The Journal
THE JOURNAL
July 5, 1986:
Hello. Hi, I guess. I don't know how this is supposed to work. Or why I'm doing this. Or who this is even for. My mom says it's for no one. For myself. "It will do you some good to get your thoughts and feelings out" she says to me at dinner.
Happy Birthday to me I guess.
So this is to me. Me now. Future me. Hey, maybe someday my kids will dig this up and get a good laugh in. Who knows?
Kids? Yeah, right.
At least this stupid thing is better than what dad "got me." A hunting trip. He said my first buck is when I become a man. He made me shoot a deer today. I cried behind his back.
If that's what it takes to be a man I have no interest in that.
The rest of the day wasn't bad though. Chasing the dogs through the woods. Tackling them in the fog before they ran too far.
That's enough for today. I really hope no one ever reads this thing.
How do I sign off? I guess I just stop?
July 6, 1986:
I really hope mom doesn't expect me to write in this thing every day. Once the day's gone I just wanna sleep.
We didn't even do much today. My parents made me go with them on their Sunday drive. And then we went to Bob Evans for dinner.
I guess I like the view. The trees and the farms and the little towns we drive through. All the little kids running around and family barbecues.
And I wish I actually had more to say. Or someone to talk to. How do I even do this and not sound melodramatic? It's time to stop.
August 20, 1986:
Talk about bad timing. Stupid broken arm. Wasn't even my fault this time. My friend Chris accidentally pushed me down the stairs. Well, someone ran into him and he knocked me down. It didn't really hurt though. I was only crying because I was in shock. It's just not supposed to look like that.
So anyway I got the cast off today. Other than my arm being pale as a bone it feels pretty good. Remind me to never go to a mall again though.
Sometimes I feel like my life is constantly starting over. Like I'm just being born again and again.
Like last weekend. As I puked my brains out. Out back of a Taco Bell at 3AM just as they're closing down. It felt like I was surrounded by wastebaskets and garbage and all the walls were falling down.
Am I the same person now as I was then?
Are any of us the same?
September 1, 1986:
School is back. Labor Day today. I love the break after such a long time away. What I don't love is everyone getting on me all the time.
"You gotta figure out your future."
"You gotta learn a skill."
"You gotta get better grades than that."
"Start thinking about a college."
And everyone keeps saying "John, John, John. What are we gonna do with you?"
It's the story of my life I guess.
I'm not living up to my potential. But what if it's not potential at all? What if I'm just wasting everyone's time? I mean of course that's all I'm doing. It's me fulfilling my potential. I just don't want to go back.
September 20, 1986:
How Drunk is too Drunk?
The Broken Sun wonders.
Misspelling Discounted
& Borne of the glass
In my Hand.
Someone kissed me tonight.
I Hope I Don't forget.
October 25, 1986:
What do I do now what do I do now what do I do now what do I do?
My mom left my dad. I should burn this stupid thing. I should burn this whole damn house. I hate what she did. I hate what this is. I hope I never have to feel like this again.
Dad, I want you to know I want you to be okay.
October 30, 1986:
How does everything fall apart so quickly?
And here I'm born again. In a row of houses. Or more like the alley behind as we peed in the dark. Trying not to let the passing cops see us there after the bar kicked us out.
Those fake ID's haven't worked a single time. What a waste of 50 bucks.
I'm not dead inside. Not yet. But it would be easier if I was.
Sometimes I feed off of being alone. Sometimes I get drunk. Sometimes I feel like I'm losing it and everybody notices.
Everybody notices.
But no one notices.
The little things.
I should show up tomorrow with nothing but a box of matches and a shovel. Or a drink 3 gallons long.
November 27, 1986:
So I'm just locked in my room with Head On the Door playing as loud as it will go. Dad thought it would be a good idea to invite mom to Thanksgiving. It wasn't.
It never used to be like this. I snuck a bottle of wine to my room between the screaming.
I hope they fix this.
It's hard to see dad so upset.
December 23, 1986:
No mom for Christmas. Just trying not to let my dad know that I know he's crying all the time.
I got him a kite for Christmas. Just like the one he got me when I turned 10. We used to go flying in the park. I just want to help him smile again.
It shouldn't be this hard.
January 2, 1987:
I had a dream last night. A face. And I know heartstrings make poor yoyo strings. A cats cradle holding all my broken nights. That face so familiar yet no one I've ever met. Mr. Vonnegut please forgive my ignorance for the Bokonon.
What kind of day is this? Why do I even care?
February 2, 1987:
It's so cold.
February 8, 1987:
Dragged to mass. Dad found God. I feel hollow. Maybe it's not for me. If it helps, it helps. But I'm out of breaths to hold.
March 21, 1987:
Mom came by today. An early birthday card and Forty Dollars in hand. It's like she forgot I exist. I need a drink. I need to be born again.
March 22, 1987:
I was born. On a train. Or a platform. I can't remember because the blackout. I just know when I came to my knees were bleeding and I don't know how I got home.
A cast. Or a glow through the window. Red and morning light. A gentle kiss of sunburn and I'm awake. All drool and piss on Jesse's living room floor. Good thing his parents are gone this weekend.
What is there to learn from this?
May 27, 1987:
Pot brownies and I'm high for a day and a half. Just can't tell Allie or she's gone for sure. I'm not sure that I even care. I'm know what's not forever. "You can't marry the first girl you meet." Dad says. So I don't see the point in trying.
Some day I'll see the point in trying.
July 5, 1987:
Happy Birthday to me. God this year sucked. No reason to recap. There's play-by-play by the page I can't wait to burn away. Or just forget about.
Got a job at a record shop. Crazy lady owns the place. Worked for Bowie in the 70s. And won't let me forget it. At least it's a paycheck.
July 26, 1987:
Dad and I went on a drive today. Like the old days. I think he's almost put himself back together. The glass in his eyes is fading. My dad never had much of a twinkle in his eye but he always had a look of being present. In the moment. That left with mom. The further she got the further he did too. Until today. It feels like maybe he came back. Or he's on his way back. Either way it's good to see.
September 7, 1987:
At least I'm almost done with this place.
I got a letter from mom. Pretty much all it said was "what colleges have you looked at?" with no return address.
"What are you gonna do with yourself?"
NO RETURN ADDRESS.
What the hell?
Even if I knew. And even if I knew where you were. I wouldn't tell you shit.
September 23, 1987:
Today was weird. I just felt so weird all day. Like I was someone else. Or I was supposed to be somewhere else. Or I was being watched. Like by a GH ST over my shoulder.
And I just got the chills.
October 31, 1987:
A year ago my mom left my dad. I didn't say it then but I'm saying it now. I hate her for that. We're just now getting our lives back. It's hard to trust anyone. It's hard to get through the day. I can't even imagine how he feels. But I know it's not good.
And just like that last night I was born again. Slipping into nightmares. Trying to find something that's not myself at the end of a drink. In a water fountain. Baptised and broken fingered. Dropped off by a bus. I was almost late to work this morning. But I wasn't late. I made it just in time.
And I just want to sleep. Sometimes I just love the sedentary life. Last night the thought of that was closer to drowning. It's like there's these little glitches or something. Like I'm something not myself.
But that's okay. I know it seems like I'm always pulling the alarm. But I'm really more together than I put on. John, you're gonna be okay.
November 27, 1987:
No drop-ins from mom so far. Low-key holiday. Just me and dad. Turkey sandwiches and deviled eggs. It's quiet. It's nice.
I don't think I'll see Allie much anymore. I wanna keep it casual. She's nice but maybe too nice. I don't know. I feel distracted. By nothing in particular. The record store? I just don't feel high like I think I should.
December 18, 1987:
I'm basking in the glow. Of the end of this godforsaken year. An explosion of doubt. A palace of thorny crowns. I'm packing it all up and moving on.
I'm ready for something else. I wanna see New Orleans in the winter. Cause it's anywhere but here.
January 2, 1988:
With the clock-turn yesterday, I was already asleep. A first for me. In the new year I'll be someone to be proud of. I don't know how I know.
April 10, 1988:
I just felt like I had to pick this up again. Like I owe it to my mother. Like she'll pay me back someday.
But I don't know what to say. I'm at a loss for words.
(he tried to scratch out the next bit but I was able to recover it)
[I want the spring to end.
I want to fall in love.
I want to be somewhere else.
I want the world to end.
I want a face to love.
I want]
Is it over yet?
July 5, 1988:
I hope I don't get drafted. I wanna drown in cigarettes. I hope I didn't embarrass myself too badly last night. After the adults left the room I became a fool. The falling down drunk on your doorstep. I know I need to get my shit together. Some day I'll get my shit together.
I don't know who I'm trying to impress. I guess it doesn't matter.
October 30, 1988:
It's full-time at the store.
It's parties every night.
It's dad and I on the doorstep.
Drinking till the sun goes down.
Drinking till it came up this morning.
Telling stories. Tall tales. The great wonder of his youth. He's softening somehow. Loves to help someone else. He's not angry or disappointed in me. Just happy I'm still here. And I am. At least for now.
January 2, 1989:
I took a break from the party. Okay, fine. I was sick for the new year. Our friend Rachel was in town from Christmas to today and we drank so much every night, by the time it was New Years my body had enough. I'm never doing that again. At least not like that.
Sometimes I can't sleep and I fantasize about someone. Someone I haven't even met yet. But I know she's there. And she's coming soon.
May 2, 1989:
On repeat all day long. This is gonna be important. "These pictures of you." This. Locked away and on so loud I almost forgot where I was. Mr Smith just says what I want to hear and I love him for that.
June 8, 1989:
I feel like every time I have a handle on..
I feel like every time I'm close to putting together..
I take a step back to see where I am, and it's nowhere. Where is she? Where am I?
And when I get like this. I'm leaving everything everywhere. Leaving combs on the dresser. Leaving trash in the can. Leaving sanity, sanitarily. Leaving marks on the walls. Leaving skin on the ground. Leave my body where it is. I left my body where it was found.
July 5, 1989:
Another year. 19. I don't have it figured out yet. It seems to me, that no one ever does.
If I fall in love.
If I get a real job.
If I leave this town.
If I start a family.
I guess that's good enough.
August 27, 1989:
I feel like I should be going back to school right now. But I'm just going to work tomorrow. I wish I could do this forever.
November 22, 1989:
All my friends are at the bar. I know I could get in. I could be there with them. But it doesn't feel like there's anything to celebrate. It's almost Thanksgiving and this house is empty again.
Dad's in the hospital. He's been there a month. I don't know what to do with myself.
I guess it's turkey sandwiches again. What I'd give to see him smile again. Or hear his voice again. Or share another beer again. Or tell him I love him. Just one more time. The doctors say I may never get a chance.
November 24, 1989:
Dad died. I never got the chance.
November 25, 1989:
I can't sleep. I never said goodbye.
November 27, 1989:
I haven't eaten in days.
And I still can't sleep.
I wish there was something I could've done.
December 24, 1989:
I'm slowly coming back to life.
I still don't know what to do with myself.
But I'm trying to figure it out.
January 2, 1990:
What just happened?
I had to get out of there.
I can't even describe...
The crazy lady in charge of the shop had this idea to throw a new years party. It didn't go great. So I had Chris push back his New Years Party so I could get his help at the shop.
He had to work yesterday so he pushed it back to tonight. Since Midnight didn't matter we counted down to 10PM to get it out of the way.
So I'm at the party and our friend Jeff is DJing. And he plays "Lullaby" [by the Cure] and there's this random "whoop" from the other side of the basement. This girl. I'd never seen her before. Amelia. And I froze. We talked. I have no idea how it started. But then 10PM comes and she's kissing me into the new year. She gave me her number and I just had to go. I'm so overwhelmed and excited and I'm completely beside myself. I [(something scratched out and it just ends there.)]
January 4, 1990:
I took Amelia to dinner tonight. Nothing fancy. But it didn't matter. She's great. Perfect maybe. We went on a walk after and I swore time froze. In that moment a million thoughts hit my brain all at once. Every possible outcome. I was so overwhelmed I felt like I would be stuck there forever.
But of course I wasn't. I was still walking. Her hand in mine. I felt like I was on fire.
I don't want to jump the gun here.
But I don't see a way out.
I'm sucked in like gravity.
And loving every second.
January 7, 1990:
I wish I could talk to you when I sleep. But I can't so I don't mind running on fumes. I'd rather be tired than not hear your voice.
She took me to the movies. Driving Miss Daisy. And we snuck into Glory. She's not afraid of breaking rules. She's not afraid of anything. She makes me less afraid of everything.
January 23, 1990:
I think I'm definitely falling now.
The ultimate gut-check. I'm a blank slate waiting for the filling in.
And all her words fill me up.
And if I could say anything or any words to anyone I want them to be you. All warm and close. All boisterous and belligerent. All messy like my head. All fuzzed out like my heart.
Her kisses. I could sigh with the moon.
And tides will change with our breath.
January 30, 1990:
I miss my dad. It comes in waves. And when it washes over me I'm suddenly drowning in it. Sometimes Amelia can get me free. Pull me out of it. I'm so thankful she's around.
Pardon my directness dear but I'm feeling rather anxious. Can you pick me up and put me back on the shelf?
It's everything I want to say but can't. It's every conversation I want to have but can't say out loud.
February 3, 1990:
How long has it been? It feels like forever. In the best possible way. It's really been no time at all.
Everything hits at once.
Everything hits and I'm out of breath.
February 18, 1990:
Don't let me do whatever I want.
Don't let me see whoever I choose.
Cause they're Nothing Compared to you.
It's been stuck in my head.
Next to you.
March 14, 1990:
I could build a life here. Or anywhere. I could make a family. I could go the whole wide world for you. To steal another phrase. I'll steal every second I can get.
April 12, 1990:
Amelia is pregnant. I'm gonna be a father.
She seems so scared and anxious.
And I'm so scared and anxious.
Are we even ready for this?
I guess we'll find out.
May 7, 1990:
I'm just trying to make her comfortable.
It all seems so uncomfortable.
Anything she needs. I'm there.
I'll always be there.
May 29, 1990:
Some days are just so perfect.
Most of the time. I'm waiting in line. For the next perfect day. And it's always worth the wait.
Just Your laugh has the power of perfect days.
It was laying in bed all day. Just pizza and TV. Just jokes and rolling in the hay. Just us and Nothing else.
July 5, 1990:
[(lots scratched out in the beginning of this one. can't read any of it.)]
I'm Not scared of anything.
I'm gonna marry this girl.
Give me a week.
It's all I need.
July 14, 1990:
Amelia's favorite book is "to kill a Mockingbird." My wife. I made her my wife. We were married today. By a friend in front of other friends.
Boy or girl, their name will be Scout.
I love you already, Scout.
Almost as much as I love your mom.
August 1, 1990:
Where do we begin? For that matter where do we end? All that matters is your skin. Pock-marked and sensitive. Bad-mouthed and lecherous. I'm pained and painting in.
Nonsense. Pure nothing. Puking of the mind. I can't control it sometimes. Better out than in. Or written down where no one can see.
I just want to be a good dad. A good husband. A good partner. A good teacher. Someone to look up to. Someone to count on. I'm trying and I won't stop trying and if I ever stop trying please just hit my lights out.
October 30, 1990:
The weight of the day hangs like a ton of bricks in the air.
My dad hardly ever spoke to me. I don't want to be like that. I want to be everything he should have said out loud.
November 22, 1990:
The holidays were always hard. This is also hard. Let go. Just get easier already.
We shared a turkey sandwich on the porch.
You're months away and it feels like years. To see your face. I guess you could say I'm scared.
That you'll have my chin, my nose, my wonky eyes. That you'll have my fears, my worries, my faults.
I'm scared I won't have your trust.
January 2, 1991:
Hi Scout. You're a little early but you're just in time.
April 5, 1991:
We're moving to California in May!
July 8, 1991:
Welcome to the worst birthday of my life. I'd never been as scared as this. The Fourth of July. In 1991. Was the scariest day of my life. I almost lost my wife and son.
It was so hot out. Steam on the streets. So we waited till the Sun went down. Twilight and a crash. I was fine. They weren't. They weren't okay. The ambulance. The braces. The blood.
I'm just thankful they're alive. The doctors say they'll make a full recovery.
I'm so sorry. I didn't see it coming. I should've seen it coming. And now it's haunting me.
February 27, 1996:
[(more scratched out at the beginning. again can't read it.)]
Amelia just got back from the doctor. She stole a copy of the therapist's notes.
"Woman presenting with clinical depression. Seems to spend a lot of energy just trying to make it through the day."
When she finally goes (I wish I could say "if") we'll look for things to blame. It's just the chemicals in her brain. They tell her not to stay.
July 5, 2001:
It's what I should have said out loud. "Your words are like a warm blanket swallowing me whole. I can't escape and I wouldn't want to anyway."
I couldn't keep her here. I tried. I really did. But something kept calling her away.
A few months ago I saw the look. Mother's day, in fact. She wasn't there anymore. Her mind left before her body did. She wasn't in it. That's the day I knew Amelia wasn't staying anymore.
I still feel unprepared. I still can't believe it. What do I tell Scout? I never wanted him to have to go through what I did.
What do we do now?
July 13, 2001:
I haven't left my bed in a week.
Scout made a fort out of all the pizza boxes.
And I am a box of papers cut out of the frame and folded away. I'm waiting for the sun to hit with just the right light so I set on fire.
I want to be set on fire.
I be fire.
want on
to set
I
want
to
be
set
on
fire.
I wasn't prepared for this.
How can you not be here?
Next to me.
Where did you go?
Really, what do I do now?
August 11, 2001:
Pick up the pieces. P i c k u p
t h e p i e c e s .
I'm falling apart on the couch.
I'm under the brick of the house.
I have to pretend I'm okay.
Keep it together for Scout.
Scout,
I know everyone is broken. I know you don't know that yet. I know my head's full of too much conversation. I know I'm talking to people who aren't even there.
But you're actually here. You're still here and I need to make sure you're okay. I think I need to get us out of here. It's all gonna be okay eventually.
If there's one thing I've learned it's that some kinds of paper are more satisfying to rip into pieces. And some people are too.
That. And it's not always about having all the answers. It's about the questions you ask as you go.
-Dad.
September 17, 2001:
What. What was this week?
Are you kidding me?
I don't even know what to think.
Un-fucking-believable.
Also. The old lady. At the shop. She wants to retire. She called me out of nowhere and told me "The store is yours if you want it."
We're going home. I can't wait to take Scout back East. It's gonna be so good for him. So good for me.
October 31, 2001:
My mom left my dad over 14 years ago. 14 years. I haven't heard from her in 10. She wasn't at Dad's funeral. She never met Scout.
I need to pack away this house. Amelia took Nothing with her when she left. Said she didn't need it. Any of it. Anymore.
I wish I could say I knew she was alright.
November 11, 2001:
We're in hibernation. Preparing for the trip. Trying not to spend too much time in the car until next month. We've been skipping the weekly Sunday drive for awhile.
November 12, 2001:
Wholly unprepared. Everything's filling up. It feels so fucked. 10,000 things to do and I'd rather melt into the walls.
P u t t h e p i e c e s b a c k t o g e t h e r .
Please.
You're almost out of time.
December 10, 2001:
And away we go.
Point the needle home.
Hold your breath through the tunnels.
December 11, 2001:
Stopped for the night in Colorado. I miss my dad pretty bad tonight. Someday I'll find it within myself to call you by your name, [(name scratched out)].
Just not right now.
December 12, 2001:
It was a long drive to Chicago. But it gives us all day tomorrow. Scout can't wait to see the tower. Ride the trains. Pizza in the afternoon. I'm just glad to be here. The city is beautiful in the dark.
December 14, 2001:
Home. Just down the road from where I grew up.
Everything behind us. Everything ahead.
The stillness. The dusting snow.
The hope.
Represent us like the heart of his little hands in mittens making tiny snowmen on the railing. It almost breaks what's left of my heart in two.
But it holds.
January 2, 2002:
You weren't supposed to have this much life experience by now. Your 11th birthday? I'm so sorry Scout.
You were supposed to be young for as long as we could manage. You weren't supposed to be taking care of me yet. You weren't supposed to raise yourself.
Look. I've lived too. I've seen a little of the world. Not enough, mind you. But I know how it works. It doesn't. You're not supposed to learn that for another 10 years, that's why the drinking age is 21.
[I'm supposed to be the one between the two of us that knows what they're doing.]
I don't know what I'm doing.
But I love you just the same, Son.
March 3, 2004:
Scout ran away. Tonight. I already called the police. He's been hanging around with his friend Leo a lot lately. I thought, just for a second, they could be planning something. But I convinced myself they were just pretending.
He left me a note.
"Dad,
I'm just looking for mom. She's out there somewhere. She needs me to find her. I need me to find her. It's going to be okay. I'm going to bring her home.
-Scout"
You're Not going to find her, son.
You're Not going to find anything you're looking for. She's not there.
There's nothing left.
Just come back.
March 8, 2004:
He's home. Clothes torn to shreds. Went straight to his room. How do I get to the bottom of this one?
...
Okay. He wasn't as bad as I thought. Mostly dirty. Tired. Hungry. Said he hopped a freight train. Saw something about it online. Got caught by a railworker in Ohio so they sent him back the other way in the conductor cabin and gave him a turkey sandwich.
That sounds like something I would do but not like anything I ever did.
I'm just so glad he's home. I almost hopped [(in front of)] a train myself.
April 6, 2008:
It's amazing to me how we find things. Lose things. An attic. A shed. A journal. Your head. And I'm everywhere again. Body strewn about the room. Trying and failing to put it back together.
My arms at 16.
My legs and I'm 20.
My heart when Scout was born.
My gut when Amelia left.
My feet and hands and the day we drove East. My whole life broken down to these few words on a page.
And then there's Scout. I don't want this scared and angry kid to be a scared and angry man. I want him to love. To trust. To live as hard as he can.
I've still got time. I'll pack my self away for now. See you in a few years, future me. I hope the future isn't bleak.
January 3, 2011:
20 years. 20. Twenty. Where did it go? Seriously, where is it?
I hardly did a thing. Credit where it's due Scout brought himself back from the brink.
He's in college now.
IT major.
Got a girlfriend and a job lined up.
I think he's gonna be fine.
The record store is doing alright.
Despite tanking sales. It'll turn around I think. I'll always hold out hope. In the meantime we started selling coffee. It's working out so far.
November 17, 2018:
This old thing again.
Something doesn't feel right.
It's in my back.
I'm going to the doctor's next week just to check it out.
November 21, 2018:
A rushed biopsy from Monday later and the first words from Dr Helen's mouth are "I hope you have your affairs in order. There's not much time left on this clock."
Talk about your all-time-disappointments.
I'm staying here.
I'm just gonna ride it out.
December 29, 2018:
Scout,
My dad died young. And I never heard from my mom again. And then here I go. Gonna miss everything down the road. I hope you get it right, Scout. I hope you life your life.
I miss you already kid. And I'm so proud of you son. Take care of yourself.
Goodbye Scout.
Happy Birthday.
I Love You Very Much.
-John (Dad)
July 5, 1986:
Hello. Hi, I guess. I don't know how this is supposed to work. Or why I'm doing this. Or who this is even for. My mom says it's for no one. For myself. "It will do you some good to get your thoughts and feelings out" she says to me at dinner.
Happy Birthday to me I guess.
So this is to me. Me now. Future me. Hey, maybe someday my kids will dig this up and get a good laugh in. Who knows?
Kids? Yeah, right.
At least this stupid thing is better than what dad "got me." A hunting trip. He said my first buck is when I become a man. He made me shoot a deer today. I cried behind his back.
If that's what it takes to be a man I have no interest in that.
The rest of the day wasn't bad though. Chasing the dogs through the woods. Tackling them in the fog before they ran too far.
That's enough for today. I really hope no one ever reads this thing.
How do I sign off? I guess I just stop?
July 6, 1986:
I really hope mom doesn't expect me to write in this thing every day. Once the day's gone I just wanna sleep.
We didn't even do much today. My parents made me go with them on their Sunday drive. And then we went to Bob Evans for dinner.
I guess I like the view. The trees and the farms and the little towns we drive through. All the little kids running around and family barbecues.
And I wish I actually had more to say. Or someone to talk to. How do I even do this and not sound melodramatic? It's time to stop.
August 20, 1986:
Talk about bad timing. Stupid broken arm. Wasn't even my fault this time. My friend Chris accidentally pushed me down the stairs. Well, someone ran into him and he knocked me down. It didn't really hurt though. I was only crying because I was in shock. It's just not supposed to look like that.
So anyway I got the cast off today. Other than my arm being pale as a bone it feels pretty good. Remind me to never go to a mall again though.
Sometimes I feel like my life is constantly starting over. Like I'm just being born again and again.
Like last weekend. As I puked my brains out. Out back of a Taco Bell at 3AM just as they're closing down. It felt like I was surrounded by wastebaskets and garbage and all the walls were falling down.
Am I the same person now as I was then?
Are any of us the same?
September 1, 1986:
School is back. Labor Day today. I love the break after such a long time away. What I don't love is everyone getting on me all the time.
"You gotta figure out your future."
"You gotta learn a skill."
"You gotta get better grades than that."
"Start thinking about a college."
And everyone keeps saying "John, John, John. What are we gonna do with you?"
It's the story of my life I guess.
I'm not living up to my potential. But what if it's not potential at all? What if I'm just wasting everyone's time? I mean of course that's all I'm doing. It's me fulfilling my potential. I just don't want to go back.
September 20, 1986:
How Drunk is too Drunk?
The Broken Sun wonders.
Misspelling Discounted
& Borne of the glass
In my Hand.
Someone kissed me tonight.
I Hope I Don't forget.
October 25, 1986:
What do I do now what do I do now what do I do now what do I do?
My mom left my dad. I should burn this stupid thing. I should burn this whole damn house. I hate what she did. I hate what this is. I hope I never have to feel like this again.
Dad, I want you to know I want you to be okay.
October 30, 1986:
How does everything fall apart so quickly?
And here I'm born again. In a row of houses. Or more like the alley behind as we peed in the dark. Trying not to let the passing cops see us there after the bar kicked us out.
Those fake ID's haven't worked a single time. What a waste of 50 bucks.
I'm not dead inside. Not yet. But it would be easier if I was.
Sometimes I feed off of being alone. Sometimes I get drunk. Sometimes I feel like I'm losing it and everybody notices.
Everybody notices.
But no one notices.
The little things.
I should show up tomorrow with nothing but a box of matches and a shovel. Or a drink 3 gallons long.
November 27, 1986:
So I'm just locked in my room with Head On the Door playing as loud as it will go. Dad thought it would be a good idea to invite mom to Thanksgiving. It wasn't.
It never used to be like this. I snuck a bottle of wine to my room between the screaming.
I hope they fix this.
It's hard to see dad so upset.
December 23, 1986:
No mom for Christmas. Just trying not to let my dad know that I know he's crying all the time.
I got him a kite for Christmas. Just like the one he got me when I turned 10. We used to go flying in the park. I just want to help him smile again.
It shouldn't be this hard.
January 2, 1987:
I had a dream last night. A face. And I know heartstrings make poor yoyo strings. A cats cradle holding all my broken nights. That face so familiar yet no one I've ever met. Mr. Vonnegut please forgive my ignorance for the Bokonon.
What kind of day is this? Why do I even care?
February 2, 1987:
It's so cold.
February 8, 1987:
Dragged to mass. Dad found God. I feel hollow. Maybe it's not for me. If it helps, it helps. But I'm out of breaths to hold.
March 21, 1987:
Mom came by today. An early birthday card and Forty Dollars in hand. It's like she forgot I exist. I need a drink. I need to be born again.
March 22, 1987:
I was born. On a train. Or a platform. I can't remember because the blackout. I just know when I came to my knees were bleeding and I don't know how I got home.
A cast. Or a glow through the window. Red and morning light. A gentle kiss of sunburn and I'm awake. All drool and piss on Jesse's living room floor. Good thing his parents are gone this weekend.
What is there to learn from this?
May 27, 1987:
Pot brownies and I'm high for a day and a half. Just can't tell Allie or she's gone for sure. I'm not sure that I even care. I'm know what's not forever. "You can't marry the first girl you meet." Dad says. So I don't see the point in trying.
Some day I'll see the point in trying.
July 5, 1987:
Happy Birthday to me. God this year sucked. No reason to recap. There's play-by-play by the page I can't wait to burn away. Or just forget about.
Got a job at a record shop. Crazy lady owns the place. Worked for Bowie in the 70s. And won't let me forget it. At least it's a paycheck.
July 26, 1987:
Dad and I went on a drive today. Like the old days. I think he's almost put himself back together. The glass in his eyes is fading. My dad never had much of a twinkle in his eye but he always had a look of being present. In the moment. That left with mom. The further she got the further he did too. Until today. It feels like maybe he came back. Or he's on his way back. Either way it's good to see.
September 7, 1987:
At least I'm almost done with this place.
I got a letter from mom. Pretty much all it said was "what colleges have you looked at?" with no return address.
"What are you gonna do with yourself?"
NO RETURN ADDRESS.
What the hell?
Even if I knew. And even if I knew where you were. I wouldn't tell you shit.
September 23, 1987:
Today was weird. I just felt so weird all day. Like I was someone else. Or I was supposed to be somewhere else. Or I was being watched. Like by a GH ST over my shoulder.
And I just got the chills.
October 31, 1987:
A year ago my mom left my dad. I didn't say it then but I'm saying it now. I hate her for that. We're just now getting our lives back. It's hard to trust anyone. It's hard to get through the day. I can't even imagine how he feels. But I know it's not good.
And just like that last night I was born again. Slipping into nightmares. Trying to find something that's not myself at the end of a drink. In a water fountain. Baptised and broken fingered. Dropped off by a bus. I was almost late to work this morning. But I wasn't late. I made it just in time.
And I just want to sleep. Sometimes I just love the sedentary life. Last night the thought of that was closer to drowning. It's like there's these little glitches or something. Like I'm something not myself.
But that's okay. I know it seems like I'm always pulling the alarm. But I'm really more together than I put on. John, you're gonna be okay.
November 27, 1987:
No drop-ins from mom so far. Low-key holiday. Just me and dad. Turkey sandwiches and deviled eggs. It's quiet. It's nice.
I don't think I'll see Allie much anymore. I wanna keep it casual. She's nice but maybe too nice. I don't know. I feel distracted. By nothing in particular. The record store? I just don't feel high like I think I should.
December 18, 1987:
I'm basking in the glow. Of the end of this godforsaken year. An explosion of doubt. A palace of thorny crowns. I'm packing it all up and moving on.
I'm ready for something else. I wanna see New Orleans in the winter. Cause it's anywhere but here.
January 2, 1988:
With the clock-turn yesterday, I was already asleep. A first for me. In the new year I'll be someone to be proud of. I don't know how I know.
April 10, 1988:
I just felt like I had to pick this up again. Like I owe it to my mother. Like she'll pay me back someday.
But I don't know what to say. I'm at a loss for words.
(he tried to scratch out the next bit but I was able to recover it)
[I want the spring to end.
I want to fall in love.
I want to be somewhere else.
I want the world to end.
I want a face to love.
I want]
Is it over yet?
July 5, 1988:
I hope I don't get drafted. I wanna drown in cigarettes. I hope I didn't embarrass myself too badly last night. After the adults left the room I became a fool. The falling down drunk on your doorstep. I know I need to get my shit together. Some day I'll get my shit together.
I don't know who I'm trying to impress. I guess it doesn't matter.
October 30, 1988:
It's full-time at the store.
It's parties every night.
It's dad and I on the doorstep.
Drinking till the sun goes down.
Drinking till it came up this morning.
Telling stories. Tall tales. The great wonder of his youth. He's softening somehow. Loves to help someone else. He's not angry or disappointed in me. Just happy I'm still here. And I am. At least for now.
January 2, 1989:
I took a break from the party. Okay, fine. I was sick for the new year. Our friend Rachel was in town from Christmas to today and we drank so much every night, by the time it was New Years my body had enough. I'm never doing that again. At least not like that.
Sometimes I can't sleep and I fantasize about someone. Someone I haven't even met yet. But I know she's there. And she's coming soon.
May 2, 1989:
On repeat all day long. This is gonna be important. "These pictures of you." This. Locked away and on so loud I almost forgot where I was. Mr Smith just says what I want to hear and I love him for that.
June 8, 1989:
I feel like every time I have a handle on..
I feel like every time I'm close to putting together..
I take a step back to see where I am, and it's nowhere. Where is she? Where am I?
And when I get like this. I'm leaving everything everywhere. Leaving combs on the dresser. Leaving trash in the can. Leaving sanity, sanitarily. Leaving marks on the walls. Leaving skin on the ground. Leave my body where it is. I left my body where it was found.
July 5, 1989:
Another year. 19. I don't have it figured out yet. It seems to me, that no one ever does.
If I fall in love.
If I get a real job.
If I leave this town.
If I start a family.
I guess that's good enough.
August 27, 1989:
I feel like I should be going back to school right now. But I'm just going to work tomorrow. I wish I could do this forever.
November 22, 1989:
All my friends are at the bar. I know I could get in. I could be there with them. But it doesn't feel like there's anything to celebrate. It's almost Thanksgiving and this house is empty again.
Dad's in the hospital. He's been there a month. I don't know what to do with myself.
I guess it's turkey sandwiches again. What I'd give to see him smile again. Or hear his voice again. Or share another beer again. Or tell him I love him. Just one more time. The doctors say I may never get a chance.
November 24, 1989:
Dad died. I never got the chance.
November 25, 1989:
I can't sleep. I never said goodbye.
November 27, 1989:
I haven't eaten in days.
And I still can't sleep.
I wish there was something I could've done.
December 24, 1989:
I'm slowly coming back to life.
I still don't know what to do with myself.
But I'm trying to figure it out.
January 2, 1990:
What just happened?
I had to get out of there.
I can't even describe...
The crazy lady in charge of the shop had this idea to throw a new years party. It didn't go great. So I had Chris push back his New Years Party so I could get his help at the shop.
He had to work yesterday so he pushed it back to tonight. Since Midnight didn't matter we counted down to 10PM to get it out of the way.
So I'm at the party and our friend Jeff is DJing. And he plays "Lullaby" [by the Cure] and there's this random "whoop" from the other side of the basement. This girl. I'd never seen her before. Amelia. And I froze. We talked. I have no idea how it started. But then 10PM comes and she's kissing me into the new year. She gave me her number and I just had to go. I'm so overwhelmed and excited and I'm completely beside myself. I [(something scratched out and it just ends there.)]
January 4, 1990:
I took Amelia to dinner tonight. Nothing fancy. But it didn't matter. She's great. Perfect maybe. We went on a walk after and I swore time froze. In that moment a million thoughts hit my brain all at once. Every possible outcome. I was so overwhelmed I felt like I would be stuck there forever.
But of course I wasn't. I was still walking. Her hand in mine. I felt like I was on fire.
I don't want to jump the gun here.
But I don't see a way out.
I'm sucked in like gravity.
And loving every second.
January 7, 1990:
I wish I could talk to you when I sleep. But I can't so I don't mind running on fumes. I'd rather be tired than not hear your voice.
She took me to the movies. Driving Miss Daisy. And we snuck into Glory. She's not afraid of breaking rules. She's not afraid of anything. She makes me less afraid of everything.
January 23, 1990:
I think I'm definitely falling now.
The ultimate gut-check. I'm a blank slate waiting for the filling in.
And all her words fill me up.
And if I could say anything or any words to anyone I want them to be you. All warm and close. All boisterous and belligerent. All messy like my head. All fuzzed out like my heart.
Her kisses. I could sigh with the moon.
And tides will change with our breath.
January 30, 1990:
I miss my dad. It comes in waves. And when it washes over me I'm suddenly drowning in it. Sometimes Amelia can get me free. Pull me out of it. I'm so thankful she's around.
Pardon my directness dear but I'm feeling rather anxious. Can you pick me up and put me back on the shelf?
It's everything I want to say but can't. It's every conversation I want to have but can't say out loud.
February 3, 1990:
How long has it been? It feels like forever. In the best possible way. It's really been no time at all.
Everything hits at once.
Everything hits and I'm out of breath.
February 18, 1990:
Don't let me do whatever I want.
Don't let me see whoever I choose.
Cause they're Nothing Compared to you.
It's been stuck in my head.
Next to you.
March 14, 1990:
I could build a life here. Or anywhere. I could make a family. I could go the whole wide world for you. To steal another phrase. I'll steal every second I can get.
April 12, 1990:
Amelia is pregnant. I'm gonna be a father.
She seems so scared and anxious.
And I'm so scared and anxious.
Are we even ready for this?
I guess we'll find out.
May 7, 1990:
I'm just trying to make her comfortable.
It all seems so uncomfortable.
Anything she needs. I'm there.
I'll always be there.
May 29, 1990:
Some days are just so perfect.
Most of the time. I'm waiting in line. For the next perfect day. And it's always worth the wait.
Just Your laugh has the power of perfect days.
It was laying in bed all day. Just pizza and TV. Just jokes and rolling in the hay. Just us and Nothing else.
July 5, 1990:
[(lots scratched out in the beginning of this one. can't read any of it.)]
I'm Not scared of anything.
I'm gonna marry this girl.
Give me a week.
It's all I need.
July 14, 1990:
Amelia's favorite book is "to kill a Mockingbird." My wife. I made her my wife. We were married today. By a friend in front of other friends.
Boy or girl, their name will be Scout.
I love you already, Scout.
Almost as much as I love your mom.
August 1, 1990:
Where do we begin? For that matter where do we end? All that matters is your skin. Pock-marked and sensitive. Bad-mouthed and lecherous. I'm pained and painting in.
Nonsense. Pure nothing. Puking of the mind. I can't control it sometimes. Better out than in. Or written down where no one can see.
I just want to be a good dad. A good husband. A good partner. A good teacher. Someone to look up to. Someone to count on. I'm trying and I won't stop trying and if I ever stop trying please just hit my lights out.
October 30, 1990:
The weight of the day hangs like a ton of bricks in the air.
My dad hardly ever spoke to me. I don't want to be like that. I want to be everything he should have said out loud.
November 22, 1990:
The holidays were always hard. This is also hard. Let go. Just get easier already.
We shared a turkey sandwich on the porch.
You're months away and it feels like years. To see your face. I guess you could say I'm scared.
That you'll have my chin, my nose, my wonky eyes. That you'll have my fears, my worries, my faults.
I'm scared I won't have your trust.
January 2, 1991:
Hi Scout. You're a little early but you're just in time.
April 5, 1991:
We're moving to California in May!
July 8, 1991:
Welcome to the worst birthday of my life. I'd never been as scared as this. The Fourth of July. In 1991. Was the scariest day of my life. I almost lost my wife and son.
It was so hot out. Steam on the streets. So we waited till the Sun went down. Twilight and a crash. I was fine. They weren't. They weren't okay. The ambulance. The braces. The blood.
I'm just thankful they're alive. The doctors say they'll make a full recovery.
I'm so sorry. I didn't see it coming. I should've seen it coming. And now it's haunting me.
February 27, 1996:
[(more scratched out at the beginning. again can't read it.)]
Amelia just got back from the doctor. She stole a copy of the therapist's notes.
"Woman presenting with clinical depression. Seems to spend a lot of energy just trying to make it through the day."
When she finally goes (I wish I could say "if") we'll look for things to blame. It's just the chemicals in her brain. They tell her not to stay.
July 5, 2001:
It's what I should have said out loud. "Your words are like a warm blanket swallowing me whole. I can't escape and I wouldn't want to anyway."
I couldn't keep her here. I tried. I really did. But something kept calling her away.
A few months ago I saw the look. Mother's day, in fact. She wasn't there anymore. Her mind left before her body did. She wasn't in it. That's the day I knew Amelia wasn't staying anymore.
I still feel unprepared. I still can't believe it. What do I tell Scout? I never wanted him to have to go through what I did.
What do we do now?
July 13, 2001:
I haven't left my bed in a week.
Scout made a fort out of all the pizza boxes.
And I am a box of papers cut out of the frame and folded away. I'm waiting for the sun to hit with just the right light so I set on fire.
I want to be set on fire.
I be fire.
want on
to set
I
want
to
be
set
on
fire.
I wasn't prepared for this.
How can you not be here?
Next to me.
Where did you go?
Really, what do I do now?
August 11, 2001:
Pick up the pieces. P i c k u p
t h e p i e c e s .
I'm falling apart on the couch.
I'm under the brick of the house.
I have to pretend I'm okay.
Keep it together for Scout.
Scout,
I know everyone is broken. I know you don't know that yet. I know my head's full of too much conversation. I know I'm talking to people who aren't even there.
But you're actually here. You're still here and I need to make sure you're okay. I think I need to get us out of here. It's all gonna be okay eventually.
If there's one thing I've learned it's that some kinds of paper are more satisfying to rip into pieces. And some people are too.
That. And it's not always about having all the answers. It's about the questions you ask as you go.
-Dad.
September 17, 2001:
What. What was this week?
Are you kidding me?
I don't even know what to think.
Un-fucking-believable.
Also. The old lady. At the shop. She wants to retire. She called me out of nowhere and told me "The store is yours if you want it."
We're going home. I can't wait to take Scout back East. It's gonna be so good for him. So good for me.
October 31, 2001:
My mom left my dad over 14 years ago. 14 years. I haven't heard from her in 10. She wasn't at Dad's funeral. She never met Scout.
I need to pack away this house. Amelia took Nothing with her when she left. Said she didn't need it. Any of it. Anymore.
I wish I could say I knew she was alright.
November 11, 2001:
We're in hibernation. Preparing for the trip. Trying not to spend too much time in the car until next month. We've been skipping the weekly Sunday drive for awhile.
November 12, 2001:
Wholly unprepared. Everything's filling up. It feels so fucked. 10,000 things to do and I'd rather melt into the walls.
P u t t h e p i e c e s b a c k t o g e t h e r .
Please.
You're almost out of time.
December 10, 2001:
And away we go.
Point the needle home.
Hold your breath through the tunnels.
December 11, 2001:
Stopped for the night in Colorado. I miss my dad pretty bad tonight. Someday I'll find it within myself to call you by your name, [(name scratched out)].
Just not right now.
December 12, 2001:
It was a long drive to Chicago. But it gives us all day tomorrow. Scout can't wait to see the tower. Ride the trains. Pizza in the afternoon. I'm just glad to be here. The city is beautiful in the dark.
December 14, 2001:
Home. Just down the road from where I grew up.
Everything behind us. Everything ahead.
The stillness. The dusting snow.
The hope.
Represent us like the heart of his little hands in mittens making tiny snowmen on the railing. It almost breaks what's left of my heart in two.
But it holds.
January 2, 2002:
You weren't supposed to have this much life experience by now. Your 11th birthday? I'm so sorry Scout.
You were supposed to be young for as long as we could manage. You weren't supposed to be taking care of me yet. You weren't supposed to raise yourself.
Look. I've lived too. I've seen a little of the world. Not enough, mind you. But I know how it works. It doesn't. You're not supposed to learn that for another 10 years, that's why the drinking age is 21.
[I'm supposed to be the one between the two of us that knows what they're doing.]
I don't know what I'm doing.
But I love you just the same, Son.
March 3, 2004:
Scout ran away. Tonight. I already called the police. He's been hanging around with his friend Leo a lot lately. I thought, just for a second, they could be planning something. But I convinced myself they were just pretending.
He left me a note.
"Dad,
I'm just looking for mom. She's out there somewhere. She needs me to find her. I need me to find her. It's going to be okay. I'm going to bring her home.
-Scout"
You're Not going to find her, son.
You're Not going to find anything you're looking for. She's not there.
There's nothing left.
Just come back.
March 8, 2004:
He's home. Clothes torn to shreds. Went straight to his room. How do I get to the bottom of this one?
...
Okay. He wasn't as bad as I thought. Mostly dirty. Tired. Hungry. Said he hopped a freight train. Saw something about it online. Got caught by a railworker in Ohio so they sent him back the other way in the conductor cabin and gave him a turkey sandwich.
That sounds like something I would do but not like anything I ever did.
I'm just so glad he's home. I almost hopped [(in front of)] a train myself.
April 6, 2008:
It's amazing to me how we find things. Lose things. An attic. A shed. A journal. Your head. And I'm everywhere again. Body strewn about the room. Trying and failing to put it back together.
My arms at 16.
My legs and I'm 20.
My heart when Scout was born.
My gut when Amelia left.
My feet and hands and the day we drove East. My whole life broken down to these few words on a page.
And then there's Scout. I don't want this scared and angry kid to be a scared and angry man. I want him to love. To trust. To live as hard as he can.
I've still got time. I'll pack my self away for now. See you in a few years, future me. I hope the future isn't bleak.
January 3, 2011:
20 years. 20. Twenty. Where did it go? Seriously, where is it?
I hardly did a thing. Credit where it's due Scout brought himself back from the brink.
He's in college now.
IT major.
Got a girlfriend and a job lined up.
I think he's gonna be fine.
The record store is doing alright.
Despite tanking sales. It'll turn around I think. I'll always hold out hope. In the meantime we started selling coffee. It's working out so far.
November 17, 2018:
This old thing again.
Something doesn't feel right.
It's in my back.
I'm going to the doctor's next week just to check it out.
November 21, 2018:
A rushed biopsy from Monday later and the first words from Dr Helen's mouth are "I hope you have your affairs in order. There's not much time left on this clock."
Talk about your all-time-disappointments.
I'm staying here.
I'm just gonna ride it out.
December 29, 2018:
Scout,
My dad died young. And I never heard from my mom again. And then here I go. Gonna miss everything down the road. I hope you get it right, Scout. I hope you life your life.
I miss you already kid. And I'm so proud of you son. Take care of yourself.
Goodbye Scout.
Happy Birthday.
I Love You Very Much.
-John (Dad)
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