Blog #1: Lessons from the Abyss (or, Why I’m Starting a Blog)

It was a warm July evening, the time of day when Allston glows orange and purple, and the smells of a dozen Chinese and Korean places waft through the rat infested byways. On my back porch I gazed across the neighborhood and thought back on a visit with a friend that just ended, how we drank tea and chatted about our evolving lives. I felt refreshed – like my cells were supercharged – and I smiled at the reassurance that community is still possible, even in this country where so often people refuse to look each other in the eye.

To celebrate my fullness of spirit I popped open a sativa joint I purchased back in simpler times. It was months since I smoked last, and knowing my tolerance was zero I puffed away and put it out quickly. In an instant I recognized the familiar feeling, that sometimes-but-not-always state of volatility where my conceptions dissolve; the tiny Middle Eastern Grill across the street like another room in my house…

–But whose house is it?

I step inside, my intention to reign in my thoughts from exhaustive loops. Music, I think, my record player inviting me over. I’m struck by the choices at my fingertips: Dylan, Santana, Joni Mitchell… It's overwhelming, and I feel like a weary general deciding where to next send his troops, every misguided thoughts responsible for casualties!

–Sky, you’re very high, is browsing records forever how you want to spend eternity? Fucking pick one, and enjoy it!

–Perfect! Merl’s cool shrug, and Jerry’s kind eyes. Like an open invitation to feel good...

I drop the needle onto the black spinning disk (How on earth do records work?). My living room’s atmosphere is blanketed with anticipation and fear, like I’m about to be tested. A 4/4 funk groove crashes on and Merl’s synths enter to slice my torso open. What I hear is alien and astounding, a laser beam cast down by the arm of Ares, and for a moment I remember that music is not "music"... It is organized energy.

But something isn’t right. My muscles aren't loose, my breathing is forced, and one by one my thoughts fly away from the frenzy of sound before me. I'm confused, and in defense my emotions revert to a state like an upset child who takes each passing phenomena way too personally. ‘Positively 4th Street’ comes on, a Bob Dylan cover. Jerry Garcia’s sweet voice:

“You’ve got a lot of neeeeerve

To say you are my frieend”

–An inquiry into my soul? I ask myself without irony. The next second I fall back into a recliner, my thoughts hallucinating the faces of lost or broken connections.

"You see me on the streeeeet

You always act surpriseeed

You say “How are you? Good luck!”

But you don’t mean iiiiit”

The same faces; old crushes, respected peers, loving teachers, they each walk past me on the street. I desperately attempt eye contact but I’m refused.

Over the horizon of my mind I sense a golden fiesta happening – somewhere – I can’t see if it’s floating closer or revolving away. A cymbal crash breaks my trance, the sound like a tsunami pounding a shore, and with it I stand up and raise my arms in triumph! ...Joy short lived, because then I see the shapes of a thousand ghosts burst into the air like sea-spray, each moaning in horror at its fate: 

–These are the souls who wasted their lives in vain. Who lived from birth to grave keeping their love from others 'safe'. Out of nothing... Nothing but cowardice and shame.

That thought passed through my head, and I was paralyzed. Another song played, perhaps, and the record ended. It was so hot I couldn’t sleep. I decided to move my bed to the back porch. The wind gushed, and the walnut tree behind my apartment resembled an invading UFO. But under my skin my nerves couldn’t rest, and I stubbornly refused relaxation and peace.

–So, the golden fiesta ended long ago, I thought. That sense of loss informed each subsequent thought; each one muddy, negative, and bottomless; a pit of chaos. There’s no better word for it than ‘abyss’. 

In the morning I woke, my energy sludgy, my thoughts unimagitive and grey. I sat down at my desk with coffee and willed myself to feel that pit still living inside me. The closer I approached, the more that sensitive child tantrumed. The closer I approached, the more my brow winced, like I was looking away from the sun. The closer I approached, the more my body couldn't hold it in any longer. I hugged my guitar and bawled, my entire torso lunging forward, like I was a monkey lost in the desert. Something deep in me felt relieved, but then I noticed it was simply the feeling of breathing. A clear silence.

Later I called a friend who lives half a world away, my intent to tell her about all this. A couple minutes into the call and more tension released from my soul, Ahhhhh’s and Auugghh’s escaping from my throat. So happy, knowing I was chatting with a friend again, the day's dark circle was closed.

So, what does this story about getting high and, well, crying about the 'abyss' have to do with me starting a blog? Well, lovely reader! I’m happy to tell you! 

As much as I’d love to say that in the middle of this story I envisioned the arch-angel Michael peering down at me from heaven and throwing a pen at my head… I did not get this idea from that dark episode. It came from what framed it: the chats with my two lovely friends. That circle of events reminded me that I am happiest when I’m sharing myself with others... and the longer I wait to share myself with the world, the more likely I’ll end up like one of those depressed ghosts.

Also, I majored in creative writing, so fuck it.