When I left the New York City world of broadcast advertising in ’87, the fax machine was revolutionizing communications and only some science fiction writers envisioned today. While I know progress is our cultural mantra, I feel the need to appreciate where we have come from, taking the best of it moving forward. I want to hold close the basics of our humanity because they are the forever tent poles of a time before now.” Me, November 1, 2014
No. 300 has nothing to do with bowling a perfect game and that is for two important reasons. One, I can’t bowl to save my ass. I think I may have nudged 150 a couple of decades ago and quite by accident. God, I was awful at it and come to think of it, I was awful at virtually anything deemed to be called a sport. Second, the reason for the title is that this is my 300th story, a milestone for me, but likely not a big deal to you and I’m OK with that.
Speaking of sports, I started running in my early thirties, but it had everything to do with emotional survival and nothing whatsoever to do with winning a ribbon or getting an engraved trophy. My “mouse in a maze” life had rapidly started disintegrating. I was living in a home I couldn’t afford, commuting for several hours each way, to a professional world that felt increasingly foreign to me. My marriage completely collapsed and I was this guy, floating in space, untethered to everything he thought he cared about, the only exception, my two beautiful boys.
There I was, a young man, clinging to some of the trappings of success, but knowing deep in my gut that I had fallen victim to my own childish dream of being a grown up, not realizing you need a good relationship with yourself, before you embark on the kind of complex journey I had backed into. Through the wonderful magic of hindsight, I think running probably saved my life. Moving my body, often to the point of exhaustion, helped to free me up inside as well. Much later in life, I found that stillness did the same thing, easily as challenging as a hard run.
I spent my thirties trying to get to know myself, the majority of it in therapy, which I remember initially thinking was only for crazy people. My internal dialogue seemed to gradually feel more anchored during this time. Of course, there were the requisite revelatory moments, like realizing I was angry with my mother. For many years, I suffered from the “good boy” syndrome. In fairness, most of my life was spent with one parent, my father having succumbed to heart attack when I was just a kid. The only thing I could think to do was to be a good son, a child’s insurance against looming orphanhood.
You will notice we are well into this story and I haven’t brought up bowling again. I have been waiting to get to this number, because it feels like such an accomplishment to me. I knew I wanted to use the perfect game as the title and figured I could get a cool picture as well. Getting here has made me want to look back, which is what I’ve been doing.
I try to be an honest guy, especially with my writing. I started this piece, like I always do, Friday afternoon. This milestone of mine is such a huge deal for me, which is why I wanted to go backwards in time for just a little. Maybe I got around half way through and then dropped it until Saturday afternoon, when I always revisit with fresh eyes. Oh my God, it completely sucked! I couldn’t understand half of it and I wrote it! I figured I would do my Sunday ride with the Sons of Kauai and then come back to the horror.
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Dylan is singing Positively Fourth Street and I am in a great mood. It was windy as hell on the bike and I am very pleased that my recently purchased, camo-colored, doo rag stayed on my head for the entire ride. For those of you who are woke, Amazon used the name or I never would have. Yes, the name has been culturally appropriated by tough guys and who is gonna argue with them? Although, being worried about your hair is a little suspect, if you get my drift?
Now, here I am, sitting at my desk. I am perfectly at ease, a writer in his private, little playpen of the mind. I was so nervous when I started this word journey of mine years ago, thinking I should apologize at the end of every sentence. Even worse than that was the feeling that no one could possibly give a shit about what I have to say.
Around ten years ago, on Halloween night 2011, I became a writer! I had resisted being, who I wanted to be for decades. On that night, I wrote the first few pages of what would become a memoir for my grandson. I really don’t think I was blessed with much imagination, but the accumulation of experiences began to feel like a currency I could spend on the page. The older I got, the more the idea of terminal oblivion bothered me and I began creating my epitaph without end.
I think the worst thing I writer can do is to write about writing. Really, who gives a shit? Honestly, this accomplishment of mine could be about anything at all. Self-expression, no matter what it looks like, is a beautiful thing. It took me decades to have the self-confidence to do this. It has fulfilled an immense hole in my soul and I am eternally grateful.
I have recently started communicating directly with my grandson. When I wrote about running and not doing it for a trophy, I meant it. It is not the same for my writing, not even close. This epitaph of mine, until the last breath, is for the sole benefit of this boy. I never would have dreamed of making an ass of myself for anyone other than him. Every word I have written is meant for him and I only dreamed about a time when we could actually connect in the way we recently have started.
I have known from the beginning that every word I write will be read by my grandson. 300 stories ago, that first one was meant for him. My memoir, which preceded all these, was like a grenade, detonating a torrent of memories and experiences all these years from then.
I very recently wrote him two lines I want to share with you, “There is always so much focus on the mind and the heart is often ignored. Doing what you love doing and being who you want to be is where it’s at.”
300 stories ago, I decided I needed to keep on going with what I started in the memoir. You know, I started doing this as an act of love, which is the only thing that could have forced me to cross the divide between a life of terminal silence and being who I wanted to be. It is so funny how things work out.
Looking out the window and crying. Trust the heart.
My podcast: Mind and the Motorcycle
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