Impermanence

 One of the elements of my psyche that developed very young was a fear of impermanence. It's likely we moved a dozen times, and to five different states before I was 15. If you include that first year of high school, you can tack on an additional move to an additional state. I have seen a lot of things, and it's only as I've reached these reflective years that I can appreciate the varied environments, cultures, and experiences I've had. As discussed previously, who would I be had my parents not uprooted all things and relocated countless times? More successful, less interesting, more balanced, dead? These are the trains of thought where I am capable of hitting the pause button and remind myself that every moment before now is encapsulated into right now; how and who I am; and the past is at best a reflection. 

This journey introduced me to people I love, but mostly loved; it brought me to music, a barometer by which I measure my demise; it brought me to landscapes of inescapable beauty; though mostly too hot. I know myself well enough that I am not someone anyone would describe as interesting. My charisma has for as long as I was aware of hormones has been manufactured. My bag of charms is these experiences, I'm little else without them. I'm a scared, abused child that learned to be cautious about most everything because of impermanence. Marriage - maybe it's only important to me because it's a vow of permanence. Maybe having a massive music collection is a statement in defiance of absence and starting over. These are guesses, my effort sans therapy to unravel this cliched, uninspired, caricature of my self-identity. I'm essentially weightless in any measure of value. This is not written to beat myself up; or even the sum total of my scars bearing witness - this is my analytical brain calculating the breadth of my relationships from my earliest memories to today. If it's true that you can measure the merit of a man by the company he keeps, well, those who know Birthday know he's the Clyde to my Bonnie.

Sunset on white sand beaches with dolphins breaching The Gulf's ebb. Muddy beaches amid Victorian mansions that illuminate the brain with thoughts of secret passages, and gothic horror. Wild horses streaking across stark landscapes ripped apart by towering peaks that hide our government's most expensive secrets. I can speak to these things. I was also barley alive, and saw it all from prepubescent eyes with barely any understanding of the magnitude. The wounds I took throughout this journey of movie b-roll provided only one moderately safe shelter. I often get asked my earliest memory... I don't know, most of my pre-teen life exists in snapshots and I don't know if they are a memory, or a photo I've seen. If my life depended on an answer, it was my dad dropping me off at a family friends house when I was five or younger, and this person trying to molest me and my resistance to that. I have a recollection of those moments where I am aware of not having enjoyed the experience (specifically with this individual) previously, so molestation had already happened. These are memories I would not recall until I was much. much older. There's an arrogance that people often carry when "they have gotten away with something", and as a child, you begin to recognize this pattern of behavior as extra-ordinary. Not remarkable, in fact, it brought me shame. I was however aware, that my life was circumstanced upon such actions, and thus, I had a different school for nearly every grade, and I soon just gave up on friends I would never see again. 

Texas brought different realities. Our first home was an apartment that was in an area of the city that was hemorrhaging with problems. I recall exploring unfinished and abandoned apartment complexes, and would often find money and any manner of things I didn't understand then. My only friend at this age of 7 or 8 was an Asian woman that owned a beautiful white husky. I loved running with her dog, and playing fetch with him. At some point, maybe a month of making her acquaintance, I did not see her anymore. I knew something was wrong, and I knew she hadn't moved; in my mind, my family was the only impermanence - travelers through a static world. After some weeks, I saw my friend again, with no dog. She would not talk to me. I noticed that she was wearing cuts and bruises. The next day, I saw her again, and pleaded with her to talk to me, and she in a very mindful and careful way described to me an attack that took her dog's life and left her forever changed. I understand it now, she had been attacked, beaten, raped and her dog was killed. I don't know if it's a normal tendency, but any narrative that includes rape, I am immediately taken to this moment. Sitting on starkly green, unmanicured grass outside of her apartment complex; she was wearing all white; and she wore a wide-brimmed hat with a white lace veil. This moment, for me, embodies the violence, anger, and inhuman terror of sexual assault. Texas also offered the worst arguments I recall my parents having with words like "divorce" and "bitch" being thrown around along with ashtrays, plates and wine glasses. I can't explain why I found it so terrifying, but at that age, I must have preferred a broken family over no family. That family friend from Florida, well, he came to stay with us. We even shared a bedroom. How amazing. I must have got too old, because he left, and my mom's childhood friend moved in with us. She often threw up on my comic books; but maybe the night where she stripped naked, and ran through the neighborhood screaming about tanks was peak "what the fuck" for my 8 year old brain. I got to visit a mental hospital, and that was the traumatizing icing on the cake. I understood mental illness probably as well as I understood a grown man wanting to diddle my fiddle. Let's be honest, there must be a moment as a parent where you tell yourself, "any additional damage we do to Ronnie at this point is probably akin to the 49th time a child is molested by the same person." My parents would never use the word "akin" - so that's some poetic license with the only rationale I can subscribe to the remaining days in the Alamo State. One Sunny Day, we just up and drove to Mexico for a picnic. No passports. "It's right there, why not?" First thing we did was buy a bottle of tequila (with the worm of course) and a Fanta in Matamoros. My dad drove so fucking far into the heart of Mexico, we began to pass guard stations, and eventually, one of them gave chase. I imagined for a second that I lived in an orphanage in Mexico now. We were allowed to "go the fuck home". Every Friday night, we would meet my dad at a bar where his co-workers frequented and I would play Space Invaders for like 3 fucking hours. One particular night, I remember imploring my parents to not go to a planned party. Somehow, I manufactured some internalized cliff notes on drinking, arguing, misery, sad child. "No son, that's not going to happen." The party was staggeringly far from our home; I know this; and remember this vividly; because my dad was so drunk, I had to drive us home. I was at best, 10. always having been adept at remembering patterns, I knew how to get home, so I steered and he fucking floored the car accelerator. We were driving 80-90 mph in the wee hours of the morning on Houston's interstate system. To this day, my dad comments on the fact that white people never got pulled over in Texas. Maybe... maybe, you are wondering where Mom is?! I was too! She walked the fuck home at some point. I can't tell you how many miles it was, but it was FAR. The explosion of anger the ensued once mom arrived home was nothing short of terrifying. Do you remember that scene in "Hereditary" where Toni Collette loses her shit? I was in the next room wanting to die. 

I guess I have to save Vegas for tomorrow. I didn't plan on going full exposition with this post, but once I started, what the hell?! What else am I doing. I've been thinking a lot about these times lately; digging through old photos; and puzzling together certain memories, events, mostly wounds. I want to understand my worthlessness, why I can't sustain love, and why I am not a pleasant person. I also don't want to throw down the gavel and project all of this on the failings of two flawed people that  managed to keep me alive for 15 years. Alot of who I am stems from my rebellion in their machinations; yet, I arrived at an equally flawed and fractured place. They've been married for 50 years, I can't make it 10. Clearly, my choices gave me sickness and disease; hiding from the world for all my life, inside a chrysalis that has hung for so long, it's rotten beneath the skin.

That's all for now. Sleep well - 

Listening to: Systeme Paradoxe - "Les Anges de la Mort (Black Version)"