Erosion

Circumstances acted like water upon a rock-hard ego as the life situation cut through his mountainous pride. Hardship fell like rain, supplying an endless stream that worked its way with slow and steady attrition.

Erosion is a painfully lengthy process.
The resulting sculpture is a natural work of art.

“You’re so smart. You’re so talented. You’re so gifted.”
These are facts I was not allowed to forget.

“Stand on the stage. Sing us a song. You’re going to be famous.”
They propped me up. They tore me down. Occasionally, the crowd cheered.

“You’re a white, male American. You can have anything you want. Dream big.”
They sold me a life that I couldn’t afford; I set my budget accordingly.

“Step up. Be a man. Take control.”
I was indoctrinated to believe in the paradigm of male dominance perpetuated by a patriarchal society.

“You’re so handsome with your blues eyes and your beautiful smile.”
My mother was a strong woman who had a fighting spirit. She handed all that she was down to me. She was so vain.

I started my first job junior year; I never did graduate from high school. I quickly became a full-time employee and a part-time musician. I was a committed boyfriend.

We bought couches and televisions and groceries and throw rugs and vanity. We had two cats.

We were well on our way to a better life. I worked harder than was expected. We lived in a building on top of a hill next to the lighthouse, in between the old city and the new development that was spreading west. Behind the sliding glass doors that lead out to one of those balconies, we played house.

She cooked. I took out the garbage. We argued and smoked cigarettes. We occasionally made love; more often, I went for long walks and got high.

Home, to me, was a culmination of short-lived stays at various houses scattered throughout the west side of town that I visited regularly by foot. A dark figure, noticeable only when I took another drag, I would stand across the street staring at the windows, waiting for them to light up so I could catch a glimpse of families being families.

I walked miles as if I had somewhere to go, but I never arrived. I always went back to our condo feeling incomplete.

After over a decade of growing together, I decided I would be better off alone. She took the furniture and the cats; I took my guitars and my clothes. I lived in the back of my cargo van for a few months and, while still holding a job, began to think up a new life.

I enjoyed the fresh perspective. I rented a small storage room—a safe place for my belongings. I showered at the gym. I was healthier than I had ever been. Instead of ending the day watching sitcoms and washing the dishes, I drove west chasing the sunset and slept in strange parking lots around the Chicago suburbs.

I spent countless hours behind the wheel; I drove over 500,000 miles in that van. I wept the day a tow truck picked it up.

“That’s life,” I said to myself as I watched the past being hauled away to a scrapyard. “What’s next?”

I had become an adult who didn’t fit into the framework of
“socially acceptable.”

I owned a broken heart and a short list of failures. I stopped talking to her. I stopped loaning money to my parents. I stopped arguing with my bandmates and my brothers. I fell in love with a grad student and moved away to start college.

I once again embraced that desire to be special. My relentless drive to achieve lead me to the world of academia. I sold my guitars to buy books and pay rent. I grieved over dead dreams and I walked it off.


I entered a new era armed with a false sense of security; carrying a childlike innocence, I boldly ventured into the unknown. Culture shock, arrogance and a lack of education forced me to swallow my pride at every turn. The Universe served me life lessons like daily meals, which caused indigestion no matter how much I chewed on them. I quickly realized that I had understood my reference group well but, unfortunately, none of us grew up learning about the world at large.


Throughout the years, as I pursued perfection, I willingly became narrow-minded in my focus. But a truth that yearns to be told constantly scratches and claws until it finds freedom; it resurfaced again and again.


Unenjoyable aspects of my life met me at various points on the map.


I got drunk and angry in Ireland. My weaknesses laid with me on the floor outside a hostel door in Germany. My need to control things ruined a relationship in France. I hung out with my addictions and smoked hash along the Guadalquivir in southern Spain. My demons stood with me on a mountaintop in Africa. Hunger pangs had their way with me on an airport bench in Switzerland.


No longer able to be oblivious, the paradox of bettering myself was never lost on me. I felt simultaneously plagued by my shortcomings while being motivated by my accomplishments.

Discontent and driven. Proud and insecure. Lonely and free. Addicted to the push and the pull.

My intelligence became a weapon as I grew increasingly critical of others. The gap between myself and my contemporaries widened as I embraced my gift and displayed my talent. I was left feeling isolated as the result of my “greatness.” My handsome face became a source of self-loathing—my blue eyes a reflecting pool of deep-seated hurt. My vanity became a catalyst for self-doubt. I habitually overcompensated as I attempted to appease and gain approval. Tooth decay became a painful reality. I flashed that beautiful smile and laughed to myself about how my teeth have never made enough money to pay for dental care. Songwriting kept me locked in emotional turmoil. I developed a real life understanding of what it meant to be an artist and to be poor. I was forced to face toxic masculinity as I struggled to develop healthy intimate relationships.


My naiveté met its demise the day I saw the lifeless body of my mother laying on a dingy shelter mattress. A thin white bed sheet covered the evidence that not everybody pulls through; not everybody overcomes.


I stood next to my two brothers feeling foolish, alone and childish. We rummaged through a few boxes and it was strange to see what she valued in the end: books, pictures of her family and tacky gifts for my nieces that she had probably stolen from a drug store.


We celebrated her life with a gathering at a local bar. Old friends and family who had not played a consistent role in my life came to share their condolences. When that surreal day came to an end, my elder siblings went home with their partners and I went home with my thoughts. As they slept next to a warm body, I sat in an unlit room with my eyes wide open, putting together the pieces.


The facts showed themselves clearly. Most of the suffering I had endured was my fault. The ideas I had of what life should be did not jibe with the reality I was born into. The expectations came from a conditioned mind as did the device of measurement. The journey came full circle and, physically speaking, I had less than what I had started out with.


The consumer driven, materialistic component of my being was sorely disappointed.


I was still alive. The space that housed the experiences of my life remained intact.

The force responsible for my beating heart was still at play.

The following months were spent confronting my life situation. I pinned the ego to a wall and picked apart every aspect that didn’t serve me well. I didn’t need to be anything other than what I always have been. Life did not need to change. The world could exist just as it was, and I could be content with that.

My mother is dead. The guilt is gone. The dream is sleeping.

I found a place of permanence in this impermanent world. I spent time just being the space; watching thoughts and things come and go.


I turned inward and sifted through an abundance of illusions, dispelling each one as it rose up in my consciousness. I viewed every thought from a myriad of perspectives and sat with the good feeling ones as much as I could.


My choices suddenly became mine to make. I saw the machine from a liberated perspective and laughed at its misery.

I redefined my reasons why and created a new paradigm to guide me.


I do not dream, I accomplish. I do not wish, I achieve. I do not seek, I have.


I am not defined by external circumstances. Who I am shapes my reality.


I stand in the space unafraid. I have a voice and a story to tell.


I don’t own anything, and I never unpack my bags.