Monthly Archives: December 2008

No Desaparecen NiƱo

One of the main things that keeps me writing in such a cryptic manner about my life, is that I do not want to come off as disrespectful toward anyone. At all. Ever.

Even if it does come across that I may seem angry or hurt, it isn’t anyone’s fault at all – I choose my own reactions to things. Sometimes I forget this, and I end up hating myself for running my mouth about shit too much. I try to tread ever-so-softly on that baseline. The idea that we’re all sharing our experiences, that they’re all intertwined in some way or another.

Coming off as disrespectful would demean that idea.

I’ve been through a lot of really weird shit in my life. Some of it has tested my resolve, while some of it was certainly of my own doing. Most of my early life I was dead set on destroying myself, whether it was through drugs, alcohol, purposely poor choices, or just stupid reckless abandon. I was a fucking mess, for sure.

I’m quite confident that if you took a handful of people together from throughout my life, and put them all in a room together and had them share stories about me, you would come out of that room thinking they were all talking about different people. I’ve been a lot of different things for a lot of different reasons. Not to mention being something different for a lot of different people as well. The consistent part, or at least the part that I’d like to hope has been consistent, is that I’ve always done the best I can possibly do in any given situation.

Although, I am quite sure that there are people out there in this great big world who would probably beg to differ. And they’re not half wrong at all.

You see, sometimes I get totally fucking paralyzed. Yes, I am openly admitting this. I’m not sure what triggers it, but when certain situations arise, I just do nothing. I shut the fuck on down. I stop answering my phone. I ignore e-mails. I don’t do a fucking thing. This is just Standard Ops for me when the shit gets too weird.

When this happens, it is almost a certainty that someone within my world will have their feelings get hurt. And it isn’t that I am unaware that this happens – they mostly let me know right quick-like that I have disappointed them in some way, which does kind of fuck me up a bit. But for some reason, the part that fucks me up(admitting this makes me feel odd, FYI) for realsies, is that the person that is hurt/offended/disappointed thinks this will somehow change this pattern in my behavior, or even impact the situation at hand in some way. I’m not that malleable, really.

Granted, plenty of amazing people have influenced me throughout my lifetime, and had some kind of impact that brings about some more flexibility and change in my internal workings and make-up. But on the whole, I’m just a mess of ideas and actions/reactions, built from the ground up out of my own experiences. And due to the fact that I am not nearly as intelligent as I like to delude myself into believing I am –

I fuck shit up all the time.

Here’s the shitacular and uber-honest part of all of this:

Half the time, I never really even feel badly. Seriously. I just feel, I don’t know… numb is the only word that comes to mind, which makes it sound even more demeaning and selfish than it is meant to, but that’s the only word that comes flashing into my mind right now. It sucks that people get their feelings hurt when I shut down, but I cannot be some dancing monkey or the clown with the water pistols all the time. I love my people, I really truly do. The people I have in my life are all amazing and beautiful, and I love them all like we share the same DNA. But I just sometimes need to shut it all down and do me, and me alone.

That’s just about my chosen family, the people I choose to surround myself with. My given family? Shit, son. That’s where the monster lives.

I disappear on my family all the time, man. I am The Disappeared Boy Formerly Known As Sean Hamilton Doyle.

I’ve tried really hard to figure it out, too. A lot of it is totally based out of fear. A lot of it is also about preconceived notions of who I am. Yes, given bloodline family knows who you came from, so they kind of have a handle on the make-up of you. But when your life has been as weird as mine, it isn’t that black and white. My given family knows who they want to know.

Not everything is ever as it appears to be in life, from what I have been able to gather and suss out on my own. My Parental Units were not saintly. They were human. And now that they have both passed away, so much of my life is in a constant state of flux and questioning on my end of things. As much as I thought I knew them – I just didn’t. Like everyone else on this rock, even parents wear a mask when they feel like they have to. Difference being, at least in my case, that the masks are all I really know. I cannot discover their true identities through the good graces of my family telling me about them, as I have 23-skidoo’d the fuck on out on them, too.

There have been plenty of things that have gone down in my life that some members of my given family refuse to even acknowledge, which is fine – I sometimes like to bury my head in the sand about unpleasantries as well. But in doing so, it discounts my human experience, which in turn creates distance. I’m grown, you know? I’m grown, an orphan, and a fucking survivor. None of those things can ever be taken away from me, so questioning it only makes me want to split, which is even easier for me than I wish it was.

When my Parental Units packed up house and moved us out to the desert, it really fucked things up for me in a lot of ways. I lost the closeness and warmth of what I thought my family was. I lost out on so much by being out there, where the scorpions and the spoiled rich kids dwell. They took a kid from Brooklyn, with wide-open eyes and a wide-open heart, and dropped him right smack in the middle of a school full of haves, where I was the super-secret have-not. I was too fucking smart, which turned me into a smartass of the highest caliber, basically just pissing on my teachers because I was bored and restless. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, I just didn’t. Ever.

I grew up all kinds of fucked up, really – always knowing deep inside of my heart that I belonged to Brooklyn.

It took me a number of years to gather up the testicular fortitude to bring my monkey ass back upstream to Brooklyn. My cousin helped me get here, expressing on my behalf to members of my given family that I truly needed to be here, to be near family. To be home.

And, as has been the pattern since my spawning, The Universe got me real good as soon as I let my guard down for a nanosecond. It was only Day Four when my grandmother had a massive stroke/heart attack combo right in front of me in her kitchen.

She didn’t even make it through the summer.

Shit just kind of snowballed from there. Death. Non-Consensual Polyamory. Alcohol. Chasing loose women. Xanax. Reefer. Hitting the wall. Running away for 90 days down in Arkansas. Trying to get clean. Hitting my stride with my writing. Getting conned – not once, but twice, by the same person. Cancer. A call for help. Running to Santa Fe to take care of my father. Hospice. Battles. Morphine. Death. Wills. Estates. Strokes. Hospitals. Deaths. Trying to drink myself blind. Chasing loose women. Mixing the Xanax, the reefer, and the alcohol in disturbingly dangerous levels. Wage Slavery.

Disappearing Act.

Cut to rightfuckingnow:

I don’t know how I got here, but I’ve been sober for almost two years now. Not a drop of hooch. Not one bar of Xanax. Not one puff of reefer. I held down a job like a motherfucker, up until recently when this War President economy fucked shit up for everyone, and they had to close up shop. I’m married to a wonderful and amazing woman who just so happens to also be my best friend in the world. I’m open and honest in the friendships I have now, and developing those friendships feels good to me, like there’s no reason at all why I would skip out on anyone. The Wife and I even rescued us a little wiggly critter of a pitbull, and we love her dearly. Shit, I’m so grown I have a dude who walks our dog for us half the week because we work so much.

I’m going to keep on working hard on the me inside of me, because that kid? That kid is still kind of broken. I’m going to keep on trying to keep my head pointed forward, instead of being on that constant backward swivel it used to groove itself dry on. I’m going to keep staying in touch with my amazing and beautiful sister, who was missing for far too long from my life. I’m going to keep on growing.

I just sometimes get all fucking choked up inside, because the people that I truly miss the most aren’t around to see it. To witness.

I’m going to work on not disappearing anymore.

I miss my family.

It’s time to fix that, too.

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First Snow Of Winter.

There is something about the first snowfall of Winter that always gets me.

I’m usually okay up until that point, but once that powdery goodness starts sticking to cars, to trees, to trash yet to be collected – that’s when I start to feel it.

I’m sure everyone has their own ways of dealing with their innermost of innermosts. Me? Well, I obviously ain’t the kind of cat who is going to spend his time sitting through a fuck-ton of therapy to get at the heart of the matter now, am I? I always have to do things the difficult way, as if any other way would have me out here in the ether, spilling my blood like this. I just can’t, for the life of me, see me sitting my ass down on some big leather sofa and spilling all this shit out to someone with a collection of framed educational historical artifacts.

Like someone somewhere once said – “we’re all just humans, sharing the same human experience.”

My human experience is a little bit of a motherfucker. Sometimes, I think The Universe has some inkling to just out and out try and make me appear to be some poor mamaluke, some tragic Charlie Brown type of cat. I know this isn’t truly the case, but a man sometimes has his moments when he lets whatever shit the world is giving him get him down a bit. And truth be told, I am actually a pretty simple man. I’m not nearly as complicated as I might try and have anyone believe. Right from wrong. Loyalty. Discretion. Integrity. Truthfulness.

Heart.

I’m sure that people misinterpret my intentions a lot of the time, considering that when the real heavy shit is going down, I’m much more apt to be a man of few words in Real Time. It might appear as though I am calculating in some way, which is actually quite true. But what I am usually calculating is damage control. I’m always trying to figure out how the smallest number of people can be truly hurt by the heavy shit. I know how much the heavy shit weighs. I know what kind of scarring it leaves behind. And I’m telling you right now – it isn’t pretty.

I know this, because I see it staring back at me, every morning, in the mirror.

I’m not standing on a motherfucking soapbox here, I’m just talking from my gut, from the heart of me.

As soon as the first snow starts to fall, it just creeps the fuck up on me. It’s like a weedy vine, squirming and arching its way up into my mind, working its way around the roots of my thoughts. Strangling every other thought. Snuffing them all out before they even get a chance to feel the warmth of the sun. It’s like the slow simmer of melody in a Mogwai song, slowly building up to a monstrous crescendo, blasting out all the light from the world with its relentless approach. My Father, My King oh-so-fittingly comes to mind here.

I cannot stop seeing the blurring of faces. Everything suddenly becomes a poorly edited version of what really went down. Voices all jumble together in my head and sound like a cacophony of jackals, feeding monstrously in a meadow. I feel my feet start to leave the ground I try so desperately to keep them on. My heart pumps boiling tears. My hands, they shake. In the tiniest portion of my mind that belongs to me and me alone – I shoot scalding hot bleach into my arteries, to rid myself of the memories.

Did I truly accomplish what I had set upon myself to do, or did I succeed in alienating everyone else? Did I protect their hearts, or did I intimidate them into submission?

Even now, the word monstrosity still rings in my head.

But that’s only half of it, you know?

The other half was my indignation, my pre-programmed righteousness.

I wasn’t going to go down the road I had been led down before. No fucking way. I wasn’t going to be pushed aside, brushed the fuck off like a gnat, like some unstable mental patient who cannot be trusted. And I most certainly wasn’t going to back down, neither. Not from anyone. I was not going to be left voiceless. Not this time.

I had no true ill will to speak of. I felt as though I was being given a Mission, a motherfucking Purpose. It felt like it was mandated from On High, another challenge put before me to work my way through. I never once hesitated in my heart, although many times my head tried to stop me.

In my heart of hearts, I was just following orders.

Even now, as the first snow falls outside of my window, I can taste that clean Santa Fe air. I remember the way the earth beneath me felt – liquid yet somehow stable, somewhat Martian. I remember the hissing sound of oxygen tanks. The smell of the morphine drops. Their tackiness on my fingertips.

The fucking Weather Channel.

Richard Pryor.

Sometimes, even in the most terrible of circumstances, we can find ourselves somehow able to bask in the glow of our own self-importance. Never in my life had I known that more than I did then, on that Mission. Late at night, sitting in the flickering glow of a television. Listening for a sign. Waiting on the inevitable. Waiting on an ascension.

The part that fucks me up, even now, is how easily I was able to let him go. I couldn’t save him – none of us could. I did all that I could to save his dignity, his honor. Irrespective of anything that went down during those last days, it was the least I could do for him.

For me, too.

You see, the rub with death is a fucked up thing. They get free, you know? They don’t have to suffer another fucking second. Everything is washed clean once they split. Every secret that gets unearthed might as well go on and get reburied. Every misdeed brought into the light should be forgotten. Every bit of it should be burned in the fire.

Us? Well, we’re kind of stuck in the afterglow, aren’t we? We get left behind here. Holding the bag, so to speak. We’re fucking stuck here, in the rightfuckingnow. Stuck with all of our unresolved childhood bullshit. Stuck with our sad-sack bags under our eyes. Stuck with our unanswered questions. Stuck with our convoluted memories. Stuck with our awkward feelings. Stuck with our otherness from one another, even though we all went down the into that dark well together.

Stuck with a hole so fucking big, even Hans Brinker couldn’t put his crooked little finger in.

And that, my friends, is a goddamn shame.

Maybe that’s what I truly need to do now, though. I can’t just throw dirt on this and hide from the real shit here. I am not wired to just hold on tightly to a memory as strong and as vivid as this. Maybe I need to stop thinking about damage control, and start thinking about actual healing.

Maybe I need to share the story, for real.

My Father. My King.

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Stuck.

I’m not very good at stagnation.

That’s probably a much bigger problem in regard to my writing than anyone would think off the top of their pretty little head. My mind moves much faster than my typing. My will to write is tempered with the realistic notion that not everyone wants to read/experience what my monkey ass has to say. All of these things factor in to what I do, which is a drag of the Highest Order.


Ideas spark and arc at a rate that would be terribly impossible to document, considering that I have become rather lazy artistically over the last year or so. Getting married and trying to be a Responsible Member of Functioning Society will take the wind out of those sails right quick if you let it*. And I honestly do not have the patience to do as I have threatened over the years, and buy myself some Voice Recognition program, so that I could just dictate all of this shit into the geekbox for documentation purposes – it would take far too long for me to train the damn thing to grok all of my verbal idiosyncrasies(not to mention my extra-special way of butchering the English language).

*I am certainly not blaming The Wife for this current Blockade of Artistic Endeavors – she’s been as supportive a woman as any man could hope to have at his side. It’s just that the systems I always had in place to ensure the relief of my own artistic tension have been buried underneath a mudslide of day-to-day grind shit. Goddamn you, responsibilities!

I keep on trying to figure out which direction I want to take this shit. Do I keep on spilling out the crazy stories from my life, or do I start unloading all of my ideas about the socio-politico and economic bullshit we’re all about to endure on a global scale never before seen? Do I break open the bones to get at the marrow in the middle of my own demons? Do I stop with the ridiculous shit and just start writing about sports(Goddamn, there are some really shitacular sports sites out there, you know?)? Music(would anyone even follow/read a site containing my views/ideas about music?)? Do I shut the whole horrorshow down and start some anonymous site that can never be traced back to me?

The Wife thinks I need to go see a Life Coach, or someone similar who nudges artists along and helps them break down the walls that get put up. I think she might be on to something – it’s not like I have anything to lose by checking into something like this. And it sure beats sitting here trying to force myself to stay committed to coughing up shit that isn’t what’s truly on my mind(or stuck in it, as it seems to be more often than not). I know that a lot of this is just me decompressing from being a workaholic asshole who has spent the last two years working eighty hours a week – putting everything that mattered to me behind a motherfucking job. Now that I’m not working that gig anymore, I should probably allow myself some time to reflect and regain my magical powers. But patience isn’t something that I have abundance of(when it comes to myself, that is – I got mad patience for people I love).
Hell, I’ve even considered taking some motherfucking writing classes, to see if that’s the push I need to get the ball rolling again.

I suppose the best thing for me to do, is keep my mind open to this shit. To try and force this would be really retarded – I’ve been through this before. And really?

I probably just need to have something happen to me that really pisses me the fuck off, and that’ll blow the roof off the fucker right quick-like.

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