant about something that many people are almost paranoid over. And I think at some point I was very concerned about it too. But I don’t feel as though death holds any fear over me and in a sense that feels great.

As we break down fears in our lives and push through boundaries it becomes a momentous occasion, even if it takes us a while to realize it. If we could find a means so that society might be able to appreciate the freedom that comes from not worrying over death anymore, I wonder what kind of changes might transpire in our world. The existential liberty given by that realization could help men and women do remarkable things.

3 comments   |  tags: , | posted in Non-fiction

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