Security: When I was eight,
Susan, a classmate, was kidnapped, raped, and murdered, and her severed fingers
mailed home. I remember Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King getting shot. The
Zodiac Killer haunted our region. The Vietnam War was raging. Horror was my
childhood’s backdrop.
My first friends: after moving
to Sacramento in 1972, becoming an outsider and never fully recovering.
Governmental faith: watching Watergate hearings — Nixon’s “I’m not a crook”
seems quaint nowadays, doesn’t it?
Invulnerability: spending six
months home with osteomyelitis: a swollen arm, pulsing pain, fever,
interminable blood tests, x-rays, nuclear scans, and, finally, a successful
operation. I listen to doctors.
All my possessions twice: one
backpack stolen, another accidentally traded with a lady in the desert while
hitchhiking. Almost none of her clothes fit me. Equilibrium: Ugh. My friend
Stuart and I complained to the bartender about the quantity of tequila in our
margaritas. I staggered home, fell into a bush, puked in a park, and hated
myself. The next morning I wore a crown of real bloody thorns.
My humility: playing guitar on
Telegraph Avenue for spare change. Someone who looked like Jerry Garcia gave me
a 20-dollar bill. Secular worldliness: after witnessing the dome of the Oakland
Coliseum get unscrewed and the eyes of something ineffable peering inside. You
become naked.
My heart stolen by a carioca
dancing in a tennis court outside the Greek Theater: 1981. She heard psychedelic
music and wandered uphill. I still wonder how I was so lucky. Disbelief in
miracles: first, my newborn son, Charles, recognizing me seconds from the womb
(so it’s you again?) and second, when my 3-year-old, Kyle, imitating his first
sounds in speech therapy.
My dad: ravaged from within,
but bravely smiling, I understand him better now.
Belief in organized religion: hearing
the congregation’s warmongering after 9/11 reminded me of the crowd shouting
“We are all individuals” in Life of Brian. Never went back. Masses of unquestioning
humanity are fearsome beasts.
Certainty: I’ve learned many
times that we control our destinies, but only if we invest time and energy. Our
words and actions define us.
——
After experiencing loss, its
sheer weight is so devastating that I’ve been blinded to the eventual
ramifications, even those that mitigate the damage, so my first reaction is how
my losses often led to greater gains. For example, I am positive my time absent
from school instigated a love of knowledge, transforming my life. Also, would I
love the horror genre so much if my childhood were spent in idyllic
surroundings? I doubt it. Is my oblique perception and constant obsession with
consciousness linked to psychedelic mind melting? I suspect it is, but, honestly,
I cannot be sure. It’s an impossible experiment; I cannot be my own control
group. My second reaction is that I’m somewhat disturbed by what’s unlisted.
For example, my tequila incident is here, but one brother, a nephew, a niece,
two great friends, and two business partners (those both suicides) never will
be and didn’t survive the edit either. Have I become calloused to death, or am
I shuttering my senses to stay sane, because everyone I’ve ever loved will die?
No! That’s not right. Death is part of our journey. So, what is this list telling me then? It looks
chaotic. Perhaps it’s the uncertainty that I crave! Imagine life as a river. I’ve
navigated past pilings, shoals, and calamitous waterfalls, but whenever disaster
occurred, I’ve pushed the boat back into stream and headed for deep water. I long
to discover what’s beyond the next bend. Thus, I remain a work-in-progress,
still defining myself, but patient, so any reflection on past events must be
made with always one eye on the future. In the meantime, I’ll keep improvising,
rowing against the current, and enjoying
the ride.
Comments