ingathering.

watch the video or read the blog below (same content)

They say youth is wasted on the young; I’m not sure I agree. The young people I observed through my time growing up did just what is expected of youth. They went to college and they partied and they dated and they tried things and failed things and dyed their hair and had a regrettable fashion era and got a dog before they got a spouse before they got a kid.

Of course not everyone falls into this model. I only generalize as a means of saying that there is a mean; a path a large portion of the population follows. Then as people grow, there’s a new standard. A new normal. Suddenly people like to go to bed at 9:30. Instead of partying at 3am on Sunday, they shift it to 11am for brunch. They don’t see their friends as often. Maybe they become career focused. Or join a PTA. Their political activism and awareness usually changes in some way (for better or worse). They lose someone close in life to them. It changes them forever.

That’s the era I live in now. Or rather – that’s the era those around me in my age group live in now. 

I never fell neatly into these generalizations. I’m one of the outliers – always have been. And in a lot of ways, I pride myself on it. But in a lot of ways, it hurts. Especially when you fall behind the curve. It makes me long to be something different; someone else entirely.

Addiction is a hell of a drug. And often times a sneaky one. I’ve been pretty good about avoiding the “scary” addictions in my life. I never got too addicted to a drugs or alcohol. I’ve had my moments where I indulge a bit more than usual in something or another, but it’s always been easy for me to hit the breaks before blowing past the proverbial intersection and getting sideswiped by substance abuse. 

I know when to quit (perhaps only as it pertains to substances). I can have two drinks out clubbing with friends and call it good. And I can have no drinks for a month if I feel like that’s the right thing for my body. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have an addiction; and a harmful one at that. 

I’m addicted to rejecting myself. I do not accept my life. My body. My age. My lot in life.

Every single day for far too long, I carry out a pattern. First thing in the morning I open my eyes, foggy with morning light peering through the edges of my beige blackout curtains and I imagine myself as somebody else. Someone better looking. More successful. With a different body and personality and different relationships. Someone more talented whose talent is recognized by everyone around them far and wide. It’s fucked up. And it causes resentment of myself and my reality. More and more. Little by little. 

It’s easy to see where it started. I was, after all, the closeted married guy in my 20’s. I was living the ‘American Dream’ of every standard straight 30-something. But I was 22. Slowly but surely I felt my body and my spirit reject myself in that role and in that life. So I started over, basically from scratch, at 29-years old. 

And it’s been long enough since then for me to realize that I also reject this version of me. That “old” me – the one I loath, the one I resent and blame and curse – he’s still part of me. I grew into something I never wanted to be. By time I realized that had happened, it was too late to course correct. I will never fully be someone else than who I already am.

50 states, 50 lines, 50 crying all the time's

50 boys, 50 lies, 50 I'm gonna change my mind's

I changed my mind, I changed my mind

Now I'm feeling different

We were young, We were young, We were young we didn't care

Is it gone, Is it gone, Is it floating in the air?

I changed my mind, I changed my mind

Now I feel indifferent

All that time, wasted

I wish I was a little more delicate

I wish my name was Clementine

– Clementine by Sarah Jaffe

In Christianity (something I was very steeped in for a long time) there’s this principle that a good person or practice will bear good fruit. A bad one will bear rotten fruit. It’s a valid principle. One I agree with. It’s echoed in some theory or metaphor in nearly every mainstream philosophy on Earth. Karma-adjecent, I’d argue. 

And that further complicates this conundrum, because ultimately, I’m pretty proud of how I’ve shown up in my life. How in large part I’ve treated others. How I’ve managed difficult situations. How I’ve had grace for people I could have judged or chose to hurt. That’s not to say I’ve never made big mistakes or chosen the low path. Of course I have. We all have. But in large part, I’ve learned from those. And I’d “stand on my honor” so to speak. I think I’ve been pretty ethical and kind, forgiving and helpful when I’m able. 

_____________

SIDE BAR: 

In light of recent events and as a means of addressing the local community, I’d like to paint a scenario. 

I want to introduce you to a seemingly ordinary man. Once upon a time, he was the very fortunate beneficiary of cheap local land. At a time when land was accessible, he bought a portion of it on the edge of town. Let’s call the town, Coco Springville.

About a year after buying the property, the town grew immensely. And luckily for him, it turned out he had the only plot of land in the city capable of growing and harvesting wheat. So he began to make and sell bread to the local community. A genuine need being filled for the people. But the power of a bread monopoly would make the man arrogant, entitled, and uncouth. He would raise prices, prevent others from selling beneficial products to the community, and rule over his bread kingdom with cruelty and disrespect. He declared himself The Sourdough King.

One day, a Bicycle Boy approached the Sourdough King. He offered to deliver the bread, for a fee. Until now, the community had to come to the bread kingdom if they wanted sustenance. This would fill another need for the people, helping both the consumer and The Sourdough King. Now, The Bicycle Boy had been warned by others of the King’s behavior - but he figured the King had always been kind to him before. Why would that change? So they came to an accord. 

The Bicycle Boy was a god-send to the King. He increased bread sales, expanded the reach of the operation, and was able to bring more bread to more people than had access before. 

But as one will – the King reverted to his worst inclinations. He became more greedy and arrogant. Anyone the Sourdough King disliked – whether it be for something they said, inherent traits they had that were not his own, or even the whispers of a rumor – would be banned from buying bread. They would go hungry. And the King did not care.

The Bicycle Boy was distraught by this. He felt conflicted. His work was helping those who needed bread – be it the disabled, the elderly, or anyone who could not easily find their way to buy bread. But he had also helped the Sourdough King’s power grow immensely. Power that was now being abused and hurting many in the community.

One day, the Sourdough King heard word that The Bicycle Boy’s brother had made a joke against the bread kingdom. His highness did not find it so funny. He banned the boy’s brother from ever accessing bread again.

The Bicycle Boy could not take it anymore. He stood up to the Sourdough King. He told him what he did was unjust and he needed to reconsider his ways; he told the King that his power had corrupted him.

Meanwhile, the Brother found something amazing. For there was another piece of land. One that could also harvest wheat. One that could feed the hungry people who no longer had access to bread in a way that was more ethical. A way that was gooder.

The Sourdough King got wind of this news and he threatened the Bicycle Boy. He said, “I AM THE SOLE KING OF THESE LANDS. IT IS I WHO DECIDES WHO MAY EAT AND WHO MAY STARVE”. The Sourdough King said he would send soldiers and spies into the night to haunt The Bicycle Boy and his family for all eternity. He in fact said he would use his gold and his power and his influence to ensure The Bicycle Boy would have nowhere to work and nowhere to live and no way to feed his children. 

(Yeah, for real that happened)

But that did not deter The Bicycle Boy nor his Brother. They now grow that wheat and help feed the community that can no longer access the bread kingdom. Now ask yourself – was it the Bicycle Boy who betrayed the Sourdough King simply because his Brother found a way to feed those with no more access to the Bread Kingdom? Or was it the Sourdough King – he who in his arrogance had burned bridge after bridge and excommunicated person after person – who brought this fate upon himself?

Who would YOU buy your bread from?

________________

Despite me feeling as though my values and ethics are in line, it doesn’t seem to bring me peace or happiness as it pertains to life. While I value these qualities when I think about myself, I still don’t want to be me. Maybe life circumstances are a big part of that – I’m not able to say how much good things happening to me would change my perspective unless I’ve experienced said good things happening. If I play Coachella, or get cast on The White Lotus Season 6, maybe I’ll feel significantly better about my life and who I inherently am. Who can say?

As much as I’d like to pull some magical lever and just be who I want to be, it’s not that simple. In fact it’s impossible. I’m just me. Stuck there. And I’ve never accepted it. I’ve never wanted it. And now as my youth fades, so too does my hope that I’ll ever be comfortable in my life and my body and my soul. 

I’m making an album this year. It’s my first album. It’s the kinda thing people do in their youth. But, ya know, I waited until now. 

And I was so focused on raising money for this album (you have TWO MORE DAYS TO DONATE AS OF POSTING THIS, BY THE WAY), that I didn’t really process that it would succeed and I’d have to actually.. make the album. It’s not the biggest, most important piece of fruit my life will ever bear (that belongs to a preteen who’s bed may or may not be made in the room next to mine), but it’s a damn big one.

I have to wonder, how does one make something so personal and vulnerable and meaningful, without ever feeling like themselves? How can I harvest this massive fruit, under these passive conditions? My entire artistic output thrives on a pillar of authenticity. I think it’s what resonates, if anything ever does. How does that work, if I never actually feel authentically me?

There’s a line in my song fait/h (or faith, you can pronounce it either way) - an album song - that says, “I don’t know who I am, but I’m here right now”. It’ll be almost 2-years old by the time we record it. And the sentiment is the same. It feels like all I can do is be here. Now. Even if the person taking up that space doesn’t know who they are.

I can’t change the past. I can’t reinvent myself – not to the degree I desire. It’s simply not possible. 

What I should do is stop starting the day imagining myself and my life in a way that could never be. But like I said, addiction is a hell of a drug. 

Perhaps that’s the purpose of putting this out there publicly. It’s my own intervention. Maybe saying it out loud is the catalyst for change. Maybe I could do daily positive affirmations. Dye my hair. Eat clean. Journal. Talk to a therapist. Go to brunch? Maybe any of those would help.

Maybe I’m just not the person I should have been and nothing will fix that.

Maybe I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

Maybe this eternal internal struggle is my life and my cause and informs my art to be exactly what it’s meant to be.

Maybe.