Friday, October 16, 2009
Donny's Day
Two optional covers for Donny's Day. Artwork by Jinger Heaston! Don't forget to look for it in December by Damnation Books!
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Like Glass (An Inward Reflection)
I used to have big dreams, still do, sometimes, but they're different now. Believe it or not, I had enough ego and conceit to think my mission was to be a great writer someday, the best I could be, and the world would know me, and call me by name. So I struggled to do just that at the age of fifteen. God, that was along time ago. I was faced with adversity along the way, and I was humbled more times than I can say.
Things change, and people, too, and I was no exception. No one has changed as much as me, I think. Throughout my life, I've been a drug addict, an alcoholic, overdosed when I was sixteen, put in the hospital, stomach pumped, told it was a miracle I didn't have brain damage. If they'd found me forty-five minutes later, I would've been dead, they said. I was so hungry at the time when they told me, all I could think about was a cheeseburger. But still I couldn't let go of addiction. It's not a fly by night thing. It becomes you, even in sobriety, it reminds you. It's always there; it's always a fight. This is why I drank and used in the first place, not to feel. And now, I feel too much. Ah, the irony of sobriety. How does that sound? It makes so much sense, though. I hunger for that cold taste of numbness and nothingness, but I'll resist. I've put myself in rehab after a near death experience, relapsed, lost my home, and my job. If I was a cat, I think my lives would've been used up long ago. I've been abused sexually, verbally, but that seems to be the norm anymore. Everyone knows what that's like. I turned into a religious fanatic, thanks to the joys of Mormonism. I sacrificed my entire life of art, that darker trade I loved more than life itself, to a pit of flames, in the name of God, because a bishop told me to. My life didn't belong to those dark trades, he said. I was a warrior of light now. I believed him. Fool I was. I lost my identity completely, heard the voice of Rationality say, 'You no longer know who you are anymore. You're identity has taken leave.' I started writing dark fiction again, much to the chagrin of my wife at the time, and got divorced. I've listened to the voices of reason and anguish, and succumbed more to the latter, listening to everything it had to say, and suffered under its stentorian command. That battle back and forth still wages today. Sometimes, I don't see an end in sight. I wonder if it will ever end. I have become a man enraged, grabbing my wife by the throat while drunk one night, and the guilt and horror of what that did to me, despite my apologies, taking my hand away a split-second later (no it's not easy to admit, but it happened, and no amount of remorse can take it back) doesn't make it right. I have succumbed to the beast of rage, even today, fallen prey to the basest of weaknesses. I have become irrational, out of control, childish, no man at all. I have become sensitive to the point where every word is like a sword, penetrating deep the most vulnerable cavity within me. I have become, at times, so emotionally over-wrought, that I have cried in pain and anguish for days, curled into a ball, wanting nothing more than to disappear and wink out of existence. It happens a lot these days. I've been depressed, manic, loopy, seen the doctor, gone to therapy, seen a psychiatrist, put myself on medication, anti-depressants, then weaned myself off again, only to be tortured by the brutality, the reality of my roller coaster of emotion, wondering what the point was of it all. I have pleaded and prayed to a God I no longer believe in, to just take the pain away, the confusion, the anguish. To no avail. I have managed, luckily, to love more than I thought myself capable. And I have felt pain I never knew existed. I've hated myself with such intense loathing, all I wanted was to die, to set my body on fire, if for no other reason than to end this unending, grueling nightmare of pain. I have despised this planet with every fiber of my soul, constantly wailing, wondering why, what the point is of my existence, when I see no point at all. I have seen those moments where life loses all meaning, and I wonder if there's ever meaning in anything. Does anything have meaning? What is meaning anyway, and why is it so important to me? I have yet to see meaning. What I am doing here?--I've thought. My family and friends will be fine without me. They'll understand. They want what's best. I will convince them the end is best. They'll see. I've thought of every way I could justify suicide to be unselfish, how I would do it, the gun I would buy. I've pined and longed to have what I see around me, what others have, the deadly envy, that crippling pride, which has done nothing but ruin me. I've made mistakes, and paid dearly for them. Still do, for some. Sometimes, I feel like I have lived and died a thousand times, loved and lost. I have created and destroyed. I've said the most poisonous and hateful things a tongue can muster. I have felt guilt to the point of self-destruction. My whole life, I have wanted to have a single dream come true. I have, I admit, pined greedily for love and fame, the universal spotlight, a daily glow. Just once, I thought. Just once in my life. I have felt the wracking torment of total anguish, and tortured sobs. I have nearly drowned three different times, with the same person there during each episode, eerily, to save me. I have imagined my name in lights, an interview on the David Letterman Show, my tales in all the most popular magazines, seen my stories turned into movies. Story or novel by...and then my name, the grin that painted on my face. I've imagined the interviews, the flashing lights, but I never wanted that, just the quiet fame, a writer's life, whose life speaks for him, through the words he creates. These days, it's hard to find that muse at all. Originality is not like it used to be. My head is not so easy and calm to allow those muses to get through. Is that how it works for you?
These were the dreams I used to have, still do sometimes, but I'd trade it all for some peace of mind. Some light inside, that special place that burns brighter than any smile I've ever seen before, these tears I cry. An end to all this pain, I'd trade it all, this fortune's paradise for some calmness, some quiet, the tumult to end, the waging, raging sea.
I've seen bodies of water that look like glass. And I've thought, "That's what I want my soul to be."
Things change, and people, too, and I was no exception. No one has changed as much as me, I think. Throughout my life, I've been a drug addict, an alcoholic, overdosed when I was sixteen, put in the hospital, stomach pumped, told it was a miracle I didn't have brain damage. If they'd found me forty-five minutes later, I would've been dead, they said. I was so hungry at the time when they told me, all I could think about was a cheeseburger. But still I couldn't let go of addiction. It's not a fly by night thing. It becomes you, even in sobriety, it reminds you. It's always there; it's always a fight. This is why I drank and used in the first place, not to feel. And now, I feel too much. Ah, the irony of sobriety. How does that sound? It makes so much sense, though. I hunger for that cold taste of numbness and nothingness, but I'll resist. I've put myself in rehab after a near death experience, relapsed, lost my home, and my job. If I was a cat, I think my lives would've been used up long ago. I've been abused sexually, verbally, but that seems to be the norm anymore. Everyone knows what that's like. I turned into a religious fanatic, thanks to the joys of Mormonism. I sacrificed my entire life of art, that darker trade I loved more than life itself, to a pit of flames, in the name of God, because a bishop told me to. My life didn't belong to those dark trades, he said. I was a warrior of light now. I believed him. Fool I was. I lost my identity completely, heard the voice of Rationality say, 'You no longer know who you are anymore. You're identity has taken leave.' I started writing dark fiction again, much to the chagrin of my wife at the time, and got divorced. I've listened to the voices of reason and anguish, and succumbed more to the latter, listening to everything it had to say, and suffered under its stentorian command. That battle back and forth still wages today. Sometimes, I don't see an end in sight. I wonder if it will ever end. I have become a man enraged, grabbing my wife by the throat while drunk one night, and the guilt and horror of what that did to me, despite my apologies, taking my hand away a split-second later (no it's not easy to admit, but it happened, and no amount of remorse can take it back) doesn't make it right. I have succumbed to the beast of rage, even today, fallen prey to the basest of weaknesses. I have become irrational, out of control, childish, no man at all. I have become sensitive to the point where every word is like a sword, penetrating deep the most vulnerable cavity within me. I have become, at times, so emotionally over-wrought, that I have cried in pain and anguish for days, curled into a ball, wanting nothing more than to disappear and wink out of existence. It happens a lot these days. I've been depressed, manic, loopy, seen the doctor, gone to therapy, seen a psychiatrist, put myself on medication, anti-depressants, then weaned myself off again, only to be tortured by the brutality, the reality of my roller coaster of emotion, wondering what the point was of it all. I have pleaded and prayed to a God I no longer believe in, to just take the pain away, the confusion, the anguish. To no avail. I have managed, luckily, to love more than I thought myself capable. And I have felt pain I never knew existed. I've hated myself with such intense loathing, all I wanted was to die, to set my body on fire, if for no other reason than to end this unending, grueling nightmare of pain. I have despised this planet with every fiber of my soul, constantly wailing, wondering why, what the point is of my existence, when I see no point at all. I have seen those moments where life loses all meaning, and I wonder if there's ever meaning in anything. Does anything have meaning? What is meaning anyway, and why is it so important to me? I have yet to see meaning. What I am doing here?--I've thought. My family and friends will be fine without me. They'll understand. They want what's best. I will convince them the end is best. They'll see. I've thought of every way I could justify suicide to be unselfish, how I would do it, the gun I would buy. I've pined and longed to have what I see around me, what others have, the deadly envy, that crippling pride, which has done nothing but ruin me. I've made mistakes, and paid dearly for them. Still do, for some. Sometimes, I feel like I have lived and died a thousand times, loved and lost. I have created and destroyed. I've said the most poisonous and hateful things a tongue can muster. I have felt guilt to the point of self-destruction. My whole life, I have wanted to have a single dream come true. I have, I admit, pined greedily for love and fame, the universal spotlight, a daily glow. Just once, I thought. Just once in my life. I have felt the wracking torment of total anguish, and tortured sobs. I have nearly drowned three different times, with the same person there during each episode, eerily, to save me. I have imagined my name in lights, an interview on the David Letterman Show, my tales in all the most popular magazines, seen my stories turned into movies. Story or novel by...and then my name, the grin that painted on my face. I've imagined the interviews, the flashing lights, but I never wanted that, just the quiet fame, a writer's life, whose life speaks for him, through the words he creates. These days, it's hard to find that muse at all. Originality is not like it used to be. My head is not so easy and calm to allow those muses to get through. Is that how it works for you?
These were the dreams I used to have, still do sometimes, but I'd trade it all for some peace of mind. Some light inside, that special place that burns brighter than any smile I've ever seen before, these tears I cry. An end to all this pain, I'd trade it all, this fortune's paradise for some calmness, some quiet, the tumult to end, the waging, raging sea.
I've seen bodies of water that look like glass. And I've thought, "That's what I want my soul to be."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
