In my eyes,
at this very moment, I see an old, worn out jumper. The collar knitting is
mildly stained and darkened from constant contact with the oil and sweat from
the head and neck it has encircled over the years, and the cuffs of the sleeves
are ragged and pitted with holes. Even the front has quite a few flaws, from
cigarette-ember burns to pin-sized punctures from cat claws. And the entire
piece is peppered with cat hair, which never seems to dissipate no matter how
many washings. But it is not dirty. And it even looks comfortable still. There
are just so many loose threads dangling from every stitch, though even this is
not the problem. This question is which thread to pull first. Which one can I
tug at solely to polish up the tired look of the whole and for it not to seem
as though the person who dons this attire is roaming homeless through the
alleys? And which one just unravels the entire garment, rendering it nothing
more than a future dust cloth?
So, here I
stand, glaring down at these tentacles of dangling yarn … wondering which
thread of the story to pick at first.
I guess I
will begin with this: I don’t enjoy feeling the way I do recently. That needs
to be stated up front, because I know first hand a few people that love to
dwell in their darkness. Not the Goth thing (or Emo, as it has become) … which
is just angst a lot of the time. A way to draw attention and feel noticed,
whilst trying to be inconspicuous at the same time. This is wrapping yourself
in a mask of sadness for the sake of its beauty and style … and that I can
appreciate at times. What I poke at here with the tip of my shoe are those not wishing to help themselves or letting others assist them so as to remain out
of the sun, because it is the pity and the focus of others on their mental
plight that they use as their drug. It feeds them and makes the suffering
worthwhile to a degree. This is not me. I am not seeking pity … I despise it
and don’t give it. It’s one reason I left my home in Atlanta. But attention …
that is another thing. I am publicly digging up the neighbour’s back yard in
hopes that somewhere out there is the buried bone I can gnaw on again as my
comforting chew toy. And I want you all to notice me thrashing up the earth,
slinging it on windows and soiling the carpet as I traipse through your home.
For someone to stare upon me with furrowed brow and say: “aww … poor lad” is no goal of mine. But
to throw on some old clothes, grab a shovel and give me a hand out here … that
is where the bead at the end of the barrel is trained on.
Adding to
the explanation of my form of attention seeking - I am a ham for the spotlight. I
happily admit to that. I have been on stage, on TV, on the radio, in front of
crowds, large and small, all to feed that hunger and be seen ... and appreciated. And believe me when
I say I would much prefer you all to be viewing my photos, hearing me sing or even just reading some sarcastic comments I have
on travel or a witticism I have spewed forth on the humorous nature of mankind.
Making you laugh, or shocking you, or just providing you with a bit of
entertainment for a spell is the powdery line of finely cut coke I’d rather be
snorting through a hundred dollar bill off a silver tray. As it is, though,
this hit of writing is my methadone. A substitute for all the other, more joyful or poignant words I cannot
seem to form at this moment in time.
To be continued...
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