Silence: Part II

I wrote this piece three years ago, and am once-again feeling the breathless silence in the re-reading.

But I am glad that there has been silence today: not the eerie once-in-a-lifetime silence of that day, but a more mundane and, thankfully, more benevolent silence. It is the silence of not having my patriotism, and the patriotism of others, questioned, because we are not making grand Facebook proclamations regarding 9/11.

I've seen it before (not directed at me) on other anniversaries, and it has always bothered me. "Why don't you post something about 9/11? Why don't you change your profile picture to a flag or the Twin Towers or an American Eagle?" And I've seen more than my share of "Never Forget" sentiments out there in the electronic ether.

Like any of us could fucking ever "forget."

Seriously? I live 9/11 every day of my goddamn life. How could I possibly forget?

I lived in Boston at the time, so the final flights took to the sky mere miles from me. Now that I am back home in Maine, I drive by the Portland International Jetport nearly every day, and I see the grainy security footage of Mohamad Atta boarding the Portland to Boston flight from MY airport in my head. I drive by the Comfort Inn, where he stayed and where it all started almost every morning. You think I'm going to "forget" when I see the real Ground Zero every morning?

I live with the physical start of 9/11 every day of my life, and I count the human toll daily. Not one day of my life goes by where I don't see the bodies - not yet dead, but merely seconds away from death - plunging from the towers in desperation. Not a single day of my life goes by where I don't see those bodies flying by - 1,000', 10 seconds, 150 mph - and I don't think to myself, "that was a husband/wife, mother/daughter, sister/brother." How am I possibly going to "forget" when I see it daily?

I choose not to change my profile picture to an American flag, and I choose not to post maudlin links from that day. NOT because I've forgotten, but because it's all too entirely real, and I choose to remember that the American Spirit was not killed on that horrific day.

I choose to not post about it because I don't care to give in to the simple black-and-white jingoism that defined the aftermath. I don't have the strength to point a finger and yell "bullshit" to every mouth-breathing crayon-pushing bloviater who suggests that every terrorist is a Muslim (like Timothy McVeigh, Richard Reed, Eric Rudolph, Scott Roeder, Jared Lee Loughner and James Holmes, right?).

I choose to not post about it because I choose to continue living life to the fullest. Because every day we have granted to us is a gift and one never knows when it will all end.

I do NOT choose to not post because I have no patriotism, nor because I have "forgotten" that day.

I think every day we have is worth a lot more than a Facebook status or a bumper sticker. And I choose to live every day like it's my last. Because it may be.

Don't ever forget that.

Goosebumps

Sunday afternoon: listening to “Love Reign O’er Me” from The Who’s Quadrophenia and feeling the biggest bear-hug of my life. May, 2000: I’m standing stage right working microphone detail for the Boston Rock Opera benefit show For the Benefit of Mr. Dee. Gary Cherone (Extreme, Van Halen) has a showcase on “Love Reign O’er Me”, and I have a ringside seat. During rehearsals (I have a walk-on myself), I’m one of many good-naturedly ribbing Garry about the horror of hearing “More Than Words” on FM radio over and over and over again. Gary is one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever been around, and the nastiest he gets is to tell us, with a smile, “Yeah, but it’s nice to hear ‘More Than Words’ when I walk into the grocery store and know that my groceries have just been paid for.’” Touche. Cherone sings lead on “Love Reign O’er Me”, NAILING all the Daltry screams and generally making the song his own. It’s the kind of performance that will leave the hairs on your neck standing at attention for the rest of your days. And after this, he walks back to me, hands off his mic and gives me the biggest bear-hug I’ve ever gotten in my life, and says, “thanks, man.” Yeah, like I DID anything. And this is coming from the guy who tormented my aural experience of my last year in high school? I still feel that hug, and that moment, when it really solidified in my head that I had made it as a musician in Boston, and I now needed to look at my future and keep raising the bar. But oh, that plateau and what it meant and means to have gotten there.

Six Months

Six months ago tonight was The Last Time.

Six Months.
26 weeks.
183 days.

I am blessed with the greatest friends and family to make it this far. And I'm blessed with me.

I am fucking hardcore.

Six months gone. The rest is mine.

Milestones

24 weeks. 2 weeks shy of six months. Shit.

And I'm FINALLY feeling back to "normal", and FINALLY feeling absolutely great. And I am so fortunate: for my friends and family, and yes, for me.

2 weeks shy of six months is nothing in the grand scheme. But right now it's everything.

Crash

Trying, trying, trying trying trying...it's all so trying...

98% of my moments now are so drastically better than 98% of my moments six months ago, and I have no desire to go back. But the load of reclaiming and recreating myself has been unbelievably heavy at times. All of this on top of a regular world of steady employment, commuting, general daily maintenance and being a husband/son/brother/friend (and trying like crazy to be a good all of the above) when I barely know how to take care of myself anyway...(I'm extremely independent and self-reliant, yet I can get so lost in myopic focus that I forget to eat, sleep, etc.) That world never stopped. And I've had some catching up to do.

I. Am. So. Mentally exhausted.

Melodramatic treacle, I know, and I will get it together and get to. But Jesus, this has been so hard, and at the end, in spite of all the support I do have, I'm ultimately going it alone...

Getting Better

Again, write-it-and-it-shall-be-so: so far so great, 2012. I'm feeling strong, on a brilliant, brilliant writing roll, at least in terms of awesomely amazing peeps seeing and digging my work, and oh-by-the-way, clean for five months. I have the greatest friends and family, and they are totally there. New optimism, new feeling good about self (finally!), new world.

Getting better all the time...

The Agony and the Slightly Less Sucky Agony

What. A. Year.

Ultimately there was a lot of good, mainly on the writing front. And especially on the personal growth and development and self-awareness front.

But to get there? Hell and More Hell. Mortifying, Painful as Hell Hell.

I was told that I'm jinxing it to say that it can't possibly get worse in 2012, but I say it because I believe it, and because I believe in the write-it-and-it-shall-be-so school of turning it around.

It can't possibly get worse.