Those Times I’m Like Magellan

“Go!”
She cheated and started early, leaving me behind to chase after her distancing demand. Sprinting, I felt the wind whipping against my cheeks and whispering in my ears, tales of how one day my mother will fall down the stairs, and there is nothing I can do to stop the process of life. By the time I made it to the end of the field Isabelle was balancing on the stone wall waving a daisy through the air, conducting a symphony of hiding crickets. It was late dusk, that time that bathes everything in a glow of orange and yellow and tricks you into thinking that peace is capable and that one day you will have the perfect job and big house you always pictured in your mind. For Is, dusk was that time when she was infinite, the time she was queen and I was king and the world was ours to grab and shake until all the parts were scrambled into confusion. We liked things scrambled. We lived for mayhem.

I sprawled out in the grass at Isabelle’s feet, basking in what little light still remained awake. Turning my head to face her, I took Is in for everything that she was, an off type of a vision: unkempt hair, barefoot with grass stains on her knobby knees, staring off into the air thinking about the communication between elephant tribes, exactly how she was when we first met, when we were but mere children.
I was only eighteen that day Is appeared, the day I was faced with my first life altering decision that was not a decision at all but life twisting around and shooting off to the right giving me no choice but to follow its lead. Sitting on an empty Greyhound traveling towards Portland at one in the morning, I dozed off. I awoke to discover that I was not as alone as I had thought, a realization that applied to more than just the stale smelling bus, but also to my entire existence up to that point. I found myself suddenly holding a crumpled napkin on which a stranger had scribbled with red lipstick, “Could you ever love an explorer?” and that exact stranger perched in the seat next to mine.
But Isabelle was a fool, because I had been loving her since the day I discovered I had a beating heart inside my fragile ribcage. I had been waiting for her to come along and make my life make sense, to put together the pieces I could find no place for. I somehow knew she was coming, but the minute details of her physical being had been in a blur before then. It was as if that crumpled napkin with the lipstick scribbles snapped my eyes into focus, and suddenly I saw how my life would be for the next ten years. In reality I knew it wasn’t the napkin that made the difference, but it was everything it represented. The napkin was Is, I knew that, and in it she whispered every secret I had ever kept from parents, and she told me how she had never meant to become a vagabond, but being a ballerina never quite works out like one plans.
“I’ve let down my fair share of strange lovers, but you and I will be an epic tale,” her owl eyes told me in an instant. With a blink and a sigh, she told me that with her I was soon going to learn why exactly the Bermuda triangle eats up elderly widows and sailors searching for the earth’s secrets, and that the Grand Canyon is mother nature’s answer to all the lost souls who have asked, “What is the point of this hellish existence?” while sitting at their dinner tables with their beautiful spouses and three perfect children. I could tell from the way she bit her lip that her words were true fifty-one percent of the time. But when she spoke it was just like that Billie Holiday song I was always fond of, and her lies always sounded like truths so I couldn’t help but devour it all. I didn’t want the facts anyways. Isabelle spoke with passion, and that canceled out her fibs; it’s the cardinal knowledge of the bohemian that a life spoken with passion is not a lie at all but in fact is the most truthful thing you could ever say.
That night not only brought along Isabelle with my future in her palm but also washed away my past and my ability to use the past tense. Before that point I might not have even lived, and sometimes I forget that we lived separate secret lives that did not bleed onto the other’s. Those lives didn’t matter, they only shaped us as each other and prepared us for the now, for the destitute and fly-by-night ways we swore by. But it would be a lie to say that my heart has stopped pining entirely for the material comforts of an old suburban town; sometimes I wouldn’t so mind that white picket fence or even that boss I kind of hate but play golf with anyways. But it’s like Is says, the world isn’t going to fall in love with itself. I have the clouds, and that’s enough for me.
Gently, Isabelle nudges me with her toe then kneels to tuck her plucked daisy safely behind my ear.
“This earth’s fucked up,” she says, “but that’s what makes it irresistible.” I don’t remember where it was in Portland I was going to, only that I never actually made it.

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Stars Fading But I Linger On Dear

When I was a child my mother, my sweet mother, used to sing me to sleep. Her favorite was “Dream a Little Dream of Me” by the Mamas and the Papas. The whistling, the chorus, the verse, the everything.

Now listening to this song, on constant repetition, I feel comfortable, calm and certain everything is in its right place.
My mother, the band’s loyal fan, would patiently sing this to me every time I wished to hear the melody. Slowly rocking me back and forth in her arms. I remember her scent, the texture of her arms, and her cool breathy voice whispering into my ear. I remember the sensation of feeling perfectly safe. I remember the simple feeling of life being perfectly in its place. The simplicity of childhood, of family, of pure love.
I cannot listen to this song without thinking of this kindness, this pure simple loving kindness. It takes me back, not to a childish era, but that of a refined and easy life. The life of a mother just loving her daughter. The life of a daughter perfectly happy with a mother’s love, nothing else.
If only life could be this easy. If only I could be as comfortable, calm and certain all the time. If only I could have my mother slowly rock me back and forth breathing love into my ear. If only I could time travel.
But what if? Why not? How come?
I believe it could happen. Why not? Anything is possible. I can still be a sweet hippie child, cradled in the arms of a mother with nothing to give but love, with nothing of need except love.
Homeward bound I am, wrapped up in the idea of what is ahead. A break of love, kind simple love. A break of comfort, calm and certainness. A break full of a mother, a daughter, a song, and loving arms. A break of the past come back to warm my heart and soothe my mind. Restore my life. Repair my heart heavy with burden. Heavy from lack of simple love.

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Panic

“And I say to all the young wild ones
to you on your way up
the world isn’t against you my dear,
it just doesn’t care.”
- Modern Life is War “Marshalltown”

-

“Agoraphobia was something I’d always dealt with, so the incident at the mall was not surprising. I guess what was startling was not the panic itself, but it’s intensity. The intensity of my heart pounding against my chest attempting with brute strength to shatter my breast plate. The shortness of breath and the way every muscle tensed. The sound of my thoughts screaming “Look at all these fucking people, man, you’re not fucking one of them.”


Rob hated explaining himself. The doctor shifted in her chair, not giving Rob the slightest bit of insight as to what she thought of him. She did cringe a bit with the profanity.
“So what did you do next?” she asked.
“I’m not so sure,” he answered. “I mean I know I left the mall, but it’s all a fog and a blur. I can’t tell the difference between what really happened and what is my mind filling in the blanks. I could’ve done anything really and that’s what scares me. What I’m capable of, you know?”
“And what are you capable of?”
“To be honest I was hoping you’d know.”
“And how could I possibly know that?”
“I don’t know. By asking questions and making inferences and all that other psychoanalytic shit.”
“You seem like an intelligent man, Mr. Collins, however I would very much like it if you didn’t refer to the sum of my education and life’s work as ‘shit’.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Accepted,” she replied. “I guess the question I’m institutionally obligated to ask is are you capable of hurting yourself or anyone else?”
Rob sat silent for a bit. He wondered what reaction an affirmative answer to her question might elicit.
“I don’t think I’m capable of either.”
The answer seemed to placate the Doctor and both parties understood why. The session ended and Rob left the startling, institutionalized white of the Doctor’s office and drove back to his apartment.
Rob wondered on the drive back why he’d sought counseling. After all, misanthropy paid the bills for his car and apartment. Rob Collins was forty five. He’d been the guitarist for Nervous Breakdown, a popular and vital band during Punk Rock’s nascent stages, when he was 17. He’d since gone on to front Bulldog Front, in the late 80’s and early 90’s, a band that by all accounts, defined the genre of post-hardcore. Rob had always lived on society’s fringe so, why now, would he attempt to change.
In the mid 90’s Rob disappeared from music altogether, choosing instead to take a wife and start a family. Rob told his new bride nothing of his screaming, angry, past and didn’t keep so much as an old acoustic guitar in his apartment in Manhattan. After 9/11 and a messy divorce, Rob moved to his hometown of Washington D.C. He’d started writing again, though poetry and short stories rather than songs. Rob was still very much focused and angry.

* * *

Rob sat down in the back room of a used record store in Washington D.C. The walls were lined with flyers from 80’s hardcore shows boasting lineups with Minor Threat, Black Flag, Bad Brains, and Rob’s own band Nervous Breakdown, among countless others. Rob was being interviewed for a documentary on American Subcultures throughout the 1980’s.
“So Rob where were you when Punk Rock started?”
“Probably, huffing glue in a basement listening to Black Sabbath.”
Rob immediately did not like his interviewer.
“Your band, Nervous Breakdown, is credited with furthering a certain angrier and more violent strain of punk rock, that many writers call Hardcore. This is something you’ve since apologized for in a recent interview, why is that?”
“I’ll answer that question with another,” Rob said. “How old are you?”
“21, but that doesn’t seem…”
“And if you’re lucky enough to age 24 years, noting that it’s a longer time period than you’ve been alive, do you think that everything you say and do now, will stay the same?”
“I guess I see your point.”
“To flatly answer your question, I never set out to be a mouthpiece or a spokesman for anything. I was just another dumb, angry, pissed off, brat. I was sick and tired of eating shit, so I bit the hand that fed me. I wanted to destroy and annihilate. I had no intention of creating anything, let alone a movement of any kind. It was all about blind destruction.”
“But it’s since become so much more.”
“Hitler started out an artist and became a dictator, that doesn’t mean it worked out for everyone.”
The interviewer fell silent.
“Listen, Nervous Breakdown was a time and a place for me.” Rob said. “I was proud of what we did when we did it. Writers, fans, whomever can take what they want from those songs and those records and I’m fine with that, but I’m really anxious about having my name attached to any sort of movement or ethos. Nothing good can come of that.”
The interviewer seemed relatively happier with this explanation and moved on to the topic of Rob’s band Bulldog Front.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” The interviewer said nervously. “But what the fuck is with Bulldog Front?”
Rob laughed.
“Bulldog Front was a weird reaction to what I called the ‘metallicization’ of punk rock,” Rob said. “I really wanted to create something that was the opposite of the ‘tough guy’ sludgy, stupid mess of bands that were coming out. It was all about creating a more artistic style of punk. I don’t know if we achieved it, but we sure as fuck made some weird records and the kids seemed to dig it at the time.”
“This was a very different approach than that of Nervous Breakdown.”
“Yes, in a lot of ways Bulldog Front was the musical antithesis of Nervous Breakdown. It was about creation rather than destruction. We were all still really pissed off, though, which I believe is the bridge connecting the two. Otherwise, you have two completely different viewpoints.”
The interview ended amicably and Rob left the record store and walked back to his apartment.

* * *

“Rob, there’s really not much I can do for you,” the Doctor said. “Short of prescribing you Xanax or something for your anxiety and I know your feelings on that.”
“Yeah.”
“You do have anxiety disorder though. I want to make that quite clear. There’d be no harm in taking the pills for that.”
“With all due respect doc, I feel like if you don’t have anxiety disorder in 2007, you probably don’t have a pulse.”
“Point taken,” she said. “I guess the question I put to you now, is where do you see this going from here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, have these meetings with me been helping at all.”
“In some ways I guess they have, but for the most part things are still same as they ever were.”
“I’m sorry to hear that and I ultimately wish you the best.”
“Thanks, Doc.”

* * *

Rob got a call on his new cell phone. He’d resisted the purchase of such a device stubbornly for years, but caved due to pressure from his ex wife and his publishing agent.
“Hello?” Rob answered.
“Happy birthday, Dad!”
The voice was that of Rob’s son Henry (named for Bukowski and Rollins). His voice was significantly deeper than when he and Rob had last spoken.
“Thanks, Hank”
“Dad, you know I don’t like being called ‘Hank’”
“I’m sorry Henry. How are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“How’s school going, you still giving your teacher’s shit all the time?”
“No sir.”
“Good, How’s your mother?”
“She’s okay. I think she’s dating another guy now.”
“Weird.”
“Can I ask you a question, dad?”
“Sure.”
“Were you the singer for the band Nervous Breakdown?”
Rob paused.
“Cause Mike gave me a CD by them and the guy on the cover looks like you, only a lot younger.”
“It was a long time ago Henry, but yes, that was me.”
“Does mom know?”
“I’m not sure exactly. She knows but I think she tried to ignore it all those years.”
“You were really angry, huh?”
“At the time I was, but that was years ago, things have certainly changed.”
There followed an awkward pause. Rob thought of the CD cover his son had referred to. It was a close up picture of him screaming, with a mask of blood from a cut on his forehead, and the words “Alone in a Crowd” (the name of the CD) in the bottom right corner in black military stencil font.
“I listened do the CD, Dad and I like the music. It’s cool.”
Rob paused again and thought that this was probably the scariest thing his son had ever said to him.
“I guess I can’t really tell you how to live your life Hank and there’s certain realities I’ll never be able to fully protect you from, but don’t listen to those records. If anything I’ve ever told you sinks in please let it be this: we make mistakes in life and things can seem like they make sense, or don’t make sense and never will, but it’s always changing, Hank. All of it. It’s always changing.”
“Okay Dad.”
“Just don’t think that you’ve go so far in one direction that you can’t ever turn around.”
“I gotta go, Mom’s dropping me off at Mike’s house to sleep over. Happy Birthday again, Dad.”
“I love you, son.”
Rob was not sure if his son had ended the phone call before or after he said ‘I love you’, but the line was dead now. Rob was forty six and it didn’t feel any different, but it was and forty-seven would be too. It was always changing. Rob celebrated his birthday with a few friends from the DC area and he stood on his roof at sunrise as he finished a beer.

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