Sydney-Part Three

Sydney - Part Three

The morning succeeding that sidewalk scrap felt like round two all on it’s own. I was knocked out of sleep once again by that same fucking dream. Panting through liquor lacquered lips and sweating sour booze in a panic. It was all there. The sand, the friends, my father, the gut grinding anxiety. Except this time it took place in that studio.

You’ve got to be kidding me... That place seems to spend more unwanted time in me than I spent unwanted time in it...

I tried to collect consolation in the comforts of my locale as I had done before, but it only came in a fraction of the surplus it had come in earlier. Somewhere between the hangover headache and the bruises, consolation seemed slight. I could barely open my mouth without feeling like my jaw was tearing from it’s joints. My eye had begun to swell shut, and I could have sworn that either one of those gentlemen had left a hatchet buried in my brain, or Kirstie Alley was getting her Lord of The Dance on, in stilettos on my skull. I chewed over the situation with bitterness heavy on my breath.

What the fuck?...

My stiff eyes stretched slowly across the dark room, and I felt a dose of delirium overtake me. I chuckled and felt tender ribs torqued into sharp pains. I chuckled harder until the pain finally wrenched me down, into a fit of hysteric despair. Hopelessness took to the top of my spirits like an anchor, and tore me south, through dreaded introspection. And I don’t think it really had anything to do with thinking about the fight on it’s own, I still found that halfway humorous, and that’s probably what induced the delirium. I think what followed was maybe just the surreality of my surroundings wearing away, and revealing my position to me in quite a clear, ‘realistic’, and disquieting manner.

What the hell am I doing!? I just let go of everything I knew and owned, and now I’m expecting to have a clue about my life when I own nothing and seem to know even less? I came out here to find myself and the words to write a story and I have no idea where I am or how I’d go about doing so?

I attempted to envision a road before me as I had done so before, laying on that bed back in San Diego, staring at the ceiling. A path. A direction. A course to some sort of fecund fruition. But a mental manifestation seemed somehow made impossible. Once again, all I could seem to manifest was the miscarriage of romanticized expectations.

All I could see was a widening chasm. Darkness. Nothing. Failure. It scared the shit out of me. I considered retreat.

This plight is becoming as trite as it is tedious...

No way. No way. Not this time. Try and sleep it off.

I rolled over onto my side, and felt the stings from the pressure of my own weight against those bruises slowly fade away as I slowly faded out once again.

I woke up an hour later--still before anyone else--a bit more calm. I was somewhat grateful to head down for breakfast on my own. I needed the space, and I needed the time. Plus, I figured it was going to take me forty minutes just to chew through good eggs with a bad jaw anyway, and that just makes for a bad breakfast buddy. I took a seat beneath an umbrella just outside of the Wake-up! Cafe, and listened to the rain pound against the pavement. And with the accompaniment of space, time, a hot breakfast, and the drone of downing skies, I was able to re-establish a stance on TWO fronts. I put it all on the table next to those eggs.

One, I was going to trudge though this no matter what. I was going to step forward, even if I couldn’t see what was before me. Even if it was darkness. Even if I was scared. Even if I might step into another ass-beating, in some shape or form. I was fucking tired of running away. I was tired of failing to finish the endeavors I started so eagerly.

And was ‘running away’ an exercise that may have delivered me half a world away in the first place? Possibly, but we’ll get to that later. For now, in such an instance, running away from running away just seemed like an act that would put me on parallel with being Chicken Shit’s chicken shit. It was doubling-down in a game of Dickhead, and I’d be fucked if I was going to let that happen.

The other front seems even more like a much needed wake-up slap in the face as I write this now. And of course, it seems ever so simple in hindsight as well, beyond the entrapment of my intermittent neurosis. But, said slap in the face and aforementioned neuroses have continued contention for years.

Please excuse the tangent...

Ironically, both contenders have always been backed, and kept in check by my Imagination:

The architect of my aspirations, romanticized expectations, mechanisms of self-annihilation, and trepidation...

On the plus side, at least I never get bored.

As kids, most of us are endlessly schooled about the positive power of vivid imagination. And even the negative, as it sometimes becomes the unsolicited sculptor of ‘things that go bump in the night’. As kids, most of us have lots of time to think vividly. We have lots of time to imagine. Either way, we’re mostly encouraged to embrace it, as it’s often the catalyst for constructive creation. Or maybe it’s just a way for adults to keep us occupied without having to constantly stimulate us...

Anyway, as we grow older, some of us trade vivid imagination for conventional reality. Some maintain it, keep it under control with the reigns of reality, and make it work for them; creating outside of the conventional. And some of us, maintain vivid imaginations and let them reign us and our realities.

*Keeping in mind of course that these dispositions are far from mutually exclusive. I think almost everybody dabbles in all three areas at different times and places.

And though I’ve aspired to mostly place myself in the populace of the second option, I’ve been guilty of finding myself amongst the third more often than I’d like. Especially when concerned with constructing catastrophes in my conscience. My brain’s got a knack for masterfully setting up a series of disaster dominoes, and they are all loaded with Potential-Fuck Shit Up-Energy. One awful outcome ready to tip the next into action. A practice, possibly partially developed under years of conditioning from a father who advised to “always expect the worst”. Well, cheers Pops, looks like I’m fucking rad at that. I kid. I’m not pointing fingers, I’m an adult, and it’s a problem I’ve learned to address like one. Besides, it’s far less problematic than it used to be. There were times back in the day when the slightest mishap could send my guts frantically following the path laid down by those disaster dominoes, until I felt ready to heave those dizzy guts and their soured nerves up like a bulimic at a buffet.

Once on the freeway down to San Diego from Temecula a few years back, I took my eyes off of the road to switch the radio from The Doors, “Light My Fire”. I hate that fucking song... A previously unseen motorcyclist sped past me; the sound of his bike alerting me of his existence. And for some reason I couldn’t help but subsequently envision a scenario where I accidentally cut him off during my ocular aversion, and he was forced to redirect himself in front the school bus full of kids behind me. The bus of course was forced to swerve, over-turn and combust, engulfing every child inside--who was, as you would know, on his/her way to do charity work for a local hospital--while onlookers watched in horror. The hillside then caught fire, and the blaze grew to the size of Vermont, devouring lives, households and several Ma & Pa businesses as it grew, completely bypassing three Wal-Marts. As follows, plagued with guilt and anxiety over the tragedy, I began drinking like Hasselhoff, until one day in drunken misery, I hear The Doors “Light My Fire” shuffle onto my iPod, and end up having to Cobain myself with a shotgun, given to me by one of those children’s parents for just such a purpose.

Jesus...

And that’s the abridged version, I left out the whole part about the van full of puppies and Nick Hogan publicly calling me a ‘Careless Twat’. Fucked, right? And it’s one thing to think about that shit. But to then have made myself feel anxious and ill about it for the next six hours is goddamn ridiculous.

Alright, so that’s rather extreme, and possibly a bit embellished, but not too far from the truth. In other scenarios, sans hyperbole, I used to make myself sick for days mulling over imagined outcomes for situations important to me, gone awry. Sometimes to the point where I couldn’t sleep for days. I couldn’t breath right. My whole body would ache from the anxiety. Most of the imagined outcomes beginning and ending with failure in some sense on my behalf.

If I can’t make it work with this girl...(insert series of imagined consequences)..I’ll be alone forever...

If I don’t pass this test, I won’t graduate...(i.s.o.i.c.)...and I’ll be poor and alone forever...

If I don’t write this story...(i.s.o.i.c.)...I’ll never do anything worthwhile...I’ll be alone...

If I don’t make something of myself here in Australia...I’ll never be anything...

Point being, I’ve come to find that the majority of anxiety attacks I’ve had throughout the years seem to all have one thing in common. They all share the problematic propellant of a powerful imagination, out of control. And I suppose that such a thing only becomes problematic when left unchecked as exactly what it is, an imagination. I think far too often, some of us fail to realize how influential an imagination can be. Some of us fail to realize that ‘mind over matter’ tends to be more of a subconscious phenomenon than the maxim seeks to imply.

Consider the mother ‘worried sick’ because her son didn’t call home at the time he said he would. Or the spouse wrought neurotic because his/her partner is at the office late with a coworker he/she doesn’t trust. Or the hypochondriac who actually makes himself ill with anxiety because he thinks the rash on his foot might be something terminal.

And I think that for the most part, it all arises from a fear of the unknown. Some of us would rather create some sick scenario in our skulls--not intentionally of course--than just consider the fact that we don’t know one hundred percent what’s really going on, or what the outcomes may be. That motorcycle might have just switched lanes and avoided any collision. We attempt to rationalize, no matter how irrationally we may go about doing so. Even if the story we structure, builds well beyond the realm of what’s plausibly possible. I heard the ridiculous stories regarding ‘Obama Care’. Even if the story defies physics, biology, and logic. I’ve read the bible.

*I will however to some degree give the worried mothers/fathers a pass. I think that’s just something intrinsic. I assume I might worry the same way someday if the world is ever unfortunate enough to see me procreate.

I started to fabricate my own story of what lay beyond my own plans in that hostel room. Because what was beyond my ‘plans’ was ‘unknown’. I couldn’t see how everything might work out for me the way I wanted to, so I started to expect the worst. At the time I was scared shitless that things might not go to ‘plan’. An idea itself which was a bitter pill to swallow.

I know, right?

A lot of things never really go as planned, you fuck-wit... Figured you would have learned that in San Diego...

And while I write this now, somewhere in southern France, broke, jobless, and momentarily directionless, on a borrowed laptop--after mine was fried from a tray of spilled beers in an internet cafe--and after all the traveling I’ve done, I’m well aware that things don’t always go to plan. Once again, hindsight is 20/20... You can plan a pretty picnic, but you can’t predict the weather.

Should have heeded the words of Andre 3000 years ago...

Granted, it’s been a laborious lesson to learn. I guess it’s been part of my programming. I come from a family whose father used to plan family ‘vacations’ down to every meticulous minute on a time-sheet. Any deviation from the sheet was looked down upon and would garner a guilt-trip for days and years to come. If you don’t stick to the plan, you will most likely end up, face down, living in a van down by the river, giving hand-jobs to the homeless just to put some food in your hobo-phallus, stroking fingers! I made up the last part... The imagination once again hard at work...

I also come from one of those cultures and subcultures which, for the most part, seems to pride itself on planning every detail in every day, and subsequently through months and years. The youth are ‘persuaded’ to follow a path through higher-education, find a mate, purchase a home, procreate, buy a mini-van, and plan their own funeral behind a white picket-fence, blah, blah, blah. Even if their interests find no overlap with the path previously mentioned. Any deviation from the path is usually looked down upon. To the advocates of the path, if success can’t be measured in an exorbitant surplus of dollars, it can be measured in the procurement of the nuclear family--circa Leave It To Beaver--model. Ironically the self-procurement of an exorbitant surplus of dollars will automatically give you a pass from the path, and you can pretty much do whatever the fuck you want sans fear of judgement.

I think if I ever make a few million I’m going to spend two week planning a three week vacation to Alaska with my Pops, and then have us flown to South East Asia for four weeks instead...

And is it bad to ponder less than pleasant possibilities? Not at all. I think doing so is what keeps us aware and cautious. It kept my eyes on the road the rest of the way down to San Diego. It keeps us curious and questioning. If you feel inclined, maybe you should ask your spouse if they should be worried about that coworker you don’t trust. Or maybe you should get that pseudo-leprous foot rash checked out before you strap on another pair of bowling shoes. Maybe I should do my best to pass that test. But to let those possibilities devour your days is a double-doozy downer. It’s fucked, and debilitating. Especially in extreme cases, like a few of mine. Either get it figured out, or at least take your mind off of full-throttle. I know, easier said than done...

I also understand you can’t always help what you think of. Don’t think of a Ballpark hotdog... I said DON’T think of a Ballpark hotdog. You just thought about it twice, didn’t you? Oh, maybe just a third time. What you can help, is how you react to those thoughts. You can either inflate the faintest ideas you fear into full-blown hells, or you can just see them as a possibility--or not--and act accordingly from there. I’m slowly learning to do that latter.

I say all of this of course, as someone who constantly has to check himself, when his imagination starts to get the best of him. Letting it get the best of me is a bad practice I’ve been practicing to keep in control. The human imagination is responsible for everything outside of the natural word. It’s powerful as shit. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that. And I’d like to thank Dr. Robert Anthony for making me aware that:

Imaginations conceived cities and sky scraper. They conceived trains and airplanes. They conceived music and art. They conceived heart transplants. They conceived “I Have A Dream” and “Gettysburg Address” speeches. They conceived nuclear energy. They conceived wars, ‘ethnic cleansing’, murder, Mickey Mouse. They conceived non-alcoholic beer, ‘Promise Rings’, and the notion of hell--though I do find those synonymous to a degree--etc.

The imagination is a beautiful thing, but can be just as dangerous. Although I’ve come to find that many of the most beautiful things often are...

Thanks for taking that walk with me. Sorry if it was lengthy. Think I had to get it out of the way. I suppose it’s a reoccurring motif throughout these pages of experiences I’ve stock-piled.

So there’s the neurosis.

That being said, I sat at the table and decided that I wasn’t going to let what I didn’t know drag me down. Maybe I didn’t have an idea as to exactly how everything was going to pan out. Things might not go according to plan, but that didn’t mean it was going to wind down to the worst. I hadn’t even really given it a chance. I couldn’t let wayward worry twist up my guts and send me running for the hills.

And here comes the slap in the face...

Besides, things could be way worse...

Fortunately from a young age, my mother had done her best to bless me with the exercise of exchanging perspective. I suppose it was an accessory of her optimism. Whenever I presented a problem she’d offer a possible scenario in which my dilemma could be compounded in some other awful fashion. And then usually came the time when the disaster dominos tipped the other side of the scale. That imagination of mine seemed to work in my favor.

In reality, I was twenty-six, single, healthy, had enough money to feed myself, and was in one of the most incredible cities in the world. I could easily have been robbed blind the night before, and shanked with en e.coli coated screwdriver. I could have been dragged to the desert Wolf Creek-style, and butt-fucked by a kangaroo. I could have been shanghai’d and left for dead in Fallujah. Or Bakersfield... I could have been that guy I saw on the Discovery Chanel that one time who got his junk torn off with cement-mixer in his back yard.

I could be broke, sick, and dickless in Bakersfield...

I winced with that thought in mind, and gave myself a quick cup-check just to make sure the DNA dev. department was still safe and intact. An air of relief flowed through me, and I was brought to thought of a maxim that often used to make its way between a good roommate and better friend of mine back in the day. It roughly translated to “Stop being such a fucking pussy...”

“Lift your skirt, grab your balls, and go for it.”

I smiled, and took in a deep breath. I was going to ‘go for it’. Maybe the fact that I didn’t know how it all was going to unfold was a good thing. At least it wasn’t boring. Maybe things would turn out better than I could imagine! I figured I had a year, and knew that a whole lot could happen during that time. I might as well try to have as much fun, and experience as possible within it.

Isn’t experience what backs a writer’s arsenal anyway?

The sky was still gray and coming down in sheets, but it had begun to look a good bit brighter. Maybe my stance just brought me a little closer to the sun. Good thing, as that flood didn’t seem fond of finishing for the rest of our time in Sydney. And the waters seemed set on testing that stance...