curiouser and curiouser

I love words. Really, really love them. I don’t believe there is anything that can’t be communicated through their correct combination (even if you have to make up a few new ones - which happens to be a side hobby of mine). The manifestation of this love is displayed throughout my life. I talk a lot, usually without thinking. I read anything I get my hands on with an almost compulsory need. My enjoyment of a song is heavily tied up in its lyrics. And I write as frequently as inspiration strikes.

I consider writing a type of emotional whoring. You take what you feel and use it as a catalysis to help you find the words to project a certain tone or feeling. That being said, I’ve never really been shy with my writing. You want to read more by me, just ask. I'll gladly share. I force my friends to read it frequently. I’m sure they’re sick of me interrupting them to ask, “want to read something?” They almost always say yes, and I’m amazed at the grace they have about it, considering the majority of my friends are more into math and science than words. (Don’t ask me how that works out, it still manages to amaze me. Numbers. *shudder*)

My personal favorite is probably poetry. I like the thrift, imagery and incomplete thoughts that develop it. Word choice seems to matter more in poetry, and the writer is forced to be more selective. When you disect a poem, the number of layers that go into each line amazes me. That being said, I’m picky about what I like. You can preach the glory of Whitman as the first all-American poet as much as you want to, but I still can’t stand his poetry. And unless you’re Dr. Seuss, I don’t want to read anything you’ve written that is a direct rhyme. Even slant rhyming has a tendency to make me throw up in my mouth a bit. I’m not a particular fan of sonnets, partially because of their built in rhyme schemes, but largely because I’m pretty much incapable of writing one.(Trust me, I had to for a class - it was a wreck.) It’s rare that I like a haiku - but when I do I really, really like it. I could go on, but I doubt anyone really cares about my preferences. But in case you do, I swear that I don’t hate everything - Bukowski’s amazing. And Plath. And T.S. Eliot. And lots of others. More people need to read good poetry, so they can actually appreciate it. I wish they’d change all the poetry we were forced to read, to poems that are actually interesting. (I prefer Bukwski as a representative of America to Whitman by far. And hey, both have lots of sex and talk about the American dream - so they should be sorta interchangeable, right? No one would miss Whitman. I promise.)

When we got this assignment, I began reading through my favorite pieces I’ve written. Many of them were about the more tragic events in my life. But when I read them, I realized that I’d written most of the emotion out of them. It could be that many of the events happened years ago, but there was an emotional disconnect between the piece and me reading it now. Not that the events that I wrote about don’t still hurt, because they definitely still do, but because I’d had to make a peace of sorts with what happened and my emotions in relation to it in order to write about the event.

While I was tempted to pick a poem, because it’s my more frequent type of writing, instead I decided to go with a creative non-fiction piece I wrote for a class. We were told to pick our favorite song, and write about it. Just like when you ask me what my favorite book is, when you ask me to pick a favorite song, I’ll end up staring at you blankly. It’s an impossible question, and choosing just one is simply a monumental task. I knew I could never go about it that way. So instead, I twisted the rules a bit and wrote about a song that has one of the greatest emotional impacts on me. “I’m Dying Tomorrow” by Alkaline Trio. (Great band, by the way.)

The reason I chose this piece, besides the fact that it’s a personal favorite of mine, is because as easily as words seem to come to me now, there was a time when I didn’t say everything I wanted to. I’ll never know if the words I choked back then would’ve been that magic combination that would have made things different. It’s probably why I’d rather say too much now, instead of too little. So I thought it was an appropriate piece to share - a story about not saying enough.

Do It Right

Do It Right

I grew up listening to Meat Loaf, Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen. The attitude in their voices, the honesty in their lyrics and their unapologetic way of being themself struck a chord in me. I began to idolize everything that came along with the rocker stereotype. If you go through my collection of MP3s, you'll find many raspy-voiced singers with lyrics that range from the poetic to the political, or both.

You'll find art, classic, Detroit, garage, glam, and hard rock. There's emo, punk and power rock - to name a few. I have dresser drawers stuffed with band t-shirts, and a Sid Vicious doll that stands proudly on the bookshelf in my room. But it really is about the music - the message, and emotions that get conveyed from the first to the last note of a song. I'm the person that will put on a song, saying, "You have to listen to this!" I'll make you mixed CDs (which admittedly doesn't have the same ring as the classic "mixed tapes"). I have songs for every occasion... even when I wish I didn't.

When Macky died, when he killed himself, I was an ocean away. Back in Michigan my friends, his friends - our friends - were gathering for his funeral, to reminisce and say goodbye. I never expected to feel trapped in England, a country I'd always wanted to visit and explore. I paced around my tiny apartment, walked around the neighborhood chain smoking. I frequently found myself headed subconsciously to the nearby graveyard when I wandered aimlessly on the cobbled streets of Earl's Court, my home that summer. The graveyard held cement crosses and angel statues covered in moss. It was beautiful, if morbid. There was peace lurking, hidden in the graves and the tall unkempt grass. I would listen to one song on repeat.

"I'm Dying Tomorrow" by Alkaline Trio might be considered a macabre song by some. The title tends to cause a few raised eyebrows. But it fit Macky. For 2 minutes and 32 seconds, Dan Andriano sings over an upbeat sounding, pop-punk track a series of questions, a check list for things he wants to make sure he's done before he dies.

I met Clinton McQueen III sometime in middle school. Back then he went by Macky, but when he went away to college and surrounded himself with people who didn’t know him, he decided that Clint was more fitting. He had tried to recreate himself, to get distance from his past. I'll always call him Macky.

Macky came out in 7th grade, breaking up with his girlfriend by telling her that he liked boys. He wore a hula skirt made out of plastic green leaves and a bright blue, pink, and green Hawaiian shirt to our 8th grade graduation because the theme for our graduation dance was tropical (and because he wanted to stand out in the sea of khaki, navy and black). He was my debate partner our Junior year of high school, and I joined the Gay Straight Alliance club he formed our Senior year. I watched as he dropped almost 40 pounds too fast to be healthy in the aftermath of his mother's suicide, saw him struggling to make peace with himself. I was there for him in only an insubstantial way, waiting for him to come to me if he wanted.

He seemed the epitome of the Rock ‘n’ Roll personality, clad in tight jeans and with an aura of rebellion. I loved everything about him - his over the top behavior, the cigarettes he smoked (cloves that he shared with me behind the school one night when we stayed late for some club), his ability to shrug off other people's opinions. He was my partner for my high school graduation walk- amusing me at the rehearsal with outlandish stories, and tales of his sexcapades when we were supposed to be paying attention.

He made me laugh constantly, and being around him gave me a fuck it all attitude that made me feel like we were both invincible. When he slipped into the drugs that come with a rock ‘n’ roll persona, I thought it was easier to ignore it than to confront him. The handful of times I saw him in college, when he came to visit me in East Lansing or when we both went to Ann Arbor, he was drunk or high - telling me I had to try this amazing weed, and popping prescription pills I knew weren't his. When Dan Andriano croons out, "Did I remember to sleep in,/ Take lots of pills?" I hear Macky's first few checks.

The lyrics ask:
Did I remember to keep your beer as full as mine?
Did I remember to say cheers?
Did I at least try to make sure everybody had a good time?

Each time I hear them, it's as if Macky's asking me - and the answer to each one is yes. He was the kind of guy who was always there to fill up your cup, to encourage you to hit on the cute guy that you’d been looking at across the room. He was an enabler and a constant supporter. Because he was so fun to be around, so accepting, it was easy to ignore his problems. To ignore the million warning signs he needed help that, looking back, are glaringly obvious. Easy to see that I should have confronted him, instead of waiting for him to come to me.

Dan Andriano sings:
Did I remember to stay up late-
Singing for the fun
Drinking for the taste?

Again, Macky's answers are yes. I know because I was there with him. I only regret not being with him for the rest of the things in his life that had him so troubled. So I play the song, as both a warning and reminder - as a substitute for Macky when I need strength, or when I just want to think about him. And when the song hits the final "Did I do it right?" I choke back a "no." I wish I could have let him know that he should have come to me, and how much he means to me. And I take solace in the fact that I'm still around to try to "do it right."