Goodbye, Big Sister

When my mother died last year, I wrote a blog post that felt like it flowed through me. She was a lifelong smoker, so it had long left me dreading what would eventually happen: lung cancer.  When the disease struck, I had months to ponder my mother's life before she succumbed. Because of that introspection, I was able to quickly form all those thoughts and feelings into an essay I'm still proud of.

Today I find myself in a very different circumstance.  My sister Lisa has died, also after a battle with cancer. But I can't say that my thoughts are preprocessed: even with a couple months' warning, I'm still not ready to accept what has happened. She was supposed to have many more years ahead of her, and I can barely bring myself to believe that I won't see her again.

That false assumption may be what hurts the most. In recent years, we hadn't seen each other very often despite living about an hour from each other.  Life was busy, as it always tends to be. Stress piled on top of stress, and there was many miles to go before we slept. There would always be time later though. Maybe next year, or the year after, we'd make sure to get together and spend some quality time. The bitter lesson learned is that none of us knows how much time we have left, and tomorrow is a precarious place for plans.

But I prefer not to dwell on lost opportunities or wallow in sadness. I'd rather take a moment to celebrate my sister.

Lisa and I were yin and yang.  I was always quiet and shy and pragmatic; Lisa was outgoing and never let anything get in the way of her ideas.  I was the A student that studied all night; Lisa would calculate the lowest grades she could get in the last quarter of the school year to still pass and then party all night. I liked to keep to myself; Lisa enjoyed being with people. Yet when we were together, we complemented each other well. Lisa did an admirable job trying to pull me out of my shell, as much of an impossible mission as that was. I'd like to say that I also made her a bit more pragmatic, but again, she never let anything get in the way of her ideas.

Things got off to a rocky start between us.  She was seven years older, which is a prime difference for little brother annoyingness. Apparently there was even an incident that involved biting, though I don't remember it and am reluctant to believe it even happened. Still, many times over the years my mother would bring it up as the only time she actually spanked me.

But after a few bumps in the road, Lisa gladly stepped into the big sister role and guided me in the way only big sisters can.  She helped me get my first job at StoryLand and offered me advice on the perils of high school.  She even tried to get me to lighten up and party a little, though that effort failed. (All these years later, I wish I had taken that advice.)

After so many years of following our own paths, it's easy to forget how close a bond we had when we were younger. When my mother died, I looked through boxes of my old things stored in her attic.  In one of them I found a bunch of post cards Lisa had sent featuring pictures of heavy metal bands (I was the fan, not her) with anecdotes from a cross country trip she was taking neatly detailed on the back. (Our biggest difference is in handwriting: Lisa always wrote with beautiful, flowing script, and I can't even read my own writing.) This made me remember some of the silly things we did for each other, like how I'd leave little notes tucked into the front door for her to find when she came home late at night.

When I went to college, Lisa invited me to visit her on the weekends. After a short commuter rail ride, I'd be nestled in her big couch, watching TV and mooching food like only a college student can. (I ate a LOT of chicken fingers during those visits after I found a stash in the freezer.)  I never told her this, but those visits were a lifeline during the difficult transition of my college years.

After college, obligations came and time moved faster than it should. We saw each other less over the years, always relegating visiting plans to the purgatory of "soon." The most time that we spent with each other in recent years was during the long car rides to visit my mother during her illness. Sad journeys at the time, but I'm grateful for them now.

A few anecdotes are not nearly enough to express everything my sister was.  Saying she had a "heart of gold," may be a trite cliché, but it is also incredibly apt.  Lisa was caring and generous, and some of the biggest struggles she had in life stemmed from wanting to do too much for too many. A heart of gold, indeed.

I've always had struggles of a different kind. My pragmatism kept me focused on work to be finished and problems to be solved, and I spent a lot of time wrestling with dark thoughts on the edge of my mind and trying to make sense of things that don't seem to make sense.  Because of this, I lost time I could have spent with Lisa. But then, I always thought there would be tomorrow. I also didn't often make the effort to see Lisa simply because knowing she was out there in the world, the beautiful spirit that was the yin to my yang, was enough for me. I deeply regret thinking that way now, and I'm once again stuck trying to make sense of something that doesn't make sense.

I don't feel I've done justice to the person my sister was, nor have I adequately expressed what she meant to me (nothing new for this shy little brother).  But in her honor, I say to anyone that reads this, beware what you expect tomorrow to bring, and hold tight everything you love today. There is no sadder phrase than, "too late."

"Aujourd'hui Maman Est Morte"

I remember reading that first line of Albert Camus's The Stranger in French class years ago in high school.  Tasked with translating a section of the book, I immediately got to work: I went to the library and took out the English version. While this was obviously cheating, I don't regret it because, instead of seeing a small piece of the book through the dirty lens of my poor French reading ability, I was able to consume the entire book in a couple hours.  A difficult, challenging work, it opened my mind to a school of thought well outside my small town experience. The protagonist Meursault, a true anti-hero, is in many aspects a deplorable character, and not someone to emulate. However, Camus used his experiences and actions to explore the role of man in the universe. I was enthralled.

I'm not a scholar of French literature, and this is not going to be a treatise on the philosophy of Camus.  But on this inauspicious day when my own mother has died, I recall one detail of the book: Meursault's eventual downfall was partially caused by his inability to "properly" mourn his mother.

But what is the right way to react to such an immense loss?  Tears and outward emotion are a typical response, but, much like my mother, I take no comfort in tears.  (Stoic always, I don't recall having ever seen her cry.) Instead, because I'm a writer, I will put down in words what an amazing woman she was, and how difficult were her struggles.

Some of the earliest memories of my mother were of her hugging me while wearing her blue bathrobe, enveloping me in warmth.  What I felt in those moments has echoed in my memories over the years, leaving an ache of nostalgia.  Ma always made me feel loved and supported, something that never changed throughout my life. However, the manner of that love and support would evolve with the coming of darker times.

My father was an alcoholic (something I wrote about several years ago).  I won't go into details about that here, but I will say that when my mother no longer felt that I was safe in our home, she sent me to live with my grandmother, Nan.  This was a blessing and relief for me.  I spent my high school years living with Nan in a happy home, loved and supported by yet another amazing woman. I could go on with wonderful stories about her, but here are just a few: because I hated breakfast food, she would cook me a hamburger before school; because she was concerned about the rareness of the deli beef she used to make my lunches, she would fry it in a pan before deeming it fit to be in a sandwich; and when I needed reprimanding, she wouldn't hesitate to twist my ear, pulling me down to her height to read me the riot act.

As good as this change was for me, I learned over time how difficult it was for my mother.  She sent me away to give me a better life, but always felt that she let me down because of it.  Back at home, with my father not working but still drinking away our savings, Ma started to work at a laundromat for minimum wage.  Always petite, she lifted bags of hotel laundry half her weight all day long.  I still remember when she visited us at Nan's farm how red and cracked her fingers were from constant exposure to bleach. Through all this hard work, and despite my father, my mother managed to keep the house.  This lessen in the value of hard work would always stay with me.

Because of financial struggles, my mother was unable to contribute any money for my college education, once again feeling that she let me down.  I managed to get a scholarship to go to school in Boston, and did my best to convey to her that, despite her inability to assist me financially, her love and support had allowed me to focus and work hard enough to earn the scholarship.  She would continue to insist that my successes were due to my hard work alone, but she deserves much of the credit.

Far more valuable than money was the role my mother would fill as I attended college and then went into the work force and adult life.  Wise and patient, she would give me constant advice and voice her confidence in my abilities.  There was no challenge or struggle that a quick call to my mother wouldn't improve.  I'm sure one of the most difficult things I'll go through in the coming days and weeks is wanting Ma's advice and realizing that it's lost forever.

I wish I could focus on all the wonderful things about my mother, but I would be remiss if I failed to mention the hardships she endured.  Life with my father was thankless and difficult, and those years took a toll on her.  But she held onto her home and endured until my father's death during my freshman year in college.

However, even after his passing, my mother struggled with anxiety that made her hesitant to leave home.  I don't know if this was because of my father, or an innate condition, but it kept her from getting out into the world. There were many things that she wanted to see, and many people she wanted to visit, but she couldn't bring herself to travel.  Someone from a younger generation would seek medical help for this, but my mother was from a different time, and did what she always did instead: struggled on using only her strength.

I know this anxiety created a distance between her and others that assumed disinterest or selfishness prevented visits or attendance at functions. Despite her great unease, she called on her strength to make it to my wedding, her first stay in a hotel.  I could see how anxious she was, but I will always remember the comfort I felt having her sleep in the bed next to mine the night before the wedding.  And the next day, we danced to this song, and while I never saw her cry, her eyes did well up.  One of my favorite memories.

I'm not a person to have regrets, but I have always regretted not being able to help Ma with her anxiety.  She missed out on so many things she wanted to do, and  often felt lonely while stuck in the mental prison that kept her in her home.  I wish I could have helped others understand her struggle better, and I'll have to live with my failure to do more.

The beginning of the end was a lung cancer diagnosis, leading to long months of decline and pain.  I won't talk much of this, as I'd rather expunge it from my mind as much as I can. But I will say that I was able to share my heart with her and left nothing unsaid at the time of her passing.  My mom, stoic to the end, proclaimed, "Let's not get sentimental" as I told her of how much she had done for me and how much I loved her.

I refuse to let the last thing I write about be hardship and struggle.  I know Ma found happiness in her children and their children, something she had difficulty conveying but could be heard with the right kind of ears.  She also brought a little bit of the world she wanted to see into her home, starting a menagerie of tropical fish that came from all the oceans she would never visit.  She enjoyed expanding her collection and would watch the fish for hours on end.  Ma would excitedly talk about them during every visit, especially when she was able to breed the fish and raise babies.  That's how I choose to remember her: happy and excited, with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.

With the right kind of eyes, my love for my mother can be read in the words I wrote.  But I will eschew subtlety to proudly proclaim that I love my mother dearly, to the utmost capacity of my heart.  She was a remarkable woman, and despite her struggles, was always there for me when I needed her. She loved me completely and unconditionally.  I couldn't have asked for a better mother, and I hope that Camus is wrong and that I will see her again one day.

Impersonal Pieces of Data

I should call more often.  It's the right thing to do, the loving thing to do. And certainly, I often intend to, and never explicitly decide not to.  But I know in the back of the mind how I'll feel when I hear her broken voice, her complaints of pain. How someone else's suffering can hurt more than anything you experience yourself if you love that person enough.  And if anything is certain, it is that I love her.

So I find myself at the end of the day realizing I forgot to call, long after it's too late and she won't have the strength to talk.  Not an intentional oversight, of course.  Time just got away from me. That's what I tell myself to feel better, but it doesn't work.  I feel weak and cowardly, awash in self-loathing.

So I build a scaffolding of schedule to hold myself to, so there's no excuses, no way to hide from such minimal duty.  These are the days I will call, and that's the way it is.  I take a deep breath before I pick up the phone, prepared to feel the ache of powerlessness. I budget time after each call to recover, ashamed to require such a luxury when I'm not the bedridden one.

There are visits, of course. But I won't talk of these as some things are too personal and private to share. Though I will admit the worst parts of those visits replay in my mind, the machinations of a guilty conscience that exerts itself during some happy moments.  The human mind compartmentalizes to help us cope and continue to exist while bad things are happening, but it also holds a tormenting presence that finds such mental trickery reprehensible.  It's a house divided against itself.

My wife, supportive and loving, wants to help me but struggles with how matter-of-factly I deal with things.  "I feel depressed," I will tell her with same tone I'd use to remark on the weather.  Whatever storms of feeling are below the surface, they manifest themselves as impersonal pieces of data.  As someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, she doesn't know how to help when I process my emotions in this way, communicating them like an impartial spectator recounting an event on the news*.

I'm saying all this because I don't want to say any of it, and forcing myself  to talk about these feelings is (probably) a healthy thing to do, even if it makes me feel silly and exposed. There has to be some strength in admitting weakness, even if it doesn't feel that way, and strength is exactly what I need right now.

* I've written about some of the more difficult aspects of my childhood that may be part of the reason for this.  

Hiding Behind Fiction

My previous post was about my first public reading. I initially thought that I'd blog about the experience soon after, but in reality, I had far too much to process to talk about it until now.

The reason I've always been drawn to fiction is because you can talk about your feelings and experiences through a layer of abstraction. This provides an opportunity to give a fresh look at well-worn themes. It also allows the author to hide behind the story.

Writing a non-fiction piece, and then reading it in public, is a different kind of monster. I can't say that it's something I wanted to do. It was more of a compulsion. The difficulty of the task is shown in the fact that the piece I wrote is in second-person. While this is a powerful stylistic choice, I'd be lying if I claim that was the only reason I employed it.

When I stood before a crowd at art2art a couple weeks ago, I felt nothing. I was simply a conduit for the words on the page before me. I had written a short intro and placed it, in bold, at the top of the first sheet.

"Tonight, I’ll be reading an abbreviated version of a narrative non-fiction piece called 'Rewind.'"

I stumbled a bit on that simple sentence, but after that the words simply flowed from me.

"You realize one day that you don’t have memories, you have flashbacks."

As I launched into reminisces of my father's alcoholism, the protective wall I had built so long ago disappeared. For seven minutes, I was opening myself to the world.

"Then he begins to sharpen his hunting knife at the kitchen table. His eyes are red. He never looks up. He runs the whetstone against the blade too many times. It has to be razor sharp."

As I finished, my only concern was the feedback I'd get. The enormity of sharing my darkest places wouldn't really hit me until later. The audience applauded, but it was a kindness I expected. I waited to hear from people as we took a break between sets. I feared no one would say anything, that my inability to write had finally been exposed.

"She gives you a pair of work gloves, and tells you to pull out the bottom slat with a hammer. You work at it, and as you finally pull it away, an ocean of empty vodka bottles pour out, like hitting the jackpot on a slot machine."

I received encouraging words from the other artists in the front row, but this I also expected. I milled about for a bit, and no one else approached me. The dark voices I've grown to hate started to whisper in my head. I went to the restroom to be alone.

On the way back to the reading room, a woman approached me and thanked me for sharing the story. An older man asked me if I was a professional writer. When I answered no, he told me to keep at it. Others gave similar earnest feedback. For the first time in memory, I felt good about writing, instead of just viewing my compulsion as some form of self torture.

"You pour the bottle into the mop sink and fill it with water. You feel exhilarated by your daring. But you also feel very afraid."

After the event finished, a group went to a nearby bar, including my wife, Cathy, and one of the organizers (and our friend), Sue. The bar was full for a Celtics game and very loud. There were many of us grouped around a table, most of them strangers to me. I couldn't hear well. I found myself wishing that Cathy and Sue and I could be somewhere else having a quiet conversation.

I felt the darkness return. I grew uncomfortable that these people, these strangers, now knew about my childhood. I became sullen.

"The man who built thick ropes of muscle by driving a truck for hours a day, who won beer money by arm wrestling in bars, is gone. This man still has the same pot belly, but he slouches and his arms and legs have wasted away. You realize that you’re stronger than him now."

I realized the next day that I wouldn't be able to blog until I had time to process the experience. An inner struggle I'd fought all my life was waging its latest battle. Is it better to share your dark places or hide them?

"There is no final scene with a graveside speech, no coming to terms, no achieving inner peace. You simply grow to understand that everyone is human, with weaknesses and fears. Willing to try almost anything to escape from them.

You realize that had things been a little different, you could have turned out the same way. That if you’re not careful, you still might."

It took weeks, but I have my answer now. I want to write. I have many stories to tell.

But they will be fictional stories that I can hide behind. I'll show the world my dark places, but only through a filter.

It's the only way to end the war inside my head.

My First Public Reading

On May 22nd, I will be reading an abbreviated version of my non-fiction piece, "Rewind" at art2art. This will be my first public reading.

Here are a few thoughts about such an auspicious occasion:

I'm a genre fiction writer

Not only am I a genre fiction writer, but I'm damn proud to be one. While I enjoy and have great respect for literary writing, it's not my calling. My stories slither in my head, and refuse to be contained in a real world setting.

However, while the tales I want to tell invoke the supernatural, they're not examples of the bad genre fiction that have trained many literary writers to turn up their noses (at least I hope they're not). To me, genre fiction is a way to write about real people struggling with real problems through the fresh perspective of a fantastical prism.

For example, three short stories I'm working on now deal with, respectively, depression, alcoholism and adultery. Supernatural elements play second fiddle to these central themes, which to me is essential in elevating genre fiction to something more than an easy escape.

I'm not a non-fiction writer

Apart from blogging, I don't write non-fiction pieces. "Rewind" is the one exception, and if you attend art2art and hear me read it (or if you convince me to give you a copy), you'll see that it's more of a documentary of my childhood experiences than a constructed work. Memories flowed to the screen, written in such a way to best express how those memories felt to me.

The response from those who have read the piece has been very positive, and it is so painfully honest that it just makes the most sense to be my first public work. This will be the one chance to see the real me before I hide behind my fictional characters forevermore.

Why I'm scared shitless to read "Rewind" in public

There will be no place to hide when I'm reading about the worst parts of my life. We conceal our pasts carefully, only sharing them reluctantly, and soon I'll be publicly revealing mine to any that will listen.

But, as I explained to someone with whom I shared the piece, "You can’t create art if you hide parts of yourself. The parts you want to hide are where the art resides."

And I just officially quoted myself. About art. Pretty damn pretentious, I must admit.

Why I'm not afraid to fail

I have come to terms with my inner critic.

He's one tough son-of-a-bitch. He hates everything I do, and ridicules it in the meanest way possible. For a long time he kept me from writing, and even after I began, he prevented me from admitting I was a writer.

I've tried my best to kill him off, but that bastard refuses to die. So I've learned to live with him with two simple mantras: "It's impossible to be perfect," and "It's okay to be human."

Keeping this in mind allows me to write without competing with the world. It doesn't matter whether I'm great or terrible. Being great or rich or famous aren't the reasons why I write.

With those heavy burdens discarded, the only way I can fail is if I stop writing.

Why I write

I'm a professional software developer, which is a reasonably lucrative trade that I also happen to enjoy. I have plenty of fulfilling interests and hobbies that keep me busy. So why write, when it's so damn hard and time-consuming and most definitely not lucrative? Any explanation I could give is a poor approximation of what Kurt Vonnegut once said:

"Still and all, why bother? Here's my answer. Many people need desperately to receive this message: I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone."

That is why I write. As simple as that.

Random Thoughts Interspersed with Song Lyrics

The poets down here
Don't write nothing at all,
They just stand back and let it all be.
-- Bruce Springsteen, "Jungleland"

I've never been interested in blogging about what I ate for lunch, what celebrity died last week, what's the hottest thing on reality TV, etc. The problem is when you cut out the noise, how much signal is left? Often, not too much.

By the way, I tried quinoa for the first time today. Isn't that exciting? (I'm not making that up. It's real, I swear.)

We're too young to fall asleep,
Too cynical to speak.
We are losing it,
Can't you tell?
-- Radiohead, "My Iron Lung"

One thing worth mentioning is that in last six weeks I've made a serious effort to eat better and exercise. The results have been very good thus far: 17 pounds lost. Considering I started at 252, I still have a ways to go. At six feet tall, I'm aiming to get down to 185, but I'll settle for under 200.

The remarkable thing is that it's been much easier this time around. I cut the soda, improved my diet to get rid of junk and eat healthier, less processed foods, and workout four to five times a week. I've tried this before, and it always eventually failed, but this time it's been almost easy.

Love of mine,
Someday you will die.
But I'll be close behind,
I'll follow you into the dark.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"

Some credit goes to new tools at my disposal. I've followed the South Beach Diet (which is more science than quackery, from what I can discern) and have used EA Active on the Wii to keep me motivated to follow a workout schedule. While these have helped, the real key is my own mortality.

I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. Those 12 teaspoons of sugar per can of soda and all the fat from burgers and fries was setting the scene for mid-life drama. Heart attacks and diabetes were a when, not an if.

I still don't know what I was waiting for,
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made,
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.
-- David Bowie, "Changes"

When I was in my 20s, I always felt there was time to turn things around before health problems caught up with me. Suddenly, I was approaching mid 30s and carrying a large spare tire (I'm guessing tractor-sized) and had a very bad Coke habit (the beverage, not the drug, I swear.) And that why it's sticking this time. I don't want to keel over at 40, or live with self-induced health issues. And I don't what to curse my youthful bravado in my senior years.

Now, I'm not one of those self-delusional types. I didn't think I was big-boned, or that it was all really muscle and not fat. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the belly hanging. My BMI puts me at obese. But now that I've gotten down to 235, it's been sobering how many people comment on my weigh lost. I was so fat that in comparison, I now look comparatively skinny. This is frightening, and reinforces the need to fight on.

Always felt like giving in
To the feeling I can't win.
But I took it on the chin.
Now I'm finally cashing in.
...
My losing streak is done.
I said my losing streak is done.
-- eels, "Losing Streak"

When I put before and after pics of my first six weeks side by side (no, you can't see them,) I see a bit of difference, but I also remember what I used to look like in those long ago days when I was in shape. (It's true, I swear. I was 185 at one point in college and went to the gym daily.)

I still have a long way to go, but this time, I feel like it's going to stick. I'm going to make it.

"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
-- Simon and Garfunkel, "America"

Now that I'm getting my ass in gear on the weight front, I want to keep up the good mojo in other areas. I'm going to do my best to write more. I have a great story idea burning in my head (called "The Healer," but don't tell anyone I told you.)

Writing is, and most likely will always be, incredibly difficult for me. Yet, I'm like a moth drawn to the flame. If I don't keep trying, something vital will be lost, and there will be an emptiness I feel that will never be filled. It may never be filled, but I have to keep trying.

If you're not going to keep trying to do the things that matter, why go on living?

You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
-- Billy Joel, "The Entertainer"

In the end, one thing I have to accept is that my artistic impulses don't take a direction that heads toward mainstream appeal. I mean just look at this blog post. Random lyrics all over the place, and in red???

"A little self-indulgent, don't you think, jackass?" you ask. I nod gravely.

But this is part of the equation for me. No compromises, no committees, no marketing plans. I don't want to make a product, I want to make art. And I'd much rather have a drawer full of terrible art than terrible products. There's at least poetry in being a failed artist, even if it's bad poetry.

I ran my mouth off a bit too much, oh what did I say?
Well you just laughed it off, it was all OK.
-- Modest Mouse, "Float On"

In short, I'm going to find more things to say more often, so keep your eyes peeled.

It's true, I swear.

Here I Go Again

This is my second attempt at blogging. I created a rudimentary blog on my website and did some periodic posting, but my minimal effort in coding ensured the functionality was pretty lame. So I'm throwing in the towel and using a real blog site.

Before I get into the types of things I'll be talking about going forward, the first thing to state is why I'm bothering to do this at all. I claim no wisdom that the world needs to hear. I think I'm reasonably amusing, but I make no pretense that I will be the funniest, wittiest blogger you will stumble upon. My reason for wanting to blog is simple: I have always felt compelled to write, but have found the process so miserable that I rarely do. Instead of focusing on why I feel compelled to do something that makes me feel so miserable (that has to be some sort of mental illness, right?), I instead want to find a misery-free way to write. The hope is that when I get my mojo going with some not-so-serious blogging, all those short stories and *gasp* novels clogging up my head will have a chance to erupt forth. And if not, I'll have a nice forum to bemoan my clogged misery.

So, the stuff I want to write about: writing, of course; music, both things I love to listen to and thing I create as a hobbyist musician; life in general, and how bewildering it can be (hence the title); and, on occasion, thoughts on my day job, software development. Don't worry though, there won't be snippets of code and treatises on best practices. There are many resources that have far more knowledge in those areas than me. If anything, the area of software development I'd most like to discuss is the human side that is so often ignored. Software, after all, is made by people, thus communication and actually being able to stand each other is key. And well worth talking about, since both areas often don't go too smoothly.

Once caveat going forward: I may love to write, but that doesn't mean I'm great at spelling and grammar. I'm also a master at typos. Accept it people. That's why [sic] was invented, for people like me!

So, I hope at least a couple people follow along and have a little fun along the way. And if not, that's okay too; it reinforces the miserable writer thing.