So, I’m still amidst MY archeological dig through the desert of MY past. I don’t know why I insist on it, or what purpose it ultimately serves, but as it amuses ME to no end, well…this is MY blog, right? So, why not? I’ve found, in going through these journal entries that date back to high school (which was, what? like only a few years ago, right? 20? Oh. Eek!), that I can’t help but feel alien to the little kid who so scribbled his heart onto paper with nothing but the venom of his own emotional fang. And yet, I find oddities that I might very well have written last week. Such as this line from January 18th, 1990 (at approximately 5:27 p.m, should you be checking your date book): “Well, somebody wants me to learn patience. Seeing as how I have none, I don’t find that particularly funny.” Or I could cite some modern thought in a line from January 25th, of the same year: “I’ve never thought of writing about death before , but riding in that piece o’ shit DC-9 yesterday made me want to.” Or this nugget a couple of months later: “Emotions are like nuclear weapons. If you mishandle them, they fuck you up.”
I will also quote, once again, MY favorite thus far, which is also from 1990, on March 25th: “Confusion is a state of mind. I’d like to expand on that, but I can’t.”
Seems I had a lot of interesting things to say that year. Granted, a lot of it was about celebrity crushes, the end of high school, girls, girls, and more girls (and the never-ending hope that, someday, one would actually like ME), writing and the satisfied confidence that I would someday be rich from it, and various other innanities that I deemed worthy of discussion, but that were as fascinating as the result of a goopy sneeze.
And yet, through 4 years of entries that I have thus far read, I have yet to find any inkling of the man who would write Anointed. No sense, or sign, or struggle with religion, or God, or Christianity, or the entire mythos surrounding them all. Humor, sure. A desire to impale MYSELF upon the blade of loneliness, yup. A sort of burgeoning awareness of the universe, and the concepts of the law of attraction, true. But God was just sort of this bearded fella sitting in the, um, the…whatchacallit chair that a tennis umpire (umpire? is that right? Google anyone?) sits in. He just sort of watched the game I was playing, and occasionally shouted, “Fault!” or, “Out!” or, “Game, Mr. Steele, Life serving!” It wasn’t an absence from MY writing. Rather, He was the parent I was trying to impress, the brother I didn’t want to beat ME up, or the best friend I wanted to chat movies with. To that end, I may have still missed the point of God, after all. At least the Biblical point, anyhow. I rather think I nailed the reality of it. But, as to the future voice of devil fiction that I would become, it was veiled, and notably absent.
The most remarkable thing is that I somehow thought that cogent, coherent, and other-worldly wise, thought was unleashed somewhere beyond the stroke of midnight, a point to which I know, unmistakably now and despite MY efforts to refrain, to be wholly untrue. When I begin an entry at 4:25 a.m, with the words, “I’m a nutcase,” it seems to imply that I have crossed some immovable line of sanity that I cannot return from, when in fact, I probably had indigestion from too much pizza at midnight to allow ME to sleep, and the remnant of thought that had survived so late into the coming morning, was soundly, and decisively, coated in marinara and pepperoni bits. Or perhaps Dunkin’ Donuts. Either would not have been a stretch, both at once quite probable. The sheer volume of deep, intricate, seemingly unwavering, philosophical thought I vomited after MY brain had officially checked out for the night, actually gives ME more insight into what living in a commune of hippies would be like, than does it MY awakening awareness to a world gone awry that I handled so heavily.
And yet, I’m there, somewhere. Hiding behind Motley Crue posters, Debbie Gibson mania, and a pen. Somewhere amidst the pages of, “Strings of the Heart” (gak! bleh!), the first book I wrote while in high school, and the recap of MY five months dating a stripper, there lies something of who I am. Somewhere between MY daily whine of loneliness, and MY prattling on about hitting the road and drifting MY way through America. Somewhere at a beach in Florida, in the back of MY truck, at a campsite in the southern deserts of Arizona, in MY car at the Texas-Mexican border, or in every home I lived in over that time (and there were a few). Somewhere, in all of that, is ME. The ME I am. The ME I still hope to be. The ME that still insists on pontificating after his carriage has already diffused into a pumpkin, and the mice are nipping at his heels. I guess I’m glad I wrote all this inane drivel, to be honest. At least I know that I’m not crazy. I’ve just always been this way.