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christophercori · 7 years

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Starting Over (And over, and over) (continued)

I manage to drag my feet through the rest of the “vacation, if it can even be called that, and after an even more awkward still plane-ride back to New York, we officially call it quits. Out the window goes my fantasies of marriage to my high school sweetheart, only to be replaced by an unprecedented despair unlike I had ever felt before. Now, granted I was young, naïve and probably a bit delusional, but I’ll be damned it the whole thing wasn’t a major wake-up call. Having placed all my eggs in this one basket, the relationship, which had more or less become my entire life (so pathetic, I know), I was suddenly faced with the ever-looming, timeless: What’s next?

The answer to this question, which I was in no rush to discover an answer to, possessed as I was, wallowing in my own self-pity, would not reveal itself to e for some months to come.

I was probably 2 years out of an early high school graduation (skipped junior year) and having foresworn college in my anti-establishment, rebellious arrogance, I found myself in limbo with few other options then to find some type of employment until I could find my way back to the “mojo” which seemed to have forsaken me at this stage.

Fortunately, as I mentioned earlier on, a previous Mushroom tripod saddled me with the brilliant idea of taking truck driving lessons and so I had that much to fall back on. Continuing with the CDL training upon return to New York saves me from probably falling any deeper into the well of hopelessness which I had more or less surrendered to at this point. Struggling with agoraphobia, the driving instructors, maybe the last remnant of socialization I could handle after being so scarred by the ultimate betrayal of one so loved, and having previously isolated myself from my entire network earlier on in the summer, my days consist of bus rides to Astoria, Queens, where the driving school is located, and B lines directly home. Perhaps the universe just felt sorry for how pitifully uneventful and directionless my life had become, but one day, I’m shifting gears of a modest size box truck I’m hauling over the Kosciusko Bridge, when the exhausted, Mexican instructor looks over at me and says “kid, what you need is a job”. This comes after his suggestions, as well as that of several of his coworkers, that I become a Hollywood actor. Gosh, if it was only so easy. This sudden observation was probably the most rational thing he had said to me yet. I’ll admit that he took me a bit by surprise with this, and all I could mutter in my daze and preoccupation with the stick shift, was a half-hearted “alright”. This reply seemed suddenly to awaken an enthusiasm within this man, which had probably been dormant for some time, or was at least previously unseen by me. In this newfound excitement, he proceeds to rattle of directions to this mysterious new job, which unbeknownst to me would swiftly realign the direction of my life, if not save it entirely from bottoming out before my very eyes. A few left and right turns later, we arrive in front of what looks like a hardware store on Manhattan Ave. in Greenpoint neighborhood of Brooklyn, a few steps from the nauseatingly hipster center known to all as Williamsburg.

Now this is the part of the story where I wish I could tell you that we stepped into what looked like a modest hardware store, only to pull a lever and descend into a super-secret, subterranean spy-training outpost, but I’m distressed to inform you that this is disappointingly not that kind of movie. However much I am hopeful that one day I will be recruited as a candidate for membership in some elite world-saving organization, it seems I’ll have to hold my breath a little while longer and pacify myself with adventures and heroic agendas of my own making.

Imagine aspirations aside, the next chapter of my life was about to begin within the modest walls of what appeared to be a multi-generational family owned business. Within seconds of arrival, my instructor and now seemingly guardian angel, comes to life with his arms spread wide, shouting “Mr. Simon!” who had appeared through a door which I would soon discover lead to a much larger space than I would have anticipated. This Mr. Simon, as it came to light, was the present towner of this “industrial supply” biz and bore a strong resemblance to Kermit the frog, if Kermit was Jewish, very pale and dressed daily in a rotation of university sweatshirts. After a few words between the men, I was ushered behind the counter and through the door, only to be surprised to find myself walking into a sprawling warehouse. I’d later find out that some years earlier, the family had knocked down the many first floor walls between the several adjoining buildings that they owned, to expand from a modest hand-repair shop into a thriving paper and chemical supply company. They had also built a bit of an empire for themselves, holding nearly a monopoly on housekeeping/hygiene product sales to NYC’s hotels, gyms, and schools, as it were.

Later, I’ll graduate to a hustling and bustling sales-man, but on this day, where I was determined to have no real experience in the field; after a glance at my resume (always shave one hand: success secret), I was hired on the sport as a warehouse hand, which would evolve ever so rapidly, from delivery van driver to errand runner, installation specialist, and eventually to sales-man.

However much I look forward to sharing some of the finer details of the evolution of this job and what it would do for me, the abridged continuation of this saga can be found in the following August 8th, 2017 letter, which I originally pulled together to give a friend of mine an idea of who I managed to get myself into trouble with the Law. While I do intend to weave them together into a more seamless fashion, perhaps for now, this will add a unique element of character into the project, as it stands. In the meantime, however enjoy and thank you for sticking with us, as we treck and trounce through the chronicles of my fuck-ups and failures, and the lessons learned along the way.

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christophercori · 7 years

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An Excerpt from “The Exegesis” of Christopher Cori, September 25, 2017

Prayer and Meditation are powerful tools for Manifestation, Healing and Dream Realizing. What is essential in understanding and practicing these mechanisms, is that we are not so much communing with an external, remote, omnipotent being so much as we are our own Divinity, our Highest Selves.

Some, who cannot fully reconcile with the Power and Responsibility which comes with this “reality”, may pray to o or meditate in harmony with the Universe, seemingly “projecting” one’s Will and Intentions, outwardly, into the consensus-reality matrix in which we all collectively participate, but here too exists the true nature of our being, which is the Universe itself.

Whether one views these things as encompassed within our entirety, or our being as a reflection of all that is, it is merely the difference between the observer and the observed, an illusion unto itself.

Once one accept the idea that All is within, it will become clear, life without limits, uninhibited by none other than our choices and preferred morals, disciplines, value systems and goals….

Prayer/Mantra: I am God the Father – in all creative ability and uninhibited power. I am God the Son – in consciousness made flesh, obligated to biological existence and physical mortality. I am the Holy Spirit – in being comprised of a soul, the interface between the highest (Consciousness, God-The Father) and lower (individual ego/identity-the son) selves, and a vehicle for traveling beyond physical restrictions, through the realms of the spirit and the worlds beyond.

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christophercori · 7 years

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Here’s a logo I designed for a friend’s company recently. I’m available for commissions! Inquire at [email protected]

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christophercori · 7 years

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Starting Over (And over, and over)

03-06-17

It feels as if the last 6 years of my life have been narrated by the theme of “starting over.” As a hopeless optimist. I’ve always been inclined to look at my repeated run-ins with turmoil, both external and internal (but all largely self-created), as opportunities for new beginnings. At this point in the game however, I find myself coming to grips with a probably healthy dose of realism and I’m finally ready to admit how terribly fucked-up these past few years have been.

As I embark on this emotionally trying journey of reflecting back on all of the peaks and valleys which have lead me to where I am and where I may be going, I daydream of writing this as if from some point in the future-a successful and proud version of myself. But the “reality” of the situation is that I am incarcerated and more or less nerve-wrecked, awaiting the day when I am released to the “streets”, to start over once more. While I can’t wait to move on from this place, there’s no denying how nearly paralytic it is, processing multitudes of divergent visions of possible futures and how it’s all going to come together when I get to it. Sure, I’m very confident that it’ll all shake out in my favor, as I am very in touch with my talents and capabilities. I have a strong support network and some incredible like-minded friends and mentors, but still there is that element of unrest and uncertainty which, at times, can be absolutely suffocating Before we get ahead of ourself here though, we’re going to take a trip back in in time.

So where does the downward spiral begin? Somewhere toward the latter half of my teen-age years, I think. The year is something like 2011, but we could probably go back even further. I would have been about 19 going on 19, and this feel like a decent enough place to start our tale. By this point I’ve already had one stay in the Psych Ward at South Nassau Hospital in Long Island after an intense LSD experience, but I’d ironically classify that misadventure as part of the “good times” before things really started to go south for me. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I don’t know what happened to me; how I “fell off”, or lost my mojo, but we’re getting to it, I promise.

So, it’s almost spring 2012 and we’re coming out of what was for me a very fun winter and holiday season (details to be added in the expanded version). In spite of my recent dismissal from a temporary office job at an advertising firm, which I was really praying would become permanent, I’m still having the time of my life, gallivanting out on the streets of NYC with an eclectic group of misfits like myself. After many nights of hard partying, dropping in on various “New Age” events and “breaking night” for days on end, it’s almost spring and I’ve been unemployed for a few months. I’m not totally broke, I’m staying with my father and he’s not putting too much pressure on me, but it all comes to a screeching bait as I come home at dawn after a long night of riding around in the back of what turned out to be a very expensive cab ride, over the duration which we made pit stops to visit various characters around Brooklyn and Queens while tripping on magic mushrooms. It just so happens that this particular morning I’m also to supposed to take a ride to Philly with my Dad and while he doesn’t comment on my 7am return home, he does make mention of my disheveled and fatigued state, being fairly exhausted and irritable from the comedown off the nights Indulgences. I somehow interpreted this to be part of one of his many efforts to control my life, and proceeded to fly into an impulsive, violent frenzy. My already fragile psychological state fertile ground plenty for any rebellious feelings I was already harboring and it probably did not help that only moments earlier I had ingested a synthetic stimulant, commercially known as Vyvanse, in effort to replace the sleep I had foregone. Needless to say, none of this did much to work in my favor, and in fact, I could not regret the proceeding events any more.

So, here I am delivering a swift “fuck you” to my Father, storming downstairs to the 2nd floor apartment; slamming the door and locking it behind me. Not after a beat or two, my Father is on my heels, trying to make his way in after me, demanding I unlock the door which I am refusing to do while simultaneously snarling, screaming and cursing.

Eventually, be shoves his way in with a few forceful slams of his shoulder, only to he met by me in the midst of a complete meltdown, kitchen knife in hand. I’m not going to sit here and try to convince you that I’m not “crazy”, but in the moment, I had formed in my mind that my Dad had become some major threat, some evil controlling extraterrestrial who I needed to keep from doing I’m-not-sure-what to me.

As he makes to cross the threshold to meet my psychotic knife wielding self, I find myself summoning strength from the depths of my being to toss this man, like a sack of potatoes and hold him up against the wall by the throat with one hand and the knife very close to his face with the other. Fortunately, he made a huge fuss and called out loudly enough for our tenant, at the time, to call the police, who arrived quickly due to the station’s location literally at the end of the block. As they were coming up the stairs to evaluate the situation, I released my Father, ran to the kitchen and turned up all of the burners on the stove, thinking I’d somehow go down in a blaze of glory or at least make a big enough mess in doings so, and that I most certainly did in the end the policemen got the better of me. Once handcuffed and after speaking to my father, they shuffled me into the awaiting ambulance and off to St. John’s hospital for a psych eval. There it was determined that I needed some time to cool off and be experimented on like a guinea pig, while the doctors gave me the privilege of sampling a whole Easter-basket of coma inducing psych meds. After a 72 hour hold I was transferred to Mercy Medical Center in Long Island where I’d spend the next 6 weeks fucking unappreciated suicidal Lesbians and mid-life crisis-ing housewives.

I connected with some other wayward youths and interacted with some true “crazies”, but in the end my Insurance ran out and my Father had to threaten to sue the hospital to get me released. Apparently, they were trying to push the Idea that I was a lot more ill than I actually was instead of acknowledging that I was, originally, simply freaking out on drugs, not hearing “voices” or receiving “secret messages in the newspaper”. My oppositional defiance at the time probably didn’t help, nor did my apparent anger and threats to the supervising “shrink” for keeping me locked up and experimented on, when all I really needed was some good sleep and sobriety.

Sadly, leaving the hospital was the real beginning of a decline for me, as those zombifying medications they put me on kick-started what would turn out to be one of the most excruciating and debilitating depressions of my life. This would go on to last for a better part of the remaining year and cost me dear friends, a relationship and a network of invaluable connections.

Soon, the summer came around and by then I was several months into sleeping most days away, avoiding eye contact and conversations about what I was up to and had pretty much resigned to burying myself under unanswerable philosophical questions, mainly to the tine of “when am I going to snap out of this?” and “will I ever feel happy, or even OK again?” I tried to find some work in my neighborhood and was briefly employed a hipster shit-head who thought he was the first cool person to ever discover my neighborhood (which had been amazing eons before he dragged his ratchet ass through) who happened to run on of the concession stands, serving food and drinks on the beach. Of course, the genius of this guy led him to hire way too many of his equally too-cool-to-fucking-exists friends and found himself having to make up some lame excuse as to why he had to let me go.

This did little to improve my condition or build my confidence and I walked away feeling burned and even more adverse to dealing with people; especially those who seemed to have no idea, sympathy or at least consideration for what I was going through. Much of the rest of the summer was spent on my porch watching happy people go by, longing to be in their shoes and envying them just the same; reading old paperback novels which I dug up out from underneath years of stored junk in one of the spare, unoccupied apartments where my father kept his tools. Somewhere along the lines I made an attempt to volunteer at a local outdoor “festival” at the marina in my neighborhood, but I was far from “in the right place” for it. I had been out of the loop with the cast of character who I knew would be there and the whole time I was working the grill to cover my mission I was sick to my stomach that someone would recognize me and try to start up a conversation, outing me as being less than my normally exuberant self. After my shift, I wandered down on of the “Boatel” piers to smoke some pot with the kids who were also volunteering and make an attempt at conversation. I was totally out of sync with these people. They were still flying high on the “magical mystery tour” and I was back down on earth, consumed by anguish and totally lost. “What’s happened to me?” I often asked during this period. At some stage I was passed a sandwich baggie full of what looked like some very ill cared for magic mushrooms (I knew what healthy ones looked like, having grown them myself), I decided to go along with it, in spite of knowing that I was absolutely not in a good place to be partaking in such indulgences.

Shortly after swallowing them, things got weird and I felt the overwhelming urge to get the fuck out of there. All of my insecurities about not really feeling like I should be there in the first place were now amplified a thousand fold and before I could run into familiar, now while super-fucked up, I knew I had to split as fast as I my legs would carry me. I staggered over to my bike and left behind the cambro I had borrowed from my grandfather without so much as an afterthought. Somehow, I managed to book it through a neighborhood which now seemed ready to swallow me whole, to the beach where I would fling myself down on the sand, hyperventilating and crying out to whatever God could hear me, to make it stop. Unfortunately, the feelings of absolute terror would not subside for several hours and when I did finally make it back into my house and up to my bedroom, I would spend the remainder of those horrific infinite hours jumping at ever creak and squeal of our ancient wood-framed house. At every slight tremor and strong wind, I was certain I heard my Father’s footsteps coming down the stairs to confront me and admonish me for some thing or other, only to discover me wrecked, yet again, and beat the shit out of me, or throw my ass out on the street This never happened of course (at least not on that night) but, over the course of those endless hours of inner torment, I was certain it was about to come to life at any given moment.

It could probably do without saying that I had experienced the worst trip of my life on that night and when morning finally came and things started to feel even a little bit “normal” I swore to myself that would never do even a little bit “normal”, I swore to myself that I would never do psychedelics again. While I haven’t since that memorable moment, my feelings have changed as I have found my way back to myself in recent times. I’m sure this may come off as a little confusing, but as we carry on, perhaps it will come to make a little bit more sense.

I don’t want to get too off topic here but, I’d like to clarify that I have a deep respect for psychedelics and have since concluded that they should he used very carefully as a religious sacrament, a tool for philosophical research, or scientific experimentation. I however, learned the hard way, in so much as they are not suitable for recreational purposes. There are other out there who may disagree with me and other who will also subscribe to this ideology, and I don’t want to paint the wrong picture here.

As a teenager, I completely and irresponsibly abused these sacred “tools “ Given the opportunity to do it all over again, or when I revisit these things again in the future, I’ll do things a lot differently from how I’ve done them in the past. I absolutely recognize who in my case, my impulsive use of psychedelics or any other substance for that matter, led me to some dark places and cause sometimes irreparable damage in my life or at least some great turmoil – Turmoil being a major theme of this body of work and something l’m trying to keep out of my life moving forward. All of this being said, let us return to the somewhat chronologized chain of events from the past, leasing up through to the now and possibly beyond.

So, I want to apologize in advance if this segment causes any confusion for y’all. It probably should have been placed before the marina festival scene, but hopefully some gracious editor will fix it all up in the final incarnation of this epic tale. Petitions for forgiveness aside, it’s still summer 2012 and I’m toiling in obscurity, barely keeping myself from taking a long walk off a short plank and at some point I’m in Brooklyn with my partner In crime Mike, who is attempting to snap me out of my funk by taking me out on the town. We start off at a warehouse living space with a couple of other cool scenesters who are “on the level” and end up on a quest to Bensonhurst to pick up mushrooms for everybody, from a deal who also attempts to sell us crack-cocaine, and proceed to spend the rest of the night having a hilarious and hallucinogenic time trying to make it back to the place we started out in, which lead us to spin circles around it, ending up in every other neighborhood than the one we needed to be in. Our travels consisted of a hodgepodge of foot and subway travel, and at various times we’d give up or stop to light a garbage can on fire.

Eventually, we post up in a perk to watch the sunrise and enjoy what’s left of our “visions quest”. I catch the tail end of some beautiful geometric visuals and I find myself wishing I were along so I can enjoy them in their entirety, instead of being strung along by my fiercely determined companion who can’t seem to accept that our intoxication is the cause for our inability to properly navigate. Just as I’ve nearly managed to convince my friend to just chill and “be here now”, we find ourselves walking through an industrial neighborhood whose street are lined with 16-wheelers. To me, they look like some type of intergalactic shuttles.

It’s then that I decide to become a truck driver. If I can’t do anything else, at least I can get paid to travel across the country in search of myself. Days later I announce this to my parents, sans psychedelic influence, and they agree to pay for me to take truck driving lessons towards my Commercial Driver’s License. When it comes to anything that might make me some money and keep me out of trouble or make me feel better in a healthy way, they can turn out to be very supportive folks, contrary to the enemy I’ve felt they’ve been at various points.

Now, before we get too far ahead of ourselves, or any further out of order, it might not hurt to mention that- somewhere between my psychedelic epiphany and the parentally sponsored truck driving lessons, I take a trip to Miami with my then-girlfriend of nearly 4 years. She was 2 years older than me and we started dating while she was graduating and I was still attending the same high school. We had been through a lot together and I guess after so much, she had more than enough of my wild and crazy antics, and contrasting deep, dark periods of hopelessness.

And so she waits until what couldn’t have been the most inopportune moments in history, to break my heart, tear it out of my chest, stomp on it, light it on fire, and then toss it into the river to shit and piss on it thereafter. I mean really, who in God’s name waits until they are on vacation in Miami to break up with their significant other? I mean, are you fucking kidding me? I don’t know what this girl was thinking, but it couldn’t have been in any more poor Judgment, or in the very least, bad taste. Mind you, she could have waited till the plane ride home, like any street wise floosy would have done, but no. She lets the cat out of the bag on the second night of what’s supposed to be an epic getaway where we fuck and party our faces off creating memories for years to come, or so that’s the fantasy I was always sold about “doing it right” in the sunshine state. Anyway, we’re two days into our beachy getaway, I’m already halfway to jumping off a bridge in my fragile state that summer, and she decides to not only hit me with “I don’t think this relationship is right for me anymore”, whining about how she’s never been with anybody else, but that she’s already got somebody lined up to explore with! Oh, the audacity! As if the news couldn’t I already be bad enough. Imagine that. You’re experiencing the most unprecedented depressions of your life thus far. you’ve isolated yourself from just about your entire social network and thus have no support system in sight to lean on, and you find yourself on the ideal dream vacation, miserable with the absolutely most insensitive and common sense deficient bimbo, who you thought was supposed to be your intelligent, compassionate girlfriend, but has now chosen to break up with you on day 2 of your 6-day long excursion. She carry’s on to make no effort to fake it for the rest of our stay and refused to cut It short because it would be a “waste of money”.

Jeezzus Christ! I mean I know that at the time I was a broken, sad little hitch boy, but come on! If I could go back, I’d slap myself. Why didn’t I “man up” (whatever that means) and get the hell out of there? Shit, if I was anywhere near as strong as I am now, I would have grabbed my things, found another hotel room and myself balls deep in some new broad, faster than two shakes of a lamb’s tale (how fast is that anyway?). But, no. That’s not how this story goes, I’m ashamed to say. Nuh-uh. This sorry motherfucker rides out the next days drinking himself into oblivion and having mediocre pity sex with a girl who’s made it clear she’s no longer in love with him. How pathetic. It’s here, at this point of out epic where I firmly believe we find one of the major influences for a following series of unfortunately catastrophic events which would also revolve around mtysle and other young women with increasing volatility and regrettably, violence.

I guess the trauma of being so violated by someone or anyone who I would make myself so vulnerable too, resonated deeply enough within me the first time around, that I would go on to not only promising myself I would never be so emotionally effected ever again (at which I failed), but would also respond to the disappointment, disillusionment, and general manipulations and trickery of women, specifically of the youthful persuasion with greater retaliation, each time. I want to make it clear that I do not intrinsically hate or have disdain for women at all. In fact, I can’t get enough. I may even be addicted, but I’ve found that I need to stay away from a certain type of whacked out, New-Age, “male-hierarchy” hating, so-called feminists, who love to be nasty sluts in the sack, but then think it’s OK to turn around and play the victim, as if the world owes them something for being born female.

No I probably shouldn’t be so harsh on the young and inexperienced. They, themselves can’t truly be held accountable because they’ve been brainwashed by this backward ‘‘politically correct” (excuses me while I vomit) popular culture, but damn, where have all the elders gone? Who’s raising these bitches? Ooh wait, I know: this is what you get when you cross an oversaturation of mass-media with the mind-control of the nauseatingly ultra-liberal universities who’ve overtaken our nation, who now apparently think they are above free-speech. All that however, is a can of worms for another day and we ought to be getting back on track. The short version of it is that these confused “young-ladies” can’t really be held to a fault because it’s society overall who has dropped the ball. This philosophical understanding though, doesn’t make their actions OK or the pain they cause any less real, but there’s more than half a chance I hurt them in some, or plenty of my own ways just as well. After all it takes two to tango, and it’s rarely that either party is entirely guilty or innocent. It’s usually a mixture of both on either end.

In my case, it’s taken foolishly repeated run-ins with toxic relationships and overboard reactions to finally “get it right” on some level. I may still have a way to go yet, but I can tell you how I handled each rejection or separation with increasing stubbornness and vengeful retaliation was exactly the wrong way to handle these situations. Does this make me a psycho by nature? Probably not. A little unstable. There’s a good chance. Or maybe I’m just an extremely sentimental and sensitive individual who processes emotion with incredible gravity and has a more difficult go of it, keeping them in check and mastering these aspects of my character in ways that work to my benefit rather than my detriment.

Had I a stronger network of friends to bounce things off of and let me know I was “buggin” or to help me see the “signs” and avoid a lot of sorrow, I probably would have saved myself a whole world of trouble. Unfortunately, this has not been the case during these years during which, for whatever reason, I had buried myself under a blanket of isolation. Whether it was a result of chasing people away, losing touch, or just dealing with shitty people who never cared for me in the same way I cared about them in the first place, I’m not sure. Another theory as conceived by my Father sounds something like me not slowing down enough to patiently let the right friendships mature and blossom at a rate which was comfortable for them.

After much reflection, I have come to see the truth to his words, insomuch that my hyperactive, lightspeed ahead nature can indeed work against me. I’ve since come to see that it could be a combination of all of the above, and more influencing my social dysfunction, but I’ll have to favor my Dad’s assessment, complimented by a dash of my own summation of “caring for the wrong people’ or at least those who aren’t capable of reciprocating the depth of my love. This basically cuts out a majority of my self-centered materialistic generation as candidates, limiting me to the few select individuals who have been in my life through thick and thin. These folks are largely between the ages of 35 and 60, and while I’d be a liar if I didn’t crave some like-minded homies closer in age to myself, I’m at the point of just accepting it for what it is, while retaining a sliver of hope that my “peers” are out there somewhere. There’s been times when I’ve become very discouraged and have resolved to throw all expectations out the window in order to avoid further run-ins with disappointment, but I’m doing my best to maintain a more optimistic outlook; keep the dream alive, ya know? And speaking of dreams, I was just thinking about the irony of how I used to pride myself on “making dreams come true” and while this may have been the case at one point or other, it seems like my recent history suggests that I’ve been regrettably stellar at bringing nightmares to life, with me acting out as the main character, naturally. I aspire to break this cycle, and while I feel I’ve grown passed it, traversing as much ground as I’ve been, only time will tell.

Anyway, and all anecdotes aside, which I can almost guarantee we’ll come back to again and again as we go, I do believe there was some story telling afoot and I’m thinking that it may do us well to get back to that.

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christophercori · 7 years

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Possible Blog/Journal Entry Nov 18, 2015

Ok. So, the following “entry” was written while In Brooklyn House Detention Center, overlooking the Carroll Gardens/ Crown Heights (right neighborhood?) shortly after being remanded back into custody after being out on ball for not even 30 days, following nearly 8 months on Rikers Island, which was excruciating enough in and of itself. Needless to say, my unexpected reintroduction into yet another lion’s den, after such a brief taste of freedom, was nothing short of a bad hit”, leaving the proceeding mood to be plenty somber. And so commences the woeful narrative of a young man in reflection.

House Lights: Dim Music: Cur ominous/dramatic, foreshadowing Jazz Note: Written as if in Retrospection from some point in the future. So, let’s get this out of the way. between 21 and 25 I was in and out of jail. Yes, me the handsome suburban “white” boy. I had two major stints each lasting about a year (second on more like 3) with maybe a year and some change of freedom in between. You better believe there is nothing more soul-crushing than getting your life back together after a year in the “can”, just to have it taken from you all over again. Sure, I’m responsible for ending up there in first place, I made some poor, impulsive decisions I mean, sue me. Who makes many good decisions in their early twenties anyway? I just happen to have been in that small majority (oxymoron?) of poor suckers who get caught, mainly because I got to be one of those assholes so full of myself, I never thought it would happen to me. Some things I wish I could take back, but other aspects of it I am grateful for and would consider an instrumental part of my personal evolution. Why was I in jail you ask? Well the finer details will have to be suspend until a much lengthier piece comes into being, but the long short of it is the result of my menacing and hostile behavior resulting from emotional instability and substance abuse. Had I been healthier and more stable at the times of my arrest, probably none of it would have ever happened, but we can't turn back time and I've long since come to terms with paying the price of allowing myself to get spread so thin and become so unhealthy to the point where I’ve lashed out at those around me. While I’m far from playing the victim in any context, it's still ridiculous that I even did time for the petty bullshit I got myself wrapped up in, but in the end, I take responsibility for my actions and after all the insanity, I think I can say with confidence that I'm a better man for it. Even more grateful am I than for the lessons I learned along the way, are the amazing people I was blessed enough to cross paths with, who also, totally did not deserve to be there, just as they felt about me. Some people just have “dumb luck” enough, I guess, to get their hand caught in the cookie jar, doing something the law makers” generally from upon. Rut just because you may have allegedly done questionable in the eyes of society, one cannot fairly or appropriately labeled a bad person”, something which needs serious clarification here. Just because you've been to jail or even have a felony as a result, doesn't mean society reserves the right to judge or even stigmatize you (even though they do, the fuckers). A majority of civilians, not much unlike yourself, have no idea how the criminal justice system really works (how could you without having experienced it first hand?) and to what degree it victimizes and deliberately, calculatingly dismantles the lives of some very good, if at most misguided, “impulse control lacking” individuals, who have had the misfortune of, more or less, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A majority of people who even end up arrested are victimized by some king of discrimination (a huge issue to be revisited another time), a mental breakdown we’ve all bad those moments), or guilt by association (some people truly are innocent and get caught in the crossfire of hanging with the wrong crowd). Now, once they have their slimy claws in you, they'll bleed you dry, break you down and do everything they can to kill your spirit, backing you into a corner where you're ready to hang it un or plead guilty just to get the hell out of jail (or onto state prison, which gets the clock ticking), which la not the most pleasant place to be to say the least. It's certainly not terrible (surprising, hub?), this is isn't Hollywood people, but it's no Holiday Inn either, as they say. So, after a couple of months of fighting the power, no matter how proud, strong, or rebellious you are, just about everyone sets themselves up to be haunted by this enslavement, in some way, for the rest of their lives. End of Entry #1 (to be expanded upon?)

Entry #2: Postured for a new day/first post launch of a new blog/publication whatever the kids are calling it these days. Hey Everybody and welcome to the disorienting documentation of my mind-boggling life (As if you care [laughs]). First, let me start by saying that I think this journey I am (we are) about to embark on is absolutely friggin’ ridiculous, but for some reason it appears to be one of the necessary evils of modern life for anyone who wants to be noticed for anything. Gone are the days of the next big thing showing up on a street corner, strumming a six string for space change. No those days are long gone and have been replaced by compulsive teenyboppers (is that even a category anymore?) and obsessive narcissists compulsively posting self-indulgent excrement out on every social media outlet available. Regardless of how socially retarded people have become as a result, for some freakish reason, it works People are gaining notoriety from this dysfunction, fame ever (or some bizarre degree of it) And even though human beings are gradually losing their ability to function naturally and normally in everyday life, thanks to their addiction to living though palm sized screens, this is how anything worth knowing about, gets circulated. Or at least that’s what the marketing professionals would like us to believe. While dinosaurs like me might go to the library, pick up a newspaper, drop by a community center, or peruse a bulletin board at a local coffee shop, the greater percentage of “society” is thumb-tapping their way through the search bar of their preferred information engine. I guess at the end of the day there’s nothing wrong with it except of course, the inability to say hello to a passing stranger, or get through a meal without checking for alerts, which is so incredibly rude, by the way. I suppose it's just about time that I catch up with the rest of the wonderfully dystopian populace. Like the old saying goes: “if you can’t fight’em, join'em”. So here I am world. From here on in you’re going to get to completely invade my privacy whether you like it or not. Because whether you care to cyberstalk me or otherwise, the people I'm looking for might just take notice and maybe, just maybe, it will bring me closer to my goals. So get ready world, as I post, tweet click, and ping my way through the twenty first century, while I attempt not to throw up all over myself and everything I value about my individuality. Here's to kissing that all Goodbye. Here's to my rebirth as a regular ratchet ho. End of Entry #2 Note: Disorienting originally was “Digital” after typing it up I see it probably should have been changed. Note: this could also be used as part of a fictional storyline/script as I'm not sure I could lower myself to actually publishing this.

Entry #3: Reminiscence Rant Can you remember when everything was just fucking awesome? I can. What, in God's most holy name, happened to those mind-bogglingly epic adventures? The endless nights and following morning where we wandered for miles peaking on LSD, experiencing the supernatural, making friends with homeless cartoon characters and stubborn runaway suburban kids calling themselves “gutterpunks” and “Occupiers”. What happened to the times when, all of a sudden, I'm on a subway wearing a stolen skintight glitter shirt, doing backflips next to a girl rocking a panda-bear cap with these stupid little gloves hanging like arms from either end of the accessory, while on the way to some disgusting, mold infested, totally illegal, basement rave with the illest DJs on the planet spinning the most face meltingly ass-shaking, torso-wiggling, abso-fucking-lutely, subatomically intoxicating dubstep that these ear pieces have ever had the pleasure of being blown away by. Bassdropping capsules of MDMA while being passed an endless chain of blunts until after what feels like no time at all, someone is shaking me awake, and just when I’m about to question if any of this is real, a fat glow in the dark Eskimo shapeshifter, ever so gently guides me to the exit which opens to reveal the painful slap In the face of bright, 8 in the morning daylight, only to look at mv fellow nightlife cohorts who are smiling, still wired, totally ready to continue the adventure; the words “what do we do now?” never once crossing the mind, as the flow that we're grooving with is unquestionably sure of itself. Man, how I miss those sacred moments. Will I ever get them back? Or is my yearning for them and desire to pursue or force moments like those into being. Exactly what is keeping them out of my life? Better yet, maybe those kinds of ridiculous things are only allowed to happen at certain points of one’s youth when even attempting to live so irresponsibly is even an iota within the realm of acceptable and to pursue such experiences is categorically “juvenile”? Well, fuck that!! I have faith, yet. One day, I'm gonna breath in the taste of that on-top-of-the-world air, no matter how old I get. I don’t care what anybody says. There’s no cut off age for soulshaking borderline religious experiences, never-going-to-feel-the-same-way-about-having fun. Sure, we all do have to accept reality and the responsibilities of adulthood, but that’s no reason to get bitter. Just because it’s not happening for us right now, and there seems like there are still people out there, yet to step off the “magical schoolbus.” But, how do we get back on? Does all of this fall into that realm of philosophical conversations we have at three O'clock in the morning, stoned, contemplating the meaning of life and the pursuit of happiness? It might just be. Maybe all of this just falls into the very personal narrative of my never ending quest to he truly happy, a point which I'm presently a ways from.

Having been there before, I know I'll be there again and while I'm not terribly depressed at the moment, it doesn't seem all that far away. In fact, I have a more or less framework plan for how I'm going to get there when I move on from where I’m at now, but the first step is getting out of this place. Part of me is just totally stunned at life’s great contrast. How can you go from being a happy go lucky, free spirits urban street showman, to living in a cesspool of society’s unwanted pregnancies, in what feels like a blink of an eye? Boy does time fly. What feels like yesterday, simultaneously feels like eons ago. A lifetime ago. Earlier today, some mad at the world hoodrat wannabee gangster told me I sounded like an old man, reminiscing over decades of life.

To which I responded: I’ve lived. That I sure have. I’m 23 years old and I've lived a lot of life, the details for which I’ve got little to show for other than my own words and the culmination of institution records labeling me as Bipolar, criminal, drug abuser. That's right. On paper, I’m a dual diagnosis, polysubstance abusing, mentally-ill criminal, presently laid up in jail, the lone “white-boy” in a sea of “brown” skin, for some strange reason perceived to be rich, Jewish or both, nicknamed after any celebrity I can possibly bear resemblance to, for allegedly roughing up my wife during a record breaking psychotic melt-down. In a world where the credentials hold more water than the person they represent, I'm a mentally-ill, drug addict, criminal who has a problem with women – who doesn't? Do you know how this looks? Seriously this is what I've been reduced to. These are the highlights of my "career”. In the eyes of society, I'm some kind of monster, a scumbag. I've somehow gotten myself lumped into the category which the mainstream media would call “marginalized”. Me, the kid in highschool with the long curly hair, who wore patchwork tie-dye jeans and Victorian blouses, looking like a white Jimmy Hendrix, or someone straight out of Prince music video, who just wanted to share the Love, pass the buds, and give everyone a hug. The kid who was dubbed “most likely to be famous” in his graduating class yearbook, who everyone knew just wanted to save the world, one smile at a time. And I still do, but my updated methodology is a bit more practical these days. Now, I have a stigma to live with, all of which completely overshadows and nullifies that at the age of 22 I incorporated and developed a thriving start-up, destined for success which was abruptly cut short by my untimely run in with the Law – a result of my unfortunate emotional instability which emerged from the fallout of a tumultuous and ultimately failed relationship with my now ex-wife, who I became married to and divorced from, all while behind bars. But that is another story for another time. We are, after all, just beginning to scratch the surface of this crazy rollercoaster which is my life. At this stage I don’t see the point of sugar coating any of It. No matter how bad any of it looks. I'm proud of who I am, the positive things I’ve accomplished (however overshadowed). I’m destined to achieve even greater success than that which I feel I have already tasted and I will never be ashamed of the nasty details. I love who I am and no matter how much this backwards system tries to victimize and marginalize me, I'm never going to let them snuff out this light. The End (For now)

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