On the Loss of Focus

Disclaimer: This was written in the summer of 2019, not during COVID-19 quarantine.

I’m sitting in Bryant Park, just having taken a walk after hearing a short talk by the founder of Getaway House, Jon Staff. His talk, about the importance of disconnecting both daily and regularly for long periods of time, reminded me of something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. That is, the loss of focus we are experiencing as a society.

I have been re-watching Mad Men, a show I watched as it was released and am working my way through again, joyfully, one episode at a time (“binging” isn’t in my vocabulary mainly as a result of the major time constraints of my life and strong requirement for adequate sleep). Over and over again, we see Don Draper close himself off in his office. Sometimes he’s napping, or getting drunk, or staring out the window. The other night it struck me that there are many things absent from this scene: no music or even a radio, obviously no computer, no iPhone, Instagram, Facebook, no text messages. Even the push-button phone on his desk isn’t ringing off the hook. When he closed that door, he was left completely alone with his thoughts. It occurred to me how productive, focused, and liberating that would feel. 

As I sit attempting to concentrate on a work product, or a thought, I am constantly bombarded by information: emails are pouring in (99% of them being completely non-critical, although labeled just the opposite – every one sounding like the world is on fire), text messages, the FOMO of what life I am missing on Instagram, calendar invites. It causes a severe lack of focus that likely would have caused Don to cease being Don. The beauty of his character is that he always seemed to be able to bring his business pitches to a higher level, a success which, for those who stood in those real-life shoes, was likely borne out of the many quiet spaces in their world. 

So I wonder, what are we missing out on while we are constantly bombarded by data informing us of what we are missing out on?

April 30th. It's never too late to start again.

I have decided something over the past few days. A few things actually. 

One, I have, for my entire adult life, in large part lived out a narrative that was applied to me, not one I had chosen. I listened to my mother who constantly reminded me to be happy in my present circumstances, that money was the root of all evil, that sex was something to be ashamed of. I listened to my father, who by way of his own feeling undeserving of anything good in this world made me feel inadequate to achieve a stupendous existence. I listened to my grandfather who constantly told me to “get a good civil service job.” The message was not to reach for anything grandiose because it was either a) bad or b) unachievable.

I remember when I first saw Bruce Springsteen. I’d heard his records. I’d heard many records. Music was my inspiration and my refuge, but seeing Bruce Springsteen on stage via the videocassette my grandma gave me for some occasion I don’t now remember, I knew that was what I wanted. As I grew up, I knew two things without hesitation: 1) I wanted to play music and 2) I wanted money. Lots of it.

Then, like so many before me, I lost my way. I got married, I had a kid. Then another. Then another. Then I got divorced. I spent the years during my marriage feeling I had to do what I had to do to provide for my family, so I took what financial open doors were presented to me. I made none of my own. I took a job as a project manager working on a large hotel project. I enjoyed some aspects of it – but mostly I hated it. But I was good at it. I’m good at anything I put my mind to. But the issue is in longevity: how long can one keep pressing on through a stressful career they hate? It’s been ten years, and I’m done. 

The things I’ve realized, and decisions I am making, today, in writing, in front of this screen and the universe:

1.     I will no longer make excuses. Yes, my circumstances are my circumstances. I will always have three children. I will always have an ex-wife. I will always have had made a decision to leave music, to study interior design, to not work as a designer. But tomorrow is a new day which has never before existed. And the days that string together as years before me have, similarly, not yet been lived. Their story isn’t written. And I will write mine. I’m constrained to the pages, but the text is mine. 

2.     I will live a life of passion, and I will excel. Today I wrote myself a check for $1,000,000 and wrote “April 2022” in the memo. I plan to cash this check two years from today. 

I haven’t yet decided what drastic alteration I am going to make in my life. I have some ideas which are more plausible, others more far-fetched, but I am going to textually verbalize all of them and elaborate on each and how to achieve each. While I might decide one cannot be pursued, I am not barred from consideration of the details, and allowing myself to continue to ignore thinking through them is only allowing time to pass while I drift through life, half asleep and uninspired.

3.     I will live a life of generosity. Every month I will donate to a cause, consistently. Right now, I will send at least $25/month to One Life to Love. I will decide on three possessions I love to give to friends. (More thought to be given to the latter.)

4.     I will foster new friendships and strengthen old ones. (Specific names removed.)

The Odd Gift

I started taking depression medication, Zio came, and E and I were reborn.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Julia. I hope she’s ok... I hope she’s happy, and that somehow our time together was of some benefit to her. But mostly, I think about her because meeting her changed my life; every day is a reminder that she existed. I’ve long ago forgotten the details of what she looked like, what her voice sounded like, the subjects of the long conversations we had, or the derogatory pet names we had for each other (I think she used to call me “rasscunt”). I think of her because my life is a daily reminder that she existed in it.

Julia caused three things to happen, all ironic given that she was essentially someone I had cheated on my wife with.

1. She convinced me I was suffering from depression and to take medication for it. I remember her saying, “I don’t give a fuck what anybody tells you. You’re depressed and it sounds like you always have been. I know you don’t want to take drugs, but do you want to stay the way you are? You’ve tried willing it away for years and it hasn’t helped at all. If taking drugs can help make your life better, why not try it? What do you have to lose?” She had started taking lexapro and it helped her get through many of the same anxieties and daily oppressive feelings I had. I asked my doctor to write me a prescription. For a number of (sexual related) reasons, I switched to Wellbutrin. It changed my life. I don’t know what damage it may be causing my brain, but frankly I don’t care. In Julia’s words (as well as I remember them) “if it can help you live 30 good years and then die from a fucking brain tumor, isn’t that better than 50 years dealing with that shit storm in your brain?” She was right.

2. She helped give Zio to us. E and I started entering a short renaissance in our relationship when the girls began getting a little older. We went out more, had more fun together, and our sex life improved. One night, we had a condom mishap, and a month later, E realized she was pregnant. I was devastated. I fell apart. I didn’t want to go back to where we were. Things were finally getting good for the first time in a long time and that was thanks in part to the girls getting older starting to free us from the burden of having a small child. E was driven to a decision to have an abortion, coerced by my horrible attitude, actions, and very visible near mental breakdown. But her pending sacrifice tormented me. I will never forget E and I going away for our anniversary just before she was scheduled to have the pill administered. It was a melancholy weekend. She had nightmares about hearing a baby drowning and not being able to find it. I was tormented by those demons as well. The morning of the procedure came. E left me at home with the girls to go to Planned Parenthood. E was numb - moving like a robot going through a program. I immediately started texting Julia. I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do. Nobody knew except her. I was alone with my thoughts and so was E (at least, as far as I know). I don’t remember the exact chain of events, but at some point Julia told me she thought the whole thing was wrong, that she knew E didn’t want to do it and that I was forcing her, which was terrible, that I was terrible, to wake the fuck up, and that I myself was having such serious doubts I needed to stop it. I remember her saying “if you have to lock your fucking kids in their bedroom and speed over there to stop her, do it right now. GO YOU FUCKING IDIOT STOP TALKING TO ME! Do it! Stop this from happening!” In hindsight, I think in many ways I was in shock and I don’t remember much, but I started frantically texting E to stop, to come home, to not do it, that we would work it out, that we would have a baby and be OK just like we always were. E never responded to any of my texts. I still remember her pulling into the driveway and I didn’t know whether she had taken the pill or not. I remember desperately hoping and praying that she hadn’t, because I knew it would destroy her - destroy us and our beautiful family. I remember her falling onto me, crying, and mumbling something that I at first thought was “I did it” but then realized was “I couldn’t do it.” I don’t know if it was my texts or E’s decision alone, but I see Zio and I remember Julia and how she said that I needed to get the fuck down there and stop it. Part of me feels like she helped give us that beautiful little boy. My beautiful, beautiful son. My beautiful boy with wonky eyes and crooked teeth from banging his mouth. My beautiful little boy who wants me to tell him all the people who love him before I put him in bed and sing "I love you  a bushel and a peck" and rub his coarse, blonde hair. My beautiful boy who loves trucks and tools and fire engines. (Remembering this makes me miss the way Julia used to talk to me. She was so blunt.)

3. E and I were re-born. This is the more intangible result. E found out about Julia at the tail end of a great few days in Phoenix together: first visiting a boutique hotel I was working on, and then a friend’s wedding. E was so much fun: my lover, my friend, the person I deamed about. The night of the wedding, while I was downstairs playing pool in the hotel lobby with one of our friends, she picked up my phone to email herself a few photos from the night and she found out about Julia. E let loose on me, pounded my face, came in and out of the hotel room all night going between anger, confusion, sadness. All completely understandable. The next day we took a trek together with friends, we held hands, we kissed. The following day, when we left, we were on fire for each other. We wanted to be together. I wanted her, she wanted me. We were torn open, bare, with nothing to lose. I was broken down to nothing and fully exposed, with no reason to hide or be fake to this woman I loved and wanted to continue my life with.

So I will always remember Julia. I sometimes hope I will run into her so I can say hello, tell her everything is good, and see in her eyes that it’s all good with her too. I want her happiness because I cared about her, and I still do. I also want to say, “hey, this is totally fucked up and in that sense par for the course of whatever that was that we had, but thank you for what you’ve given me. I needed a friend and even though I did things wrong, I’m happy you came into my life when you did, and I hope I also had some positive impact on you.”

Julia and the fork in my road

This may be the most difficult thing I have ever written, primarily because I've spent several years denying the gravity of this to myself and, to a large degree and for many valid reasons, pretending it didn’t happen. Like the happy times of my childhood that stood right next to the abusive ones, in my mind this was a series of dreams; some good, some bad, but not real.

There came a point in my relationship with E where I began to feel hopeless. I felt like she didn’t like me, didn’t understand me, didn’t want to live a life beyond the walls of our home and our children, that she didn’t want to have sex with me, besides what society teaches us is acceptable for a married couple: occasional decent sex every now and then. I was craving new experiences. In some ways I only saw what I was missing and never what I had in front of me, but many of my desires were valid, even in hindsight. In what I have come to realize are very important and understandable senses, I wanted a friend and I wanted excitement - to feel like I was human beyond being a husband and a father. In a far more potentially impactful and negative sense, and where the missteps began, I had given up on my marriage. E may have been feeling these same desires and feelings of desperation. I'm not sure, but at any rate we didn't talk about it... Another culturally imposed misstep.

Then Julia fell into my lap - or at least the seat next to me on the LIRR.

I was sitting on the 5:06 train, headed home. I remember I was in the car at the bottom of the stairs just under the main schedule sign in Penn Station, where I normally sat to line myself up with the parking garage, where I parked at 6:10AM every morning for the 6:15 train to get to the office over an hour before anybody else. The train was packed, I had boarded last minute, so I sat down in the first available seat, next to a young woman. I thought nothing of it. I fell asleep, as was my habit, until the conductor came around at Jamaica to wake me up and collect my ticket, at which point I would normally break out my laptop and work. Apparently, she had fallen asleep as well and we both frantically scrambled to find our tickets with the conductor hovering over us, probably angry at these two idiots who ride the train together, fall asleep together, and lose their tickets together. I found mine but it took her a while, digging in her disastrous cavern of a purse. She was clearly a bit of a mess - shit falling all over as she pulled a crumpled ticket from under a pile of nonsense she probably hadn’t needed or thought about in months.

I think I was embarrassed when I finally looked at her. She was attractive, not traditionally gorgeous in a way people might imagine: not some hot young girl to go after, but she had a raw beauty that struck me. She had a round, soft face and bright green eyes. Her tan skin made her eyes strike out at me like gigantic emeralds. The thing I can say I recall about her face is that she looked kind, as if she had a deepness, and maybe a bit of sadness, like me. I remember she was wearing a long, stretchy grey dress that was nothing special, but showed that she had a nice body. I’ve since forgotten the other details.

I made some joke to help myself feel better. It was something about feeling like the MTA, for the price, should give all monthly ticket holders one free bonus ride per month for an innocent passenger with a lost ticket. She laughed and we started chatting. She was working for the summer at an engineering company, basically doing nothing, where her mom was an in-house lawyer. I gave her my card as she got off. I don’t really know why but in the moment I think it was mostly innocent... she seemed like a pretty cool person, so let’s keep in touch. I didn’t really have any friends and maybe we could ride the train together sometimes - but deep down I guess I hoped for more. She was cute and talked to me and things at home weren’t awesome. I felt like I needed someone to connect with, even if only in a flirtatious way.

I remember when she texted me. I was in the garage getting in the car with my family. I think it just said, “hey it's Julia.” I deleted the text immediately, terrified. It was in that moment that I chose to hide her rather than bring her up as someone I had met and was interested in talking to. I hadn’t responded to the text and had no way to write her back since I had deleted it. I assumed she would be gone, figuring I wasn’t responding on purpose, but she texted me again a few days later, saying what I don’t remember, but from there we took off.

I ran for that 5:06 train every day, just to ride with her. We drank beer. We would take turns: I would buy two tall beers one day, she would steal two the next. She was a kleptomaniac of sorts and I found it endearing in some insane way.

Slowly, our conversations strayed from every day stuff and nonsense and deeper personal conversations, and then to sex. She admitted she thought she was a bit of a sex addict. I was hooked. We agreed to go for it. I booked a room at the Marriott Brooklyn Bridge hotel, where I was doing some work and could expense the room.

We had dinner. We sat outside at the Standard Hotel. I can't remember why I chose to go there - it made no sense logistically. I enjoyed it. It was nice to sit and talk with someone who had new stories I hadn’t heard, new perspectives I hadn’t considered, a lisp I found cute. I never really saw her as a challenge to E. She was additive in a way that I didn't understand at the time, but makes sense to me now, with all I have learned about relationships. After dinner we walked over to the Highline and polished off a bottle of wine. Drunk as all fuck, we made our way back to the Marriott where we tried and failed miserably at having sex. I remember her just stripping off all her clothes with no fanfare or foreplay and her body not being what I had imagined (not that she had a bad body - it was beautiful, but imaginations are strange and damning things), then me not being able to get hard, the single condom and no lube I had being ridiculous, and her saying she had to get home. So did I.

Then we got stuck on the subway for over an hour. That caused us to miss the 11:42 and have to wait for the 1:20AM train. I remember us falling asleep in the subway car, her head on my lap. It wasn’t even an affectionate thing, it was functional at that moment, but I remember looking down at her and feeling happy because I realized that I cared about her. I wanted good things for her. I enjoyed being with her. I sat there on the train, her head on my lap, my fingers in her frizzy hair, anxious to move but not caring if we didn't. Although there was a non-plutonic element to it, she was the first friend I had made in years, and was my unfortunate and ill-executed introduction to polyamory. But I also knew she couldn't last. Eventually, I knew, this would explode.

But still, after that night, despite the sex fail, Julia's place as a hidden friend was further solidified. We had had a great time. I felt like I couldn’t tell E about her. How could I explain this beautiful 21 year old girl I liked hanging out with because she was dark and interactive in new ways I hadn’t experienced? How could I ever explain having hidden over a month of knowing someone like this? So I kept it a secret. Having Julia both lifted me up and drove me into the ground with guilt.

We would drink at Penn station before getting on the train. She came to Philadelphia once for a night and we got raging drunk. We ate steak at Barclay Prime. I remember the way the hostess looked at us when we walked in: me basically in business attire, Julia in a sheer knit sweater barely covering her black bra, black tights, and the black low-top lace-less Converse All Stars she had worn almost every time I had seen her. We clearly looked a bit crazy, and we reveled in it. We both sneered at the hostess and were proud that we stuck out like sore thumbs. We made fun of every person in the place, and when we got stares, we stared back, daring them to sneer at us from their miserable seats. Fuck the world was our attitude. We wandered the streets around Rittenhouse in the bitter cold, deciding to see every block one by one no matter how numb our fingers got, drinking in half the bars along the way. Then we went back to the room and passed out, barely touching in bed because she didn’t like that, and we were seeing double.

She would text me good morning saying, “good morning rasskunt” (a word she had made up) or “good morning fucker!!! ☠️💀🔫💣🍻”. I spoke to her the same way, “hey fucker” or “goodnight asshole.” At the same time, we were endearing towards each other. She cared about me, and I cared about her. She was my secret, and I was hers. In that, we had this unique freedom: we could talk about anything. Our deepest secrets and fears could be shared openly, because in the end, neither of us mattered. Even our often derogatory and offensive way of speaking to each other was affectionate in a fucked up way. 

Julia intertwined in my life and I in hers and only we knew. We were each other’s escape and were unable to talk about it except to our therapists. We both went on Saturday mornings and then we would call each other and talk about what silly things they said or what hit home. She was depressed and didn’t believe in herself. I was depressed and has too much faith in my ability to overcome it with stamina. In so many ways we complimented each other in that regard: she was hard on me in pointing out the obvious in ways that nobody ever had, and I provided encouragement to her, ensuring her that she was enough, just as she was.

Fast forward to April of 2015, which I will write about some other time, E found out about Julia. That night, Julia and I ended, abruptly, with a single text from me, written while E watched: "Emily knows about us. It's over. Goodbye." I have so much more to write about that experience, and I will, tonight, but for now, let me just say that I cannot imagine that experience from Julia's point of view: that sudden, 2AM goodbye; wondering if "she" had ruined my life, my kid's life, E's life (I put "she" in quotes because Julia would blame herself, not me, for that); not knowing if she were ever going to see or talk to her friend again.

But that was pretty much it. Cold turkey - we were gone from each other. About a year ago, while I was sleeping in some hotel (I can't remember where) I got a text in the middle of the night from some 516 number I didn't recognize. It was just two emojis: a camel and a beer. I had no idea what it was and I didn't respond. A few days later, I did write back, "who is this?"

The response: "you know who this is asshole. I promised E I would never talk to you again but I was really fucked up when I texted you."

Then, I knew immediately who it was. I rode the train home that day chatting with her as I had a year prior. Only this time, we were old friends catching up. She was applying to medical schools, I was ok and E and I were doing fine - better than ever. Our son was born and he is crazy and cool and she would like him. At the end of the conversation we said goodbye, and I felt a tiny bit of closure.

But I still think about Julia every day. I wish I still had her friendship. I wish I had done that right and been able to have her present in my life, but I also think that it had to happen the way that it did for it to help open a new door to E and me. And in reality, had I brought her up, there is no way she would have been accepted as a friend. Meeting Julia, in some fucked up way, forced E and I into an uncomfortable place we would not have willingly entered on our own, and brought us to a much more fulfilling way of life - one in which we are both free to pursue relationships outside of our marriage. Ironically, if Julia were to come along now, we could have a relationship, out in the open.

But she came then, and so she is gone now.

The unwelcome guest

Fanaticism always had a place in my life. When I was young, my mom would watch Reverend Price parade his pin stripe -suited self and his lively hand-waving flock all over TV. We weren’t allowed to watch the Simpsons because Bart saying “don’t have a cow” was disrespectful to Marge in ways only the devil's hands could guide. We had bibles and devotional books, Jesus coloring books, and crosses made of palms, the rolling paper of the Lord.

Primarily, we attended a Calvary Chapel, a collection of poorly organized and un-funded churches known for their acceptance of bikers, derelicts, and all manner of regular sinners. Pastor Pete (there is no better name for a Pastor than “Pastor Pete”) was a medium built mustached man, full of himself and the Holy Spirit. He lived with his wife and half-dozen children in a broken house on a broken street next to the broken church building.

In the entertainment arena, Pastor Pete's kids had it worse than us: we weren’t allowed to watch the Simpsons, but Pastor Pete’s kids weren’t even allowed to watch live TV. Although I'm sure he controlled what shows they could watch, it wasn't the shows themselves that were the reason for the live TV ban: it was the commercials. Pastor Pete didn’t like the negative effect they had on his children, so he pre-recorded everything they wanted to watch, dutifully making sure he didn't save the commercials. For Pastor Pete, it may have been that a desire for tinker toys could lead to a hankering for ungodly things. Or maybe it was less divine than that: maybe Pastor Pete was sick of being asked for things he couldn't afford, and wanted to kill the desire at its informational source.

At some point in time, Pastor Pete had disappeared suddenly, on the overnight. Apparently he had fled in shame after approaching a woman in the congregation and making a failed attempt to convince her to run away with him. On her decline, he ran, leaving his wife and children in the broken house. Some time later, he was welcomed back as a forgiven sinner, no different than the drug addics in his congregation.

Religions have used many weapons over the millennia, but none have worked so effectively as fear. Fear is the slow-burn chemical weapon that destroys top-down from within, wreaking havoc on the mind, the heart, the spirit. Fear was pumped from the pulpit of Calvary Chapel in clouds of poison gas disguised as hope, forgiveness, and grace. The insistence that we were harboring sins which might prove unforgivable was a fear instilled in us quietly. Vague notions like, “blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is an unforgivable sin” tossed children in the congregation (audience?) into a cloud of mystery and the fear of eternal damnation.

I am 35 years old, and there is still a nagging voice in me, daily, that I am going to spend eternity burning, then burning again, and again, and again without end, all while looking up at people in heaven swimming in pools of perfect water and riding on the backs of lions.

But then, I am also filled with a happiness and hope that I am, despite the threatening notions pressed into me when I was a child, finally in control of my own destiny; that I am free. For some reason which is odd to me, many people seem to fear nothingness after death. For me, there has never been anything that has lifted more weight from my shoulders than the thought that one day I will just power down and cease to be: no promised land to miss out on, no hell to burn in, no regrets - just The End. Just, nothing. That I am the captain of my own ship and the idea that my actions may not lead to a positive or negative reaction from some Holy Ghost hovering above me is incredibly liberating.

Make me free.

The

Interlude No 2

Music

December 25, 2016

Music was always my constant companion. When I was a kid, I had a record player and a few hand-selected records handed down to me by my parents, ex-hippies who had found Jesus. When the Lord entered their hearts, he asked that they segregate their record collection into what was allowable within their newfound innocence, and what music spoke of the devil or sex, and therefore must be purged. But I suppose my parents hadn’t consumed all of the CoolAid because, while they had segregated their records they hadn’t burned the bad ones at the stake. I had uncovered the treasure and would lay in the basement many nights listening to Steppenwolf, Grateful Dead, Bob Marley, and others that would draw me into their world and away from my own. 

The greatest of those was Bruce Springsteen. My grandmother once snuck me a VHS tape that had on it a music video for every song on Born in the USA. After some time, my mother decided Bruce was okay, and so the video tape played on repeat until it wore down and it gave back only fuzzy, multicolored stripes. I would take my shirt off, strip down to my jeans and bare feet, and pretend I was Bruce, The Boss, bringing the world to its knees with my guitar and my voice - with beautiful women joining me on stage to dance the night away. Courtney Cox, career launched, you’re welcome. I knew when I was five years old that I was going to be that. Not just a rock star. That was only ancillary. I was going to write music that brought people to a different place. Music that took people where Bruce took me: to a place where I was more than what I was - a shitty little kid  from a shitty little family living on a shitty little dead end street across from a dirt field on Long Island.

First, I played the drums. Then, for a brief period, the piano and, simultaneously, the guitar. I gave up piano after much complaining to my mother, who had paid my music teacher to give me lessons around age six or seven. (To this day I wish I had kept that up.) By my early teen years I was a fantastic drummer - an instrument which takes no formal training to master, only hours of practice. I was equally proficient on guitar, although I had no clue as to its concepts. Even today, I really don’t know the “names” of any chords, how to play a D versus a B, or anything else for that matter. All I knew was how to play. I played by ear and could learn songs by listening not just the melody, but to each individual note I could hear within each chord struck. Honestly, I would look at tab books and my version typically sounded more accurate, because it was based on sound, not on music theory. Let’s face it, sometimes the Beatles may have just placed their fingers in a combination that sounded good to their ears, but wasn’t exactly a B Minor. Play the B Minor and you were close, but not what Lennon’s fingers played.

I digress from the point. Music was everything to me. Well, music and sex. The two do seem to go hand in hand (what musician doesn’t have a lot of sex? The answer you ask? Me throughout all my musician years. More on that later.) Music took me to another world. A world where I could be someone else, somewhere else. It gave me a language I could speak - often in riddles and rhymes and mystery, but just as often, it is riddles and rhymes and mystery that best describe life. Music gave me an outlet for my pain, a non-prescription based solution for my constant depression, and a foundation on which to dream of a future where I wrote my own story. I knew, at a very young age, that music would be it for me. I had what it took: I was good at it, was a great songwriter, relatively good looking, and - most importantly and all too often missing from creative types, I was organized and willing to work hard for it. 

Then, all of a sudden, I had my chance. Around age 17 I met PJ, a relatively soft spoken and intelligent kid, a few years younger than me. A year or so later we started fooling around writing music, and it was pretty good. We started playing some shows, as an acoustic duo, mostly playing in between Long Island Hardcore bands, as the emo-pop-duo of the scene. Soon after, we added a drummer, bassist and eventually, a pianist. A few years later we signed with a label and recorded a record which holds up to this day. The songs are catchy and relevant, even 11 years later. 

After signing, we began to tour. Mostly, at that time, touring was a way to get good. We played 5-6 shows a week, driving all over the country, with little money. Some shows were great (most often that meant an American Legion Hall with 70 kids showing up), some were horrible (playing in front of nobody in a shitty bar). It weighed on me. I missed Emily. Missed her in a way that made me feel like this life was too heavy to hold. But when we played, I lost myself. And when the shows were good: when we opened for a great band in front of a huge crowd, or a smaller intimate show where we connected with the crowd and made them feel like they were part of something great, the feeling was like the greatest drug the universe could inject into my veins. 

We blew people away. Our set was specifically designed to smash the mind of someone who hadn’t heard us. More than seven songs were rarely played: the point was to get up there, catch people’s attention and suck them into our world, then have it end before they wanted it to. “Grab our album at the mercy booth - Dan is a nice guy, he’ll kiss you and give you a T-shirt too.” If we played in front of 30 new people, we sold 35 albums. We ran out of march as quickly as we could replace it. We talked about recording a winter EP the year after the album was released, to peak more interest and speed the love on a Christmas song we had written that would have made Frank Loesser feel like maybe it wasn’t so cold outside after all.

But it was stressful. I was 23, newly married and deeply in love. Our drummer was 19. Our lead singer turned 21in the middle of nowhere while we were on a tour. We loaded and unloaded our trailer in the rain, blistering heat, and snow. We changed multiple flat tires in the middle of desert highways. We slept on floors, in our van, in the trailer. We argued about how to run this little business based on a pipe dream that was looking like it was headed for reality. My wife coming around was awkward in that there was only room for one love: music or her. The guys didn’t like when she came around because I got distracted. The music all of a sudden didn’t matter to me when she showed up. 

Still, I wasn’t giving up on it. It was all I had ever wanted: to wake up every day knowing that the only thing I HAD to do was write and play music. I could always deal with that, I knew. Any other occupation was highly questionable. Then, one night in Chicago, after playing in front of nobody at a dive bar, our lead singer came up to me while I was drinking a Miller High Life and eating chicken wings at the bar. He just said, “hey, I think we should take a break.” I still have no clue what prompted it. I went out to the parking lot. They were all standing in a semi-circle, and I walked up, standing in the open end of a horse shoe, and said, “so, you want to give up?” “Yeah, we just think some time off would be good.” My reply was, “what the fuck are you guys going to do if you don’t play music? I know what I’m going to do. I have other prospects. You guys have nothing. You can’t just give up when things get hard. That’s life.” They disagreed, so I threw my beer bottle into the air and watched it smash in the parking lot. I went to the back of the van and cried, called our former manager, Alex, who they had decided to fire a few months earlier. Then I called Emily. She got me a plane ticket home. I couldn’t stand being in the van with those guys as we drove home from giving up on everything we worked for, as if it was no big deal. I roamed around Chicago O’Hare night waiting for my early morning flight, went home, and didn’t see any of them for probably two years. Ironically, my forecast was true: a decade later, none of them are doing anything. They’re fucking around, playing a little music here and there. One of them is in a serious band, and tours all over the world, but an instrumental band that makes no money. He comes home, lives with his parents, and bartends to make ends meet.

Eleven years later, we were asked to play a reunion show, opening for a local hardcore band that had signed to Victory records around the time we broke up (ironically, I recently found a Newsday article my grandmother had saved: Lux Courages breaks up, and The Sleeping signs to Victory records”). The show was scheduled to happen at a pretty big, new, beautiful theatre in Huntington, The Paramount. At first, I said no. Nobody understood why, but here is the best explanation I can give you: when someone you love dearly dies, it’s horrible. But over time the pain fades until it’s only a slight pinging in your chest, then all but fades entirely. It wouldn’t be at all healthy to dig the up and look at their corpse, eleven years later. But after a while, after convincing by Emily and feeling guilty that I was ruining it for everyone, I agreed. 

The night was great. We blew through a similar seven song set that could bring any unfamiliar crowd to their knees. We were rough, dropping some of the more intricate harmonies and melodies that made us memorable because we, mainly I, just couldn’t do it anymore. And for me, it was digging up the corpse. I’m still feeling overwhelmed with emotion. I miss it. It pains me to remember those times. Being backstage at a great venue, hanging out with friends, meeting new people, being on stage and making eye contact with someone who we were clearly touching emotionally. It felt great. Better than great. It felt like home. 

And then I had go back to work. To the job I took because I thought making $60,000 a year was a lot of money. When you’re making close to nothing, I suppose it is. I make double that now, but it still doesn’t seem worth the degradation of my soul that it has caused. On Christmas Eve one of my aunts commented, “what happened to the happy, light hearted Adam I used to know?” I said I was just tired. And I am. I’m exhausted. But mostly, I’m just not enjoying anything right now. I miss playing music. I’ll die missing it. And I’ll never do it again.

On the other hand, I know that if I had kept going with music, I probably would’t still have Emily in my life. Thinking about the possibility of that makes me fall apart inside. What a position to be in to have two loves who cannot live together, and have to give one up for the other. I suppose one could say that I’m lucky .

After a decade of winging it and listening the the advice of others above my own inner voice, I have strong, sound advice. People say, “do what you love and they money will follow.” It’s good advice, but for very few people. The reason is that 99% of the population doesn’t actually love doing anything, or the thing they love will lead them to homelessness if pursued full time (these days, most people love to watch Netflix, eat pizza, and drink - that doesn’t contain the makings of anything at all). My advice is this: IF you love something, do it; the rest doesn’t matter. If you don’t love something, do what will make you as much money as possible. Anything in between is stupid.

Interlude on Loss

When you lose someone you love, you feel like the world should move differently, alter its form in some way. Even in those moments when you wouldn’t have been in that person’s presence - driving to the train station in the early morning, standing alone in the shower, sitting in an afternoon meeting, brushing your teeth - you feel as if the universe has shifted in some way, and those otherwise mundane moments which would not typically have given rise to thoughts or connections with your loved one all of a sudden feel as if they are suddenly unfamiliar, heavier in some way, that the person you lost somehow changes the way your toothbrush feels on your teeth. They are present in death in ways they wouldn't have been in life.

But the world, despite your opinions, doesn’t change. People shuffle on, come and go, stop to grab coffee in the morning and a six pack on their way home as if nothing catastrophic has happened, as if there isn't actually a hole in the universe. Only your world has changed, splitting off from the rest. You long to experience the mundane again, just one more time, you tell yourself. But this time, you won’t just get up and leave for the office, leaving her sleeping soundly in your bed. This time, you’ll stay put, sit in the kitchen and drink coffee together, hear each other breathe, laugh, chatter about nothing in particular. This time you'll stay put, in that moment, because this will be the last coherent conversation you'll have, the last time you'll hear her exhale without a death rattle. 

But the heaviness returns, and you take the next shaky step forward.