Can’t Explain
I stepped out of my office building and though, ‘Oh yeah, they called for rain tonight.’
Sure enough, rain was falling. Times Square was soaked. The sidewalks were choked with tourists. Garish lights reflected and collided on every surface. I dipped into my messenger bag and extracted a cheap umbrella. It’s shoddy wire skeleton was partially collapsed, but shielded me from the cool drizzle.
I reached into my coat’s breast pocket, pulled out my iPod, and presses shuffle.
Ryan Adam’s “Avalanche” sounded through my headphones, all slow, sad piano and melancholy vocals. It matched my mood, and the scene, perfectly.
I pressed fast forward.
Bam! Electric guitars, a wall of ‘em. Boom! A big, sloppy drum fill.
The song was Spymob’s “It Get’s Me Going.”
I slipped my Ipod into my pocket, and continued on toward the subway.
‘Hmmm,’ I thought. ‘Maybe it’s just a choice.’
Hard To Listen To A Hard, Hard Heart
A psychologist might call it “dissociation.”
I don’t feel like myself. I haven’t since Thanksgiving or so. It hasn’t manifested itself in any dramatic way. I feel disconnected from myself and others. I don’t feel like talking. I don’t have the energy to write, or record, or be creative in any way. I don’t want to go to work, or excercise. I don’t feel like doing anything except eating ice cream and watching television.
I feel like my soul is floating above me, and needs to settle itself back into my body.
A Stanford Medical School textbook, “Dissociation: Culture, Mind, And Body,” describes dissociation thusly:
Dissociation, the compartmentalization of experience, identity, memory, perception, and motor function, challenges many comfortable assumptions. Dissociative phenomena are often stark, extreme, and vivid. Memory for an entire period of time during which one was conscicous seems lost. Identities shift between apparent opposites. Pain is ignored. Trauma victims transform the experience and report floating above their injured bodies. Are these arcane, dramatic, or even staged events, or does dissociation underlie some fundamental aspect of mental organization? Is it merely the product of a troubled mind, or a key to understanding the structure of consciousness and the mind-body relationship? Is dissociation normal and the everyday perception of mental unity the delusion?
It’s been a while since I suffered any real trauma, but in retrospect, the events of 2004 (those which inspired both “Love & Other Indoor Games” and “Heartland”) certainly qualify. Whether they knocked my soul free of my body, or led me to compartmentalize those events is uncertain. But, as I slow down a bit, as I seek some stillness in the wake of a fast-paced, turbulent year, it begins to make some sense.
You should know that I’m reticent to even share this with you. For one, I loath complaining. For another, I feel like a broken record, vacillating between giddy optimism, and weighty pessimism. Finally, this is vulnerable stuff. And I don’t really know you. What’s to say I should share?
In then end, I decided to share because, well, I guess that’s what The Daily Journal is for. I started it on February 7, 2002. My primary objective was to personalize what was initially a website for my record label, Benjamin Wagner Deluxe, LLC. Secondarily, I wanted to create a reason for people to visit my site every day, and thereby create a sense of anticipation for things like new records and upcoming performances. But what’s happened is that it’s become a place where people expect some degree of disclosure. Event-based entries (“I did this, then I did that”) are met with silence. But confessional entries are met with a (relative) deluge of email. So I guess that’s why we’re here. Both of us.
Author Hughlings Jackson posits, “There is no such entity as consciousness. We are from moment to moment differently conscious.”
It all aligns, then. We are — as I so aptly suggested upon titling my debut release way back in 1993 — always almost there. This life is a constant state of becoming, of ebb and flow, up and down, in and out. We get there, and then there moves.
Growing up, my mother used to say, “This is the most difficult transition I’ve ever been through.” It annoyed the heck out of me. I was like, “You always say that” (adolescent emphasis on “always”). But — with apologies to my mom — I think I get it now.
This is it. Doesn’t matter how it feels relative to anything else. This is the challenge: To reconnect with myself. To feel whole. To stand on terra firma. And then to toss all the chips in the air again.
Next Thursday, I head to Park City, Utah, for a week. The following Wednesday, I head to Los Angeles, California, for ten days. I am already marching towards a new record for time spent away from my apartment, away from my home, and away from me.
I don’t like the looks of it.
But this is it. This is what I paid for. This is what I do. This is my life. I am who I want to be.
Belong
I’ve never really felt as though I belong.
That’s not entirely true. I didn’t know it at the time, primarily because it’s not the kind of thing I thought about then, but I think I felt like I belonged when I was a kid. I’m talking about everything prior to eleven-years-old.
Oak Park, Illinois, was a real neighborhood. Chris and I played wiffle ball with Sean and Dusty. The four of us organized football games with kids from other streets. We roller skated, played kick the can, tag, the works. There was a real sense of inclusion, or community. It was, perhaps, such an apparent thing, that only in its absence did I begin to miss it.
In August of 1982, my mother packed Chris, me, and our springer spaniel Alfie into our brown, wood-pannelled Oldsmobile station wagon, and drove us to Berwyn, Pennsylvania. It was like moving from Mayberry to “Beverly Hills 90210.”
In Oak Park, our neighbors were nurses, teachers, mechanics, and policemen. They drove Chevy Novas, Mercury Cougars, and Ford Granadas. Prosperity was a new jungle gym.
Berwyn was a whole different planet. Our neighbors were doctors, lawyers, professors, and principals. They drove Saab Turbos, Audi 5000s, and Porsch 911s. Prosperity was a place on St. Barth’s.
More importantly, though, kids grew up more quickly there, and I was way behind. They were experimenting with kissing, drinking, and drugging. I was reading “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret.”
Worse yet, I wasn’t interested in the things the other boys were. Baseball? No thanks, I’d rather sing along with the radio. Football? Nah, I’ll be over here listening to Duran Duran on my Walkman. Kickball? Nope, I’ll be talking with the girls.
When I was home last week, I found a video tape of my last day of high school. In some ways, it shattered my memory of those times. I wandered from table to table in the lunchroom, and from group to group in the hallways, embraced and accepted by all. But I remember that day. I was stoned. And I was stoned for a reason.
I was stoned because I didn’t feel like I belonged. I lived day to day, moment to moment, with the creeping sense that nobody liked me. It was like a low-level buzz, a white noise machine that was always on, and always whispering in my ear, “They don’t really like you. They think you’re ugly and stupid.’ It was all about what I wasn’t, not what I was.
Of course, none of it is that simple. It’s more of a feeling, one that developed over time. And it took me a long, long time to identify it, and even begin to remedy.
Last night, though, amongst my brother, and cousins Bill, Brian, and BJ, it was impossible not to feel as if I belonged. It’s not that I don’t feel a little bit like a fireman amongst policemen. I am, after all, the only unmarried, non-parent amongt them. But they are the very face of home: mobile, every-changing, chaotic, joyous, and fleeting.
Three Strange Days
My favorite cable network (day job notwithstanding) just went off the air.
I didn’t have any television whatsoever for the longest time. Chris and I had an old Sony Trinitron when lived together way back in the ’90s. It had knobs and everything. No remote. But Chris ordered cable, and put an end to that. We’d get home from work — he from Broadcast News Networks, me from Uncommon Grounds — and not land on one specific channel for hours and hours and hours. He would just click, click, click his way through the fifty or so channels (hey, it was the ’90s), and then do it again. We never landed.
Worse yet, Chris and I never talked. We just ripped bong hits, and channel surfed. So when the picture suddenly went black, I was like, “Dude, let’s just not replace it.” That was, say, 1994. It was eleven years until I sat in front of cable again.
I moved into my new apartment last fall. When I told my boss he said, “You should get cable. This whole media executive without TV thing is getting old.” So I did.
I live alone, so it’s not a total loss. That is, I’m pretty sure no conversation is lacking. I answer the phone when it rings. I keep my laptop on my, um, lap. Yunno, I do things. I write songs. Sometimes I read. And I definately land on specific channels. I’m a big fan of Sundance, Ovation, and (of course) MTV. But more often that not, it’s Trio.
But a couple of days ago, I noticed that the channel 102 menu description read “Off The Air.” But it wasn’t. Something was still on, it just wasn’t Trio. I mean, Trio was the best cable channel ever. One minute I’d be watching a documentary on The Pixies, followed by “Parking Lot,” and then “Gay Republicans.” Where else would you get interviews with Robert Smigel, Mr. Bill, and Damien Rice all in one place? I mean, this is a network that didn’t have enough ads, so they played music videos! Love it.
Well, love it no more. Trio’s gone. Kinda’. It’s gone broadband. I guess they were dropped by some cable carriers, so NBC/Universal decided to take ‘em online. Which is actually kinda cool, and kinda progressive. As long as I’ve been in this Internet racket I’ve been saying, “Someday you’ll be able to get eny episode of “Seinfeld’ you want in one click.’ And while that might not quite be the case yet, you can get “Fat City” any time you want.
Which is cool. And is the idea. And is where we’re going. MTV’s on television, online, and we’re coming to all sorts of screens near you really soon. Video’s gonna be everywhere: cell phones, iPods, belt buckles. I always used to joke about watches, but they’re not far behind. My new joke is implanted chips.
Bets?
P.S. I just saw an AT&T ad using Oasis’ “All Around The World” to sell its merger with SBC. The end of the world is definately nigh.
Rubber Soul
The “Imagine” mosaic in Strawberry Fields had a halo of roses this morning. There was a whole, green apple in the middle. I puzzled on it a moment as I ran by, and then I figured it out.
I was 22-years-old the first time I visted New York with any sense of real mobility. Chris and I had driven down from Saratoga Springs to meet my mom for the weekend. I wasn’t getting along so well with either of them, so I fled the hotel with my guitar, and walked to The Dakota. I sat a while in the grass and strummed my guitar. I didn’t know any Beatles songs, so I made some up. It was the first time I remember feeling comfortable in the city. I remember thinking, ‘I could live here some day.’
I’m more of a Paul guy than a John guy (which is staggering uncool to most, I know), though I admire them in nearly equal measure. That is, I admire the mythologies of Paul and John in nearly equal measure. I’m not enough of a Beatle-ologist to know what they each contributed to the band. I don’t really know who wrote what. But I dig Paul’s apparent cheeriness, and sense of melody. And — his rapid remarriage notwithstanding — I dig his life-long (her life, anyway) love affair with Linda. At the same time, I appreciate John’s message. Peace and love’s alright with me.
But I’ve never been a huge Beatles fan. I mean, I wont’t deny that Lennon and McCartney were a rediculously talented songwriting duo. Or that their songs are a thousand times more memorable than most. I have “Sergeant Pepper,” “The White Album,” “Abbey Road,” and “Rubber Soul,” but I don’t spend a ton of time listening to them.
Last night, though, I played “Rubber Soul” as I stepped out of the office. It was nearly eight o’clock. It had been a long second day back to work. And Times Square was its usual loud, bright, relentless self. I was seeking some familiarity, some simplicity, and some beauty. And “Rubber Soul” has those attributes in spades: “Norwegian Wood,” “Michelle,” “I’m Looking Through You,” “In My Life.”
So I ran through Strawberry Fields (where John and Yoko once walked). I ran by Bethesda Fountain (where Prior, Louis, Belize, and Hannah once sat). I ran by the Reflecting Pool (where Stuart Little once sailed). And I ran past the Duck Pond (where Holden Caulfield and William Miller once walked). It was all familiar, simple, and beautiful.
And I felt just a little bit better.
Running To Stand Still
It wasn’t much of a morning for running, but there I was, sprinting through Central Park in the freezing rain.
The cold wind cut straight through my clothes. The freezing rain shot like pin pricks through my skin. It was somehow requisite. Somehow refreshing. A wake up call. After all, today was my first day back to The MTV in nearly two weeks. Guy’s gotta be on the ball.
Fact is, I’m still feeling pretty fatigued. I definately enjoyed my time off. Truth be told, I did a whole lot of nothing. Yeah, I’ve got the novel up to thirty-one pages. And I travelled just a little bit. But in general, I slept and watched television. It wasn’t the most ambitious ten days of my life.
Still, I was hoping to feel a little bit more, I dunno, in my skin by now. And maybe I do. But in general, I’m still tired, and unfocussed, and, well, fatigued.
So I was splashing past Bathesda (I know, I know), thinking to myself, ‘So how are you going to make this year different?’
I’m going to be still.
I’m not sure how that goal’s going to manifest itself. I’m not sure what it’s going tolook like. I just know I have to do it.
I have to cry without weeping, talk without speaking, scream without raising my voice. I have to know what I’m running for.
So here we go…
Double Click
This is a surely harbinger of things to come.
I was celebrating my last day off doing what we sometimes describe at work as “banging between boxes.” The Sundance Channel was playing documentaries all day. I watched four (“Disbelief,” “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart,” “No Secret Anymore,” and “Passenger 17″).
At the same time, I was surfing the Internet for information on Roatan, Honduras. I’m planning a vacation for the first time in four years. My primary objective is to sit on the beach and read. My secondary objective is to scuba dive. My tertiatary objective is to drink cold beer. Lots of it.
All afternoon long, I was sitting on my coach, watching TV, and tapping away on my laptop. WhenI stood up to toss an Amy’s Vegetarian Lasagna into the microwave, I was struck with a massive headrush. I opened the freezer, spotted the box of lasagna, and ran my pointer finger along the inside of the freezer as if it was a trackpad.
Then I double clicked.
Lighten Up
This is a holiday I can rally around.
I’m not much for Christmas. I mean, I’m down with JC and all, but I’m not crazy about all the commerce. Or the good tidings. If one more person said “Merry Christmas,” I might’ve slugged ‘em.
Of course, seeing Christmas through Ethan’s eyes helped. Chris and Jen reports that he woke up at six o’clock, plugged in the tree, then jumped on their bed and shouted, “Santa came! Santa came!” By the time I saw him, he was beside himself with anticipation over the packages under the tree. “Open toys! Open toys!” (I got him coloring books, crayons, markers, a black cowboy hat, and a stuffed Grover.)
But New Year’s is a holiday I can rally around.
We jogged over to 72d Street for the NYRRC’s Midnight Run. Some might find a four mile run through Central Park in the middle of the night in thirty degree weather to be unwise at best. But the fireworks are really excellent. And I say turning to a beatiful woman and planting a kiss on her is about the best way to celebrate a holiday ever.
