Saturday, February 28, 2015

Day Two Thousand Six Hundred and Nineteen . . . Pie Eyed

I have a friend who gave up drinking long before I did.

Now, he's older than me by a few years, granted, but he's been clean and sober for decades.

Decades. Plural.

I barely have one.

But, of course, as they say in the halls we all have the same exact amount of time under our belts: today. Just make it through today and get to tomorrow and that is how you tackle the long game, the grandiose thinking, the irrational idea that one can predict the future.

 My friend and I have something else in common: neither of us went the traditional route of Alcoholics Anonymous. And as such we have to come up with creative ways to remind ourselves that a sober life is the only way.

I remember the first time I got turned off to AA.  It was actually due to something that was said to me by the first person to ever bring me to a meeting. I had stopped going and instead instituted a personalized program of blogging, seeing my therapist, working out and living and learning. I saw him one day and told him how I had been sober for several months. I told him how much my recovery meant to me now. He quickly responded "But you're not in recovery if you don't have a program. You're just biding your time."

He relapsed not long after that, lending credence to my own adage that "It only works until it doesn't."

I find it interesting these days that I know more and more people who have gone the sober route but eschewed The Fellowship that has been a standard since 1935. Maybe it's the part of the country that I live in--the solitary and uptight Yankee northeast--that make people just want to do it on their own without anyone to check in with on a daily basis. I know for myself, I just simply didn't feel like letting more people into my life that had the same problems as I did. What I wanted was people with less problems. Or just different ones. I guess it's worked up to now.

But getting back to my older friend.

He wrote me the other day to say that it's amazing how after so many years of sobriety he still has never managed to conquer the desire for a drink during times of celebration.

This got me thinking.

Because as much as I read about how the science of alcoholism is the same from person to person I have always had a hard time just chalking it up to being that simple. I don't believe that I feel the need to drink for the same reason that the person down the street does, or the person at the restaurant bar, or the guy hanging out on his porch stoop with a 30-pack at his side.

I don't believe that we all felt the same need to continue. But what I do believe is that we all stopped for a similar reason. And that's the most important piece of the puzzle. Because it doesn't matter why it happened it only matters that the desire for change was strong enough to bring about its end.

So I started to think about the rituals of celebration. It's amazing when you start to realize how unbelievably enmeshed drinking--and toasting, in particular--is in worldwide culture to heighten the act of appreciation of an accomplishment. Now, of course, you can toast without alcohol. I do it every time I sit down to a meal with Jodi. We toast to the meal we just made. We toast to a hard day's work. We toast to a loved one's memory. We sometimes just toast to the fact that we can toast--that we are alive. When we do my glass is invariably filled with either coffee, seltzer or just water. But to think that that toast is any less meaningful than if it were full of beer or wine or whiskey is ludicrous. That's because that part of sobriety doesn't bug me anymore. That's because I'm not the same as my older friend and I'm not the same as the guy who just quit drinking two week ago.

That's because I'm me.

But I stepped out of my little me-bubble for a moment. I tried to sum up what it would be like to take these seven years of sobriety and just close my eyes and fill up a glass of vodka with ice and toast to whatever celebration may be a hand.

I decided that it would be like hitting myself in the face with a pie.

There would be the initial shock.

I would look more than a little surprised.

It would taste really good.

And ultimately it would make a huge mess everywhere and I would have nobody to blame for it but myself.

So I told my friend this. He agreed that pie was delicious but there was no need to waste it in that manner. He's a smart cookie and a funny guy to boot.

I'll close this quick post (sorry it's been so long since I've written) by just saying that it's amazing to watch this world in action. It's such an eye-opening process to witness the advertizing agencies as they try time and again to link drinking with never ending good times and unfathomable achievement. It's as ludicrous as having McDonalds as an official sponsor of the Olympics. But nobody really believes that Gabby Richards got to where she is by swilling Coke, Big Macs and fries.

My jealousies of being a "normal" drinker have fallen by the wayside over the years. I used to pine for the good old days when I could pick up a six pack after work and have a few beers watching TV. But my brain has developed a keen sense of selective memory and the ashes from the many good times I set ablaze seem to end up blown away in the wind.

When we talk of accomplishments and celebrations I find it interesting to note that staying sober is its own reason to make a toast. In this world where we are usually lauded for doing something how refreshing is it that there is cause to celebrate from refraining, abstaining, and letting go of what we always used to do.

We learn to live as we go until we find ourselves at a point where we need to learn it all again.

And for me everyday I see a new reason to stay on this path.

I love pie and I love me.

So I see no reason to make a mess out of either one.

I raise a glass to you all and say . . .

Thanks for reading.


Saturday, December 27, 2014

Day two thousand five hundred and fifty seven . . . "Boy, am I toy-stee."

A guy walks into a bar and sits down.

The fairly inebriated fellow with an empty glass to the right of him loudly exclaims, "Boy, am I toy-stee."

The first guy doesn't think much of it and orders a beer.

A couple minutes later he hears, once again, from the fellow on his right, "Boy, am I toy-stee."

So the first guy says, "Bartender, I'd like to buy this fellow right here a drink."

Bartender gives the man a beer which he drinks down in one, intense glug.

All eyes are on him.

He puts his empty glass down on the bar,  burps loudly, leans back and says:

"Boy, was I toy-stee!"

I think this is a pretty funny joke. It stands on it's own right as just a silly little observation of some curious human nature.

But I also see into it and can relate on some deeper levels.

You see, at 12:45 A.M seven years ago this morning I had my last drink of alcohol.

And I had been very toy-stee, indeed.

I was out and about and looking for trouble. I knew where to get it but I didn't take the right back road and was subsequently pulled over by the cops. But funny enough I didn't just pull over when I saw their lights. Oh no, I didn't do that because I knew that if I did that I would have been busted directly across from the bar I was headed to.

No, instead I actually took a left across a busy street and drove up into a narrow parking lot that was adjacent to the bar. So, at least that way if anybody wanted to see me try (emphasis on "try") to walk a straight line they'd have to step outside to do it--which they did, several of them.

I have the whole police report of the incident. It's got some classic quotes from me, like when the cops asked how much I had drank that night I told them "Two glasses of vodka."

Not mixed drinks, mind you. Just glasses of vodka.

With ice, of course.

I was very toy-stee.

People talk about "desperate cries for help" and other signs they should have seen along the way. They talk about how there's a motive behind every action, and posit that people who abuse drugs, alcohol, and other vices have a "sickness."

I know that this is true in many cases. I've seen the evidence and I've seen the damage. And I've seen too many people who have gone over the edge and never come back. And I've certainly seen a few who have come back from the edge but not really all the way. And I know more than a few who might not ever change--who are proud to be the mess that they are. And I connect with these types of people because that's who I was. It hasn't been that long that I don't remember the pride I took in my ability to empty a .750 of vodka in one sitting--alone. When you're an alcoholic you take your sources of pride where you can get them. And I got mine in the form of a weekly full recycling bin of clear bottles with red Russian labels on them.

I've been watching old home movies from the 1970s recently. Watching these and listening back to reel-to-reel tapes of me and my family I see a pattern of behavior that is alarming. It's alarming in and of itself but also in the fact that I see how it followed me into my adolescent years and then on to adulthood.

I see a spoiled only child who asked for every toy on TV and got at least most of them for Christmas.

I see a child who had to always be heard and couldn't stand to not be the one being talked to.

I see a little boy who was loved by all around him and never knew anything else. I see the dream my mother had come true: the dream of a son to raise on her own--removed from the societal expectations of a having a dominant male figure in the house. My mother didn't have any desire for a partner in this grand scheme. She knew she was smart enough and woman enough to raise a child on her own. And by all accounts she was. But somewhere along the way the joy of the dream coming true led to my spoiling. It showed up in punishments that fell short of being disciplinary and lies believed because she wanted to believe them.

I see these things and realize that this atmosphere could possibly have been the breeding ground for the innate sense of invincibility that I developed as I dove deeper into a world of substance abuse. And when I moved away to Western Massachusetts it was because my Aunt Lynda had finally stepped in and given me the ultimatum of clean up or get out.

And get out I did.

It would take sixteen long years of slowly trying to kill myself ounce by ounce to finally hit a wall. I put more than a few people through the wringer over that time period. There are some who went along with me and try as they might never were able to get me to change. And there are some who were sad to see me change so drastically when I did. I know I'm a much different person now than I used to be. And because of that I don't really see some people who once were such a big part of my life. It's one of the things people fear the most when they consider a life of sobriety, and for good reason. But the flip side of that, at least for me, would have not been an acceptable solution for long.

And when I did hit that wall in the form of of swirling blue lights I can only say I am thankful that the discipline came in a form I couldn't talk my way out of, because I would have continued on that path of self-destruction, probably to the end.

But here I am, seven years later.

I'm still in my Christmas Pajamas at 2:30 in the afternoon.

I'm happy it's warm enough to go outside and rake leaves in the yard in the middle of December.

I've got a party to go to tonight where there will be several bottles of booze on the kitchen table, I'm sure. But I've been to fifty parties in the past seven years where there were bottles of booze on the kitchen table--and some of them I even brought myself.

But I'm not the guy who needs it anymore.

I'm not the inebriated starved-for-attention only child anymore.

I've learned my own form of self-discipline in these last seven years. Writing these words on these pages has been a big part of it. Because sometimes when you shine a light on the darkest part of the room you notice there was a lamp there all along--it just needed a new bulb.

And in this lit room I can look around and count my blessings.

Even better, I can look inside and count my blessings.

I'm not the one anyone needs to feel sorry for at the bar anymore.

And I never, ever, take any of this for granted.

I have today, just like we all do.

How I spend it is what matters in the end.

But it's very true, and I'll say it again one more time with feeling:

Boy, was I toy-stee!

Thanks for reading,



Friday, October 31, 2014

Day Two Thousand Five Hundred . . . Having a moment

I've always loved Halloween.

It was probably one of my favorite holidays as a child. I can only guess that my love of costuming and putting on makeup and crazy clothes went hand it hand with my constant desire to be somebody else.

Now, there are a lot of reasons why we might want to be "somebody else" when we're a child. When you think about all the things that adults are allowed to do, as opposed to somebody between the ages of five and, say, eighteen, it's easy to understand wanting to escape. Like putting on your grandfather's suits and hats for fun, it is that strange urge to be taken seriously coupled with "dress up" time.

I can recall wanting to be so many different people--most of them famous--like James Bond, Indiana Jones, Luke Skywalker or Paul McCartney (or any of The Beatles for that matter).

But it's funny to think that I never wanted to be another child.

It was always somebody older.

Here is a picture of me and my grandfather from Halloween 1979.
I'm wearing my very favorite mask of a mummy that my mom bought for me while we were waiting in line for the Haunted Mansion at Walt Disney World. I can still remember the way that rubber smelled. And I'm also wearing my Karate (or Judo) Gee. All the self-defense classes I endured I still can't throw a punch (probably a good thing).

My precious grandfather, Alex is wearing his devil mask. His nickname as a younger man was "Alley Cat" due to his supposedly legendary prowling. So this mask, I'm guessing, is more than a little apropos.

But see, I didn't go for any sort of kiddie costume. I wanted to be a thousand year old mummy!

And so I was.

And my mother brought me to the appliance store.
Where I was more than a little thrilled to have my picture taken next to this giant Jack 'O Lantern.

And from there we traveled on to a costume contest somewhere near Seekonk, MA. I remember that it was kind of not allowed to have kids from outside the area compete. But my mom was never one for rules that might impinge on character-buliding for her little prince.

So we went to the contest.

I paraded up on stage.

I got some applause.  And I can only imagine what is making that lady on the right laugh like that. I was, as they say, a "precocious" child.

And then, the whole mess of people from the Seekonk, MA area got up and we were judged.
I remember being up there like it was yesterday.

And I remember winning some movie passes to the Seekonk Cinemas (a huge deal for a nine year old).

And I also remember another woman there being somewhat upset that the kid from Fall River (a good twenty minute ride away) won something at the Seekonk Halloween Costume Contest. She had words with my mom who politely brushed her off. Nobody was taking away her baby's glory . . . or his movie passes.

I'm not sure if her child didn't win because of me. But I remember sitting in my mom's green Volvo and taking off my mask and tearing open the envelope with the movie passes in it and celebrating with my mother like we had just knocked off the Fall River Five Cent Savings Bank.

It was a moment.

I remember being very young--maybe seven or eight--and asking, pleading and begging my mom to take me to this haunted house I saw written about somewhere. It was way far away in Connecticut, probably at least an hour or so.

But my dear mom packed up the car with me, my aunt and my grandmother and we made the trek out there . . . for her little prince.

And I got out of the car and saw the line of people. I saw they were mostly big kids--teenagers--and I saw the lights flashing from inside the haunted house. I heard the screams of the actors and I heard the screams of the patrons.

And I screamed, myself.

And I started to cry like a little baby. I ran back to my mom and clasped her around the leg like a three year old. I wailed "I'm sorry, mummy! I'm too scared."

And I'm sure she looked at my aunt (who never did have kids) and there was an unspoken exchange that said, more or less, "You knew this would happen, didn't you, Judy?"

And she made sure I was sure.

I was.

And we got back in the car--wet cheeks and runny nose and all--and we drove the hour and change back home.

It was a moment.

Here in the present day we have a super duper new Haunted House in the next town over. It's supposed to be the best around, and the line to get in stretches for blocks.

But I'm too scared to go. For real. Me, a big baby clinging to my mummy's leg.

Times don't change so fast after all. 

I've written about this before but Halloween was also a very dangerous time on my street.

We were the only street in our neighborhood that took it upon ourselves to plant a tree on the sidewalk. It was a big undertaking, but my mom and aunt wanted to plant something alive in memory of my grandmother on the otherwise dead cement sidewalk. So they planted a birch tree and it was beautiful.

But every year we would be at the mercy of the hoodlums (as my mom would call them) who had a strange penchant for slicing off the bark of the tree for fun.

I never understood this and still don't. But I guess destructive behavior can manifest either inwardly or outwardly.

But every Halloween we would sit on the porch and give out candy all the while watching that tree and letting everybody know we cared.

And then they'd eventually have to go to bed and wake up and find somebody had sliced up the tree and they'd spend hours putting that black gunk that heals the bark on it.

To me at that age it was like a terrorist attack.  And I suppose on some levels it was. We just thought of it as the loss of morals and the depraving of America.

And then I moved away.

I try to always remember when I see things like new trees growing on the sidewalk, or street art, or even just some holiday inflatable displays, that I, thankfully, live somewhere where you don't have to stay up all night on Halloween and protect it.

I didn't move here with that in mind. I was just trying to escape. But as I grew older and can see things with perspective it makes me happy I made this choice. 

Sure, there are incidents of vandalism here and there. That happens no matter where you live. But where I come from--at least when I lived there through the 1970s and 1980s--you just couldn't have nice things in plain view.

Not everybody learns how to appreciate what they have. And when you don't--or can't--appreciate what you have it makes you want to take from somebody else. And because you have no perspective you have no idea what these things mean to the people they belong to.

You take their moment but you don't end up with anything in the end. And that's probably the saddest part of it all.

Nobody wins.

But here in our little town of Florence, Massachusetts--two and a half hours west of Fall River--we'll have our Rag Shag parade tonight. The people of our village gather at a little park and have costume contests--open to anyone from anywhere--and then everybody walks the 1/8 mile through the closed off Main St down past our house and to the civic center. Then they have donuts and cider and break off from there to trick or treat.

We always have to rush back to our house where the kids are already at the door. I just made a "Boo Back Soon" sign (how clever of me) to put on the door when we leave so the kids will know to come back.

Then we spend the next few hours handing out candy to the many various age groups who come knocking. I've been here for six years now, and I'm sure that some of the kids have been coming here since they just learned how to walk. It's nice to be part of that function of time.

It's nice to be part of other people's moments.

And it's great to be old enough and stable enough to be part of these moments while keeping some for yourself.

Because these moments become memories. And these memories shape us. These memories--even if we think we don't really have many we can recall--they become part of our decision making.

They become part of our value system.

They become part of our character.

They become us.

And when we eventually leave this earth they leave with us.

That's why I write about my memories. I'm writing so that my memories don't become lost forever. I'm writing because I don't have children to share them with. I'm writing because I don't want to forget them myself. And I'm writing because it makes me feel good.

My mother and aunt used to come to Northampton frequently between 1994 (when I moved into an apartment on Eastern Avenue ) and 2006 (when my mom became too sick to travel long distances).

They would come here for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes just to check up on me, to bring me food to put in my fridge and cupboards. And often to come see me perform.

One of the places that was always so wonderful to play in is the Academy of Music. It's a 100+ year old theater right in the heart of downtown.

                                                                   Photo: Richard Christian

I got to play there with Drunk Stuntmen when we composed an original score for the 1924 silent film, "Peter Pan."

Here's a picture of me and my mom in 2000 taken at the foot of the stage right after it was over.
To say she was proud would be a gross understatement.

In later years she would come see me perform there (with my aunt, of course) when the Young at Heart would play there. I remember how much fun it always was to peek out from back stage and try to find where they two of them were sitting. As most performances are general admission it was rarely the same exact seat, but you could be sure that they would be somewhere about five rows back and smack dab in the middle.

In fact, when we would go to the movies my mom had a habit of counting the seats up and dividing in half to see where the absolute middle was. It was important to her.

So when I got word that the Academy of Music was having their first ever capital campaign to raise money for renovations I was intrigued. Their plan was to restore the walls and all the fixtures back to the original colors from the first iteration of the theater.

They were going to put in new seats, too.

And for a donation of a certain amount one could dedicate a seat.

One could preserve a person's memory.

One could take hold of a moment.

And so I did just that.

 And I wrote and asked if they might be able to find a spot somewhere in the middle. If they couldn't that was fine--I'm not special. But if they had an opportunity it would be most appreciated.

And so, on October 17th Jodi and I got gussied up and went to the premier of the Academy's first original play Nobody's Girl with just a row and a number: row E seat 105.

So we looked for it.

 And we found it.

                                                                                  Photo: Jodi
Right in the middle of the fifth row.

With a perfect view of the stage.

And I almost cried.

Because I could see her sitting there watching her boy.

I could picture the bright floral blouses she loved to wear. I could see the soft, faded denim overcoat whose pockets were always stuffed with cough drops, candy and tissues. And I could hear her applauding for me, her sister at her side, both so proud of my progress.

I could see it.

I could picture her just looking at me up there, thinking of how her little boy who looked so natural up on a stage in Seekonk, Massachusetts in his martial arts mummy costume in 1979 had grown up to be up there for real in cowboy boots, jeans, his guitar and amplifier.

It must have been a moment--a few of them.

And now I can safely say that their names are preserved for the foreseeable future.

They may not grace any structure in the town they are from. There is no plaque on any tree or a bench near a bus stop. Because it would be exposed to the elements and God knows what might happen if some unruly kids wanted to just go out and "have some fun."

No. Their names are on a chair--a comfortable one at that--smack dab in middle, the fifth chair out of nine, in the fifth row back in a town they wished they had moved to. And they always used to joke around that they were going to sell their house and buy the carriage house down the street from me and move in to keep an eye on me.

They liked to talk about that, but I knew it would never happen.

And what's almost as perfect as being in the middle of the fifth row?

Well, whenever anything happened or they were excited about something they had a funny affectation: they would always exclaim, "Eeeeeeeeeeeee!" long and loud. I think it was a Portuguese/Fall River thing.

Well guess what? Remember what row they got?




How about that for a moment?

How about that for a memory?

I think they'd be happy.

And more than that they'd be thrilled that I got them both on there--two for one!

They always loved a good deal.

Now I have to get ready for the kiddies. They need their candy and their parade and their walk around town.

Jodi and I are happy to be part of it and we've got costumes to boot.

It's a good life, and it's these moments that make it so.

Happy Halloween, and thanks, as always, for reading.


PS: I suppose this has all come full circle--this whole dressing up as somebody older. Because this year my costume is going to be a Young at Heart Chorus member. And to join that club you gotta be 73.

So how about that for closure?

Funny, funny stuff.

And if they saw me in this getup I'm sure they'd say to me, nice and loud, "Eeeeeeeeeeee!"

Miss you guys, always.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Day two thousand four hundred and fifty seven . . . "Do it."

I have a friend who is in deep trouble.

No, I'm not secretly referring to myself. I'm still clean and sober.

But my friend and I have been in touch pretty closely for a few days now. I told him he had inspired me to maybe get back to writing here and he said, "Do it."

He recently found himself ripped apart by a personal tornado that almost did him in.

He's scared.

He's broke.

He's alone.

He's in pain.

He's a total mess.

And from his own admission he did this to himself.

Now, I'm kind of assuming a little bit of this as I don't really know the full story. I don't even really know this person that well. He's a contemporary, an associate, a local. But he's a fellow Gen Xer, has great taste in music and art, and he's somebody who's always been quite nice to me.

He's also somebody who I didn't realize had any of the problems he's currently seeking help from. But that's probably more to do with the fact that I don't go to bars and I don't have people over to my place to party (anymore).

But I can assume a lot about this person because of one simple fact: he's a human being.

And I can relate to that.

See, we're built for excess. We, as humans, like to try lots of different things. And if we find something we like (depending on our temperament) we oftentimes have too much of it. And when we have too much of it we can develop a sense of guilt about it, and the only way to make it better in the short term--seeing we're already kind of far into it--is to have a little more.

And then the tornado starts to form and it can assemble itself fairly quickly if we let it.

This cycle is something that seems so ludicrous.

We should be smarter than that.

We're not some kind of wild animal.

We've had millions of years of evolution to finesse our desires so they don't almost kill us.

We should have enough foresight to detect the trouble ahead.

But we're human beings after all, and we have too much freedom.

And I'm not just talking about freedom from the government or freedom from persecution.

I'm talking about how if a human wants to try to eat fifteen double-chocolate chocolate chip cookies and a quart of Newport Creamery maple walnut ice cream we absolutely can. If we want to stay up for three days straight and watch 72 hours of television no matter what is on, we can.

And if we want to drink ourselves stupid with a fifth of vodka every day starting at 9 AM (after waiting outside the liquor store until it opens) and call our mom and try to pretend like we just had two beers on an empty stomach, we can.

I used to do that kind of stuff. I did it almost every day for a few years. And the thing about it that kills me is that I had so many conversations--long ones--with my mother that I don't remember.  We talked about so much important stuff and so much silly stuff but so much of it is just a blur. She only really got upset that I was drinking a few times and told me to please not call her when I was "pie eyed", especially at 11 AM.

But when her boy would call she couldn't hang up or tell me to go to hell. Because at least hearing my slurred voice on the other end of the phone was better than not knowing if I was staggering around in traffic trying to make it to the liquor store before it closed. At least hearing me ask the same question over and over again was better than wondering if I was downtown making a fool of myself in broad daylight. At least hearing me try to muffle the sound of the ice clinking against my rocks glass as I brought it up to my lips was better than wondering if I had said the wrong thing to the wrong person and gotten my teeth knocked out.

It was something, at least.

But I had too much freedom and I used to feel invincible.

I thought to myself that my actions had no consequences. I didn't write down the stories she would tell me because I couldn't keep a pen, paper, lit cigarette and phone receiver all going at the same time while pouring glass after glass of freezing cold Smirnoff from the bottle in the freezer into my sour stomach.

As she died over sixteen months I thought I'd remember everything she said to me.

I couldn't have been more mistaken.

I recently found some old recordings of the messages she left for me back in the early 2000s.

There are some cute ones for sure. But I can hear in her voice that hint of worry that only a mother can carry in her tone. Those slight lilts that suggested maybe I was there but didn't want to pick up--that it was okay if I was "busy", it was nothing important. That she was just seeing if I was still alive okay and if I knew that the new season of Boston Public was starting tonight. And even if I had forgotten she was going to tape it and send me a copy anyway . . . just in case.

These calls were often in the early afternoon and she was still worried that I was wasted.

Lots of time I was. It was a sad situation.

But she was always taking care of me even when I wasn't.

These messages usually ended with a little humor, of course, because if there's one thing this mother of an alcoholic worried about most is that something she said or did will cause her boy to drink even more.

She loved me like no one ever did. And she had no idea what could have possibly been the reason that I was trying to slowly and messily kill myself.

And now, almost seven years later I still don't really know why I did what I did.

I can't blame it on genetics, because nobody in my family, that I know of, was or is an alcoholic.

I can't blame it on growing up without a dad. Lots of people grow up in a single parent home and don't hit the bottom the way I did.

I can't blame it on rock music, as much as I'd like to. That would be so easy and almost fun.

And I can't blame it on how I was raised.

Because I was raised to value the world around me. I was taught that all we can see, hear, touch, taste and feel is worth appreciating. I was shown that science can explain almost everything (Mom was an earth science teacher with a masters in chemistry) and that what can't be explained must be respected for what it is: a miracle.

I was taught to respect the people around me. I was told to learn from those who came before me. I was brought from museums to puppet shows to concerts, plays, and circuses all to better shape my mind and spirit and also to show me what great beauty this world holds.

I was created on purpose--explicitly to be raised by one person and one person alone. She wasn't worried if nobody wanted anything to do with her because she was a single mother in 1970s New England. And as it turned out I was welcomed with open arms by the whole family.

My father was one of the most heralded and applauded authors of poetry and prose of his generation (more on this in the future). He was labeled a genius by his peers, played four instruments and spoke seven languages. When he died his obituary ran from the LA Times to the New York Times to the the Fall River Herald News.

I was not made to be a self-destructive lush; I was made to hopefully be a person of substance.

These are my words. My mother never made me feel like I needed to be any more than I wanted to be. And, in fact, I didn't really learn about my father until much later in life. 

Regardless, for twenty years I thumbed my nose at the idea of embracing life, light and vitality and continually pulled the shade down on the world.

And at the end what was I?

I was scared.

I was broke.

I was alone.

I was in pain.

I was a total mess.

And from my own admission I did this to myself.


Well, because I'm a human being and that was my choice. And nobody on earth was going to make me change my ways. I had to want to change. I had to need to change more than anything. I had to fight for change like it was my last hope for survival, because it really was.

And I'm writing these words today and sharing with the world because it's been far too long.

I've spent the last almost seven years on this earth very much aware of my surroundings. I've made my decisions with a clear head. And I can figuratively remember turning the light off at the end of every day.

But I still don't have the best memory and I forget a lot of stuff.

So while it's still fresh in my mind I wanted to stand up here at from where I am on this hill and shout down to my friend to come up and join me.

I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs that things are better up here and I can see them clear as day, even if all he can see is a hill he doesn't think he can climb. 

I wanted to tell him that he needs to start now, not tomorrow and not next week.

Because this hill is a beast to get up.

It's a muddy, slick and rocky mess of a journey.

It's not easy and it's not fun and there are no breaks to sit and catch your breath . . .  at least not for a while.

But as you start to climb you'll notice something: you'll notice that things below you--where you just came from--have gotten smaller.

You'll start to find better places to grip with your hands and landings to anchor your feet.

When you get up to a certain point you'll no doubt be able to take a breather and look down for a second. That's when you'll start to see others approach the bottom of this hill with the same expression on their face that you did not that long ago--the one that says "I'm not fucking doing this."

But you will do this.

And you will meet me where I am.

Because why?

Because you are a human being and you have freedom.

And if you care about this world at all you will use that freedom to keep going and not ever stop, not for a split second.

And with the grace of God, or whatever you want to call the thing or things that made this universe, I will always be here and I'll always be able to help.

I'm just a little ways up the hill, but I'm nowhere near the top.

Just keep going, man.

Keep going.

Do it.

Thanks for reading.


Sunday, April 27, 2014

Day two thousand three hundred and thirteen . . . Watching the river flow.

I suppose you could call me morbid.

Though I feel that my public personality may be one of a positive and lighthearted guy I have to say that it's all a little darker on the inside than that.

Take for example my incessant housecleaning.

I'll stop short of calling it obsessive/compulsive, but it's something that it seems I'm always in the middle of. I may be on the way from the living room to the kitchen when--wait . . . what's that? Do I see dust on the buffet? We'll see about that!--and out comes the Windex and paper towels and the world has to wait until I tend to business and clean that damn buffet. And by the time that's over and done with Jodi has more than likely gotten whatever it was I went into the kitchen to retrieve.

But if I die a sudden death on my way back to the couch from the kitchen I want the house to at least look nice for the police.

Morbid. Like I was saying.

I blame my sweet mother.

For a woman whose under-the-sink cabinets were crammed full of cleaners, sponges, scrub brushes, dusting wands, scouring solutions, trash bags, cleaning rags and paper towels she sure couldn't keep the house clean.

Forgive me mom, but you know it's true.

It's been a few months since we have been relieved of the burden of caring for my dearly departed mother and aunt's home in Mattapoisett. I could never find a way to fully thank Jodi for helping me through the process that was the "excavation" of the place. But she stuck with me until it was all said and done. Just unbelievable that it took as long as it did and cost as much in time, energy and cash.

And while my mother was one of the cleanest people I ever knew--both in personal hygiene and language--her hoarding had always held her personal space hostage.

Oh sure, I was given plenty of cleaning details as a kid. Oiling the knurled oak kitchen table and chairs with a bottle of Old English (not the malt liquor) and a few of her old undies for rags (yes, it's true. But at least she recycled) was one of my least favorite things to do in the world. But I did it and it always looked beautiful.

Cleaning the couple of mirrors that were still visible was on the list, too. As was vacuuming and trying to clean up the many accidents that our dogs would leave on the rugs.

But the "stuff" that filled every room in the house I grew up in except for one (the addition, of course) was so overwhelming that all one could really hope to achieve by cleaning is the barest of bare minimums.

And as children oftentimes grow up to be the exact opposite of their parents you can see why I practically have a holster for my Windex and a roll of paper towels strapped across my back. Why I'm always in the process of keeping areas clear of clutter. When I see a pair of socks on the floor they come up to the laundry room immediately. When the coffee grounds scatter on the counter top I clean them up before I make my next move. The trash never stays in the back room more than a few days and the recycling goes out once a week. The laundry gets done before the basket starts to overflow and the kitchen gets swept after each meal. The fridge gets vacuumed (yes, you heard me) to get all the little bits of parsley and cilantro stuck in the back of the crisper. And the toilets get scrubbed as often as I can remember to do it.

And I do this for me and I do this for Jodi and I do this for my mom.

I know for a fact that she was always like this though.

I remember my aunt telling me a story about an illustration by her that I found. It was of the bedroom they shared on Bedford St. She must have been twelve or so when she drew it. It was just a sketch but it was a room that was completely strewn with items--books, clothes, furniture, boxes, etc.--and a bed in the middle of it all.

I asked her about it and she said she drew it to try and help my mom after a particularly embarrassing episode involving the police.

The story goes that the house was broken into back in the 50s. And when the police came in to interview everybody they looked around the whole house and stopped at my mom and aunt's room.

It was trashed.

And my mom said it must have been the burglars that did it. They had come into little Judy Johnson's room and they must have been really looking for something important . . . because it was the only room that looked that way. Sure, lots of things were missing from the rest of the house, but at least you could walk through those rooms.

And, of course, it wasn't the burglars that made the little mess; it was Judy.

But my mother, even as a small girl, had found a special way to get through her days. She took all the things that interested her and collected them and stored them and protected them in whatever area she was given as her own, even if she was sharing it with her poor sister. As she grew older those spaces became bigger and bigger as people like my grandfather moved out of the house and down the street. When my grandmother passed away she had even more spaces to call her own. And so, with her estate expanding we would go from flea market to church bazaar to craft fair and buy, buy, buy.

We'd drive back to Fall River after a long day at the "games" regaling each other with the great deal we got on this or that. It was a special bonding time we shared--mother and son--and it's something I will always cherish even though I can now see it as learning a potentially destructive habit. But we would joyfully bring our loot back to the house carting bag after bag up the two flights of stairs towards the sound of the barking dogs that welcomed us back with our gifts to ourselves.

I would bring my treasures to my room and she to hers. These things made us happy then. But what we were doing was collecting things we didn't really need and filling our living space with it. Sort of like flea market beavers building a dam.

It was highly ironic to realize that all of these things that we bought, stored, used and forgot about ended up on the lawn of the house in Mattapoisett when we had our own yard sale.

And of course we brought back carload after carload of the really good stuff (my mom would be so proud) to our house. So now we have transported it from it's original owners to Fall River to Mattapoisett and finally 300 miles away.

The cycle of stuff. 

This life is completely subjective as long as you don't hurt anybody or yourself. You can really do whatever the hell you want for the most part. As long as you can make or save enough money to support yourself and your family nobody should be able to give you much grief.

And who is to say that my dear mom didn't live exactly as long as she was supposed to live (65 years)? I have no idea and I have no reason to really be suspicious.

But something I have learned and continue learning is that our body is like a riverbed. And the experiences that we have are the water that runs through it. The daily details of a life in progress smooth the rough stones and nurture the algae. They erode the edges away at the same time carrying the fine silt that may someday form an island that could provide shelter. Life thrives. Love grows. We see our reflection in its clear, uneven, rolling, liquid ribbon and take comfort that we are lucky enough to have found it--that someone gave birth to us and got us to the point where we could step back and look at the landscape and breathe.

It is a fine balance, it is non-stop, and it is not optional if one wants to remain healthy in mind, body and spirit. 

I could sit all day on the edge of a stream and watch as the water and all its inhabitants--living and non--float down out of view. But unlike a public fountain I can't really comprehend where the beginning or the end of it is--that it's simply the same water cycled over and over. As I look both ways over the flowing water all I can see is all I can see. And after that I have to just trust that there is a place where if you walk to a certain point past it, there is no river--where you can just see the water starting out on its journey. And then at the end where I can visualize a finish line and walk past it to a place where the land takes over and the water is done for the day.

But this analogy has a dark side, of course. Because the experiences that life rains down on us in all our waking hours are not all positive. Some are extremely damaging. And their introduction into our waterway can sometimes flood our banks and cause severe destruction. They may deluge our being, roiling the ground and carrying away bridges and dams. The travails and missteps we make or are exposed to can sometimes cause such buildup and blockage that this stream that once was a painter's perfect subject is now brimming with heartache so great that our souls feel as if they were driven from their village.

And we have to wait it out if our psyche will allow and try to rebuild as best we can. Because we all need water to live even if it can kill us. 

So I drink lots of water.

I exercise.

I talk to my girlfriend if I don't feel right.

I pick weeds when I see them.

I do the laundry when it needs doing.

I vacuum.

I dust.

I recycle.

I call the people I care about.

I call some people I haven't called in a long time.

And I try to always remember that what comes in this house comes in because we brought it in. Just like I had to remember that I was the only person responsible for pouring alcohol down my throat. It didn't just jump in there on its own.

There are boxes of letters and photos, old clothes and posters. Remnants from my time on this earth up until . . . well, today, I guess, if you count the mail and the newspaper. There are choices I have to make on what to keep and what can go. As much as my ego would like to let me believe that someday somebody will want to know all about me and my life I have to remember that this is not a museum.

And I suppose that all the rebelling against my mom that I did when I was a teenager--how I wasn't going to end up a goodie two shoes who didn't drink, smoke, or do drugs--I guess that has kind of bitten me right smack dab in the ass.

So I suppose what's left to rebel against is really just a matter of keeping the river in my mind, body and household flowing.

I have to have the room to move, to clean, to breathe, to grow.

Almost 44 years of life have dug my river bed.

Now I just need to let the water go where it wants to go.

Thanks for reading.


Friday, December 27, 2013

Day two thousand one hundred and ninety two . . . Divided by six.

If you ask me I'm trying to live a simple life.

And while in essence I have kind of held the really complicated and attention-intensive things at arms length--kids, pets, and a 9 to 5 job--I find that my life seems more complex as ever.

But I often forget what used to be.

Six years ago today my life had imploded upon itself.

Six years ago today I had spent the night in the county lockup.

Six years ago today I was led from my cell--with ankle chains on my ankles and hand cuffs on my hands like I was some kind of murderer--up an elevator, out the door, and down the street to the courthouse for my arraignment.

Six years ago today I pled not guilty to drunken driving, second offense.

But, of course, I was guilty as anybody ever had been.

That morning around nine o'clock I was released to my two friends, Steve and Paul, who had come to claim me. I was told if they hadn't been there I would have probably not been let go so easily. Steve had called my aunt, Lynda, and told her what was up. She was at home recovering from some awful surgery but took the news like a champ and said had half-expected it.

I was having a very messy year after my mom passed away that January. I was in quite a tub of hot water from ruining a show in Boston that I showed up for with a head full of pilfered Klonopin and a belly full of beer. I had been fired from my job at Servicenet and the chorus was on high alert after some shenanigans involving a broken rib that summer after I fell off my bike riding in traffic downtown.

How I made it through 2007 alive I will never fully comprehend. I tried and tried that year to carelessly end it all yet somehow woke to the blinding light every morning. And each awful day after the next I tried to bring sleep quicker and quicker, deeper and deeper.

Until two days after Christmas when the cops took this nice picture of me.

Cute, eh?

I spent the rest of the day that December 27th letting Steve clear my house of any and all substances--legal and non. I gave him the keys to my car and agreed to let him and his wife use it until I could figure out what was what. He and I and Paul had gone to lunch at a local diner and put it all on the table. I had come to my breaking point. And they were right at the edge with me. It was clear as day what had to happen: either I change what I was doing or I lose it all--family, friends, band and career.

And somehow it worked.

No matter the fact that it came from a run in with the law the simple truth is that that was the day that I let my life start again.

I could almost feel my legs creaking as they learned how to walk past the liquor store.

I could certainly feel my lungs getting stronger from the cessation from weed.

And I began to wake up every morning wondering what discovery I was going to make in the simplest of things in the most familiar of places.

And, of course, I started to write down these discoveries in this very journal beginning on New Year's Day of 2008. You can read that post here.

That first post begins, "It is New Year's Day 2008. No one can touch me. Not today."

And that's how I felt. I really and truly felt like I was unreachable by the actions of others. I felt like nobody on the other side of my own two eyes could affect me. I felt like the barrier between me and the world was so great that if only for that one 24 hour period I was limitless in my autonomy.

Because I had slayed the devil at my doorstep.

I had made the executive decision that I was not going to allow alcohol to run my life.

And for a guy who was always quite good at not making firm decisions this one felt like the start of something big.

For nine months my aunt was able to witness my transformation. It was one of her greatest goals in life to see me do this and do it for me. And while I did have an unfortunate and very public misstep with prescription medication shortly after she died that September I never did pick up a bottle of alcohol.

And that all led me to today where I sit on the music room sofa in my house with my girlfriend downstairs (and a text from her parents congratulating me on my phone) getting ready to go to a casino to see Prince. We'll do a little bit of gambling--but not too much--and they'll certainly be taking drink orders. And it's only because I'm writing about this right now that even for a second would I suggest there was any danger in being there. Because I almost never think about the old me who would have been eying the waitresses for more vodka tonics. While I'm sure the men in the security booths would be eying me to make sure they don't end up with a drunk driving lawsuit on their hands.

Who knows if I'll win anything. While I've been lucky in life so far I'm not so good at the tables. Gambling makes me a little bit queasy to begin with, what with all the noise from the machines and the smoke wafting in the air.

I may lose a few bucks on the slots.

I may fork over even more on the blackjack tables.

I might try my hand on the roulette wheel and I may even play a game of craps.

But I'll wake up tomorrow morning with a clear head and a healthy mind knowing that every risk I take tonight will be nothing compared to what could have been lost along the way.

Thanks for reading,


Saturday, November 16, 2013

Day two thousand one hundred and fifty one . . . Fighting with the squirrels.

How does one age gracefully?

I am currently very much trying to find some answers to this question. And while I'm happy to say I have a handle on the process, putting it into action or, rather letting it fall into place is another story.

Outside my window I have a hanging bird feeder. We put it up this springtime and it's been both a wonder to behold and a royal pain in the ass.

The birds love it and they come in droves. But the squirrels also love it. They love it so much, it seems, that I'm constantly on alert for any one of the nearly (to me) identical greedy little monsters who live in the trees to start running up the pole onto the feeder and begin furiously stuffing his face full of the fatty seed we bought for our little feathered friends.

I'm sure anyone who's ever put up a bird feeder has had this problem. The squirrels seem to be able to climb anything, anywhere, anytime and under any conditions in order to steal the bird seed. There are even bird feeders out there that are supposedly "squirrel proof." Some send a small electrical charge to the squirrel; some have a perch area that starts to spin around when the weight of the rodent is felt. It's big business.

We don't own any of those kind of things, but in an effort to "save the seed" we did buy a small, clear, rectangular feeder that attaches to our window with suction cups. We put it in the very middle of a large plate glass window and thought "let's see a squirrel try to get to that!"

And, of course, they started jumping from the ground four feet into the air.

And when that didn't work they started jumping off of the roof. They jumped right off the roof five feet above and landed smack dab on top of the feeder! And this feeder being attached directly to the large pane window does not give the average squirrel much room to perch. It basically allows the little monster enough space to hang his head and hands over the edge of the flat plastic roof while keeping its feet and hind quarters flat up against the window, providing a highly unnecessary, close-up, anatomical view of what nature provided for the fluffy-tailed rat. This is occasionally interspersed with a full-cheeked wide-eyed stare back at the strangers of another species on the other side of the glass, hands-on-head and yelling in an unintelligible language generally making quite a dramatic fuss. Jodi even constructed a cone made with discarded yogurt containers and clear tape to try to keep them from being able to perch. And while this did seem to work in the short term it ended up getting dirty and kind of fell apart and the squirrels came back, the seed disappeared, and we were back to square one.

But it's funny how we think.

It's interesting that we feel we can say who the food is for.

It's so intrinsically human that we really think we can possibly say to the squirrels "that's not for you that's for the birdies!"

And we think if we scare them away from the feeder by banging on the windows enough times that they'll learn the food isn't for them. And moreover, we hopelessly think that eventually they'll understand and accept this arrangement and find somewhere else to go.

Because really, what have we done? We put a big plate of food in the middle of the yard or in a trough attached to our window. And for reasons only humans can hold dear we did what we did with the main intention that food was put out for one species amongst many.

But we're humans and we do a lot of weird stuff.

We try to control things.

We pretend we have special powers.

We think we're smarter than nature.

But we're just humans and we can only do so much.

I'm smack dab in the middle of my 43rd year on earth. It's a daunting age. This month my high school class of 1988 is having its 25th year reunion. I'm not going to be around for it, as much as I'd like to go. But it's so foreign to think that I've been out of high school as long as it takes the average human to be born and get through a few years of grad school.

My hair is starting to argue with me. In fact some of it is so mad at me that it's decided to sleep on the couch . . . or, rather sleep in the sink.

I have more moisturizers now than I ever had even just a few years ago. I put some on before I go to bed and hope that they stave off early wrinkles.

I'm thinking of keeping my eight year old Subaru and buying a sports car.

I'm fighting with my squirrels.

And right now is the time where it all seems so new to me. I've always felt rather young. Certainly a man who thinks he can down a fifth of vodka a night into his late thirties like I used to must not have a real handle on how old he is. But as I've gotten into my forties I've started to see the real signs of age both visible and non. I forget plenty of things, but at least I can't blame them on my lifestyle anymore. My wrinkles are showing up a little clearer these days, almost as if my mirror's contrast level has itself turned up without my knowledge. And though I have a handle on my weight (finally) it's still a constant struggle to stay where I feel comfortable, both for my outward appearance and also so my size 34 belts still have a mostly functional use.

And I try to not let the days going by one after another let me slide into a maelstrom of despair. It is so easy to slip into an ever present worry that I haven't done enough, said enough, traveled enough, played enough or lived enough.

But then I'd just be fighting with my squirrels.

Time takes our seeds away one by one just like the squirrels do. It takes our seed and stuffs its face with it. It comes after us--each and every one--and it doesn't learn we don't like it. It sees there is food and it picks through it to find the tastiest morsels. It can jump from the rooftops. It can run up a pole. It can stretch its body longer than anatomically possible. It is determined. It is unidirectional. It is intense. It is undeterred, unflinching, and it does not care we didn't invite it. It is smarter than we are. It can find a way up, around, and over any wall. It can look us in the eye while it feasts or it can turn over and show us its backside. It takes what it wants and then it goes to digest for a while.

We throw open the door and yell at it, shake our fist and scare it away every now and again.

And then it leaves us be for just long enough to think that it has forgotten about us.

And then we wake up, walk downstairs and draw back the curtains and scare it off the feeder for just long enough for us to walk to the breakfast table.

But time can only take as much as we are willing to call our own.

Time can only rob us of that which we are willing to say it can't have. Because if we portion it off then we are consciously counting it as our possession . . . and that's the only way we could ever notice that some of it is missing. 

So we can either learn to live with this arrangement and let the squirrels take what they want from the platter, or we can spend our days forever yelling out the window at something that couldn't care less.

Of course, one can choose to not hang a feeder at all. But life is and will always be full of choices.

As I'm writing this I'm looking out at the feeder swinging in the pre-winter wind.

The squirrels seem to have eaten all the sunflower seeds that they prefer and left the rest for the birds. Maybe it's getting too cold for them to expend as much energy as they did over the summer. Maybe they're all next door where the food might be better. Regardless, the birds seem to like it here no matter what. It's nice to be reminded that life is all around us.

I'll keep filling the feeder all winter long because it's such a simple thing to do.

And I suppose whoever would like to perch on it and say "this is mine right now" has every right to do so. 

I'll just sit on the couch and enjoy the time that's mine today.

Thanks for reading,


Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Day two thousand ninety one . . . Treasure Island.

"This house is full of treasures."

This is what my aunt said to me as we were going over the details of what had to be done before she slipped away from this world.

Growing up at 1073 Bedford St in Fall River for the twenty-one years I lived there I had seen the massive influx of collectibles and antiques. I had witnessed the boxes and bags brought up the stairs every weekend after a long day of yard sales and church bazaars. And I knew how much of it was mine, too. For I had been raised and taught in the ways of the pack rat. And every weekend I would be given a little allowance to put in my Donald Duck change purse which could then be used to mercilessly nickel and dime the poor people behind the tables at the Norton Flea Market. I must have a picture or two from the fleas we'd go to but I haven't found any yet. Regardless, I remember so many wonderful finds.

I remember landing my first Led Zeppelin album. It was actually Led Zeppelin III which is, of course, a gate-fold. And one of the nuns at the convent apparently had found the record from Led Zeppelin II and figured it belonged in that sleeve. And so for several years until I got into high school I thought Zep III was an incongruous but loveable two record set regardless of the fact that half of the songs weren't listed on the liner notes.

I remember finding my "The Visible Man" model. He was a 15" clear plastic body with the various organs and skeleton inside. You could take the top part off and play with the organs and stuff and learn about what we're made of. It wasn't meant to be spooky. But for some reason I was terrified of this toy. So after I bought it at the flea market I decided to leave him on the first landing on the stairwell in my house on Bedford St. And there it stayed for months and months. I had nightmare after nightmare of that little one foot three inch guy chasing me and throwing his heart, lungs and kidneys at me while I huffed and puffed up the stairs past where he lived and through the door to my room.

I remember buying a model airplane without my mom's approval. It was definitely worse for wear and tear when I wheeled and dealed for it, but I liked it mainly because it still smelled like the gasoline that once powered it. As an eight or nine year old kid gasoline is a very mystical substance, the price of which my parents never seemed to tire of discussing and which I was told to never ever play with. So I kept the airplane in the basement where it stayed and retained its gassy smell even after being thrown against the side of my house more than a few times.

But being left with the monstrous task of getting ready to finally sell this house has meant I have found not only all of these things which I bought almost forty years ago, but every single thing that my mother and aunt either collected, themselves, or was given by or inherited from their grandmother, grandfather, brother, uncle, family friend and distant relative.

It's a whole lot of stuff.

And I've found treasures for sure.

There was lots of jewelry.  There were specialized vintage toys that made a few collectors in Japan very happy. There were rare dolls. There were toy guns. There was Roseville pottery. There was Pyrex coffee pots and accessories. There were even some paintings and prints that my aunt must have paid a pretty penny for thirty years ago. Those made a tidy profit when we had the estate sale of her things back in 2009. There are old books. There are kitschy ashtrays from long-closed celebrity-owned bars in Vegas. There are vintage fabrics. There are lamps. There is furniture. And there are rugs.

Like the lady said, this house is full of treasures. And Jodi and I have done a very good job turning those treasures into income for almost five years now. But the sad part that I'm experiencing is something I could have never really pictured all that time ago.

I'm almost at the end.

I've almost picked up every tchotchke to see where it was made. I've almost opened the very last old book or magazine to see a long ago date of publication. I've almost sorted the last box of political swag my grandfather printed up in the 1950s.

I'm almost out of surprises and it is one of the saddest feelings imaginable.

Having this house to come to has been such a multi-faceted part of my life. It has provided me with something that at first seemed like a great burden. And for all intents and purposes it has been a bit of a pain. It's drained me of a good chunk of my finances just to keep the four walls up around the leaky roof. And having as many natural disasters as we do these days in New England it's definitely a worry when hurricane or blizzard season is upon us.

But I've been afforded such a wonderful escape by having this home away from home.

It's given me a pleasant two hour drive to go on where I can either clear my head with silence or listen to a couple of CDs or NPR or talk to Jodi about all kinds of wonderful things. It's quiet like I could never get in Florence, what with living so close to town with its dumpsters, lawn care specialists, bar fights and chatty bankers.

I have been able to stay connected with the area I grew up in. To hear the Southcoast accent is a great joy for me and a rarity in my vocally homogenized little valley a mere two hours away.

I get to eat the freshest seafood. I get to enjoy one of Jodi's favorite things with her: a lobster roll. And I get to do it within walking distance from the door.

I get to stroll to the beach.

I get to watch the deer prance into view in the morning from the big picture window in the backyard.

I get to be at peace.

And I've gone on a journey over the past almost twenty years since my mom and aunt bought this place in 1994. While I mainly would come home four or five times a year it slowly but surely became the place where my childhood moved to, because all the things that influenced and populated my memory came here from there.

I moved through my twenties coming home and making noodles at Christmas which was such a big hit.

And I bought my mother her very first CD player one year and gave her the first CD she ever owned which was my band. And I played it for her and she cried and held my hand and beamed proud and bright like only a mother can do.

I helped move the last of my things out of the house I grew up in when they finally sold it in 1999.

I moved through my thirties and came home here from long tours across the country and sat and babbled for hours about how cool it is to be in a van and play in California to even just ten people.

I would think of just the perfect gift to give that would fit their lifestyle here like a new bird feeder or a rechargeable drill so I could help fix stuff when I came home.

I would tend to the pine trees in the back yard when I got home by hammering in fertilizer spikes and watering over and over again. Those trees are now twenty feet tall. 

And how I told them I joined up with the chorus and got my passport and went overseas for the first time. And when I came back I sat on the big leather couch with all the puffy blankets with my dog that I only saw when I came home and showed them pictures on the TV from my camera of me sometimes red eyed but still definitely 4,000 miles away. And how my mom would hold my hand on that couch and tell me how proud she was of her sweet, smart and talented boy.

The way I would take a walk to the beach every day-after-Christmas and talk to myself aloud about all the things I had accomplished that year and all the things I could have done better. About the plans I wanted to put in place for the coming days, weeks and months. To walk my dog, Kasia, down there and let her run on the sand--something my mother said she was always afraid to do but happy I did--that was a beautiful tradition. That was a big part of me. And that has slowly eroded to a mere memory save for the fact that for a few more days I can walk down to the beach if I so chose.

And the food she made on the stove that used to sit in the other room was like nothing anyone has ever made. The fridge that used to preserve the magical food of which I speak but which I had to have removed because it had gotten so rotten from not being used--that fridge once held up twenty pictures or more of a full and happy life. And the sky above the pond in the back yard where I saw the brightest shooting star ever just as I was shaking my aunt by her shoulders and telling her she was talking crazy-talk after we came home from the hospital when they said to try to spend as much time with my mom as we could from here on in. And the pills I pilfered from her bedside in the room that's now empty where she would sneak off to when she got sick. And the urn that sits on the bay window that my aunt had to pick up at the funeral home because I was too out of it. The chair where she sat while I told her how bad I had gotten that's now been sold on Craigslist. The urn that holds her ashes that sits on the bay window next to my mom's and which I still haven't figured out what to do with yet.

And the price tags on all that is left.

The ad I took out in the newspaper for the estate sale.

The bags and bags of trash that have had to go to the dump.

And the walls that she started to paint but never finished.

All of these things are here. They are my connection--be they horrible or joyous--they are my connection to my family. And in a matter of nine days from now they will be gone.

And then they're tearing the house down.

I won't have this place anymore.

I won't have these things anymore.

I won't have this connection anymore.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

And there's a part of me that understands that this may be one of the last unexpected parts of the grieving process. Because I've had these walls and counters and have used them from time to time to remember. To remember how my mom moved around in her sun dresses and moo moos. How she would swing her pocket book around as she was getting ready to go out the door. And how I would hug her in the kitchen every morning when I was home, celebrating the simple fact that mother and son were together, could get along, and could see eye to eye. She put a lot of faith, worry, sweat and tears into me and I'm happy to know that as I sit here today writing this entry that I'm sure she would approve of my life choices. And that includes selling this beautiful mess of a house.

But all the memories that were made here in this place . . . in this house that I have been a part of for almost half of my life. All of these memories and ten thousand more are going to have to take its place. Because this life of mine has to move and it has to preserve and conserve. It has to keep its shit together and use its head and not keep something just because it makes me feel like I'm not 43 and without the women who meant so much to me.

Because my life will soon be more focused.

My life will be central.

My life will be stronger.

My life with Jodi is my life now, and this last vestige of my past--however sentimental, sanguine, maudlin or sappy--has just about come to a close and I'm just happy it's one of my own choosing and not from a stray bolt of lightning or other act of God.

I will miss this place.

I will miss this place.

I will miss this place.

But I will always have the memories until my mind begins to tarnish like so much Polish silver.

My aunt was right when she said this house is full of treasures.

And as long as I am alive I will enjoy the comfort they provide me deep inside.

Thanks for reading.


Saturday, September 7, 2013

Day two thousand and eighty one . . . The Dealers

I don't know when this all started.

But I think a few years back I started to try to double-bag my experiences.

That is to say, in an effort to derive more enjoyment from whatever I was doing, as well as to help remember it, I started making a mental note of its beginning. This way, when it was on it's way to the end I would have a bit of a marker in my head of where, when, and what it felt like when it began.

Because nothing ever feels like the beginning after it starts.

I did it last winter when Jodi and I went back to Costa Rica. We were in the pool of the first hotel out of five or six that we were to stay at on our trip. I said, "Remember this moment here on our first day. Because in a few weeks we'll be packing our bags and crying in our fresh fruit smoothie because we have to come back and face the snow and frigid temps of our New England weather." And while it didn't make leaving any easier I can still remember that moment on our first day and it helps put the whole trip in perspective.

I try to do it during concerts (after the second or third song). I try to do it during acupuncture (right after the last needle). I did it yesterday during my massage (within the first ten minutes out of 90). And I'm sure I'll do it again when I begin our first fall weekend trip (right when we cross the Vermont border).

As much as it may sound like it it's not an obsessive thing. Oftentimes I forget to do it. And a lot of the time it's not even applicable. I don't really think it prevents me from living "in the moment" (which is sometimes difficult for me, I admit). And I don't really dwell on it. But it happens and I think it helps me prepare for loss.

See, I understand that loss occurs every day for everyone on this earth. When we wake up too early in the morning because the dumpsters are being emptied next door, that is a loss. When we miss an exit on the turnpike because we were daydreaming of the sun and ocean, that is a loss. When we find our clothes don't fit anymore for either a good or bad reason, that is a loss.

And when we lose somebody we love that is, of course, a loss.

Five years ago my aunt died right here in the house I just woke up in.

Five years.

I can hardly believe it's been five years just like I can hardly believe I've been sober for even longer than that. But time takes no prisoners. It just leaves us to do our thing. It's busy.

And for five years I have been in possession of this house out here in Mattapoisett. "The House" as I called it back when this was all new to me and my blogs were something I felt were necessary for my sobriety as well as enjoyable to share.

But five years ago I had no idea that it would ever have an end--or maybe I didn't understand the concept of my mental marker--so I never really said to myself, "remember this moment." Because, you see, these little memory helpers can work for unfortunate situations as well as the happy ones. Even if I'm, say, waiting in a long line at the grocery store I'll often think "remember this moment because in ten minutes somebody else will be standing here and you'll (hopefully) be up there near the register waiting to be the next in line."

But as I wake up here on September 7, 2013 I realize that this five year experience is all coming to an end.

I'm not going to go into detail of what's going on because it's still in the early stages but suffice to say that the house is up for sale and we're hoping that this will be the very last fall we have it in our possession.

But that means that we've had to let in the antique dealers and the Craigslisters and the passers-by who "always wanted to see what the place looked like inside." Yeah, it's been a bit of a circus.

Growing up I always was taught that there was only one type of person to be truly wary of. And that was the antiques dealer.

My mother, aunt, and to some extent my grandmother all collected antiques. I'd go with them to the various yard sales and garage sales and church bazaars to try to find treasures. We'd always go way too early on a Saturday or Sunday to try and "beat the dealers there." Because my family was buying for themselves and for their house; the dealers were there to prey on the uninformed.

See, on average (and I realize everyone is different) the dealers try to find people who don't know what something is worth and convince them that it's worth even less than they thought. Then they take it back in their van or on their flatbed or pickup and put an overly-inflated price on it and wait for someone who does know what it's worth to make an offer. It's a game just like any other game people play. It's business and it's their business and I know that this is many people's only form of income. But just like racism is taught at an early age I was taught to be very cautious around these people.

At this point we've sold most of the things in this big old house. Over the past five years Jodi and my eBaying skills (and sales average) have grown exponentially. We've become well versed in the intricacies of Roseville Pottery, Gorham Silver, Maddox Furniture, bean pots, oil lamps, vintage hats, books, records, plates, curios, tchotchkes, and trinkets. We've had an estate sale for half of the house. And we've had friends come by to take things they would like. And the rest has ended up at our house in Western Massachusetts where it will eventually find its way onto the internet where we put a price on it and wait for somebody to come along and make an offer.

Because we've become . . . The Dealers.

Strange how things work out sometimes.

But, of course, when my family was collecting these things it wasn't for their store or even my store. They just wanted some nice things to put in their house and they had to get up extra early to beat the people there who wanted to get to it first. But however it worked out this is where we've ended up and it does make for a nice bit of pocket change. My family would be happy with the way I've turned the clutter into cash and found new homes for almost all of the furniture. Because over five years there were so many times where something awful could have happened to this place and it didn't.

But five years ago I definitely didn't make one of my mental notes. I really never thought this would come to an end. I hadn't even met Jodi yet. I had only been sober for nine months and so much was new to me.

But I'm here now in this big house with the sun coming up full into the front windows.

It may be the last time I'm here by myself.

Last night could be the last time I get a jolt because I think I hear someone outside in the yard and then realize it's just the deer.

It could be the last time I say goodbye to "The Ladies" whose ashes sit in the bay window--the last time I tell them I'm doing the best I can do. It could be the last time I blow a kiss and tap on the Roseville jardiniere that my mom was so proud of saving from The Dealers that she wanted her remains to be put in. They'll be coming with me when this house is no longer mine.

And this could be the very last time that I set the alarm, lock the door and drive away by myself down to the highway that takes me two hours west back to my home in the valley.

So what I'm doing here with this little internet posting is making a bit of a marker so I can look back someday and see where the almost-end was. Because I'm fairly certain this will be the last time I write on this laptop in this house on a quiet road near the ocean, very close to where I grew up, grew older, and learned what I thought was enough to leave it all behind.

Five years ago when my aunt passed away and left me in charge I had no idea what kind of a road I'd be traveling down. And while it's had a curve or two that threw me I've managed to keep on going in the right direction.

And just like the Mass Turnpike lets me know I've made it halfway home from here there's a part of me that wishes there were no signs to tell me how far I've come.

That way it would just kind of be a surprise.

Thanks for reading.


And, of course, this is dedicated to Lynda Jean Johnson (Dec 15, 1947-Sep 7, 2008).

I love you. I miss you. I'll see you again some day.


Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Day two thousand fifty eight . . . Clean as you go.

Where does love go?

I guess in order to even entertain that question one would need to ascertain where it comes from in the first place. But the self-centered species we are it's all but inevitable that this would be something we would take credit for like the cotton gin or Polyester.

From my experience love is not something that is made. It's not something that is earned. It's not something that is stockpiled. It's not something that we can presume to be a natural, eventual fate.

It's something we learn.

Whether we see it from our parents or we read it in a book, see it in a movie, hear about it on the radio it is a phenomenon that is picked up little by little and filed away imperceptibly in the back of our brain. And as much as we like to think that the heart is in control of the whole of love, really it's the brain that tells everything in us what to do. The brain is the CEO and the heart is merely the spokesman or mascot like a Ronald McDonald or an Uncle Sam. It represents all of the feelings we collect about something and puts them in a neat little fist sized package for us to either blame or extoll. Sure its muscles are the reason why we breathe, but if the brain takes a break for even a few seconds damage may occur.

When we see these examples of love all around us--and hopefully we do--we can only perceptibly pay attention to so much at once. A smile exchanged here; a caress there; maybe a kiss goodbye or a wide-eyed welcome at the airport we see these for a split-second and then they're past. And like everything in this world we either associate it with something that's familiar or something foreign. And our reaction to it often depends on how many good vs bad experiences one has had with love.

So love--for me--is something I learned from my mother. It's something she wished for me more than money, fame, or even a respectable career. She wished for me to find someone to love and who loves me back. And though it took me almost four decades to find it, I finally did. And though I have few regrets in life one of the big ones is that she didn't live long enough to see me find it.

And me finding this love seems a bit strange because in all of my lifetime my mother never had a husband. She never had a boyfriend. She never went on a date. I never witnessed her--for better or worse--seek or give love from or to another.

I never saw her love anyone but her family. 

So that just about shatters the idea that if we don't learn about love by watching our parents then our odds of a well-adjusted love life (in the most general of terms) is at jeopardy. Because, though it may have taken its sweet time to come to me, I finally have it. And I feel like the journey I am taking is similar to how I thought a lifetime supply of toys might have felt when I was ten. But just the emotion, not the process.

I always imagined I would end up gathering so much from my spree that I couldn't even begin to find places to put it all, and if or when I'd have enough time to enjoy what I had. But at ten years old we are most likely unable to understand the idea of too much. We think that a "lifetime supply" of candy or toys is a good thing. We don't get that there is such a concept as balance and that having just enough of something is a worthy goal. And even when we think we have learned how to strive for balance it is so easy to disregard or rationalize away.

So what we get out of a lifetime supply of toys? A very messy room and a short attention span.

Love begets more love. It's not something to jump and grab at off of the top shelves where they keep the really big toys. It is its own lifetime supply. And though it is only from my personal experience I feel that even if we feel hollow inside, even if we think that the pain from past loves lost will prevent the door from ever letting it back in I do feel that we have no way to really be sure.

And that brings me to my initial question: where does love go?

Where does it hide when we can't see it anymore--after we've had it for so long that we expect it will be right where it always was?

I spend my mornings cleaning the house. Now that Jodi is working the day shift I have more free time on my hands than I ever have. So I am up at 6:30am and I send her off with her packed lunch and water bottle at 7:55am. When I turn around after the bright red car leaves the driveway I am often overwhelmed.

I've written about this before but one of the tradeoffs from getting clean and sober is that I've become a bit of a neat freak. I see the spots on the counter and the streaks on the windows where I used to only see a rocks glass and the TV. The magazines and newspapers that come on a very regular basis to our doorstep have a semi thought out order they live in on the coffee table. And the weeds in the garden don't stand a chance for more than a day or two.

I've learned the hard way that this is something that not everyone can appreciate. I've had to adjust the release valve on my new found neurosis so that I can find balance in a messy world. The love of my life is not a messy person. Quite the contrary in fact. But next to me at my worst I would say she sometimes feels like I have a tendency to go a bit overboard.

A good friend taught me a lesson back when I was learning the ropes in the restaurant business--a profession I held for almost twenty years.

He said "clean as you go."

Such a simple phrase.

Such a simple concept.

Such a life lesson.

If you make a mess on your cutting board clean it up before you move on to the next job. If you dirty a pot clean it while it's hot and you won't be left with a sticky caked-on mess. If you get in a new produce order put it away properly and recycle the empty boxes right then and there. Don't wait for someone else to do it because it's not their job, it's yours.

Clean as you go.

And since I learned this lesson twenty years ago I use it almost every day.

Just today I took out the vacuum and cleaned the bay window of the cobwebs that had built up over the last week. I found some dead flies and a couple of live spiders that I let scurry away (of course). I moved the little figurines that live in the window, turned the plants around and removed some of the dead leaves. The light at 8am only shines through that way for 30 minutes or so. So if I don't take care of it then I won't do it at all. Because after the world turns as it does--faster than it used to, I swear--and the sun's light show shifts direction it's out of sight and out of mind. And when that happens and I can't see the light shining on the place that needs attention it looks fine to me and my attention turns to something else.

This is where love goes when it goes.

The light shines on us at different times of the day than the sun does to my bay window. It's unpredictable, fickle, and its timing is sometimes brutal. But it shines for sure. And when it does there is a time to clean up the mess if there is one. Even a small spill can lead to an accident. And a box in the middle of the room--one that has no reason to be there--can start to look like it belongs and become part of the landscape. And as soon as we put one thing upon that out-of-place box it becomes a table and holds purpose hostage.

I look around me and sometimes I see where love has gone. I see people who have a complicated life and have built up a house they live in with so many rooms it would take a lifetime to clean. I see people who got themselves involved with something that changed without their input and now they're trapped. I hear stories of love lost over years and years of trying to make it work. And I see the look of resignation to a life that they never thought could come to pass.

I see people who are happy alone as I once was.

I see people who are too young to really know what love is and firmly believe the one they have will never end.

I see and know people who are close to 100 years old who have seen more love than most. And they see me and mine and smile and tell me how lucky I am. And I always reassure them that I know.

And I clean as I go.

I use the random light of life to shine on the problems I may encounter.

I try to work things out with my love.

I talk to it.

I listen to it.

I learn from it.

I try to keep a clean house.

I try to keep a clean heart.

And I try not to expect a lifetime supply of anything anymore.

The way I see it just the lifetime will be enough.

Thanks for reading,