Our Childhood, Our Home...

So, I've been dealing with my normal fear that my current state is going to stick around for a while.  Which is fine, I suppose, as most of my free time has has been taken over by the job.  I've been taking work home with me and going through it all manually, which doubles the time needed and increases the general frustration and ennui I have for calling customers and getting yelled at by them, then the sales people, and then the overlords in the mid-west.

I've taken to daydreaming about a few of the nicer aspects of the job.  This amounts mostly to a paycheck and insurance, but it's something(s?) to focus on while the Trip drifts farther away.  I was even thinking about fixing up the basement, upping the rent to my folks, and having something like my own place.

Then the storm came.

One foot of water across 1/8 an acre and twenty hours later, and a lot of shit was gone.  All of the books I had read between middle school and my first attempt at college.  90% of the CDs.  56% of the DVDs.  Clothing.  All of the furniture I inherited from previous generations of the McGovern family, to be used once I have my own place.  Cherry wood, almost perfectly suited to my visual preferences - glossy black with dull red centers, a dining room set.

A large chunk of my past and one possible future are now in various stages of being chucked out.

The picture of my grandmother and I...

My parents have had crying fits.  I've had dreams where I'm drowning and unable to exhale and just die.  I have a three day weekend of writing and hauling memories out of the basement, and moving the salvage up to the attic.

I don't really know how I feel about this.  Depressed, I suppose - but I honestly don't know.

Well, at least we got together and it wasn't Christmas...

Nikki was one of the few Neshaminy people I stayed in contact with during my college days. She's one of the few I still interact with in person - although that's really a matter of time and tide. It's kind of funny, watching your friends grow up, see how they change a little bit each time you meet them. I have this memory of her, back in eleventh grade (I think), right after her maternal grandfather passed. I remember kneeling by her desk, hugging her and wondering why the fuck she felt compelled to go into school the morning after a thing like that.

Troopers. You never really know which ones they are until they get shook.

My paternal grandparents help raise my brother and I. Ester and John. They were hard line Vatican I folks from Philadelphia, taught my brother and I the Latin mass, the rosary, the mysteries, the creeds...whole shabang. My grandmother, Ester, passed a few days after I left kindergarten. She..um...the reason that the elder McGovern's played such a large roll in our lives was because my mom and dad worked weird hours. Mom was the personnel manager at the Neshaminy Mall's Strawbridge & Clothier, so her hours were just all over the clock. And in kindergarten class, (the unfortunately named) Mrs. Skank and her student teacher were going to have a Mother's Day Tea. And my mom couldn't make it, because of work, so we decided that my grandmother would go.

The only picture I have of her - and I have two copies of this - is her and I walking through the classroom, my hand raised up to hold her's, and I'm smiling at the camera and she's smiling down at me. My hair was already going from redish-brown to it's current black state, and she's smiling down, and when I look at it now she's...I can see how frail she was. And I'm not seeing the woman who had screaming matches with my mother over my brother and I going to the museum and seeing evolution or how the stars hang in the heavens. I'm not seeing her laying on the couch too weak to move because her heart's on it's last legs.

All I'm seeing is this one moment that I barely remember.

I usually shut up when people say "They're in a better place". This, I suppose is proof that there is a God, because a minor miracle has occurred: I've shut my mouth. I don't mention that I could never, even as a little kid, tell the difference between heaven and hell without the normal cues (Clouds/Fire), or how most of my life has been spent wanting to wring the Logo's neck - and tend to feel that way still.

But a fun bit of providence...years later, around fifth grade, when my paternal grandfather passed, we got a letter in the mail from that student teacher. Inside was a mass card and a copy of the picture from the Mother's Day Tea. A lady friend once noted that it's the last picture of me "Honestly smiling," and that "All the others just show [me] smirking at a joke" or "trying to get the photographer to shut up". Both are true, I guess.

Flash-forward to now. Nikki's maternal grandmother will be laid to rest on Thursday. I know all those grandkids and all of the family, and...Omnia mutantur nihil interit. De hoc satis.

Forget It, Sean, It's Fishtown...

I'm come to the conclusion that in every city there is a residential section that cabs avoid for for a special reason. It's not robbery at gun point, or that the residents usually leave smears or puddles of biology on the seats - no, it's because their sense of direction fails them there. Internal compasses no longer point to true north, as though there is a UFO eternally hovering over the row homes and brownstones. Even GPSes throw up their electronic hands, and navigator starts saying things like "Might as well turn left".

Fishtown is such a location.

Recently, Fishtown has become a hotbed for hipster activity, a haven for vintage clothing, vinyl records, and fairly descent if hard to pronounce beer. My friends, the DZs live there, and every other month or so I find myself getting off at the Gerard exit and sinking low into my chair to navigate to their home. ND - my "sister" - is a speech therapist for the elderly, refereed to by her patiences as Dr. Nicolai. MZ works as a contractor for the government. We've plans to go to Neko Case's concert next month, and the whole block party thing was a last second invite - and ended up being the only one with guts enough to mosey into Fishtown.

This time it was for a block party. Now, the only times I've ever seen a block party was in "Dave Chapelle's Block Party," and "Judge Dread," so I was expecting either a great time, or horrid, mindless violence while people with speech impediments make grandiose claims about their role in society and ruin a fairly cinematic line of comics. Wasn't too far off, as it turns out.

MZ met me at the door, helping me with the case of beer, before we were joined by ND, the lady of the house. There is the normal chit chat as ND pours us lemonade vodka (the secret: no water) before we go out to brave the heat. Water is pouring down the sides of the street, and the cars used to corden off the party portion of the block were constantly in danger of being t-boned by passing traffic who seemed confused by three cars parked diagonally to keep them away, and the tents were peopled by the good folk of Fishtown sinking quickly into an inebriated haze.

Once MZ's parents arrive, I sneak over to a non-party section behind a florist for a cigarette. After helping two of the cars park, I ended up helping the band (they're having a band?) unload their gear, and one of the girls asks if I know the guys or I'm doing it "Out of the goodness of my own heart", and then smiles when I say "Uh...I was...you know. I was just there." Once everything is out of the trunks, I bail, know that any continuation would result in my breaking something beyond repair. Returning to the tent, ND laughs. "Leave it to you to wander around the corner and end up joining a band!" We dance a little to the greatest hits of the 1950's while the band set up, and after an hour the band kicks off. The "Goodness of my heart" girl begins singing, and the the covers start flying. MD's father and I sit in our chairs, rocking out and I sign along, keeping my volume low, except when they go into Modern English "I'll Stop the World (and Melt With You)" - the only 80's hit I've never gotten tired of, and doubt I ever will. Once the band ends, the singer ("Horrible", as the band's name is Horrible and the Cupcakes) runs over and give me a hug. It was her second performance, and she wanted to thank me for having fun. I told her she did great and she gave me another hug before returning to breaking down the set-up

The DZs try to convince me to give her my phone number, but I think I understand it. She's going through an adrenaline shutdown, a performer's blessing once all of the fear is gone, and the lights are finally off.

I remain in the tent for another two hours before the gun fire got a bit too close to the street (I wish I was making that up) and then, hugging my friends, went back to Penndel. I was closing the car door when TWVO (I'm trying to figure out a better way to name them, as their initials tend to get a bit strange) invited me out to the diner. I looked to the dark windows of the house, and then back to car. "Five minutes," I said.

Transmission from others...

I've been rereading some personal-non-fiction, lately. Henry Rollins' "Black Coffee Blues" trilogy, Michael Palin's "Diaries", and (of course) Warren Ellis' "Shivering Sands". The best way to deal with free-floating depression: look at how you're heroes dealt with it. Rollins' "Intensity is all" point of view - which I still feel is covering a shit load of issues ranging from guilt (best friend shot and killed in front of him in 1992) to lack of connections (he never mentions friends that are just friends, only industry people). Palin's happy-go-lucky nature (which hides a lot of hard mental work - comedy is never easy). Ellis' ...now here's a bit, because "Shivering Sands" is more so a diary about ideas - you're watching Warren Ellis come up with the ideas for his work from 2000-2009, mostly in a drunken haze of futurism and sub-culture.

I touched a little on that - the idea thing - during a conversation with J.C. J.C. came into Kutztown a year after me, and seems like a weirdly displaced little brother (in the same way the N.H. is a weirdly displaced twin), and both of us being theater majors meant that we were exposed to the same teachings, done in the same methods, and ended up having the same views about certain process. Using the Stanislavski Method to get through the day at work (and in forming characters for our different writing projects), the hyper-reality that's trickling into the mainstream world view (him from exposure to MTV, me through the essays of Umberto Eco - which just proves that the only difference between high and low culture is sun-worship). But while J.C.'s work deals more with his (current) struggles with his Catholicism, my own has had more of a "Fuck! We're old!" quality to it.

The ideas - both the things you try to put out into the world and the shit that keeps you up until four a.m. - usually strike because you're not thinking about them. You've just been absorbing the information, letting it run through the processors, and then, boom, the plot-line is there. All of the artistry (if any) can come out of training: method, approach, style, all of that can be taught to varying degrees. But they can't teach you how to focus, because that's always going to be different. I prefer to not plot out a story, and to sit outside and listen to a book on my computer with filtering in the outside world (birds, wind, traffic) and taking some of the different rhythms into my key strokes. Some guys blast heavy metal (Stephen King) others in bars (Warren Ellis - but I've become convinced that Ellis couldn't do anything with out a bar/pub/bag-in-a-bottle).

I suppose all of this came about because of Ellis. In "Shivering Sands" he points out that he's from the tiny English village of Thundersley - originally Thor's Clearing. And all of his work, metaphorically at least, is about lighting - all of the futuretech, the bright flashes of subculture that slowly get subsumed into the monoculture once their spark has been dulled. All of this is mostly done in comic form, although his novel "Crooked Little Vein" has the same blistering effect (see the address bar of this blog to find out if I liked it). Anyway, from the mention of Thurdersley he talks a little bit about his father and stories. His father, it turns out, was an unpublished writer, and loved the fact that he was now a part of Warren's Story (please note capital "S"), while Warren had always felt like a bit player in his father's Story growing up.

That made me pause. All of the things I've written have a gloom to them (in my mind, anyway), and a rather sever awareness of time. I seem more interested in people trying to become adults, and failing miserably.

J.C. called and we talked about his mom going through the same stuff my dad went through, health wise. He talks about how he's doing community theater, trying to keep his acting bug alive.
Another call from N.H. about his sister's wedding, his own (now shockingly) long term relationship with his lady friend. He talks about soccer and the New York fan mentality.
Both phone calls consist of half an hour of the participants complaining about the lack of change.

I talk a little about the new book, and how I want to finish it because I think it's a mind fuck for the reader in it's basic form, a literary dutch angle that I'm hoping will be over shadowed by the more blatantly weird elements (a Puerto Rican named Sven Herbaugh - and that's about as rational as my naming scheme is for this one). I talk about trying to get into my subconscious, trying to think in two different time streams for the book (I wanted to do three, but realized that the word "will" would become impossibly annoying by the fourth paragraph), and hoping that the book acts like a mental bomb for people, leaving the remains of the consensus all over the walls in an easy to clean film or splatter. Both of them are writers, and both of them had exposure to me during the darker parts, so they know that I probably should spend more that five seconds figuring things out. But that's been my life. Sitting on the sidelines, a bit player in the stories of others. Taking in information.

Hell, even the author surrogate is more of an "Also-Staring" role - but then I've only ever written one character: me. Just different portions of me, different percentages mingling outside of my head. Maybe it will work.

Ok, off to a block/triangle party, and then a night spent check tense-agreement. Hiya, Saturday.

Hard Times and Good Rocking...

This weekend...meh. It did not go well. There's only so much joy to be found in know where you stand after the bills are paid, and missing invites from friends. I ended up going on a bit too long in a letter to a friend, saying a lot and nothing at the same time. Frankly, I have no idea what's going on. Summer's never been kind to me, and I think the lack of a defined assault has made me go looking for one.

Normally this isn't a problem - I just ignore the self-destructive tendencies until they go away. Tell myself that everything is self-control, that nihilism never works out for me, and move on. But for some reason I can't shake it. It took a lot for me to get my head out of my ass, stop with the self-loathing and start living a somewhat enjoyable life. And something's put the kabosh on that for now. My apologies to those who suffered the blast back. It might happen again - but I should be good for a year. As soon as the venting was complete I ended up smiling to myself and chuckling at what an idiot I can be. Sometime I think my personality is that of Homer Simpson - and I see little wrong with that.
***
So I did some writing in earnest. Best thing to do when the emptiness won't be ignored. It's the kind I like best - when I'm not doing it with a thought of trying to be published or make my living at it or anything. When it comes down to "Fuck it - this is what I do". Creation in freefall - down as in flames, up as in smoke. That when it's best, when I let it work and find the world falling to order. I might still be unhappy with the world once I go back to it, but I know more about it by letting it fall into a polite chaos.
***
I watched "The Devil and Daniel Johnston" this weekend. It was a great movie, but it added to the "did not go well" portion of my mental state. Watching him come apart, seeing what his family went through...yeah, that struck a nerve. Probably my second most uncomfortable viewing experience of all time. Heh. While I'm way more functional than he, I can see my parents in his - their long suffering due to their refusal to completely turn their backs on the mad black sheep of the family. His fixation with God and the Devil, and my own with the various concepts of death, see...I'm not him. I can function. I can deal with people, with reality - whatever the hell that is. But knowing I was that close, that I pulled back on my own...it's a good reminder, maybe even a timely one. I'm me.
***
All of this shit would have gotten to me and leveled be out for months a while back. Funny. Changed a lot and didn't even know it. And I'm grinning a bit. I hate my job, I don't like the various situations I'm finding myself in, and I'm still happy. I'm turning into a half-assed Dr. Lao. And I don't see anything wrong with that.

And Somewhere the Tea's Getting Cold...

So, the last post was a brief rant. Very brief - for me, anyway. Funny, all the people I want to scream it at won't bother reading it. T'was ever thus. Funny thing is, during my whole relearning how to be human phase, I keep getting reminded of why I liked being Penndel's ghost. Reduced interaction made for a mostly peaceful existence, and at least the invasion of my mental space would justify the bile I spewed.

That's really a misconception, I guess. The only thing stupider than someone thinking that they don't need the world is someone who thinks the world can't get by without them. Hard lesson to learn, that is. And even with all of the interaction (via e-mail, a few phone calls, even a few in person) I can feel the desire (but not the need - so that's progress) to slink back to my little black hole and go back to just observing and ignoring as the mood strikes me.

I've stuck with it, though. Even showed up at a BBQ for two friends I normally don't see outside of flea markets. I guess it's grown on me, although it has shown me that some of the problems I was dealing with are a bit more complex than I had first imagined - either by talking with those who had dealt with similar issues or just getting a fresh perspective. At some point I hope to beable to have these conversations without a long, alcohol laden preamble, but hey, one step at a time.

A lot going on, but all of it is mental. I'm going to try to get some writing done now, before it all gets the better of me.

Strange Weather We're Having...

Kitty Genovese. Sylvia Likens. Remember those two name for a minute, because I'll have to prove a point in a moment.

Casey Anthony was found not guilty of murder today. I know next to nothing of the case, except that her child is dead, it happened in Florida, and everyone is very upset that Casey Anthony was found not guilty. Never mind the "beyond all reasonable doubt" stipulation that exists at least in lip service within our legal system. Never mind that we (most likely) do not know all of the facts. And ignore for a second the legal ideal - that one thousand guilty people would go free rather than a single innocent be jailed.

Just let yourselves feel angry for a minute.

Never mind the fact that the West Memphis Three are rotting behind bars after a clearly mismanaged railroad job. That the bankers who brought the world to a halt and ruined both individual lives and nations were given bonuses. Forget the fact that this happens all the time, and any dialog about what might have caused it dies off once the ratings go down.

Just let yourselves feel angry for a minute.

Leave a light on tonight for the lost life of a little girl you never met - and sadly never will meet, rather than to keep thieves away. Mention how sorry you are that it happened. Grieve in public.

Because you're going to forget.

Kitty Genovese was stabbed in front of her apartment building. Not killed. No, her attacker came back after she crawled into the stairwell and there, in the stairwell, she was killed, raped, and looted - in that order, while the people in the apartment complex watched.

Sylvia Likens was tortured and raped and finally, mercifully, died, at the hands of a religious zealot neighbor and local kids between the ages of 10-18. The zealot was released from prison early. The kids did even less time.

And you don't remember that.

So feel angry for a minute. But remember, you will forget. You always do, until something reminds you. And you refuse to face it. Thus, you refuse to change it. But by all means, please, make a show of it.

Please, do not waste my time.