03/22/04
The world blurs in my peripheral as I guide my Scarab in and out of traffic. I'm heading home as a beautiful sadness overcomes me. Thoughts race through my greymatter and I find myself coming to no solid conclusions.
The names of automobiles pass me and I feel sick. Escape, Adventure, Liberty. Empty promises bought and sold and never experienced. How many of these truck owners have had the picturesque off-road experience that was staged, filmed, aired, and consumed? How many drivers of slim, sleek, and stylish sports cars are starring in the superspy scenes that run through their minds as they shift between gears stuck in traffic behind the thousand other like-minded consumers trapped in the same mental snare?
Nature itself seems to be doing battle today. Snow, sun, rain. Something has disturbed the essence of weather, and it now seeks to punish or cleanse as the changing of seasons sneaks up on us. The cycle continues its march forward as the cold death slips away and life shakes free from its icy grip. A new season is about to be born and we fuss about it as if it were the most humdrum event of the year. Nature tearing itself free from one stage and pushing us all towards a renewal of ourselves, while plunging another part of the world into a seasonal slumber.
I feel a sickness coming on, self-generated or not, that makes me shake with fever. I'm heading home and I can't think straight. My mind wanders and dips and bends. I can't come to a conclusion on how I feel about anything. A malleable mind, eager to destroy or accept all the pain and love of the years of yesterday.
Ahead lies friends and family. Loved ones that have not seen me for some time now. My brain runs through simulated meetings and tries to come up with the most likely course of events while planning and preparing for the most dire.
Now has come the time for confrontation and a final reckoning. A balancing of scales, and a excavating of the heart.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 10 - "Rest Stop Bloodbath" (edit)
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Monday, December 13, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 9 - The Ride Home (edit)
03/15/04
I don't recall actually leaving the rest stop, but after spending so much of my time there in a delirious daydream, that's not really a surprise. I found myself in my car blasting a new CD, windows dropped, and gliding down a stretch of Americana.
I didn't realize until I stopped for gas off the parkway. I was headed south, I was heading home.
My dreams have been plenty lately and the intensity of them has been draining to say the least. It's almost like my body would much prefer the simplicity of dormant identity. In hazy dreamscapes I find myself talking to old friends and revisiting boyhood haunts. But I'm seeing them as they are now, not as I recall them. They're changed, hacked up, and shown as something completely new. Something clean.
A beautiful blue sky lies open above me, welcoming me to this world of possible unity. It's hard to say but hope is stronger in me than ever. Something happened to me back there at that rest stop. I feel stripped of my pain and confusion.
I look at the cracked concrete between my feet as if seeing such a sight for the first time. I see it as if it were the most important thing in the world. It might be, but then this cold metal gas pump in my hand is no less important, nor the many ordinary things that dance the daily routine around me.
With the change from the last of my money I get a bottle of water and a bagel. Once out on the road again I've found that the bagel is the best I have ever had. My final meal before facing whatever is coming before me now. I wash it down with the water and I swear I can feel my body breaking it down and converting it, sucking from it the nutrients it provides.
I take a break from singing at the top of my lungs to laugh heartily as I cross over the bridge and approach the tollbooth. I've always been afraid of bridges. Well, I used to be anyway. I hadn't thought about it in so long but now I can see this bridge just as I did when I traveled over it twenty years ago in the back seat of the family car.
Frantically worrying about paying the upcoming toll, my mind releases itself. I'm suddenly a kid again, sick from the smell of exhaust and the bouncing of the road, my mind slipping into a daydream not unlike the experience at the rest stop. A blurring of the edges, riding through the physical pain, and winding up somewhere in a place where all the rules you've made up for yourself no longer apply.
I don't recall actually leaving the rest stop, but after spending so much of my time there in a delirious daydream, that's not really a surprise. I found myself in my car blasting a new CD, windows dropped, and gliding down a stretch of Americana.
I didn't realize until I stopped for gas off the parkway. I was headed south, I was heading home.
My dreams have been plenty lately and the intensity of them has been draining to say the least. It's almost like my body would much prefer the simplicity of dormant identity. In hazy dreamscapes I find myself talking to old friends and revisiting boyhood haunts. But I'm seeing them as they are now, not as I recall them. They're changed, hacked up, and shown as something completely new. Something clean.
A beautiful blue sky lies open above me, welcoming me to this world of possible unity. It's hard to say but hope is stronger in me than ever. Something happened to me back there at that rest stop. I feel stripped of my pain and confusion.
I look at the cracked concrete between my feet as if seeing such a sight for the first time. I see it as if it were the most important thing in the world. It might be, but then this cold metal gas pump in my hand is no less important, nor the many ordinary things that dance the daily routine around me.
With the change from the last of my money I get a bottle of water and a bagel. Once out on the road again I've found that the bagel is the best I have ever had. My final meal before facing whatever is coming before me now. I wash it down with the water and I swear I can feel my body breaking it down and converting it, sucking from it the nutrients it provides.
I take a break from singing at the top of my lungs to laugh heartily as I cross over the bridge and approach the tollbooth. I've always been afraid of bridges. Well, I used to be anyway. I hadn't thought about it in so long but now I can see this bridge just as I did when I traveled over it twenty years ago in the back seat of the family car.
Frantically worrying about paying the upcoming toll, my mind releases itself. I'm suddenly a kid again, sick from the smell of exhaust and the bouncing of the road, my mind slipping into a daydream not unlike the experience at the rest stop. A blurring of the edges, riding through the physical pain, and winding up somewhere in a place where all the rules you've made up for yourself no longer apply.
Monday, December 6, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 8 - Sitting Alone (edit)
03/04/04
Sitting alone, quiet in my small defecation booth, I realize that I've put up some sort of barrier, impervious to entry. Secure in the knowledge that no ordinary citizen would attempt to slither underneath nor parachute in from above. I was protected in this four by three excretion chamber. Although there were men in the stalls on either side of me, most likely engaged in the same shameful acts of natural behavior as I was, I felt distanced from them, and from the threat they would normally present themselves as outside of this rest stop bathroom.
Recognizing the power within my mind, assisted by the two metal walls and the haphazardly locked stall door, I knew that I had it in me to protect my aura from these masculine intruders to personal safety. Here I was, just a child living in an adult male body, sitting alone in the great wide world, ruling my universe from a porcelain throne. Having reached this moment of safety and security opened doors in my mind, and I immediately wanted to extend my borders.
I exited the stall, having waited long enough for the guy next to me to remove himself from his lavatory cosmos, and went to wash my hands. I found myself looking into the mirror itself, as I wrung my hands free from the dreaded bacteria, the silvery shimmer is the oddest material I could imagine, one that so accurately casts back an imaginary self, projecting an external persona that is a lie constructed by the inner workings of our minds. A clever cover slid over insecurities and doubts. A construct comprised of imaginings about the person we wish to be. On the other side of this wall is the man I long for, deep in my heart.
Maybe mirrors show us more than we can imagine, if we look closely enough. A mirror is an inviting snare for the self-absorbed, allowing us to shallowly look upon ourselves not as we know ourselves to be, but instead as we appear to those around us. An impartial view of our shell, our scarred surface self that takes the brunt of our bumps and bruises. Swimming into sorrow filled eyes, I enter into the sacred center and truly evaluate. Distanced from the person being examined, I am able to penetrate into cellular psyche.
The water is scalding hot as I slide back into this reality. My eyes adjust to the surface of the mirror and I take in the room behind me. Men coming and going, leaving behind the waste that had built up in their bodies. Over my shoulder a man with an abnormally large penis is staring absently at the wall while urinating.
Sitting alone, quiet in my small defecation booth, I realize that I've put up some sort of barrier, impervious to entry. Secure in the knowledge that no ordinary citizen would attempt to slither underneath nor parachute in from above. I was protected in this four by three excretion chamber. Although there were men in the stalls on either side of me, most likely engaged in the same shameful acts of natural behavior as I was, I felt distanced from them, and from the threat they would normally present themselves as outside of this rest stop bathroom.
Recognizing the power within my mind, assisted by the two metal walls and the haphazardly locked stall door, I knew that I had it in me to protect my aura from these masculine intruders to personal safety. Here I was, just a child living in an adult male body, sitting alone in the great wide world, ruling my universe from a porcelain throne. Having reached this moment of safety and security opened doors in my mind, and I immediately wanted to extend my borders.
I exited the stall, having waited long enough for the guy next to me to remove himself from his lavatory cosmos, and went to wash my hands. I found myself looking into the mirror itself, as I wrung my hands free from the dreaded bacteria, the silvery shimmer is the oddest material I could imagine, one that so accurately casts back an imaginary self, projecting an external persona that is a lie constructed by the inner workings of our minds. A clever cover slid over insecurities and doubts. A construct comprised of imaginings about the person we wish to be. On the other side of this wall is the man I long for, deep in my heart.
Maybe mirrors show us more than we can imagine, if we look closely enough. A mirror is an inviting snare for the self-absorbed, allowing us to shallowly look upon ourselves not as we know ourselves to be, but instead as we appear to those around us. An impartial view of our shell, our scarred surface self that takes the brunt of our bumps and bruises. Swimming into sorrow filled eyes, I enter into the sacred center and truly evaluate. Distanced from the person being examined, I am able to penetrate into cellular psyche.
The water is scalding hot as I slide back into this reality. My eyes adjust to the surface of the mirror and I take in the room behind me. Men coming and going, leaving behind the waste that had built up in their bodies. Over my shoulder a man with an abnormally large penis is staring absently at the wall while urinating.
Monday, November 29, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 7 - Along Came A Spider (edit)
02/28/04
I woke up with a hot needle of sunlight being jabbed into not only the furthest reaches of my eyeball, but into my brain itself. I had drooled across the table that is firmly bolted to the floor of this establishment. I'm fairly certain that I awoke, although I'm not sure. I can't remember my dreams, not one damn bit.
Outside, a dark skinned man in a rumpled, yet flashy, dark blue suit briskly walked towards the front doors. He firmly pushed his way inside, shoving along a slow-moving herd of American cattle. They stared at him with the most scornful of looks, absolutely condemning the man and telling him sternly his place in their polite society. All with one look.
The man made his way towards the line for the fast food joint. He waited impatiently while he radiated pulses of hostility towards all those around him. His hands shook, and his knuckles popped of their own accord.
Once he had received his meal and dispensed of the requisite funds, we immediately made eye contact. He stalked his way towards me, slicing through the harmonious vibes of weary vacationers, dazed and drowsy travelers. His aura slammed down the chair across from me as he slid into the seat.
He dropped the tray on the table. A chemically charged meat sandwich, slivers of potatomeat popsicles, and an acidic 64oz. soda pop.
"A meal fit for a meat machine", was all that he said while staring directly into my right eye.
"Nervous?" followed shortly after.
My silence was not a voluntary act but more of a direct instinct to this man's presence. He sat across from me but somehow surrounded me entirely. I had no escape from his influence. I was jealous and hated him instantly. He reminded me of everything I wasn't. Confident, secure, with purpose and will. He had enough raw determination stirring within him that I felt shamed and small. I curled up in his presence and feared his wrath.
"I probably shouldn't have come yet. Probably broke some rules or something." I hadn't acknowledged the stinking fried food that lay between us. "You're not mad, you know."
I had slipped within myself and was now watching the scene take place as if watching my life from inside a television. Tears flowed freely.
"You're alone. For now. But they're the ones that are mad." He had a reassuring tone all of a sudden. I twinged at this sudden shift in inflection and body language. What did he want?
"Anyway, I just wanted to say...hang around here as long as you like, but I swear if you're eating this shit...", his previously friendly tone was to give this shift to fierce aggression all the more dramatic impact, "I will shoot you dead."
His eyes lingered with me longer than I had thought. It took me two minutes to realize that he wasn't still sitting across from me, but that his intense presence had actually carved itself across my mind's eye.
I woke up with a hot needle of sunlight being jabbed into not only the furthest reaches of my eyeball, but into my brain itself. I had drooled across the table that is firmly bolted to the floor of this establishment. I'm fairly certain that I awoke, although I'm not sure. I can't remember my dreams, not one damn bit.
Outside, a dark skinned man in a rumpled, yet flashy, dark blue suit briskly walked towards the front doors. He firmly pushed his way inside, shoving along a slow-moving herd of American cattle. They stared at him with the most scornful of looks, absolutely condemning the man and telling him sternly his place in their polite society. All with one look.
The man made his way towards the line for the fast food joint. He waited impatiently while he radiated pulses of hostility towards all those around him. His hands shook, and his knuckles popped of their own accord.
Once he had received his meal and dispensed of the requisite funds, we immediately made eye contact. He stalked his way towards me, slicing through the harmonious vibes of weary vacationers, dazed and drowsy travelers. His aura slammed down the chair across from me as he slid into the seat.
He dropped the tray on the table. A chemically charged meat sandwich, slivers of potatomeat popsicles, and an acidic 64oz. soda pop.
"A meal fit for a meat machine", was all that he said while staring directly into my right eye.
"Nervous?" followed shortly after.
My silence was not a voluntary act but more of a direct instinct to this man's presence. He sat across from me but somehow surrounded me entirely. I had no escape from his influence. I was jealous and hated him instantly. He reminded me of everything I wasn't. Confident, secure, with purpose and will. He had enough raw determination stirring within him that I felt shamed and small. I curled up in his presence and feared his wrath.
"I probably shouldn't have come yet. Probably broke some rules or something." I hadn't acknowledged the stinking fried food that lay between us. "You're not mad, you know."
I had slipped within myself and was now watching the scene take place as if watching my life from inside a television. Tears flowed freely.
"You're alone. For now. But they're the ones that are mad." He had a reassuring tone all of a sudden. I twinged at this sudden shift in inflection and body language. What did he want?
"Anyway, I just wanted to say...hang around here as long as you like, but I swear if you're eating this shit...", his previously friendly tone was to give this shift to fierce aggression all the more dramatic impact, "I will shoot you dead."
His eyes lingered with me longer than I had thought. It took me two minutes to realize that he wasn't still sitting across from me, but that his intense presence had actually carved itself across my mind's eye.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 6 - A Million Burning Stars (edit)
02/28/04
I find myself drifting off to sleep randomly through the day. Recently I awoke from a mid-day twenty minute nap that was the result of a concentrated hunger fast. I fine tuned the controls of my perception inputs and found that a female was standing before me.
She was adorned in the garb of the corporate slave state's official drug supplier uniform. Cash green and vacant white wrapped itself firmly around her person, seemingly strangling the life from her before my very eyes.
She questioned me on my odd behavior and napping tendencies. I played it cool and flashed her some wit and style, which transmitted as little more than incoherent babbling and pure lunacy. I'm going to have to learn how to properly cross channels of communication if I am to continue on this path.
A wash of information floods off of her as we surfacetalk for the better part of her fifteen free minutes away from the JavaGod, deliverer of the Instant Awareness. Rooting through the mess of her Self, I find a few tidbits of relatability and sameness. There is a common spirit bellowing from deep within her. A spirit seeking ultimate liberation and dedication to a way.
My next clear memory is standing outside, tip-toed on the strip of pus-yellow grass that serves as the front lawn of the rest stop. I'm holding my arms out in a mock crucifixation as my soulport burns and aches with the sustained connection to pure Cosmos-spawn tendrils upgrading the software inside.
I'm teetering on the edge of the curb as I realize that my sense of date/time measurement has been properly dismantled. Twenty-nine hours since I last thought of the date, I now seek to destroy that countdown and into total deviation from cognitive timeframes.
The blaring horn of a truck causes the collapsing of my extended self, pushed simultaneously forwards and backwards in time. I run to the window to look in on my female friend and her chemically-charged, narcotic bean-drink administering only to find that this rest stop doesn't have a coffee stall.
Where am I? What is real? I'm jumping stations and can't find one that fits like a good reality should.
I find myself drifting off to sleep randomly through the day. Recently I awoke from a mid-day twenty minute nap that was the result of a concentrated hunger fast. I fine tuned the controls of my perception inputs and found that a female was standing before me.
She was adorned in the garb of the corporate slave state's official drug supplier uniform. Cash green and vacant white wrapped itself firmly around her person, seemingly strangling the life from her before my very eyes.
She questioned me on my odd behavior and napping tendencies. I played it cool and flashed her some wit and style, which transmitted as little more than incoherent babbling and pure lunacy. I'm going to have to learn how to properly cross channels of communication if I am to continue on this path.
A wash of information floods off of her as we surfacetalk for the better part of her fifteen free minutes away from the JavaGod, deliverer of the Instant Awareness. Rooting through the mess of her Self, I find a few tidbits of relatability and sameness. There is a common spirit bellowing from deep within her. A spirit seeking ultimate liberation and dedication to a way.
My next clear memory is standing outside, tip-toed on the strip of pus-yellow grass that serves as the front lawn of the rest stop. I'm holding my arms out in a mock crucifixation as my soulport burns and aches with the sustained connection to pure Cosmos-spawn tendrils upgrading the software inside.
I'm teetering on the edge of the curb as I realize that my sense of date/time measurement has been properly dismantled. Twenty-nine hours since I last thought of the date, I now seek to destroy that countdown and into total deviation from cognitive timeframes.
The blaring horn of a truck causes the collapsing of my extended self, pushed simultaneously forwards and backwards in time. I run to the window to look in on my female friend and her chemically-charged, narcotic bean-drink administering only to find that this rest stop doesn't have a coffee stall.
Where am I? What is real? I'm jumping stations and can't find one that fits like a good reality should.
Monday, November 15, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 5 - Lost Among the Lambs (edit)
02/22/04
I feel dementia setting in. It's come around knocking, like an old friend stopping by innocently enough to catch up on times past. Under cover of a long, lost friend this parasitical leech has sucked you dry of the positive lifeforce flow you've built up.
I find myself attempting to engage people in conversations to find them always ring false, to find myself too concerned with the particulars to actually have a moment where my mind bridges the gap between us. I long for connection between my solitary world and the world of people. To find that my perception of reality is relatable to another.
This has led to a number of awkward stammers and random looks. A whole parade of falsities and surface skimming. I have been unable so far to pierce the veil of fractured, broken Self-ness and find a true connection with another Mind here. I find myself alone among the loneliest, and sad among the saddest. Where is my contact? Where am I going?
I doubt myself and the mission.
I feel dementia setting in. It's come around knocking, like an old friend stopping by innocently enough to catch up on times past. Under cover of a long, lost friend this parasitical leech has sucked you dry of the positive lifeforce flow you've built up.
I find myself attempting to engage people in conversations to find them always ring false, to find myself too concerned with the particulars to actually have a moment where my mind bridges the gap between us. I long for connection between my solitary world and the world of people. To find that my perception of reality is relatable to another.
This has led to a number of awkward stammers and random looks. A whole parade of falsities and surface skimming. I have been unable so far to pierce the veil of fractured, broken Self-ness and find a true connection with another Mind here. I find myself alone among the loneliest, and sad among the saddest. Where is my contact? Where am I going?
I doubt myself and the mission.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Tower of Brahma. Chapter 64. One Last Thing.
I fell to my knees, my body slack and drained, arms folded before me, sweat dripping from the tips of the long hair that draped across my face. I had done it, had gripped the World Serpent by the tail and ripped it free from my chest, its fangs sliding free from the apple in my chest. The venom spouted forth from the bite marks and gushed out before me. I was free.
I walked hand in hand with her as we took in the late Fall evening. I knew something was wrong inside, but I could not force my body to expel the bitterness and anxiety, couldn't imagine a life that didn't make me feel alone and outcast from any other human beings. For so long I wanted connection, communion with something other than myself. Glancing at her in my peripheral I couldn't acknowledge the power between us.
Years later, I'm carrying our child down the stairs as she toils away at her art desk. We exchange quick smiles as I pass her by, our daughter smiling and bouncing in my arms as we pass her on our way to the kitchen. I whip together a small lunch and bring it in to her, which, she reluctantly turns from her work to enjoy with us. We're a family, and bound together beyond what words can explain.
Every now and then I pause before our library and run my fingers along the spines of the novels and textbooks until I come upon a title: Tower of Brahma. Of all the books we own, this is the one that matters, for it is mine. I spent seven years of my life in a hell of my own making, constantly exposing myself emotionally, then encrypting it in poetic verse and obscure allegory. It's a completely self-indulgent text, filled with short stories, poems, essays, all scratching away at the black charred surface of my heart.
I laugh to myself there, letting my head drop a moment, eyes closed and taking in what had happened so long ago. A conspiracy of self consumed me, a labyrinthine plot through the inner workings of my mind, all in a desperate attempt to be happy, to gain enlightenment and become fulfilled. But when everything becomes an escape, you lose track of where you're going, frantic to flee whatever it is that's trying to kill you.
In my case it was me. Or the poisoned me that I created based on people's perceptions and their selfish demeanors. I tried so hard to change who I was, all while desperately clinging to the past as I had no idea who I was without all that anger and sadness. I was unwanted and unloved, mainly because I wanted to be. I teased myself with the idea of suicide endlessly, hoping that that at least was one way to be truly free.
I hoped that plotting out this book, this collection of a couple hundred pages and printed text, chock full of my ideas, my pain, my desires, I had hoped that this was what it took to reprogram me so that I could live here in the world and be one of you. But it didn't work like that. I wrote it. I read it. I even tried to sell copies it for awhile. Some people had read it, I even got a handful of positive comments, with no one taking the time to throw a negative one my way.
Who'd I write this for anyways? When I re-read it, I didn't even know who that person was anymore. The vague details seemed familiar, and there was something about the core of the narrative that I connected to, but I couldn't relate at this point, less and less so as the years went on. I was a father and husband, I taught at the Community College, helping young writers find their voices and molding them into words. I walked through my life with a smile and a kind word for those around me.
I wasn't alone. I never was except for when I truly wanted to be. I just felt I deserved to be. Years of struggle forced me up out of myself, made me wake up and take stock of this life I was living. Thankfully some subconscious program forced me along, building up the staircase I would need to ascend in order to take charge of my life. So, when I wrote that last chapter, when I let go of all the misery I thought was so essential to my being, only then was I able to see things around me clearly.
I was working for the Daily News, breaking the latest disasters, a Blackberry on my hip and a blazer on my back. I had a girlfriend that would never give up on me, who wanted more than anything to be my wife, to be a parent with me. There were a small collection of friends who saw in me a magnetic and charming person whose company they enjoyed. There was no shortage of personal and financial wounds that needed to be repaired, but the stage was set, and I was in charge.
I heard Millie shriek with joy from the other room as Jazmine tickled her making googling noises. My child and wife, my family. I didn't bother taking the book off the shelf, I never do anymore, hardly even think about it really. The second book is nearly complete and I really don't know if I'll do anything except print up a copy to slide right next to this one here. Jazz would want me to, she thinks it's important. I think she just wants me to feel good about it, which is why I love her.
No one else needs to read this. I don't even need to read this. Yet, it had to be written, if for no other reason to save this writer's soul. I imagine a young punk picking up a used copy at the bookstore on St. Mark's in the East Village. He'll love it, hate it, slip it into a back jean pocket, leave it at a friend's house after they smoke and run out to a show taking swigs from their flask. Some idea or sense of the words will have made some impact on him, altering how he experiences that night.
Maybe he writes his own novel, or starts a band, swiping a chapter title for a song that will never be played beyond dive bars and dingy basements. I like to imagine that in years to come he'll have read my adventures in New York City during the first decade in a new century and wish that he had lived back then, when things were more visceral and real, never really knowing that fiction is all based on the same mundane reality we all experience, only altered and ignited by our innate desire to be more than we are.
And the day will come when that young man realizes that there's nothing more rewarding than to have your moment, record it, process it, and then to let it go. From there you are truly free to do whatever it is that you wish. And right now, all I want is to go look on my family's smiling faces as I enter the room. That is what's real. That's the happy ending that no book will ever give you.
Stop typing. Stop reading.
This is the end.
I walked hand in hand with her as we took in the late Fall evening. I knew something was wrong inside, but I could not force my body to expel the bitterness and anxiety, couldn't imagine a life that didn't make me feel alone and outcast from any other human beings. For so long I wanted connection, communion with something other than myself. Glancing at her in my peripheral I couldn't acknowledge the power between us.
Years later, I'm carrying our child down the stairs as she toils away at her art desk. We exchange quick smiles as I pass her by, our daughter smiling and bouncing in my arms as we pass her on our way to the kitchen. I whip together a small lunch and bring it in to her, which, she reluctantly turns from her work to enjoy with us. We're a family, and bound together beyond what words can explain.
Every now and then I pause before our library and run my fingers along the spines of the novels and textbooks until I come upon a title: Tower of Brahma. Of all the books we own, this is the one that matters, for it is mine. I spent seven years of my life in a hell of my own making, constantly exposing myself emotionally, then encrypting it in poetic verse and obscure allegory. It's a completely self-indulgent text, filled with short stories, poems, essays, all scratching away at the black charred surface of my heart.
I laugh to myself there, letting my head drop a moment, eyes closed and taking in what had happened so long ago. A conspiracy of self consumed me, a labyrinthine plot through the inner workings of my mind, all in a desperate attempt to be happy, to gain enlightenment and become fulfilled. But when everything becomes an escape, you lose track of where you're going, frantic to flee whatever it is that's trying to kill you.
In my case it was me. Or the poisoned me that I created based on people's perceptions and their selfish demeanors. I tried so hard to change who I was, all while desperately clinging to the past as I had no idea who I was without all that anger and sadness. I was unwanted and unloved, mainly because I wanted to be. I teased myself with the idea of suicide endlessly, hoping that that at least was one way to be truly free.
I hoped that plotting out this book, this collection of a couple hundred pages and printed text, chock full of my ideas, my pain, my desires, I had hoped that this was what it took to reprogram me so that I could live here in the world and be one of you. But it didn't work like that. I wrote it. I read it. I even tried to sell copies it for awhile. Some people had read it, I even got a handful of positive comments, with no one taking the time to throw a negative one my way.
Who'd I write this for anyways? When I re-read it, I didn't even know who that person was anymore. The vague details seemed familiar, and there was something about the core of the narrative that I connected to, but I couldn't relate at this point, less and less so as the years went on. I was a father and husband, I taught at the Community College, helping young writers find their voices and molding them into words. I walked through my life with a smile and a kind word for those around me.
I wasn't alone. I never was except for when I truly wanted to be. I just felt I deserved to be. Years of struggle forced me up out of myself, made me wake up and take stock of this life I was living. Thankfully some subconscious program forced me along, building up the staircase I would need to ascend in order to take charge of my life. So, when I wrote that last chapter, when I let go of all the misery I thought was so essential to my being, only then was I able to see things around me clearly.
I was working for the Daily News, breaking the latest disasters, a Blackberry on my hip and a blazer on my back. I had a girlfriend that would never give up on me, who wanted more than anything to be my wife, to be a parent with me. There were a small collection of friends who saw in me a magnetic and charming person whose company they enjoyed. There was no shortage of personal and financial wounds that needed to be repaired, but the stage was set, and I was in charge.
I heard Millie shriek with joy from the other room as Jazmine tickled her making googling noises. My child and wife, my family. I didn't bother taking the book off the shelf, I never do anymore, hardly even think about it really. The second book is nearly complete and I really don't know if I'll do anything except print up a copy to slide right next to this one here. Jazz would want me to, she thinks it's important. I think she just wants me to feel good about it, which is why I love her.
No one else needs to read this. I don't even need to read this. Yet, it had to be written, if for no other reason to save this writer's soul. I imagine a young punk picking up a used copy at the bookstore on St. Mark's in the East Village. He'll love it, hate it, slip it into a back jean pocket, leave it at a friend's house after they smoke and run out to a show taking swigs from their flask. Some idea or sense of the words will have made some impact on him, altering how he experiences that night.
Maybe he writes his own novel, or starts a band, swiping a chapter title for a song that will never be played beyond dive bars and dingy basements. I like to imagine that in years to come he'll have read my adventures in New York City during the first decade in a new century and wish that he had lived back then, when things were more visceral and real, never really knowing that fiction is all based on the same mundane reality we all experience, only altered and ignited by our innate desire to be more than we are.
And the day will come when that young man realizes that there's nothing more rewarding than to have your moment, record it, process it, and then to let it go. From there you are truly free to do whatever it is that you wish. And right now, all I want is to go look on my family's smiling faces as I enter the room. That is what's real. That's the happy ending that no book will ever give you.
Stop typing. Stop reading.
This is the end.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 4 - The End (edit)
02/16/04
I wake from a dream, although I'm not entirely sure that's what it was. Maybe it's my perspective that's being altered, but it seems these dreams are just moments of un-existence. A few hours a night and in the morn you're feeling as fictional as you were the day before.
I feel like I may be damaging my host but according to the reports I'm receiving, it seems as if I have his full support. I finally begin to feel the tiniest hope of purpose or guidance.
The car has been psychoactively cut off from this plane of existence and is merging with another where someone so very familiar lies on a bed typing words and listening to music. We have reached an understanding it seems and the mission, although just as obscure as ever, now seems somehow refined.
I think god has spoken to me, or rather reached out to me, and given me knowledge of the end.
I wake from a dream, although I'm not entirely sure that's what it was. Maybe it's my perspective that's being altered, but it seems these dreams are just moments of un-existence. A few hours a night and in the morn you're feeling as fictional as you were the day before.
I feel like I may be damaging my host but according to the reports I'm receiving, it seems as if I have his full support. I finally begin to feel the tiniest hope of purpose or guidance.
The car has been psychoactively cut off from this plane of existence and is merging with another where someone so very familiar lies on a bed typing words and listening to music. We have reached an understanding it seems and the mission, although just as obscure as ever, now seems somehow refined.
I think god has spoken to me, or rather reached out to me, and given me knowledge of the end.
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