DRIFTER
By Ron L Johnson II
Chapter 1: Origins
“Every object tells a story.”
-Henry Ford
I feel like a constant current streaking at high velocity. Where am I going and why? Whatever is happening, I do sense that I’m existing at a frequency few could fathom. To understand what I’m experiencing, imagine the vibration of a plucked guitar string amplified a million times. Why is this happening to me? Am I …and then a scene from my past forms around me. The desire to understand what is occurring fades as a childhood scene appears; the moment is of myself in third grade talking to my principle and special education teacher. It was just the three of us talking about movies.
I was in special education because of learning disabilities, such as a severe Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD): Dyslexia (a reading disorder), Dyscalculia (disability with mathematical comprehension) Dyspraxia (often in conjunction with Dyslexia and Dyscalculia: a difficulty with both written and verbal instructions) and Dysgraphia (a writing disability). In the Special ED class, I see myself sitting at a desk and looking at an illustrated behind the scenes book about monster movies. My principle, Dr. Schmitt, is standing next to my desk and explaining how Lon Chaney had the uncanny ability to perform like a chameleon in silent films as I listen intently.
“In Phantom of the opera, Lon Chaney used fish hooks and wire to achieve such gruesome make up effects.” Dr. Schmitt said as he pointed to a photograph of Lon Chaney in my book. “He was a pioneer of makeup effects,” remarked Dr. Schmitt to his own comment.
As rapid as this childhood scene appeared, it disappears allowing the materialization of my past to take on another form. I see my first family dog princess; by the way, I did not name her that. Then a different scene develops of my favorite movie monster Godzilla destroying Tokyo. Is Godzilla a metaphor that represents the Atomic bomb? Subatomic energy is all around us, seeming harmless and miniscule. Energy that poses no real threat, until the weak and strong forces with in the atom are tampered with to unleash total devastation.
By using Einstein’s theory of special relativity, which is energy equals mass multiplied by the speed of light, multiplied by the speed of light (E=MC Squared). Radioactive physicist Lise Meitner devised a way to burst a Uranium atom. Since energy equals mass and mass equals energy, Meitner along with Otto Hahn began to ponder the energy trapped within tiny matter, and she suggested away to bombard neutrons into an already crammed uranium atom’s nucleus; which caused the nucleus to blast apart with a one hundred million electromagnetic burst.
According to Einstein, energy cannot be destroyed and as we now know energy equals mass and mass is the quantity of matter. Is he right, are there no exceptions? Perhaps other universes or even our own, do not always abide by the same laws. We use to think light could not bend with the exception of a prism. Until Einstein’s theory of General Relativity predicted that vast amounts of gravity can also curve light and Einstein proved this with a total eclipse of the Sun in 1922. His theory of General Relativity also predicted black holes in 1916, and the term black hole was coined in 1967 by astronomer John wheeler. Then, in 1971 the discovery of black holes, gravity gone insane, changed mainstream science once again. It has been calculated that Black holes possess such immense gravity that these holes in space time have the ability to stretch: twist, bend, and consume anything in their path. Once matter or energy enters the black hole’s warping outer layer, which is called the event horizon, nothing can escape: not even light is reflected; which is why the hole is stark black. When matter enters the tiny center of a black hole, the singularity, the miniscule hole devours it, or perhaps, the matter is transferred somewhere else.
Wait a minute……Maybe this is the explanation I have been looking for; am I being warped while being pulled into some-kind-of-hole in space time; yet, still able to think? Perhaps I am traveling through a worm hole (a kind of portal). Steven Hawking went against his own theory by saying that he was wrong about black holes destroying everything once sucked through it; instead, he recalculated that black holes maybe transferring the matter somewhere else. Perhaps, I am being transferred? Or maybe my molecules have been altered to become the frequency of light violently vibrating and traveling the galaxy in electromagnetic waves. Wait a second.........???????????????? Where am I now? Can’t Think as fast…………Can’t comprehend at all. Everything going dark…………VERY, VERY Dark!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!...???????????????????????.........................
Where am I? My vision is coming to me in flashes of bright light and then becoming dark for a brief moment. Everything is fuzzy and bright, followed by darkness. This strange occurrence keeps repeating. Am I blinking? I must have lost consciousness. Now I’ m not as disoriented. It’s becoming easier to think. I’m looking down at….hard to tell what, my vision is a green blur. I think it’s grass? My sight is becoming slowly focused like a camera lens. It is grass and I am in the shade. As I tilt my head, I gaze upon massive branches coated in a lush green, I realize everything happened the way it was supposed to. Successfully, I have drifted into the past and now I am sitting under an oak tree with my back resting against the oak’s girthy truck. The large tree is masking me with shade while soothing air cools my face that is drenched in sweat. As I scan my surroundings, the Sun blazes with absolute madness to reveal a field of sunflowers. There are also sunflowers sporadically placed in the grass under the tree’s shade on the hill, but now my vision is becoming more focused. Not as many sunflowers in the shade; yet, enough to notice since my vision is starting to reach clarity……..Finally, I have full awareness.
A tranquil breeze begins to comfort me while I rest against this tree like the back of a couch with my legs stretching out on the grass. Good thing I am wearing pants, otherwise my legs would be itchy. My vantage point of the sunflower field is pretty good because the tree and myself are on a hill that over looks a field burning yellow. Below the hill, the sunflowers grow tall like corn crops. However, the scattered sunflowers on the hill remain smaller, as if the tree refuses them to grow any taller. Maybe the Oak tree is insecure; perhaps this is why it diffuses the sun’s rays with its colossal branches and leaves. Intentionally, the oak tree disables the hill’s sunflowers to grow tall like the field in order to be the only one emerging on the hill.
At this time, my vision has shifted from the oak tree to the small shaded sunflowers. As I sit and stare; the tiny sunflowers on the hill start to remind me of something, of someone. In a trance, I pick one up. Oh no, I just remembered someone I have been trying to forget. I recall how her hair is as yellow as this sunflower I am holding. Her hair color was the only real thing about her, everything else was fake. Her personality was disguised by anti-depressants. Anti-depressants basically made up her personality, without them, she was almost non-existent. With anti-depressants, her altered personality insinuated that her spirit burned vibrant with life.
To compensate for her superficiality, she used family photographs as a tool to convince people she was happy; I received the feeling that this was a successful method of conveying happiness to most people. Except when she showed the family imagery to me, I saw through the deception because I am a photographer. However, she still tried to convince me by explaining, “This is a picture of me and my brother having a snow ball fight. We had a blast!” Her explanations were vague and typical, but to her and most people, it gave a convincing since of normalcy. I recall her explaining other photographs to me, “Here’s me and my dad having fun at a church picnic. Here’s me and my mom and dad at a church fish fry, good times.”
She despised religion and hated her dad even more, but she acted like everything was fine. Instead of trying to be a painter, she should have been an actor because she was usually very convincing; although, when you are bipolar, your mood constantly shifts. Happy, sad, she jumped back and forth from the masks of comedy and tragedy. What would she be this day or minute? Her moods could shift even by the second. She was like a social cuttlefish, changing, adapting to whoever she was with by telling you just what you wanted to hear. Well, I had finally heard enough. I never fully fell for her bull shit, instead, I kind of denied reality when I was with her. She made me feel euphoric; the feeling was stronger than drugs and alcohol. At times, she made me reach a peak of happiness, until I grounded myself back to reality whenever I became sick of her stupid charades.
She loves to manipulate people like a gorgeous goddess controlling the men that worship her. Her beauty was away to trap you and numb your logic. The cerebral cortex just did not work with her. In fact, nothing did, unless she wanted it to. Instead, the only thing that would work was the limbic system in the brain, which is the region of the brain that controls emotions and behaviors. These regions lit up like a super nova most of the time when I was with her because she new how to activate this part of the brain. She was like a Nero-surgeon performing a lobotomy that could turn a reasonable man into a zombie ready to do her bidding. Sometimes, she even had this effect on women.
It was bizarre to think that someone with such manipulation over other people could not control her own emotions. Anti-depressants became her best friend, the only true friend she had. She also lacked the ability to control her art work. She struggled to paint because she did not possess passion and talent. Her words seemed strong, yet her conviction was weak. She tried to act like an artist to sound intriguing and deep, but really, she was a dry oasis that posed as a refreshing mirage. To others, she was a confident artist that would have a great influence. In reality, her ability to put up a believable front is the only art she excelled at and she had become a master.
She became especially alluring when people were vulnerable, causing people to see what they want; eventually all I saw was a miserable tormented spirit that desperately wanted the attention of her father. Her parents gave gifts and money but never love, so all she did was perform for attention and when she got it she thrived. When no one was watching she withered like a dying plant needing sunlight. The lack of attention caused her to be hollow, almost on the verge of suicide. At times, she can even seem like a sociopathic vampire because when she felt melancholy, she would try to bring anyone who is happy down; as she fed off their gloom, which occasionally cheered her up. If her depression became an extensive duration, she would sometimes paint because she thought gloominess helped her art. Actually, the only thing that would help her art is if someone else would have done the painting for her.
She tried to be like Van Gogh; only, this is one thing she could not convincingly perform. Van Gogh painted veraciously every day and night non-stop and thrived from talking about it. He had little patience for those who only painted when they were motivated. She was the antitheses of Van Gogh because she never painted until a project for class was due or as I mentioned before, sometimes when she was depressed. She usually tired to copy Van Gogh’s style and failed miserably; though, passing all her classes with A’s. This is an example of how important college is to an artist. How outrageous, a piece of paper that says you can paint or photograph. A degree should not speak for an artist because their art should articulate for them.
Some of the art students that earn Bachelors or Master Degrees have not learned patience for the process and respect for the subject matter. All these graduates have learned is to crave prestige from a degree and well-paying job that will just cause them to flourish from materialism. Society may praise these graduates for striving to be accepted; even though art graduates should be trying to become better artists by developing their own style through a slow progression. Instead, they are commonly taught to quickly become apathetic commercial conformists. The darkroom and canvas are being replaced by computers, which still takes a particular kind of skill to use, but the results are fast and the norm is to become another Bob Ross of the art world. Trust me; we do not need any more “happy little trees.”
Some people just want acceptance; some people just want to blend in, even if it means lying to everyone including themselves. The last time I saw her was at her apartment. I remember her store bought replica of Starry Night hanging over her couch like a family portrait of pseudo-smiles; now Megan Christy, I am the one smiling, and it is not fake because I am about to meet one of the greatest artists that ever lived, as he was living.
The time is almost right to meet a master, yet; how I arranged to meet him is complicated. Allow me to rephrase that, it is lengthy to explain but simple to make happen now that I know how. Van Gogh will be first on my list to meet along with many others such as Diane Arbus, Stanley Kubric, and Albert Einstein. All on my list of admired thinkers that changed the way we view people, such as Arbus’s edgy portraiture. Or in Kubric’s case, the way we view society, free will, and the future; or in Einstein’s case, how we perceive the universe.
Wait a minute; I have not even explained how I am able to achieve such a remarkable accomplishment. Or maybe I should explain how I learned to channel my abilities. I better start with the basics first, my name is Warren Navarro; how I will be able to meet Van Gogh is a question you may be asking yourself. You are also probably wondering why this girl, Megan Christy, plagues my mind. Dooo not worry; all these questions will eventually have answers. I know how it can be overwhelming at times to have an accumulating amount of questions unanswered. It may even cause anxiety, although; I will never take medication to suppress how I feel. I am learning to deal with anxiety and depression on my own.
I will start to ease any anxiety with a question you probably had since the beginning. How will I speak to Van Gogh? Fortunately for me, he speaks English along with three other languages French, German, and Dutch (his native tug). How did I arrive in Van Gogh’s period? I used psychometry to drift through time of course. Well, it wasn’t always that obvious to me. By the way, psychometry is a psychic ability that channels recorded energy form an object that has been touched by a person or group of people, or by a thing or things, in order to read the history of that object. Basically, anything that someone or something has handled or touched for a short or long interval; for most psychometrists, a watch or necklace usually works well. However, I can learn a tremendous amount of information about a person who has handled something for only a few seconds: for instance, a stapler.
I gained this ability genetically; eventually, I became more in tune with my surroundings and abilities which enabled me to grasp the concept that portals to other realms are available all around us; these portals just have to be released from objects by manipulating its recorded energy. The portals are filled with anti-matter and matter particles that are constantly colliding causing anti-matter to burst with energy that swiftly travels back in time, were as matter alone travels forward in time at a normal rate. Where the portals lead depends on the history of that object. I would assume that when I travel back to my present, the object that led me there will trace me back, when I touch it using my psychometry ability, to unleash a portal containing hyperactive matter particles (which rapidly travel forward) that remember my specific palace in the present. If I could not find the exact object, maybe an object containing similar memory would still serve the same purpose; hopefully not altering my present state.
My grandma and dad were both Psychometrists. They passed on this astounding gift to me, which I have coined my Psychomic Touch. However, they could not drift through time; drifting is a skill that was discovered on my own. My first recollection of psychometry happened to me when I was six years old, eating at my Grandma’s house. My Grandma emigrated from Mexico with her parents when she was ten. I have the feeling that they were illegal immigrants but my dad never discusses this carefully left out detail. If they were illegal immigrants, it would not faze me because I understand how people would want to escape poverty. Plus, I would not exist if they had not illegally immigrated. Although, if illegal immigrants are not regulated it could over populate America causing it to become another jobless second or third world country, but a wall to divide people will do just that, in a country that does not need any more segregation.
My grandma was a fascinating woman and a culinary savant. Since my mom left Dad and I around my fourth birthday, grandma had always cooked for me, and sometimes for the both of us. She made the best enchiladas and she also made home made coco that could knock ten pairs of socks off. My Grandma’s name before marriage was Elena Marie Navarro. After marriage, her name lost its magnificence and became Elena Marie Lester.
When I was younger, my dad worked lengthy hours and I stayed with my grandma a lot. One Saturday afternoon, my grandma had been making enchiladas and some of her wonderful hot coco. She was stirring and intensely pondering something. As my tastes buds anticipated her marvelous cuisine, I remember telling her about the movie, Godzilla vs. King Kong. I was annoyed that after a brutal battle King Kong made Godzilla retreat to the ocean (in the American version), which pretty much hinted towards King Kong winning. Of course, this was complete Clydesdale shit because Godzilla would have won, had the movie taken a realistic route.
In the Japanese version Godzilla won, except the Japanese called the monster Gojira, which, actually, sounds better. American film makers translated the name of my favorite monster wrong because we have a way of taking other cultures and molding it to fit our own. American culture is one enormous mutt. In 1954, when the original Godzilla was released in Japan titled “Gojira” it became a huge success. Not surprisingly, the anti-nuclear allegory that Gojira represented was seen as a problem for American film makers and audiences.
Through American propaganda, Gojira became “Godzilla: King of the Monsters” and was released in 1956. In the American version, Godzilla became just another monster. The Japanese knew what the monster represented, to them; Gorjira is a metaphor that represents the Atomic bomb. When Gorjira devastates Tokyo, the obliteration symbolizes the horrendous nuclear weapons that were used to bomb Nagasaki and Hiroshima, which approximately annihilated over one hundred and sixty thousand lives. I wonder how many of the atomic victims were innocent children, women and college students? The atomic bomb has only been used twice in history to fight World War II, once on Nagasaki and once on Hiroshima, and fortunately nuclear weapons have not been dropped since.
In some ways, I understand why the atomic bomb was created. Americans had to find a way to defeat Hitler and those who sided with this sinister threat, but who will save the world from another possible nuclear holocaust. There is a fear that still haunts the world because one day another cold war could happen again, only to become warm with atomic destruction. If Einstein only knew his equation for special relativity, E=MC squared, would lead to the creation of the Atomic bomb; he would have never revealed it to the world. Einstein took this guilt with him to the grave, and some where he probably still dreads all the destruction his equation caused.
However, Einstein over looked one tiny aspect with special relativity, He never factored in anti-matter. Theoretical Physicists Paul Dirac created anti-matter in a lab by using Atom Smashers (Particle Accelerators). These Atom Smashers bashed around particles on a sub-atomic level to create anti-matter and it was observed that anti-matter travels back wards after colliding with matter; instead of forwards in time. Paul Dirac added anti-matter to Einstein’s special relativity equation to make it E=+ - MC squared. The negative represents anti-matter.
Anyways, I’m getting off track. Where was I? Oh yeah, my grandma was making enchiladas. She was also stirring her Mexican heart out by preparing her exceptional homemade coco. After stirring, my grandma came over to me with a piping hot cup of her sweet delight and some enchiladas smothered in a brownish red meaty sauce. The coco tasted like a culinary goddess had blessed it with divine taste. After I drank her hot coco my taste buds did back flips and one-handed pushups. Then I tasted her enchiladas and my taste buds started to “style and profile” like Ric Flair, Wwwooooo! My taste buds proceeded to feel sorry for people who never had the opportunity to taste my grandma’s enchilada magnum opus: her “Moon Lit Sonata,” her “2001 Space Odyssey,” her “Fahrenheit 451.”
Then I noticed she had left behind the huge wooden spoon used to stir her delicious coco. I picked up the large wooden spoon as my peripheral vision noticed her observing me. At the time, I did not think about it too much, although; when I picked up the spoon, imagery immediately flickered through my mind like a projector. I said,
“Grandma, did you have a dream about Grandpa leaving you?”
Grandma gazed upon me with both joyful and melancholy eyes. As she stared with wonder, she tried to speak, though, the only verbal response was a soft whisper.
“What?”
“Did you have a dream about Grandpa last night,” I asked again?
She could not respond because her emotions temporally robbed her of a vocal response. It was as if her voice had left her. Even though she was awestruck by emotions, I felt like I had taken her voice along with her thoughts.
“Grandma, why was he wearing a black suit with stripes,” I questioned?
Grandma had dropped to her knees and I jumped up from my chair with ultra-concern. I rested my hand tenderly on her shoulder.
“Are you okay Grandma?”
She held me tight sobbing and finally regained her voice as if I gave it back to her.
“Do you remember anything else?” She whispered in a shaky voice.
“You had a drink in your hand like Grandpa.”
“Oh my god! Dear lord. I can’t…I can’t believe it. I can’t believe. Warren, you’re like me. You’re like me. You’re like me.”
My grandma kept repeating this. She was mesmerized by my ability as she would tell me later on in life. When she was six, her psychometry was not active. For some reason, her gift did not become noticeable until she started puberty at the age of eleven. At eleven, her psychometry readings just recalled insignificant details such as what someone might have had for breakfast or lunch. Important conflicts or situations in their life were not specified yet. In fact, Grandma did not get the intricate detail that I had until she reached sixteen. For me, at six years old, my psychomic touch was so powerful that my grandma’s dream was like watching a movie in my mind and no subtlety was left out. At anytime, the imagery could be vividly projected again just like before at the speed of a thought.
Not only was she shocked and excited about my first observed psychometry reading; she was also deeply upset because my Grandpa had left her a little after my fifth birthday. He had left her for another woman. Annoyingly, it was my grandma’s younger sister. At the time, my Grandma’s sister was living with them because she was suffering financially. To return the favor, she made Grandma suffer for the rest of her life.
My Grandpa committed adultery in my Grandma’s house with that sleazy sister that is still living today. My sweet grandma actually caught them in the act. I wish she would have lost it and shot that fucking alcoholic bastard and her worthless sis. But she did not have a gun. She would not allow guns in her home and she did not have a temper either; at least, not that I saw. About two years later, my grandma’s loyal sister betrayed my grandpa by sleeping around, and one day that coward sun of a bitch swallowed the barrel of a twelve-gage shotgun. A gun that grandma’s sister allowed in the house; a gun that he used to paint the wall and ceiling above their bedpost like an abstract Expressionist.
Unfortunately, these events led to my sweet grandma becoming an alcoholic; although, she never drank around me. As a matter of fact, she was so careful about concealing her addiction that I never thought about it much, until after her death. Now that I think of it, the dream my Grandma had, the one I saw in my mind after touching the spoon, hinted towards alcoholism pretty hardcore. It just took me a while to understand that my grandma had a drink in her hand instead of my grandpa, which symbolized her problem. Eventually, my grandma told me that the dark white pin striped suit my grandpa was wearing in her dream was the suit he wore on their first date to dinner and a horse racing track. My kind grandma was taken to horse race track on their first date so my grandpa could gamble; he was such a pathetic prick. That is why my six-year-old psychometry reading left my grandma in an awe of momentary mixed emotions. It caused her to relive the past and all that reliving probably made her thirsty for the rest of her life.
There were days I have come close to kicking Grandpa’s grave stone over. There were even days when I wished he would not have shot himself so I could have done it for him. Her drinking originated from his legacy of torment he selfishly left her with when he took his life. He also left her with unpaid bills. Rage began to swell inside of me, overwhelmingly, like a spreading blaze in my mind. Then I realized that vengeance would be completely negative. Besides, my grandma would not want me to take the situation into my own hands. However, I often wonder if my grandpa had not committed suicide, would I have killed him because his selfish betrayal and rejection still would have caused my grandma to commit a gradual suicide that would last the rest of her life by drowning in alcohol and sorrow.
I tried to view things more positively after my Grandpas death. I do not think I would have done anything to drastic to him, if he were still living; that was just anger talking and that is all I ever let rage get away with. I have never even told off my Grandma’s sister. In fact, I have never seen her since I was six but for some reason my dad and family still visit her. If my dad did that to my mom with her sister in our house, I would never want anything to do with either of them again. That is why I changed my last name from Lester to Navarro because that coward held my grandma’s last name hostage in obscurity when marriage made Navarro her maiden name, and passed Lester on to my dad and me. Using her name helps keep apart of her with me and at times, I still sense her essence.
My grandma and grandpa are gone, yet my Grandma’s sister is still living her worthless life and sometimes I want to give it meaning by smacking her or at least spitting on her. Or even burning her house down, but I realize that this is just fury trying to get the better of me and my grandma would never have taken revenge. Unfortunately, I am not the sympathetic person my grandma was, and if my grandpa was still living, I would brutally articulate how he has done wrong, that is of course, after I broke his ribs. Regrettably, I did not even have the chance to yell at him or threaten him before he died. Then I realized his death made me happy because after all, my Grandpa was out of my life, at least my life here on earth.
Not all of my memories of Grandpa were negative. He did introduce me to learning. He always watched nature documentaries on channel 9, while slamming back mixed drinks and breathing cigarette smoke like a dragon. This is probably the reason why I am obsessed with learning, even when I am intoxicated. He even gave me my first drink when I was four. It kicked like a spooked zebra because it was bourbon with a splash of cola. At the time, my taste buds were in momentary shock as I recall my head jerking away from the glass in my hand. My taste buds expected something sweeter with maybe a hint of sourness or spice but not sheer bitterness.
I remember grandpa finishing the rest of the drink in a relishing gulp, while playing solitaire and watching a documentary about some kind of tribal society using a hallucinogenic drug called beetle nut. I have been intrigued about this drug ever since, but will never do research on it because it might captivate me enough to start a new addiction, even though this drug may not be available in the United States, it might intrigue me to do other hallucinogens. Then again, people who have horrible imaginations use hallucinogens. My imagination may have been genetically given to me by my Grandma; were as my grandpa gave me the urge to drink, but at least he taught me to enhance my curiosity, which is the urge to learn.
One thing is for certain, when I am drunk I act more like my grandpa. I’m not exactly sure how my grandma behaved, but it must have been calm because I was around her all the time, and she never slurred, or seemed hung over. She always appeared to be coherent. Conversely, my grandpa must have been a subconscious roll model. The ability to hide my depression and frustrations when I am hung over is beyond me. My Grandpa was the same way. The feeling of overwhelming doom hangs over me until I recover the next day or two. Although, I never displace my anger on other people like that tyrant did, while both intoxicated and hungover. In spite of this, he never physically abused me; yet, verbally he scrutinized me. Actually, on both sides of the family, my grandfathers ruled the house hold with fascist iron dictating fists. Yet, both sides treated their fathers like Gods and to speak differently would result in lashings from a leather belt.
Both sides of the family also carry anxiety in their genes, and I am willing to bet my parent’s childhood environment had something to do with their behaviors as well as their heredity; unfortunately, they passed on their neurotic behavior and addictive personalities to me. Some members of my dad’s side of the family drink heavily; others do not drink at all because those who did had to stop before they drowned. Since the concoction for depression was already flowing through my blood stream, weather I drink or not, I thought, might as well drink to numb myself from at least some of the pain but now I know it only adds to it.
Thinking about my childhood sometimes makes me thirsty, and when I awake my thirst is unquenched. On one dehydrated afternoon at the age of 18, a surprise was waiting for me. I awoke feeling miserable, yet relieved as if I had attended an unconscious therapy session. I recall pondering, “Why do I feel like I have ventilated years of anguish? And why…..Oh know, I’m lying in a puddle of my own vomit.” That was why I felt so terrible, I was ultra-dehydrated. I wanted to get up and have a glass of ice water, but was too fatigued, and fell back asleep on my bed that was drenched in my regurgitation.
When I awoke for the second time the air was sour and stale. I did not have the strength to walk; as a result, I crawled to the bathroom and barely managed to become bipedal. I sucked down some water from the facet, peeled my shirt from my adhesive sour stained body and tossed it on the bathroom floor. I splashed water on my face and chest and then gulped down more water. I lathered my face with soap and washed it off, followed by drying off with the hand towel. What was I, some kind of vagabond swine, no; I was someone who was lost in his own body and thought that alcohol would help me find my way. It never does, but I did find a clean shirt when I walked back into my room.
As I put my shirt on, my mind started to contemplate how thankful I was for my dad to be out of town. If he saw the aftermath caused by my drinking binge, he might have banished me from my own home; instead of asking me wants wrong, or why would I do this. He never has been much of a communicator. Just as I was about to rip the sheets off my bed and wash out the dried vomit, my eyes surveyed the room lit by diffused light that tried to fully penetrate through the white blinds with radiating fury; though, the sun’s rays could only form a glowing aura that emitted from the window.
Abruptly, something subconsciously drove me to open the blinds. As I allowed light to flood my bedroom, the floor was entirely illuminated; which allowed me to notice a bottle of bourbon with only a fourth remaining, a half- consumed liter of cola and eight beer cans. Three of the beer cans were of a different brand than the six-pack of red wolf, which means, I must have done a late-night alcohol raid through the house, only to find three beers. In the middle of the clutter lie my note book, I remember thinking at the time writer’s block plagued me. For months, I struggled to express myself until that night, while I experienced a drunk induced black out; my inebriated thoughts were poured onto paper with infuriated expression.
During the age of eighteen, my note books were being neglected. It was the height of my Attention Deficit Disorder; I could barely concentrate on a movie. So, when I noticed my note book lying amongst the clutter of bottles and cans I thought, did I write some unconscious thoughts at the zenith of a drinking marathon? I sat with my legs crossed below me on the floor looking at my 8 by ten mars black hard cover note book. My hands reached out and when they brushed against my note book, my psychomic touch caused all of my recorded thoughts in my book to stream through my mind.
Almost simultaneously, I filtered out all the written thoughts that were familiar until something obscure stood out, but my psychometry could not see what it was. Perhaps it was because my mind had been too intoxicated to think clearly. So, I opened the note book and turned towards the end. Written furiously, it states, how can someone escape this realm and pass on into the next, leaving behind their responsibilities, causing the living to drown in wretchedness; without even being remotely remorseful for others; yet, he who has selfishly taken his own life is seen as a saint by the rest of the family. In this life, his crimes are unanswered for and have taken someone I hold dear; leaving me with many questions, leaving me alone with many lonely thoughts.
I slightly recall writing this introduction. It was before complete intoxication, although, I do not remember much after writing the introduction. When the alcohol violently kicked in, I vaguely recollect throwing beer cans around in a drunken tantrum. As I proceed to recall some of the night’s events my mind started to project an image of me throwing my cordless phone. Instantly, I looked at the cordless phone receiver’s base, and it was not there, so I looked the opposite direction and lying on the ground was my shattered cordless phone. Another memory of the inebriated night flickered for a moment, which was of me sitting with my back leaning against the wall with my legs spread out. There I sobbed and picked up the book again to therapeutically write out the rest of my feelings while heavily under the influence.
After I tried to recall more details from the night before, I continued to read more of the note book. My note book has ideas for movies, stories, and photographs. Some of my notes are even hard for me to read, but after awhile of careful analysis, I can usually translate what was written, accept for the thoughts written when intoxicated. Dyscrephia is a writing disability that causes me to have illegible hand writing and many miss-spellings and scratch outs. Dyscrephia is linked to the learning disability dyslexia.
Dyslexia is a learning disability that causes me to jumble words and digits when I read. When someone gives me driving instructions my mind struggles to comprehend. Sometimes my audio comprehension can be just as bad as my visual and to struggle with the audible comprehension of words is a learning disability called Dysnomia; which is also linked to Dyslexia. Now my visual comprehension for reading a novel or watching a movie (and listening) has drastically improved, accept when dealing with simple mathematics, which is linked to the math learning disability dyscalculia. Dyscalculia makes it difficult to add my tip to a bill: and forget trying to use a coupon. Or trying to figure out my bar tab; oh wait, that’s a learning disability linked to alcoholism.
Not only do I have Dyslexia, Disnomia, Dyscalculia, and Dyscrephia, I also have Attention Deficit Disorder. ADD makes it incredibly difficult to concentrate on certain tasks such as school, driving directions, or performing jobs. I notice the less I drink the more focused I am. These four disabilities have severely affected my life and on top of that, I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder which can definitely distract me from learning because of a constant conflict between my OCD thoughts and what I should be doing.
When I have applied for jobs in person some employers or companies expect people to fill the application out on the spot, and dyscrephia (writing disability) makes this a daunting task. I can complete the applications; however, it is filled with many scratch outs and misspelled words. I tend to write in cursive and print which confuses people, but makes perfect sense to me. If I have time to take it home I write many rough drafts, then I carefully copy it to the application. On average, it takes me a few hours, which would take most people about a half an hour to complete. Most of the time, I still can not avoid mistakes, even after a few rough drafts.
Writing birthday and Christmas cards are also complex tasks for me to do, so I usually type it out on a computer and then try to rewrite it on the card, but I still have scratch outs and misspelled words. I sometimes recall friends or family members wanting to give a joint birthday card even after I try to explain I might make mistakes, they still would insist on giving the same card together. The end result would be a frustrated friend or family member yelling at me for making mistakes even though I tried warning them. If someone yells at me, or gives the slightest attitude when I am trying to do a simple task, it only amplifies the learning disabilities. Here is an example of my sober dyscrephia in a wedding card that I recently wrote for my cousin and his wife.
(And in the photo copy with wide out of what was already there from hallmark)
People have trouble empathizing with something they can not comprehend. If only they could understand that I realize most people can not invent new ways of looking at the same thing. I have always been analytical and observant, although; my learning disabilities have eclipsed my imaginative thought process. To make up for having learning disabilities, I have always been able to perceive many possibilities; this ability becomes useful with science and art. Since I can view my surroundings with many possible scenarios, it was only natural to become infatuated with photography. Most people can not see beyond what is there, and I try not to scrutinize them for this. My learning disabilities have humbled me. However, ridicule is something that has scourged my life. If people can not relate to a disability, chances are they are not going to understand, and this might cause an insecure urge to mock those that are different.
Back to what I was saying before about what I wrote in my note book while under an alcoholic fit of rage. Usually, I can translate some kind of coherency from my own writings, although there are times when it takes me longer to retrieve meaning from what I wrote; most of the time it is because I was loaded while I wrote. Even still, I can at least make some kind of sense from what was written when I read it sober. On this rare occasion, some of it was such utter madness, illegible even to me. After an hour, I tired to carefully decipher meaning like a linguist translating an ancient language. Eventually, I was able to understand my documented wrath from the night of my writing black out. Before I show you the translated version, here is how my Drunk Dyscrephia appears in my note book.
((PUT IN photo-copies of DRUNK DYSCREPHIA FOLLOWED BY TYPED TRANSLATION))
I wish musical talent could be genetic in our family, instead alcoholism, anxiety, and learning disabilities were all that was passed down; sometimes heredity sucks! Usually, after a night of sheer inebriation, I just wait for the depression, the anxiety, and the pain to fade. When dread dissipates like a gloomy fog, I soon return to my more productive self, no longer restrained by depression or by dehydration. The brain is approximately made of seventy five percent water; no wonder it’s hard to think clear until the body is hydrated. When hydrated, my imagination soon returns filling the emptiness in my head with concepts about art and science. I swear to myself not to drink for a while, this usually does not last a long duration.
As fast as my motivated active mind is restored, my nemesis anxiety returns followed by depression. The urge to drink reaches a level that becomes uncontrollable like a tick caused by Tourette syndrome. Pretty soon, a drink is in my hand almost unconsciously, yet consciously, I feel impervious to pain. Momentarily protected by a drunken exoskeleton, until my past is felt causing me to drink until I see darkness. I awake alone and vulnerable, usually the next afternoon, while anxiety invades my mind like a temporary parasite that wants to drain me. Regret starts to remind me of my mistakes. Why do I drink so much? Why do I continue to put toxins in my body? These questions seem absurd to ask myself. As a child, these problems would be easy to avoid; don’t do it. Stop poisoning your body. But as I matured, life became more complicated and alcohol seemed to decrease the burden of my past. Why do adults make immature decisions?
When I was younger, I remembered talking to my Grandpa about drinking. I was four and my Grandpa recalled how I made some funny commits to him at a bar while visiting his mother in a small town. We stopped at a dimly lit drinking hole that had a black and white TV that flickered “Leave it to Beaver.” I despised that show, but was obsessed with video games. All “Leave it to Beaver” did was try to create a fictitious reality that desperately tried to falsify society. So, I asked for a quarter to play Donkey Kong. Did you ever wonder; where are the donkeys? Well, there are none because in Japan it is called Monkey Kong; Americans just made a simple mistake with the translation. If the Japanese video game creators would have consulted Primatologist Jane Goodall or Dian Fossey about the Monkey Kong title, perhaps, they may have suggested Ape Kong.
You might think getting a quarter from your grandpa is an easy task, although; when he is in cheap mode, you are lucky to get a sandwich from him, unless it was deli meat from some kind of generic brand. Seriously, I was starving on the way to meet my great grandmother, and saw a Burrito Chef, but Grandpa insisted on eating at his mom’s, who only had: pickle loaf, mustard, generic white bread, and her house was a three-hour drive away from Burrito Chef. Eventually, my stomach ate itself.
Since my Grandpa would not relent a quarter; I had to devise a way to trick him. There was a lot going against me, but confidence began to take over.
“Hey grandpa, could I have a quarter?”
He was in the middle of a game of solitaire, and his concentration seemed impervious, but I knew it could be broken by my assertive nature.
“Grandpa could I have a quarter?”
“God Dam it!?”
The bartender noticed my Grandpa’s frustration, so she came over to check on him.
“Need anything sweetie?”
“I need a drink; I lost two games in a roll.”
“The same?”
“Grandpa, can I have a quarter?”
“Bloody Mary this time, extra vodka, extra spicy.”
“You’re trying a buffet of drinks.”
“When I start winning that we’ll be the drink I’ll stick with.”
“Hopefully this is the lucky drink.”
“Grandpa can I have a quarter?”
“For Christ sakes Warren, what!?
“Can I...”
“Video games are a waste of time and money,” he explained cheaply while slurping down his drink.
“I win more than you do at cards, and alcohol is a waste of money.”
“Here’s your quarter, and make it last?”
“Wow, thanks!”
I went over to Monkey Kong with my gleaming George Washington ready to get my fix, until the game devoured my quarter. I guess it was hungry. It was so frustrating because everything else worked fine. The video game’s screen had better resolution and audio quality than the black and white Television that flickered “Leave it to Beaver.” Though, the coin slot needed repair. Perhaps nobody played Monkey Kong because they were too busy getting loaded. Or maybe other grandfathers left their grandchildren at home. Whatever the reason, I went up to the bar tender and asked,
“Could I have my quarter back?”
“Sorry no refunds,” she explained while she pointed to the sign as if I could read, yet; I had seen enough of them to know what the sign meant. So, I played dumb in a clever way.
“No refunds, God Damn it! Now I need a drink!
The entire bar roared with laughter. I had a grin on my face like a comedian might have after people laughed at his or her standup routine. One of the four inebriated men, not counting my Grandpa, was impressed, he shouted,
“One rum and cola for Rodney Dangerfield,”
“How about bourbon and cola,” I demanded.
The bar tender responded,
You’re in luck we have some cola.
“If I was lucky, I’d have a quarter for the stupid pin ball game.”
“One cola and one quarter for the stupid pin ball game. On the house!”
“Oh wow, Thanks!”
Even though I hated pin ball, it was better than Green Acres, which was now flickering on the Television screen. The bar tender decided not to listen to the drunken man and just gave me a cola minus the bourbon. She probably did not want to lose her liquor license. Maybe she had kids of her own. Anyhow, my grandpa insisted on just a splash of whisky.
“It might put hair on his chest,” he clarified.
You might think it is wrong to give child a drink and bring him to a bar. My grandma and dad were appalled, on the contrary; if this were England or Ireland people probably would not even give this situation a second thought. In England and Ireland, sometimes families gathered around the local pub and drink and sing songs. Even the kids were sometimes accustomed to drink a little, especially on the holidays. Is this right, or does this effect a child? Ethically, I think it depends on the culture, however; a child’s up bringing can affect him as an adult; especially if he’s surrounded by alcohol. Is it ethnocentric to judge other cultures for doing so? And how much of the disease may be hereditary?
Chapter 2: The Amplified Gift