Strangeworld

“Colonization of the mind” refers to the ingrained preference towards whiteness and white culture in western society. This includes all aspects of white culture such as values, food, physical appearance, gender, gestures, and language to name a few. Ideas about what is normal and desirable are perpetuated mainly through the environment that a person lives in. Media is the main vehicle for continuing white supremacy because it is unavoidable and has been established for multiple generations. A person, in every aspect of their life, is raised with a sense of normality that revolves around whiteness because the people in their life are influenced by the same media and values. Media’s role in “colonization of the mind” is exposing massive amounts of people to similar advertising and themes. For instance, an entire industry exists for women’s shaving products that doesn’t exist in many other cultures. If a person is raised in the US, they are subject to believe that body hair on a woman is unattractive due to advertising for these products and the subsequent social adoption of that norm.

However, emphasis needs to be put on how values such as that one come to be. The origin of western beliefs about women’s body hair was created and established by Gillette to sell shaving products for women. This speaks to the type of power industry has over common societal beliefs. Media rhetoric is the key to influencing and affecting culture, and as it exists now in the US, it is controlled by industry and caters to a predominantly white country. Essentially, a "white value" can be created out of corporate greed alone.

Many people will look at the example I provided and argue that it is too trivial to be proof of white supremacy. That's because the general public's ideas about white dominance are controlled by people who are influenced by or control the same media that establishes it. White dominance exists covertly in American society through trained incapacities and desensitization, where an individual can observe what might be a clear example of white supremacy but not think much about it or beyond what they already know. Recently, this behavior can be seen through the general indifference or shallow understanding that most Americans have about police brutality towards people of color. Even an issue of this scale can continue to exist and become more severe through the ingrained ideals of American people. Many Americans feel intimidated when offered the idea that white dominance may exist primarily through subtleties and not just in clear points of contention like they are used to. It is uncomfortable to fathom that a person's entire sense of normality is founded on systemic oppression and a well-established cycle of media influence. Moreover, the way terms like "white supremacy" and "oppression" are treated in American media make them seem much more radical and intense than how they are actually observed.

Being able to understand and remain critical of all forms of media and advertising is the only way to identify and resist white dominance, among other things. However, I would go as far as saying that being a victim of white dominance is the only way to truly understand it. In order to think differently about society and media, a person must first become disillusioned with it. If a person has something that marginalizes them, they are predisposed to critical beliefs about white supremacy in America, even if they don't identify it as such. In the end it is important to recognize that white supremacy in America exists under free market capitalism, and everything that exists under that system works together to establish all that is "America" or "American". Disenchantment is the only way to think critically and accurately about capitalism, which in some cases requires an individual to go against everything they are raised with and estrange themself from it emotionally. A vast majority of people don't have either of two things: an empirical reason to think critically or the ability to think critically right out of the gate. And that's why we are ten generations deep in American capitalism with no projectable chance of that changing anywhere in the near future.

Disclaimer: I'm just a stupid kid according to older adults so keep that in mind. These observations I have made just now are clearly nothing more than a product of hormones and rage and have no intellectual value at all. I'll grow out of it, yeah, just like Mom keeps telling me. So take it with a grain of salt, guys. (Joking.)

I always say I’m sick, or that I feel sick when I’m probably not. Feigning illness is a compulsion I experience because I am a hypochondriac, and since I’m aware of it I tend not to listen to my body when it becomes truly sick, but I know without a doubt that I am right now.

I don’t know what it is but I’m not jumping to conclusions. Unfortunately the feeling of being actually sick is so uncomfortable and anxiety inducing for me that I feel completely restless. Being physically ill leaves me helpless and out of control. I’d maybe be more comfortable if I had a person looking after me, or maybe my cat to keep me company, but I think it’s important for me to tough this out alone. I need to learn how to get through stuff like this without other people because they can’t be there for me all the time. Yeah, it sucks, but even if I feel like shit this can at least be an opportunity.

Hypochondria is another drip in the bucket when it comes to my severe and progressive OCD, which has been a repeating theme here because God does it affect me. It makes somewhat normal occurrences like this very painful and difficult. I am so overwhelmed by the thought of my plans being messed up by this that I feel distressed, on top of the physical discomfort. It is finals week and I have a lot of work to do but I can’t even get up to take aspirin. I’m completely stressed out.

Recently I feel all I talk about on here is pain. Frankly I’ve been struggling and I know I need professional help again. I can endure sickness for a couple days, but I can’t manage my conditions alone anymore. I need someone real to talk to and I need guidance. Because at moments like this I realize how easy it is for me to lose my grip and fail to manage all these responsibilities. I feel like I have no one to talk to about OCD because I struggle with my mental health so frequently that it gets redundant and frustrating for others. I just haven’t been very happy recently. As much as I sit with my feelings I can’t help but resent them. My drug use as of recently has been absurd because of this. I need to go back to therapy and I’m so scared to tell my parents.

I guess writing helps me take my mind off it a little. The reason I write about this negative stuff all the time is because it is like looking in a mirror. In my reflection now I see an anxious and lonely person. As long as I can recognize those vulnerabilities I can work on them. It’s my most useful tool even though it probably makes this blog sort of depressing.

I wish I could write more to keep myself distracted but I can’t write forever. I really don’t want to burden my friends with this but I want to talk about it so bad. It takes all my strength to remind myself that I’m not dying. OCD has such a grip on me. It’s suffocating. Whatever, I’ll get through it.

I shaved my head today. This is the second time I've done this for reasons I can't explain. I will preface that it's not something I wanted to do, but it had to be done.

I am not very confident in how I look. I'm genuinely ashamed of that because I know that the universe is too big and life is too short for me to be worrying about it. But I also don't think it's wrong for me to want to feel good about myself, so it's sort of conflicting.

I still have a long way to go with being confident of myself physically. I have faith in myself emotionally and intellectually, I know I'm worth something. That outweighs anything, but I feel limited by how I feel about my body. Really the only one who can change that is me, and although I don't feel particularly good about my appearance after shaving my head, it feels so good to touch my own hair and not feel horrible about it. Maybe that's a start for me, to feel empowered by that. Many people know that I don't like having my hair touched by others. Not many know that I don't even like having it touched by me.

I really want to talk about this somewhere. I've been working myself up to talk about it. I don't think I've met anyone in a similar situation, honestly, it's so bizarre. Most people take something like hair on their head for granted. I think if anyone who can relate to me reads this, they know exactly what I'm dealing with despite the vagueness. They know that shame, and that lack of confidence. It's isolating. To be able to hurt your own body in this way and to endure the societal consequences is hands down the most difficult thing I have ever dealt with in my life, mostly because it has been 11 years and I have not made any progress. In spite of years of therapy, medications, scolding, everything, nothing has been able to fix it. My whole life I felt I could never be pretty. I was told growing up that I would never be pretty. I don't feel pretty, I can pretend it. But I also know that feeling pretty isn't everything. When I do something like this for myself (shaving my head) I feel strong, and it took me years to realize that that's more important in the end.

I'm proud of myself for today even though it was really difficult to convince myself to go through with it. I know this entry is probably confusing from an outside perspective, but this is also a step forward. Even if I can't shake this whole thing, I can at least put myself in a position where I don't have to feel so much shame.

Maybe.

We'll see.

When the air becomes this cold and unforgiving, I feign the motions of swimming in Dream Lake and long for the water like I would a person. When I close my eyes, I can see myself hastily approaching the edge of the water like always, stirring up little clouds of sand and sediment. I want to walk the perimeter with that awkward gait of mine, or better yet dive in and swim to the bottom and sit. Light shines through the surface like something out of a hazy memory I might’ve had in my childhood. I wish I had someone to share it all with, to drag there by the wrist and make understand. One day I want to be two people floating on our backs until the sun goes down, and shivering in the dark after making poor use of our time the way I always do. In November the thought seems frozen in place. But it is unrelenting. Coats and blankets don’t contour my body the way water does, and sitting on the shore in bundles only serves to taunt me. A thick sheet of ice would surely defeat me, and snow on top might put me in my grave. I would gladly let the next six month swiftly fall behind me just to be in the water again, and I would give infinitely more than that to have a person to share it with.

I’m starting to experience symptoms of seasonal depression despite my best efforts.

My family is riddled with mental illness. It has been something I’ve dealt with from a young age. I can’t really remember a time when I wasn’t an anxious person despite having a good upbringing, which I know seems bad but I don’t really think too much about it, honestly. I only really remind myself of it when I experience periods of anxiety or depression.

Recently I can’t shake the feeling that I am unworthy of attention from others. I think I fell out of shape socially when I went to college, which has obviously been very lonely for me. I was excited to go back north for Thanksgiving to see my friends and family, but I think it is starting to stress me out. My friends and I miss each other, but I feel guilty being around them, like I don’t deserve their company. I especially feel this way about my parents who have done so much for me that I feel I can never repay them. On one hand there is this compulsive need to sustain and reciprocate twofold the kindness of my friends, and on the other is the insecurity I have about not being able to reciprocate all that my parents have given me. In both cases, I feel deeply guilty about being cared for by others and anxious because I know how I feel isn’t normal.

These thought patterns are a familiar sign to me. I know how seasonal depression works and I’m just dreading all the moments ahead where I think irrationally or become upset. It’s sort of tiring. At times like this I wish I was still seeing my therapist, who is paid to listen to me so it doesn’t feel like I am too imposing. That has become a fear of mine again. I feel pretty guilty about things that I do frequently, like talking. Or accidentally side stepping people at the grocery store. Maybe just existing in general.

I really don’t like writing about stuff like this. It feels sort of self-absorbed and needy even if this blog only has three readers. I don’t want advice really. I want to be left alone. Even though I will be seeing people all week, the hollowing feeling that follows the fun almost makes it not worth it. It gets me down so bad. I really hope I will return to college thinking this week was worth it.

I love making fun of all that zodiac bullshit about “making strides in your career” and “finding interpersonal success”. Earlier in my teens, I sort of arrogantly juxtaposed myself to mainstream pseudoscience and learned a lot about it, despite having a harsh approach. Truthfully, the zodiac interests me in the same way that I despise it because it’s easy to make fun of. I often wonder why people get so caught up in their horoscopes when it is obviously just a made up superstition, but I have no right to scoff at those people, do I? Every human sits and waits and wishes for the affirmations that the zodiac always promises. Money, love, success, whatever. And in that sense, horoscopes are smart for taking advantage of that universal human desire. I might look down on people who are vulnerable or unwitting enough to believe in that stuff, but I understand why it works. The same way I understand why witchcraft works, The Watchtower Society, Christianity, Heaven’s Gate, and even Nazism.

Now, I’m not saying that any of these things are on the same scale as one another (obviously believing in zodiacs is not the same as Nazism), but they all have something in common. I’m hardly the first to talk about it. All of these groups and communities are similar in that they spread their ideology by means of satisfying basic human desires. Vulnerable people fall for these things because they don’t have the intuition, at least at that moment, to see past this repeating strategy.

Zodiac signs affirm a person’s behavior and provide stability and direction to a person’s life. Witchcraft, in a similar way, relies on affirmation and ritual to garner these things. These practices are benign enough to not impede a person’s normal life for the most part, but they still apply meaning and comfort in a false way.

More intensely, Christianity, or any religion for that matter, provides all of the above in addition to community. And that is a key component of how these belief systems function. Nowadays, indoctrination of the youth is largely how these religions perpetuate, but they are still able to effectively recruit outsiders. People who can’t tell any better, who have questions they can’t answer, or who feel they have nothing left. Regardless of a person’s situation, their faith will always provide that feeling of belonging, which is by far the most important social quality for most humans if you ask me. Religion makes that easy, and in all cases abuses that desire by weaving a person’s perspective on life into a narrow string even if they tell you otherwise. I would go as far as saying that the practices of modern religions are cult-like or at least close to it. In America I’ve grown up seeing how Christianity and Catholicism breed hatred for all types of people and practices, and that has always been outlandish to me. Christians in particular feel a sense of unity from judging things they were raised not to understand, and that is the most human thing I’ve ever heard. At it’s core, modern American faith is a capitalist construct to a degree that I am not nearly informed enough to explain. But I know that it is money-hungry and keen on pushing a very specific agenda. God forbid, literally, that I see a naked woman on television or get an abortion or identify the way I do. The American deviation from original biblical texts is also laughable. We pray to a white Jesus and say that God hates gay people as if he said it right there in the book. Millions upon millions of dollars pour into the pockets of religious leaders and organizations every year to pay off yachts, tropical vacations, and huge cookie cutter mansions in the midwest. If not that, then something more nefarious. Those people know exactly what they are doing and I have no doubt about that.

When you zoom out, it’s easy to see the commonalities of all faiths in their modern context. They are businesses that have the incentive of exercising control over large portions of their respective societies. The reason they work is because they satisfy people’s need to feel a part of something and establish a sense of normality. Followers have all the support they could ever ask for, guidelines for life, and when they die they know exactly where they will be going. Religion is the answer to every question, the thing that two people have in common, and the structure for a “happy” life. And if you ask me, it’s an excuse for someone to feel like a good person because they can’t figure that one out for themselves. As long as it is lucrative, religion will continue to create these homogeneous, sterile people. I think this system is easily observed in my country. Corey told me that a notable part of America in the eyes of other countries is its rampant Christianity, which at first confused me. It had never occurred to me that faith functioned differently elsewhere, but it does.

In any iteration, I believe that organized religion is fucking disgusting.

And even something like that seems benign when you look at textbook cults like Jehovah’s Witnesses or Heaven’s Gate. JW is the easiest cult to pick apart in terms of analyzing means of control over it’s members. The Watchtower Society is smart with how it isolates itself and has a thorough understanding of how media works. Every year it releases mounds of media specifically catered to the religion. I’m talking weird stuff, like doomsday scenarios and children cartoons about telling people to stop being gay. There really isn’t much reason for members to watch content that isn’t made by or approved by The Watchtower Society, which further permeates the organization’s beliefs into the minds of its members. The authorities of the cult also keep a strict set of rules for followers. JWs can’t have solid careers and are encouraged to be working class with families. They are also encouraged or forced to spend as much time at the Kingdom Hall or with the religion as possible. They can’t have birthdays, hobbies, or any sense of individuality. There’s also some strange ones like a ban on tight pants because they are associated with gay men. But pants aside, what breaks my heart about JWs is that they are taught to believe that their faith should be the at forefront of their lives, and that nothing good exists outside of it. For people who are raised into the cult, that is largely true. The fear of being disfellowshipped is so strong with members that they live in a constant state of perfection. If they deviate even once, they can lose everything they have ever known, and that jump is too great and too intimidating for people to leave even if they have suspicions. You seriously can’t blame them. If a person leaves the cult, they lose their family, their friends, and their sense of belonging. Combine that with the fact that The Watchtower Society sucks money out of its members and you are faced with a fully functioning business, one that is self sustaining and profits off of its blatant exploitation of oblivious people who are actually encouraged to remain impoverished for the sake of Jehovah.

As for Nazism, it’s actually not as complicated as people think because it has some congruency with less despicable things of the same nature. Nazism is a sense of belonging that is built out of immense brainwashing and hatred. I’m talking people who have seriously hit rock bottom and have nothing left to live for. There is a Nazi problem in prisons, where inmates become so hungry for safety and family that they don’t care what beliefs they must adopt. It isn’t the initial recruitment that makes a Nazi. It’s living with constant exposure to Nazism that ultimately creates one, especially if Nazis are the ones providing that feeling of belonging. In recent decades that threat has moved online, and encountering literal Nazis on the internet is not exactly an uncommon phenomenon. Young people especially are subject to grooming, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know people who were victims of this in the past. Nazism thrives online because it targets confused children and people who have nothing else to live for. People who were definitely failed in one way or another. In real life, it festers in every city even if it is a small presence. Unlike religion or Jehovah’s Witnesses, it’s actually hated in the eyes of most people, but that doesn’t mean its strategies aren’t similar. Just like everything else, it exploits that need to fit in somewhere, even if somewhere is anywhere.

In many ways I am angry that people must live in these states. I could extend this “desire to belong” thing to all aspects of modern societies and everything we are exposed to on a regular basis. Everything from conspiracy theorists to sports fans to American patriots. I could talk for ages about how weird it is that we wear clothing or use silverware, along with all the other universal standards of normalcy but it would be a waste of time. The bottomline is that everyone looks for a sense of belonging. Most people look for the things they want to hear whether they recognize it or not, and most people wants to feel loved. It really isn’t a bad thing until it manifests in the form of paranormal beliefs and hate groups. And I do think there are people, very few people, who can live without it. I’m certainly not one of them and nobody I know is, but there are always outliers.

As for me feeling like I belong, well I’ll find that place one day. Or maybe I won’t, and I’ll remain a butterfly the way I have for so long. That’s fine by me because I am fascinated by everything and have a lot of hobbies, but I already know that what I’m looking for isn’t there. Belonging, for me, is something I can’t really describe but I see it in other people and I think that feeling will come when I have either a partner or a child. Someone I can devote everything to and be loved deeply in return, and know that everything I work for will have been worth it for that person. Besides that I think the closest I can get is involved with music, radio, and my local scenes. But hey, that’s just me. I know some people my age who get the same feeling from going to cosplay conventions and that’s cool, too. It’s such a specific and personal thing, and I hate to see it twisted in the ways I described.

However, I have no faith that any of the systems in place will change anytime soon. Sorry. I'm not much of a wishful thinker.

I told myself I'd step away from writing to gather myself, but God knows that would never work. I like to write. It's all I want to do sometimes even if I can't.

Anyways,

"Sometimes a way of seeing is a way of not seeing."

I've been stuck in my little loop. I'm still lonely, and I'm learning to be okay with that. The last few weeks I had all sorts of junk planned, and I've been learning so much about myself that it actually makes me uncomfortable. It feels like I've figured myself out and narrowed my point of view. I hate that. The last thing I want to figure out is myself. Anyone who reads this blog knows how I feel about identity, although I guess that's only me now since I became paranoid and made all my entries private. But that's beside the point. I'm shallow now. One way of thinking, one way of seeing. There's so much I don't get to see because of that.

And there's so much I haven't written about, too. Things that were once new to me are now redundant to write about, but I still want to talk about them. And that's the point of this entry, so I'll make haste.

First of all, I went to a real punk gig in Philly a couple weeks ago. I was unbelievably excited about it, too. It was the type of small show where you have to ask the organizers where the address is, and you can imagine my excitement when I found out this thing was going to be held at a place called "Walmart Beach". Walmart fucking Beach. It's exactly what you think it is, too. Walmart Beach is an abandoned pier behind a Walmart that looks out over the Delaware river. Beautiful view. Hilariously on brand for a punk show. And my god was the show amazing. It was only 30 or so people including me and Vic (who I dragged along for the ride). I'm still new to going to shows and this was a really important event for me. Magical, even. The bands were amazing, the night was perfect, and I didn't feel uncomfortable at all. In fact, although I had deemed it wishful thinking, strangers actually talked to me there. I made three friends and it didn't feel contrived like I thought it would. They were really my type of people, and I want to meet more people like that. Unfortunately, they were from Philadelphia so it's not like I'll be seeing them regularly or something, but I'll never forget how they made me feel that night. Those people absolutely made my night. Especially that one guy, Jagger, who had a flip phone with an app that generates dad jokes. We stood around for 20 minutes laughing about it, all of us inebriated in one way or another. They all hugged me when I left. It was great. I'm forever grateful for Walmart Beach and that awesome night.

I made some plans for Halloween for myself since I knew I'd be alone. I was honestly okay with that. It's been a few years since I've had a memorable Halloween, so I made a day out of it on the 30th. First, the Cape May Zoo had a Halloween event so I went in costume (I was a Malachite butterfly) and walked around the zoo for a couple hours. Animals make me so happy. And little kids who shout "Butterfly!" when they see me also make me happy. I saw some animals I was really looking forward to seeing, like the scarlet ibises and red pandas. Being alone, I could just stare for as long as I wanted at any given exhibit, too, so that was cool. I don't even know how long I spent in the aviary. Overall it was a pretty wholesome event...

...too wholesome for Halloween. Which is why I also got a ticket for The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Atlantic City, something I know to be a Halloween classic but wanted to experience blindly. Now, generally I don't like these types of things. Stage productions were never my jam, and even overdone Broadway shows were never that interesting to me. But when I tell you I had the time of my life at this picture show, I mean it. For starters, a bunch of the audience members were dressed up as characters from the movie and some of them were almost naked which confused me. But I knew from the moment the cast came on stage and encouraged everyone to get drunk that I was in for something strange. I knew that this movie had a weird cult following, but I didn't anticipate something like this. At certain points in the movie, people shout obscenities at the characters, which I didn't know about. I also didn't know about the part where everyone throws stuff at the stage and makes a huge mess of the theater. My favorite part was when there was a joke about cards in the movie and suddenly a billion playing cards went flying everywhere. It was wonderful to me, and totally exceeded the expectations I had for some tame Halloween performance. No, this was raunchy and ironic and totally up my alley. The actors were fantastic, and hearing them talk about the movie was cool, too. I walked out of the theater so ecstatic that I called my mom to tell her about it. Maybe I'll make this a tradition.

I also took a card from the floor home with me. It's hanging on my wall now.

As for actual Halloween night, Corey and I were on call for 10 hours tripping out. That was fun, I forget most of it though. A great bonding experience nevertheless. I felt really close to him after that and I'm really grateful to have him as a friend. I didn't really realize this before but despite being painfully different in many ways, we are actually very similar people. Tripping together was cool even though I had another bad comedown and freaked out the morning after. I'm getting rid of my tabs, it's just for the better.

Overall, I'd say things are going pretty well. My social life is about as good as it can be at the moment, and I'm generally happy. I've gotten used to being happy doing things alone and creating good experiences for myself without friends by my side. Actually, things are little too stable for my liking. Maybe I'll have a nice, refreshing crisis soon to rid me of this complacency. But that's not something I can force. I might as well enjoy myself in the meantime. October has been an awesome month.

I've come to understand recently that sometimes there's more to gain from doing and not thinking than from thinking and not doing. Yesterday I had this impulsion to go to the beach, so I drove to Ocean City in the early evening. It was warm last night and I drove with my windows open for one of the last times, with one arm on the wheel and the other out the window as they should be. It's late October so the city was practically empty. Across the bridge, the first pastel shades of evening began to layer themselves across the whole isle. Parking was easy for once; I quickly found a spot only two blocks away from the beach and the excitement in me was so strong at that point that I locked my car and immediately sprinted to the boardwalk.

I've never seen a beautiful place so empty. It was just me and this huge, open boardwalk, stretching for miles parallel to the beach. In summer at this time of day, it would normally be ridiculously crowded. In fact, you'd probably never see it this empty at all in the warm months. But on this temperate day in late October it was glazed in a type of serenity I have only ever seen in my dreams. I walked quickly out of anticipation, eventually working myself into a jog, and then a sprint, past all the closed tourist shops and attractions. Once I ran out of breath, I walked and observed the air around me which, for some reason, in this perfectly whimsical way, was filled with dozens of Monarch butterflies. Really? Seriously? I mean, come on. It was so perfect it felt like a joke. The ocean, butterflies, an invigorating sense of aloneness, and myself. All engulfed in the pink light of a sunset. The ideal conditions for a specimen like me. Surreal.

Eventually, the ocean beckoned me in its usual way. I don't know why I tried to tell myself I wouldn't go on the beach. It's always "you'll get sand in your shoes" and "someone will steal your keys at the beach entrance". Who cares. The only thing I regret is wearing my high tops because I couldn't get them off fast enough. When I finally did, I chucked them impassively by the fence and bolted straight to the water. The ocean was cold I guess, whatever. I didn't care at that point. I ran back and forth in the water, splashing around and laughing for awhile until I was almost completely soaked and covered in sand. Eventually I ran out of breath again and made my way back to the boardwalk to enjoy the rest of the sunset. The huge, full moon rose in East, and I watched from a bench. I only left when it became too cold to stay, and even by the time I was home I couldn't wipe the smile off my face.

I always struggle to write about stuff like this. It's beyond normal happiness to me. That single hour yesterday felt like the happiest of my life, but I say that every time. It's more than that- it's too profound, too enormous to put into words. How often do I get to feel that good? I feel like all of my most memorable experiences somehow come back to being in water. Open expanses, crashing waves, quiet places and seabirds I know all the names of. It's a part of me. It has to be, the way it makes me feel. And to think I gain so much joy from a place I've known my entire life, I have so much excitement about going elsewhere. I mean, this is New Jersey of all places. If New Jersey can be this gorgeous, imagine what other places are like.

It’s in the perilous boughs of the tree
out of blue sky the wind
sings loudest surrounding me.

And solitude, a wild solitude
’s reveald, fearfully, high I’d climb
into the shaking uncertainties,

part out of longing, part daring my self,
part to see that
widening of the world, part

to find my own, my secret
hiding sense and place, where from afar
all voices and scenes come back

—the barking of a dog, autumnal burnings,
far calls, close calls— the boy I was
calls out to me
here the man where I am “Look!

I’ve been where you

most fear to be.”

I am very sleep deprived.

Today I went to Hoboken and visited Amanda. Nothing about this was very notable. I met some of her friends and I noticed for the first time since college began that I am definitely not like these other college kids. I stand out in a crowd, not because of how I look but because of how I act. At times it can be a very isolating feeling. Amanda is doing well with her new friend group though, and they are good people. I'm happy for her. I just wish I could say the same about myself.

After I got done catching up, around 10:00, I felt melancholy. I walked to an area on her campus that overlooked the Hudson and took a seat on a bench. It's a difficult view to get. The entire New York skyline sat before me in it's usual lively way, with distant wails of sirens and wind off the river. On the other side the world was breathing. I pictured the girls in stilettos walking out of clubs, the men in the pubs watching the game, the millionaires in their penthouses looking over the city in a similar, lonely way. I know it all happens away from here, far from me, yet so close. And that’s the observation that really got me thinking. I've played the hand I've been dealt pretty damn well, but I want more from this life and I want more now. As in, my desire to experience new things has become so potent that I can’t snuff it anymore. I wish the world would just swallow me up and spit me out in 10 or so years, like send me on some wicked journey that challenges everything about myself or something. Drop me into that city and see what happens. It really would be perfect to just disconnect from this identity and suddenly assume another for awhile. I want to be something new, something intangible. I want to experience a higher love, and for this I am greedy. I have everything I ever wanted in college at my fingertips; wonderful friends, near perfect grades, any substance I could ever ask for a phone call away, and still I feel something is missing. Something that everyone seems to possess except me. But there are some things I just can’t have, and whatever that thing is, it is one of them.

Across the river, the city weeps with temptation. I want nothing more than to be a part of it.

I definitely do not shoplift regularly. I do not steal from large corporations for personal and ethical reasons. I have never gone into a store on multiple occasions and taken merchandise without paying. Shoplifting is immoral and wrong, so here are some tips on how not to shoplift from me (not a shoplifter).

1. Firstly, do not shoplift. Do not become disillusioned with capitalism and American culture. Do not think outside of the morals that you have been raised with and do not challenge authority. Live with what you have always known and feel intimidated by your moral code. It will serve you good to be a consumer, you know, to support the economy.

2. Do not go into Target between 5:00 - 7:00 PM when it is not dead, but not too busy. These are the perfect conditions for shoplifting, and you may develop the urge to steal from these conditions alone.

3. By all means, avoid wearing baggy clothing with lots of pockets and long sleeves. Especially jackets with pockets on the inside. Immoral shoplifting scum hide small and slender items in their sleeves, and put larger items close to their torso, which is wrong and horrible.

4. Avoid using folded clothing as a way to steal merchandise. Do not hide the items in the folds and walk nonchalantly through self-checkout. The underpaid employee watching the self-checkout area cares deeply about upholding the law and will definitely notice if you do this.

5. Do not think they can't see you. Big corporations enlist only the most professional staff to ensure security in their stores. Every night, these employees stay after their 10 hour shifts to watch the security footage intently, and they will find you. Believe that there is no escape from the law, and be comfortable in your complacency.

Remember, shoplifting is a disgusting crime committed by murderous lowlife punks and impoverished mouth breathers. I would know, because I am a normal middle class citizen with unchallenged beliefs (and not a shoplifter).

It's finally fall.

Honestly, I'm excited this year. Life is so wildly different than it was a month ago and there is a lot of change happening in my life at the moment. I think I'm doing alright, though. I'm not having the college experience I anticipated, but I'm not disappointed in the slightest, either. Instead of going to parties and socializing I've mostly resorted to considerable crime and skinny dipping. Yesterday I stole two small bottles of wine and I've shoplifted from Target twice. I probably shouldn't talk about the other stuff but you get the idea, I'm a menace. I feel no regrets about my behavior and it doesn't scare me anymore. I am approaching the abhorrent margins of society.

I feel a bit out of place at school because I am out of place. I'm pretty shy and don't look approachable, so I was worried I would have trouble talking to others. I have made one good friend, though. His name is Vic and he asked me to get coffee with him after class last week. I was taken so off guard when he asked me, and I was more than happy to sit down and get to know him. He's a cool guy, and we share a love for learning which makes our conversations interesting. He has a lot of happiness and compassion in his heart and that's really refreshing for me at the moment. I think it's important to have normal people in my life considering that I mostly concern myself with sociopaths, drug addicts, and mentally ill criminals who are one bad trip away from inpatient.

And I say that because I've been hit with a bit of misfortune. Yesterday I woke to a wall of text from that close friend whose name I can't say, and she just admitted to the psych ward. Apparently she did a bunch of DMT, LSD, and weed the other night, felt like she was dying, and went what I can only call insane. Just absolutely gutting stuff. Stuff I saw coming, stuff I couldn't do anything about. Stuff that no one knows what to do about. I was devastated by what she sent me specifically because she still expressed her gratitude for me in her darkest moment.

It's a hard pill to swallow, but this is reality of many of my friendships. The people I care about the most are fucked up people with fucked up issues. Normal people don't deal with a fraction of what some of these people are going through, and I can say that with confidence. They are all outcasts and freaks and I have their back no matter what. They are at the margins.

… And although I boast about hatred and anger, I can’t help but find myself a constant victim of love. No matter how much disdain I harbor for everything, I can never truly shut down and reduce myself to a bitter state. Sincerity is the trait I value most, even if it has no place here.

I don’t like when people write me off as sheltered or foolish for being cheerful. As if I don’t see what’s fucked up about humanity or feel negatively about it. I think it’s a side effect of a deeply rooted societal or maybe artistic standard. In the words of Ursula K. Le Guin,

“The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting.”

There is a happiness that exists outside of the themes of ignorance and optimism that we are used to. What turns people away from it is the manner in which we judge feelings relative to our intelligence. Where suffering is genius and happiness is idiotic. We believe that knowledge should come at a cost, that it must be grandly punished for what it is. Those who suffer from their knowledge are unknowing martyrs of this unfortunate trope.

But hatred is a single story of doom and defeat- an imposed narrative that needs to be broken away from. Misery then, in these cases, is a state of complacency, isn't it? If being intelligent strips us of our authenticity and benevolence, then can't we at least try to preserve it? If not out of necessity, then at least out of spite?

I'm always talking and thinking and learning about nonconformity. I love things that go against the grain. I hate society. I've been effectively indoctrinated by various people into despising the status quo. I am weird as Hell. So that begs the question:

Why the fuck am I so anxious about what other people think of me?

I've been pondering this since last night and honestly, I think it has to do with the few specks of trauma I have mustered up from childhood. Growing up, I was encouraged to be my weird self up until a certain point. Once I hit those horrible tween years things got rough at school and with my parents, and that is when I think my confidence began to decline. I was harassed at school pretty often and ridiculed by certain people, and my mom in particular didn't seem exactly proud of me. People encourage you to be yourself until it strays a little too far from what they are used to. After that, you are nothing more than a laughing stock. Experiencing that reality when I was young really fucked with my head. Whatever I was supposed to be during middle and high school, I simply wasn't because (and this is the most important line here) I found that it is easier to conform than to deal with the consequences of nonconformity.

This concept can be clearly seen in how I've dressed over the years. I only started dressing the way I want to relatively recently, maybe in the last year and a half. But I'm still terribly worried about dressing certain ways in public. Like, a bit freakishly so. Take for example yesterday, when I was worried about wearing my spiked choker to class. I ended up wearing it and everything was peachy, I sighed my breath of relief, and went about my day normally. I worked myself up over nothing because when I'm afraid to dress a certain way, there really is no consideration for why. The "why" is that it's easier to not chance being stared at. But that's not very Ricky of me, is it? Who gives a fuck if people stare? I do, apparently. And this isn't just about fashion. My beliefs, my hobbies, everything falls under this. I'll admit it, I'm not as confident as I think I am.

And so, with this realization, I've concluded that all efforts towards nonconformity have effectively been in vain because I am too meek and too tired of the mere idea of perpetual harassment to do whatever the fuck I please. Suddenly I feel pretty sick of it. For many people, the fix isn't as easy as "stop giving a shit", but for me that's exactly how it's going to work. In fact, I'm going to really start pushing it here just to get used to it. Fuck it, I am going to wear the absolute worst, most attention-grabbing clothing I can find to class next week. If people look, they look. If people laugh, they laugh. I gotta get over it. I'm gonna get over it.

Watch me, motherfuckers.

I am drunk and high and listening to music.

The thing about music is that it really just makes no sense to me. I love music because I don't know shit about how it's mixed, how it's mastered, Hell, I can't even read notes. It all sounds like magic to me. I wonder if people who have a technical understanding of music experience it differently than people who don't. I feel like they would, but I'm not sure. In my opinion, ignorance is bliss because to this day I still wonder how the fuck Neon Indian could conjure up something as perfect as "Slumlord". Or Ween with "Transdermal Celebration".

Regardless of all beliefs, you have to admit that enjoying music is a spiritual experience. It is humankind's best trait because we don't know how the fuck it works. It defines our existence as a species so much that we even sent it into fucking space for aliens to find. Fucking wild shit.

I'd rather just enjoy music blindly like this and hail it as the divine mystery. As far as I'm concerned, Dave Grohl is the guy we should be praying to.

"Sinead,"

My bare feet hit against the shiny rubber tiles of the longest hallway in Kelley's Island School as I try to catch up. At the end, Sinead is looking back and laughing at the sight of me with my soaking wet Converse and bug net in clutch.

"Hurry up! You're going to miss it," she ushers. Although it was just raining, a golden light floods through the open doors. When I reach the end, Sinead takes my hand and pulls me towards a white butterfly bush in a mess of overgrown native Ohioan plants. She hones in on a single bloom where a Monarch butterfly is airing its wings.

"That's the one we tagged yesterday. It's Queenie."

She was right, I recognized this one. When we caught her, the left hindwing was mostly missing, and the left forewing was ripped into a rough, unrecognizable shape. Her colors were muted, a sign of senescence in her species.

She grapples weakly to my fingers as I observe her now. She does not have long left.

During late July, the 3rd generation of Southwestern migrating Monarchs pass over the finger lakes. Many rejoice on Kelley's Island to feed, rest, and foster the next generation to continue the species' annual cycle across North America in autumn. However, death nears in early August for these 3rd generation individuals who, after mating, have nothing to do but await their timely passing. Many are too weak to leave the island.

The heavily damaged butterfly takes her final sips of nectar in front of us. She has travelled hundreds of miles and persisted through unthinkable conditions, only to be met with these listless final days. Her ripped wings are something that humans can understand as a symbol of the daunting journey her species endures, but to her, it means nothing. She must die without knowing her purpose, just as nature intended.

"It's kinda sad, isn't it? She's going to die soon."

"That's the circle of life, though."

"Yeah, I guess." I rest my net down. Sinead has a huge smile on her face, but I can't say the same anymore.

I struggle to assume the emotional implications of the Monarch butterfly. One day, perhaps even in my lifetime, the species will cease to exist. A butterfly knows nothing of fate. Not the one nature gifted it nor the one that man has imposed. And a butterfly knows nothing of death, logging, pollution, extinction... But in the evening light of some long forgotten August, Queenie's faded wings look newly emerged.

Recently I went to a local park to meet a friend. I arrived first. I don't like waiting, but I'm not impatient either, so I stood up and started walking around.

Sometimes I feel frustrated if I feel I can't have a good time when I'm alone. I always feel a need to prove to myself that I am a fun person. By doing so I have followed a typical idea of what "fun" would mean in the eyes of other people my age... Drugs? Trespassing? I don't really know, and so I aim in the dark at anything that is risky, daring, or edgy, always ending up frustrated and back at square one. It's an annoyance in my life that I don't seem to know what to do with myself when I'm completely alone besides be happy about it. That feeling can be lost quickly and as of lately, is scarce to come by.

But when I walked alone in the park the other day, I realized I was having fun. Not exciting, dangerous fun like the type I've been thriving off so much recently. It was that innocent fun that I forgot about- the kind I had when I was a child, where nature feels beautiful and real and alluring. Mother Nature is as fine in her details as she was back then, sketching such complex environments. Buildings and rooms will never capture the complexities of her pieces. Earth has unending intrigue, and I feel in love with it.

I have strayed from the enjoyment I get in nature by trying to prove myself. It's not that I haven't been appreciating nature, but why do I spend so much time trying to be cool and not staring into bodies of freshwater? There's arguably more stuff to keep me entertained in a literal flooded ditch than in the entirety of Caesar's Palace. I knew this, so how did I forget it? Maybe it's just one of those things you realize you miss when it's gone.

I want to spend more time outside. Maybe there's still a bit of transcendentalist in me or something. Regardless, the continual hedonism is not working. I could use for a hike or something.

Octopus was a very arrogant, self-absorbed, and poorly written entry.

I have gone back and read it multiple times since I wrote it. I do not think it is good, but I told myself I wouldn't delete it. Instead, I will elaborate now on the revelations I've had regarding that whole "immersion" thing.

I understand much better now that I am actively curious about how other people see this world, but I think my pretentious behaviors (and I'll call them that because that is what they are) are more respective to how I treat identity than any subconscious desire to "fit in" or "understand". I also don't think these behaviors are specific to me in any sense. I have only identified them, and that's why they hold weight in my life. Regardless, any comprehension I gain as a result of said (and I gloat) "strategies" is merely a byproduct of a basic human trait. Kinda funny how I put it on a pedestal. I am not special.

I just like to feel like I am a lot of people. My identity isn't as clear-cut as I had thought when I wrote that entry. Identity, on a conventional level, is something that I no longer care for. I believe most (if not all) human beings are too complex to be accurately and wholly defined, and that we are a horribly inconsistent species. I am no exception to that. If anything, I'm so fickle that it has become somewhat of a game. Becoming something new is like earning a Girl Scout patch. It takes time and effort. It enriches and excites me. I'm not suggesting that I'm quick to change paths, though. Rather, I am going down paths that change me and these tend to be my more long term pursuits. There is a rough "end goal" where I am heading, especially in terms of my ethics, personality, and art. This being said, to me, identity is more of an encompassing personal concept than an observable "persona" of sorts.

How this ties in socially is where the difference in my thinking compared to my previous entry becomes noticeable. I talk to many people. Obviously, I don't act the same around all of them. For the sake of organization I've applied descriptions to my relationships with these people although I often wander outside of them. For instance, I've labelled Corinne as my "party friend" and Corey as my "punk friend" but I've talked about both things with both people. It's merely the tendencies of my relationships that form these different categories. I'm sure both Corinne and Corey have very different impressions of me, but they are not oblivious to the other things I dabble in. In terms of other social settings, I'll immerse myself if I believe I will gain something from it. It is now a completely voluntary action. It's more like I am entering a passive, observant state than actually becoming a different person. I totally embellished it before.

Anyone can be a lot of things. I like to work specifically with that idea. I no longer think there is anything special about that. My understanding of other individuals is as vague as anyone else's understanding of me. I'm seriously chastising my previous way of thinking when it comes to this, but I'm proud of the progress I've made as well. There are so many things I want to experience and people I want to be. Some funny labels that I guess apply to me currently include aspiring punk, fairy enthusiast, psychonaut, drug mule, and internet troll. 

As for Nikki S. Lee, her quote sticks with me now more than ever. It's comforting. It's like a mantra to me.

“I am free. I can become anyone. Don’t ask me who I am.”

She is an inspiring person and I've really come to understand the sentiment of her work.

Nikki S. Lee - The Ohio Project

The fish
has no concept
of water.

The tree
can feel the breeze
but never name it.

I am standing
at the edge
desperate to touch it-

the answer
to purpose, to
meaning,

what I know is there
but still won't let me
hold it.

Early in my teen years I was under the impression that I would probably never feel a desire to try any type of drug for recreational use, be it alcohol, weed, or something else. However, the US education system does a rather piss poor job in their anti-drug education, and as I went through high school I found that this mindset just doesn't hold up. At least not for me, and for various reasons. By 16 I was curious (and cautious) about marijuana, which has now become a reliable substance for me that I can use safely and with great benefit to my mental health. Aside from weed (and occasionally alcohol) the only other drug on my bucket list at 16 was LSD, and that's where this story begins.

The draw of LSD to me comes from media I consume that is either inspired by it or is reminiscent of psychedelia in some sort of way, specifically music. I have traversed a multitude of genres but my favorites all fall under or are at least influenced by classic psychedelic rock/pop. I could get in depth with that, but it would take forever to explore the diversity of that umbrella. However, specific artists made me curious about the effects of hallucinogens on their creative processes, such as Mild High Club, Ween, and even Stone Temple Pilots. I was keen to listen to these artists "the way they are meant to be listened to". Combined with the fact that information on drugs like LSD is more accessible than ever, tripping acid could be made a viable goal. Research made me much more aware of what I would be getting into. It was a risk that needed to be researched, calculated, and executed in a particular way so as not to bring harm to myself. I genuinely did not think the opportunity would be as close as it was, though. My friend (who will remain anonymous) gave me the tabs two nights ago, and everything went downhill from there.

On the night of the 27th at 11:00, I took half a tab of LSD, about 50ug. For two hours it had little effect besides making it impossible to sleep. At around 1:30 AM, I started to get a bit restless and that's when I felt it. Suddenly, my body felt like nothing. My room was warping around me and everything was purple or green. I stood up and walked around a bit, touching different surfaces and trying to enjoy what I was feeling, but I can't say I did. Most of what I felt was indescribable. My mind was overclocking so much that I felt like I was leaving my body. It put me in a dreamlike state of confusion and disarray, as other stimulants do, and it felt burdensome. Moreover, my music sounded the same as if I were sober. But what bothered me the most about it was the taste. I could feel it in my mouth and nose- this metallic, horrible flavor. I wasn't distressed, but I wanted it to end. I was awake the whole night, slept for roughly an hour at around 7:00 AM, and was then woken by my mother at 8:00 AM because she needed me to help her move a couch.

This is where things got REALLY bad. The comedown from LSD was by far the worst part of the whole experience. When I stood up from my bed, I went blind for a solid minute and my brain felt like an absolute fuzz. My body was heavy and my pupils were so dilated that I had to wear glasses just to look outside. I felt like shit. At that point, it began to sink in that I would have to go out like this, which produced a feeling of anxiety so intense that I felt ready to spill everything and go to the hospital. Fortunately, I didn't. And somehow, in my magical ways, I managed to move two fucking couches in that state. But even when I got back, the thought of LSD and the night I just had was unapproachable. I was so anxious about it that I figured it would be awhile until I could talk or even write about it. I slept for 5 hours to clear the haziness out of my mind, just hoping it would all go back to normal. This morning it finally did and although the thought of what I've done is unnerving, I can write about it comfortably. Still, I don't want to talk about what I experienced with anyone. Thinking about it makes me unsettled. I think I might be a bit traumatized by it, honestly. But I'm still glad it happened because everything kinda worked out and now I will never have to do LSD again.

So yeah, that's what LSD is like. When you have an experience like that with a more serious substance, you really start to appreciate the subtly of weed. In fact, I think I'm turned off from trying anything new, at least for the time being. I'm alright remaining a stoner and I'm sure as hell giving the rest of my tabs back to my friend. This is what it means to be scared straight. The school system should be taking notes.

Anyways, as promised, I will describe the other antics of my week. It wasn't as eventful as I initially thought. I got this really good bagel while back at my apartment in Stockton, did some more swimming at that lake, danced around my kitchen a little bit, the works. One of my favorite bands, Seether, released a new album so that's cool. And some kids made fun of me outside a convenience store today which was kind of funny. Life is good, the same old really. I'm fine with that for now.

I've been doing a great deal of reflection lately while keeping in mind my affirmations. I think I've been doing a pretty good job of branching out and exposing myself to new situations that are important to my growth. In fact, since prom, the ball has really started rolling. In the last two months I've been all over the place and going along with all the ups and downs. I'm living well at the moment.

As for an explanation of the title, I think it's important to clarify that there are two stories to be told here, both occurring on the same day (June 17th). The first being my aunt's funeral, and secondly the graduation party of my dear friend Corinne.

My aunt passed away from the coronavirus back in December on Christmas Eve. I was not that close with her, in all honesty, but I've never experienced a human loss before in my life so I guess the idea of it was intimidating. The funeral was held at a cemetery in Montclair on the humid morning of the 17th, and my entire family attended as well as the side of my aunt's family that I have never met before. I think it's important to note that my perspective on death is not that profound or oversaturated. I can't sympathize for dead people and all emotions that I feel in the wake of death are only pertinent to myself. Of course I am deeply affected by the death of loved ones, but I don't feel bad for a person's death in any sort of empathic way. Thus, at the memorial service for my aunt, I struggled to create any strong emotions out of the fact that she was dead. The pain only started to set in when I found myself in a room with 40 or so devastated people crying their eyes out. I was trapped in the presence of very real, perceivable hardship and it was cast over me like a wave as soon as my relatives spoke. I only found myself in tears after my cousin of 11 years, Mackenzie, went up to the mic to express her grief in the most heart-wrenching way possible. She was brave to be up there, but she looked deeply hurt. I've never seen a young child look the way she did as she cried. I remained like a statue as tears ran down my face for the remainder of the service, and I realized that this is why people cry at funerals. It's not just because of death- it's because seeing the people you love in states of great pain is as hollowing as death itself. I walked away from this experience puzzled by my own affliction, but have since come to terms with it. My sadness is for all who loved and were loved by my aunt. A great humility fell over me that morning...

...A humility that was quickly shed as I arrived to Corinne's house in a skimpy ass outfit for the most banger party of my life. And I use that word, "banger", sparingly. Corinne and I went to school together but the cliquey atmosphere there never really allowed me to become close friends with her. Now that high school is over, everyone has kind of gotten over themselves, including myself. After prom, I reconnected with a few people from my school who were outside of my usual social circles (including Corinne) and began actively hanging out with them. It's interesting, because many of these people are so out there compared to myself. They had completely different experiences than me. Corinne in particular is a party person, and I was really excited to attend a party in the company of a person I trust. Her party was held in her backyard, and for the first few hours of the night, her family was there. At around 8:00, her family left and we spent the rest of the night drinking, smoking, and chilling in a huge tent in her yard.

What they don't tell you in movies about average cool teenagers is that they are surprisingly supportive and mindful people. They are not sociopathic, manipulative assholes who bully disabled children, despite what the media may tell you. Every fear I had about "fitting in" with Corinne's crowd quickly diminished as she and her friends told me how excited they were for my first party. Strangely enough, Corinne's best friend, Sami, was there and we absolutely hit it off. Prior to that night, I only had one interaction with Sami in my sophomore year which ended poorly and we both thought we hated each other or something. Turns out we actually get along really well and have quite a few things in common. We talked all about high school and our lives and everything, and it was refreshing. We then got high in the upstairs bathroom, which was hilarious within itself. I also got to talk to members of Corinne's family and see a different side of her life. I found that first part of the night really enjoyable. After the sun went down, the rest of Corinne's friends arrived and suddenly we had free reign over the backyard. It was a small group, only about 8 people, but a party nonetheless. I was familiar with everyone there and didn't really have to cling to anyone like I anticipated. Sami also seemed to be checking in on me which I really appreciated. The dynamic was unlike anything I was used to, but something I could get comfortable with quickly. The events of the night took their course, with Sami, Alec, and I departing to McDonald's in the pouring rain, and then to a sketchy area behind Quick Chek where I hit my first bong. All I can really say about "losing my bong virginity" as Sami put it is that it was the highest I've ever been in my life. Once we were back at Corinne's, we drank some Bud Lights and I forget the rest. I woke up in her basement the next day feeling very satisfied and hungover. It was fucking amazing.

Corinne's party was important to me because it was a clear opportunity for me to break down some of the social standards I had for myself throughout high school. I think I took a lot of tropes about high school at face value when I was younger. I know I was kind of a weird person at school, but sometimes I wonder if my marginalization in academic settings was purely imaginary. It doesn't really matter now, since I have one of these classic alcohol-infused parties under my belt now. Things are going to change soon, and I need to be ready. In two months I'll be in college and distant from people like Corinne and Sami, but that doesn't make their company any less valuable to me. In fact, they will probably never see the full extent to which they've helped me. These things are so confusing and deeply rooted that it makes saying thank you even more difficult than saying goodbye.

So yeah, June 17th was interesting. A lot to process, that's for sure. I never know how to end these long anecdotes about things happening in my life. I'm looking forward to the future and all the changes it will bring. I'm looking forward to writing about it, too. Like I said, I'm living well that the moment.

Simple as that.

Mom,

I'm writing to tell you that I have picked up on things now. I’ve become wiser. Maybe that’s why you sounded afraid when I told you I saw it in me some months back.

“I’m not interesting enough to spend time with. But I’m interesting enough to pay the tuition. I’m just a fucking checkbook.”

Yes, you are, and I want nothing to do with you beyond what you provide me financially. You seem to have forgotten the years of intimidation and harassment you’ve inflicted, or maybe you just don’t realize that I hate you. Since I was a young kid I’ve never seen you succeed at understanding me, but I'm just too kind aren't I? Too forgiving? Too good of a kid to question authority?

At 13 you threatened me out of anger for my poor grades and behavior. You made me stay silent at family gatherings. You ignored my obvious issues with anxiety and self harm because you thought I was looking for attention. At 14 you berated me and put me on medication, and then at 15 you didn’t believe me when I told you I had a dependency issue. Yet you would use the drugs as a way to control me. At 16 you told me I’d look disgusting at prom and graduation. You rolled your eyes in frustration when I came out because that was a burden to you. At 17 you refused me gender reaffirming care and threw fits about pronouns and my new name. All throughout my childhood you convinced me, whether your realize it or not, that I would never be anything more than a disappointment to you.

Now I’m 18 and you tell me I don’t appreciate you enough and that I’m selfish. You think my friends are weird and that I have too much metal hanging off my face. Well, you know what I think? I think you should look in the mirror. Every year I see the wrinkles on your face become more prominent and watch the gray hairs replace the brown. And now, when I look at your bitter, exhausted expression I feel an emotion I can only assume is hatred for the years I spent trying to tear away from you. Even if you try your best, even if your intentions are good, at this age I feel like you have failed me. I am not bound to you. You tell me you want your daughter back. Well, I’m not your perfect little girl anymore. And truth be told, I never was.

Here's to less letters in the future.

Sincerely,
Ricky

I don't like feeling like I'm slipping away. My self-assessment has been poor lately, and I think it's because I've been high every night for the past two weeks. So, with the suggestion of cannabis comes the tale of the person who exposed me to it, a friend of mine I've been wanting to talk about here for awhile: Will. Buckle up, this one's a slow burner.

Will and I went to high school together and became close friends in our junior year. He was a semi-popular person in school because 1. he is gay beyond belief and 2. he is so tall that it's kind of hard to miss. That's a very shallow deduction of his character, though. What I see in Will is a gentle, kind, introspective, beautiful person. It only took hanging out with him once for me to realize that he is profoundly intelligent and emotional. It's hard to explain. I guess a good way to put it is that Will and I are very similar people intellectually, and naturally we became very close because of our demeanors. In fact, I can't say I've related to anyone more than I have to him. He was the only one who could hold a conversation with me about a variety of subjects, from our mutual love for nature to our mental health. We both knew exactly why we were friends. We never argued or assessed our relationship verbally because we didn't have to. When you get along so well with someone like that it feels like fate. It's a wonderful feeling. Will is not "like a brother" to me, he is my brother.

All last summer, Will and I hung out and traversed all planes of reality, from the great natural expanses set before us to the inner workings of our psyches. We hiked and took drives often, among other things like hanging around by his lake and with his equally chill brothers. In school, we were inseparable and we never stopped laughing. He introduced me to weed and in the latter half of summer, we got high together a handful of times which made us much closer. The amount of individual experiences I can recall with him are so many that I feel it would be useless to mention them in detail here (I've done that before... see "Ramblings of Maine"). In any case, around him I always felt loved and cared for. I hope he felt the same. Will and I were just strange people, and we were strange together. He taught me how to be truly happy with being myself, and I'll never not be grateful for that.

In the prime of our friendship, I realized that Will is (somehow) a more sensitive person than I am. Or rather, he can't handle the weight of the world as well as I can, which is sad because I do a pretty bad job. His empathy runs so deep that he is affected by almost everything around him, good or bad. Yet, despite his overwhelming purity and acuteness, Will was persistently plagued by trauma, mental illness, and horrible coping mechanisms. I guess it's true; we used to say he's like a frog, the way he is so vulnerable to the outside world. I tread lightly around his health because I knew that he had fears that he didn't want to confront with me. Everyone has boundaries, and it just wasn't my place to pressure him down a path he wasn't ready for. I don't blame myself, but I wonder now if I should've done something about it. Come winter 2020, Will and I were hardly speaking. I found out rather late that he had been admitted to three different psych wards over the course of a single month. I still have no idea why, nor do I want to hear from anyone other than himself. Currently, he is in a residential hospital and according to the one text I have from him, he seems to be doing better.

The whole psych ward revelation was genuinely scarring for me, even though many of my close friends have been to one before. But this was different. Will and I were always good at being emotional together, but what about apart? Suddenly I found myself deeply depressed by his absence, mourning his situation and hoping that his recovery would be safe and fulfilling. He is still away all these months later, and I think about him almost every day. He missed prom, which is still so painful considering we had excitedly outlined our plans for it together. Likewise, driving through his town is absolutely gutting and I cry if I think about him a little too hard. Everywhere I go, memories of last summer fill my mind, but amidst the gloom I find myself smiling fondly at the good times. The rainy days we spent outside, the hot chocolate simmering on his gas stove, all of it. It's bittersweet. I miss him more than I can put into words, but I am so relieved he is getting the care he needs. In the end, I know that what is happening now is for the better even if it hurts.

I think the reason Will's case is so important to me is because he was one of the only people who experienced the world around him the same way I did. We both felt so much and understood so little. I've never met another person like that and doubt I ever will. Despite our emotional dispositions, our friendship was never exhausting or fragile like so many turn out to be. I have a history of being in less than redeeming relationships, so attaining a friend like Will reshaped my understanding of a healthy one. Looking back, all I see is a strong, pure, mutual trust between us. Search as I might, I can't conjure a single moment of hurting or anything of the sort in the span of our friendship. Around Will, I simply was. And thanks to Will, I simply am. His return, whenever it may be, will definitely bring out some intense emotions.

This one's for you, Will. I miss you, man.

Will's Playlist

"Did we fall out a bit?" he asked suddenly. And oh, I knew the answer to that one.

"...Yeah." A moment of silence followed, but I still had an obligation to speak. "Do we need to talk about it?"

"Well we have to talk about it at some point."

I knew he was right. But I was unprepared. The nature of our conversations had been mournful lately, and I wasted all my time lamenting about the past instead of thinking of how to go forward. He seemed so hard to read lately though, and I knew that no move would be safe. I was walking on eggshells out of necessity until he could prove to me that things could be different. I didn't want to lose him. But a statement had to be made, and a frank one at that.

"I'm still confused about it. All I know is that it makes me sad", I jested uneasily, but it was true. And somehow, despite my anticipation of a long-winded discussion about our friendship, his response was surprisingly easy.

"Do you want to go back to being best friends or whatever?"

You didn't have to ask me twice.

"Yes," I laughed with relief.

I love staring at ants for prolonged periods of time. I know this sounds almost humorously stupid but it's something I have done my entire life. Every spring when the weather warms up, there are ants near this one small area in my kitchen, and I just sit down and watch them a couple times a week. I think it's so interesting how ants work and communicate. I like watching them tap their antennas when they bump into each other and slowly explore the expanse of my tiled floor. They are complex animals that work in such a unique and organized fashion, and it makes them incredibly efficient. Unlike humans, ants always have their shit together.

Admittedly, the ants in my kitchen live a spoiled life. I know I shouldn't, but sometimes I deliberately put crumbs on the ground near their home just so I can watch them slowly dissect it all bit by bit. It captures my attention so easily, even as an adult. Millions of years of evolution occurred for me to witness that natural process. Ants are the hallmark of biotic life, the way they function in their colonies and endure the trials of nature. How lucky am I to be able to appreciate that? No ant farm or sea monkey aquarium could ever equate to the ants in my kitchen. They are, in essence, the lifeblood of my pitifully sparse attention. I could never hurt one. I am very careful about where I step in my kitchen from March to October when they are conducting their ant business. I wish I could be an ant for a day instead of the looming creature that stares down at them. I genuinely wonder what that would be like.

This entry is painfully innocent. I don't really care. I just really like ants. I think they are kind of underappreciated.