It's not that things hurt less, though physically that's true. It's not the belief that most 17 year-olds have in their own futures, because I never had that; I was never convinced until passing it that I'd make it to 21/25/30. Future? Fie.
No. My childhood and teen years were filled with extended depressions, isolation, and self loathing.
17 was special because all that stopped for a while. It was
THE
first year that I was okay with being me.
It was the first time I developed feelings for a girl who had them for me AS I WAS. She lived in Augusta, and nothing came from it. It was a band/chorus field trip, and we stayed a night up there, after they a night down with us. A bunch of us got together and watched movies. This bad ass punk chick cuddled right up against me, and I just held her, and was so high from it.
Never even kissed her. Good crush if it still rates after 21 years and no consummation.
17 was the year I saw Dead Poets Society, and, as I was the age of the boys in the movie, was stamped with validation for feeling, as I did, always more intensely than those around me. I was given license for creative madness, and shown that it was okay to write poetry when no other way could express the feeling. Tanya (First Tanya The Unrequited) never saw anything I wrote about her, and it's just as well, as it was awful. Most others I've been moved by have seen or heard some of it.
Because that's what I do, and how I feel. And I learned that year of my life to be okay with that.
I've forgotten many times since then, and relearned in small portions. For a long time I thought that kind of self-acceptance came from drugs, or from booze. Those stopped working.
For many periods of time I pinned all of that to the moment's muse, always an unfair burden.
I relearned recently that the acceptance comes from me, and always has. No one else can endow me with this. If I'm not okay with the wiring that won't let me do the normal shit easily, but let's me write 10 whole songs in a week, with dozens of pages of valid philosophy who the fuck will be okay with it?
I'm a freak. A mutant. An artist. Hypersensitive.
And happy about it. Because I feel, and I live, and am totally aware of it. Things move me totally, and not in some reasonable controlled way; I am wholly committed to any feeling that inspires me. Even to the point of being embarrassing for some to be around me. I no longer care; realizing how these sensations can take to an ecstatic place I've begun to look at people not so moved as lacking something, rather than me having something I shouldn't.
There were bagpipes in town tonight, highland pipes played well. After parting company with someone makes me smile, and laugh a lot this evening I heard the pipes, distant, over traffic and town noise. I must have looked possessed as I tracked my head back and forth determining the direction, and on so doing, walking full speed in pursuit of them.
From BNG to the intersection at Congress and Fleet a tune had been playing and suddenly ended. I hissed as though the air had gone out of me, and awareness returned. The man in the crosswalk with me seemed startled. My hiss may have been more a growl. I didn't care.
I found the pipers at the entrance to the Music Hall, heralding the TIFF. They did not look pleased to see me. I realized that I had to leave them alone or they wouldn't play. I walked back up the block, and as I went they resumed. They played a tune I'd never heard, something more classical than most pipe music, something articulate, and bright, and but with that Celtic certainty that comes with so many pipe tunes. I leaned against the wall by Bullmoose, closed my eyes, and reveled. I let myself be absorbed in the music, something ancestral and magical pulling me apart as I heard.
The pipers played in unison, and then divided into harmonies, and I nearly fell down from it. I open my eyes, and saw Steven Fowle of the NH Gazette, whose greeting suggested I wasn't acting normally, and possibly worthy of concern. Seeing a returned greeting, and no cry for help, he was on his way.
I listened until the end of the piece, and realizing I couldn't take anymore without being a total spectacle I departed.
Actually no. That's not why I left. I had no one to share this with, or trustworthy to act as anchor should I go too far to the weird. On the way to my bike there was an older woman playing Celtic harp and singing, and I couldn't stop for her. I was too high on the whole day, and still had stuff to do.
Most of the rest of the evening has been spent with friends, and training in old forms of fighting, learning the ability to destroy to be able to better avoid it.
I still feel the pipe tune. I don't know what it was, but I'm electric from it.
Thinking about the people who stared at me, or were startled by reactions I feel kind of sorry for them. Music and the right company has made me as high, and full, and happy as it's possible to be. They seemed barely moved by anything. Considering how they looked at me, compared to how I feel I ask them: who's impaired?
Walking across the bridge I saw the moon, past full, but low and orange and self-important. I growled at her. It was needed. The tourists in front of me jumped, and moved aside.
I'm alright with that.
No. My childhood and teen years were filled with extended depressions, isolation, and self loathing.
17 was special because all that stopped for a while. It was
THE
first year that I was okay with being me.
It was the first time I developed feelings for a girl who had them for me AS I WAS. She lived in Augusta, and nothing came from it. It was a band/chorus field trip, and we stayed a night up there, after they a night down with us. A bunch of us got together and watched movies. This bad ass punk chick cuddled right up against me, and I just held her, and was so high from it.
Never even kissed her. Good crush if it still rates after 21 years and no consummation.
17 was the year I saw Dead Poets Society, and, as I was the age of the boys in the movie, was stamped with validation for feeling, as I did, always more intensely than those around me. I was given license for creative madness, and shown that it was okay to write poetry when no other way could express the feeling. Tanya (First Tanya The Unrequited) never saw anything I wrote about her, and it's just as well, as it was awful. Most others I've been moved by have seen or heard some of it.
Because that's what I do, and how I feel. And I learned that year of my life to be okay with that.
I've forgotten many times since then, and relearned in small portions. For a long time I thought that kind of self-acceptance came from drugs, or from booze. Those stopped working.
For many periods of time I pinned all of that to the moment's muse, always an unfair burden.
I relearned recently that the acceptance comes from me, and always has. No one else can endow me with this. If I'm not okay with the wiring that won't let me do the normal shit easily, but let's me write 10 whole songs in a week, with dozens of pages of valid philosophy who the fuck will be okay with it?
I'm a freak. A mutant. An artist. Hypersensitive.
And happy about it. Because I feel, and I live, and am totally aware of it. Things move me totally, and not in some reasonable controlled way; I am wholly committed to any feeling that inspires me. Even to the point of being embarrassing for some to be around me. I no longer care; realizing how these sensations can take to an ecstatic place I've begun to look at people not so moved as lacking something, rather than me having something I shouldn't.
There were bagpipes in town tonight, highland pipes played well. After parting company with someone makes me smile, and laugh a lot this evening I heard the pipes, distant, over traffic and town noise. I must have looked possessed as I tracked my head back and forth determining the direction, and on so doing, walking full speed in pursuit of them.
From BNG to the intersection at Congress and Fleet a tune had been playing and suddenly ended. I hissed as though the air had gone out of me, and awareness returned. The man in the crosswalk with me seemed startled. My hiss may have been more a growl. I didn't care.
I found the pipers at the entrance to the Music Hall, heralding the TIFF. They did not look pleased to see me. I realized that I had to leave them alone or they wouldn't play. I walked back up the block, and as I went they resumed. They played a tune I'd never heard, something more classical than most pipe music, something articulate, and bright, and but with that Celtic certainty that comes with so many pipe tunes. I leaned against the wall by Bullmoose, closed my eyes, and reveled. I let myself be absorbed in the music, something ancestral and magical pulling me apart as I heard.
The pipers played in unison, and then divided into harmonies, and I nearly fell down from it. I open my eyes, and saw Steven Fowle of the NH Gazette, whose greeting suggested I wasn't acting normally, and possibly worthy of concern. Seeing a returned greeting, and no cry for help, he was on his way.
I listened until the end of the piece, and realizing I couldn't take anymore without being a total spectacle I departed.
Actually no. That's not why I left. I had no one to share this with, or trustworthy to act as anchor should I go too far to the weird. On the way to my bike there was an older woman playing Celtic harp and singing, and I couldn't stop for her. I was too high on the whole day, and still had stuff to do.
Most of the rest of the evening has been spent with friends, and training in old forms of fighting, learning the ability to destroy to be able to better avoid it.
I still feel the pipe tune. I don't know what it was, but I'm electric from it.
Thinking about the people who stared at me, or were startled by reactions I feel kind of sorry for them. Music and the right company has made me as high, and full, and happy as it's possible to be. They seemed barely moved by anything. Considering how they looked at me, compared to how I feel I ask them: who's impaired?
Walking across the bridge I saw the moon, past full, but low and orange and self-important. I growled at her. It was needed. The tourists in front of me jumped, and moved aside.
I'm alright with that.
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