Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Writers And Tears In The Typing Pool
That is a photo of me and my younger (but certainly taller) brother, photo 1 of 9 in a silly photo session from some time last year. Alejandro, 15.
I know that I talk about my family too much, and I'm sorry. Other things actually happen with people that I'm actually not related to, but for some reason my family is always resting directly on my frontal lobe. I yearn so much for all of them to be happy and intelligent and, especially Alejandro, to be an independent thinker, and financially secure, etc etc etc, yet when you put the five of us together, all with a tumultuous past, surely we can't all be successful. So I write about it. My brothers both live with me and I basically view Alejandro as a walking, babbling energy meter that I have to deplete. His energy is so indefatigable that I become exhausted just watching him eat cereal.
I feel a mixture of anxiety and uncertainty when I think about him when he is grown up, and what will happen to him. My friend, Holly, has three older sisters, daughters of a southern baptist preacher, and while individually they retain elements of insanity and fanaticism, for the most part they manage to be fairly conventional and boring. When they're together, however, her family fascinates me: four tall, blonde, skinny sisters that all look remarkably alike and have remarkably similar mannerisms, arguing and bickering constantly. I think and worry about the future. Already my 25 year old brother is still so amazingly, eccentrically, teen in mental age that I lament a future of joining him at various shows of the various bands he will sift through, conversations involving face tattoos and "fuck" "shit" "cunt" "curse curse curse." My younger brother once told me that after college he is going to live in a house in the woods, all alone, and won't tell anyone where he lives, much like the Unabomber. Maybe these days are precious: the days when everyone is young and malleable, the days before I wonder what went wrong. Hello, I worry.
How I feel:
Awkwardness happening. I make mistakes in tune with the sharp ticks of time. Fire in my heart. Mountains of memories and erratic paths behind me, what could have happened, what I could have been. One messy mind made of words and breath. The days fall all over each other until I am 23 and all, summer and fall. Ah, what have I done? I introduced myself to someone two days ago, "My name is Err." It feels that way, sometimes.
But I'm happy. I could be. I'm well on my way, at least. Haughty and hardy. I almost agreed to adopting a puppy yesterday, ribs sticking out that I could have played the xylophone on. I told the current owners to name her Pepper. She is missing a toe. I am missing some time. Did you know I was straight-up in a coma once? Yes, it's true. Fatigue. Irrelevant. Sometimes I am tired and spill out on the keyboard what I should keep in my head.
I play these chords.
I say these words.
But I do nothing useful to the world.