How would you do it?

It is a bit peculiar that I had this thought earlier this morning, only hours away from boarding a plane to a tropical city to fuck my liver over for two days and stare at girls in bikinis that are 2-3 sizes too small. But - as I was walking off the T, and throughout my 7 minute walk to the office, I was people-watching. People-watching is fun, but can also be dark. Today, I was looking around trying to make an inference.

I was staring subtly at each person that  I passed by and those as far as my less than adequate contacts would allow, trying to guess a percentage. I was wondering what percentage, and who precisely, legitimately thought about killing themselves before. If my cerebral cortex decided that person had in fact, thought intently about ending their existence, I stared through them a bit to guess how they would have done it.

Let's escape the fact that anyone reading thinks I'm a complete sociopath with a psychopathic drip. You also might assume that I was shallow in my analysis and that I just assumed that the homeless, morbidly obese, mother carrying 4 children with no father in sight, the guy with warts on his neck, the insanely skinny girl probably suffering from a mildly to moderate eating disorder (another assumption) would be the choices. Give me a little more credit. My 7 minutes of skimming went a bit beyond the surface, and i truly thought about each one. There are plenty of well dressed people, carrying Louis Vuitton bags, rocking a pair of Ferragamo's or Guisseppe's, who drive home in their Porsce Panamara and enter their 3000 sq ft. luxury apt suite that want to take 45 Xanax, fire up a noose in their living room or overzealous balcony and let the world kiss their ass goodbye.

I feel all of us are on the cusp of losing it sometimes and we say it quietly, resting on the back of our breath, "fuck this, I want to die." What pushes us over the edge? When is it too much? Why do some people have a stronger threshold for rummaging through the trash that populates our life and brings us down? Why can one woman who has lost her husband in war, has kid battling Leukemia, and is unemployed on her last food stamp check, wake up make a cup a coffee and carry forward amicably? Meanwhile the broker who is about to lose his job because a slip in the market resulting in his trips to Smith and Wollensky's to be cut to 3 times a week instead of five, is waking up praying for a razor blaze sharp enough to cut through his heart.

I picked 11 people that I thought had wanted to kill themselves. Admittedly I could only choose methods for 4 people, it takes a long time to assess the inner working of a persons mind from far away and decide which path they would take to leave the world behind, exiting triumphantly, passionately and alone. Now, I am not a suicide expert, I don't think, but I know how I would do it. I will save that for another post. I basically made my assumptions on how they would do it on the following factors:

1. How artistic they appear - Creativity level
2. How angry or strangely happy their faces are: A very angry face may go violently or at least make a show of it, a super happy person might make even more of a show if it.
3. Their height - Taller people are more likely to worry about setback with hanging.
4. Sex - Makes a difference, just does.
5. Possible religion - In times of death i think people stay true to what their god, or lack thereof would think. They are looking for some sort of acceptance.
5. And which direction they were heading on the street - One way was a good part of town the other a bad one.

I am not really sure where I am going with this post, but it was just something I was thinking about this morning. On a morning when I was happy, work was good, Florida was in the near future, sex life was spontaneous and affluent, this is when I had the darkest of thoughts. Kind of makes me think that I could be wrong in my assumptions with people this morning. The person I thought least likely to end it all already set up a Dexter like lab at their apt, ready to put themselves in a noose, slit their wrist with a butter knife repeatedly, while pulling a string attached to a door that compresses a trigger of a .44 cal to blow their brains all the way to Vietnam.

Who knows.

Train Sounds

Our divine individuality, innate inequality and overall originality stems from freedom and our ability to act, do, play, dance, fuck, cry, write, sing, for the most part, as we please. We all march differently and to a different beat. While we may not be able to create counterfeit funds, spent them on cheap Polynesian hookers, and go on at looting spree while using the lords name in vain, we do have an overwhelmingly sophisticated freedom - a far cry from the characters of Orwells world.

A humorous thing happened on the train, entertaining yet acquainting. While riding on the notoriously slow, and inevitably problem stricken green line, its fate occurred. Due to the fact the green line runs above and below ground and is the older of the lines in the great city of Boston, it stopped. Even more impressive, it not only stopped but seemingly shut down. Initially I had gone through my 30 second Courtney Love panic attack wishing for a Xanax, checking my armpits for sweat, frantically locating the nearest exit only to find that it is blocked by what is likely to be 30 feet of man manipulated concrete. My overzealous mind tricked me into believing that this fucking horribly constructed, only mildly ventilated hot box of transportation may be stuck in this state for hours. Unfortunately this did not happen. The only reason why I saw unfortunately is that after I could calm the sweats, encourage myself that I do not need drugs for everything and opened a book, I found a very attractive young female. I think given another hour or two in the moving pile of emotion I could have convinced her to cut her losses, grab a coffee with Frangelica, skip work to head back to my place and see how the Tempurpedic holds up. 

Good lord, you win some, lose some. 

While the train was essentially shut down; standing still, lights dimmed, engine ceasing to run, and all was silent, something more transparent occured. 1. Jay-Z and Foster the People do not sync up well at all. 2. 87% plus or minus 2% were listening to headphones. Of that 85-89%, 0% had high enough quality headphones to keep the sound contained to their ear cavities, letting their musical choices soar out into the open train for all to hear. Had my headphones not just suffered a severe fatality while running this morning, I would be among the majority, but luckily I was not. I was fortunate enough to tune into the melodic jumble of over 25 different masterpieces coming from my colleagues on the train of "go fuck myself." 

They say that the one good thing about music is that you feel no pain, unless of course it is every genre mixed together and its about as painful as cuddling with a sick cat. Once I was able to move forward amicably from the horrendous blend of notes, I started to isolate the sounds and finally meet my fellow riders. The Asian man, roughly 26 years of age, with a nice watch was listening to  Luther Vandrose, "Dance with my Father." One could infer he just lost someone close to him, which may or may not explain his saddened, yet hardened facial expressions. The very professionally dressed young women nearest to my right was listening to Juicy, by Notorious BIG. I could tell her inner self wanted to just use the isle as her own personal dance floor and shout out racial slurs, not to be racist, just because she wanted to sing the song in its entirety. Let it ride sister, I wont judge you. 

As I moved down the line I found the songs to be more and more interesting, and of course I did not recognize some of them. One person was listening to a song I had just recently heard, and it was rather obscure, so I was excited. Once i heard duo play a couple weeks back I listened to the entire album and found that the artist were in LA, struggling to make their way (ignore rhyme) and each song was about a memory. I then inferred that she is new to the city, possibly starting a new job in Cambridge and can relate to these young storytellers. The artist was Kenneth Pattingale and Joey Ryan aka the Milk Carton Kids, if anyone cares.  

As I continued to listen during the short 12 minute stop I convinced myself that I knew a little more about the people around me, and the beat they march to. I started thinking more about what I listen to, when I listen to it, and why. I also found myself confused. Why do I go to bed and sleep to Alexisonfire, then get pumped up to run to gaslight anthem? The answer is that we are all constructed differently, our legs move appropriately to the way a dissonant sounds hits our ears, and it is completely inconsistent the next person. We all have a playlist, what is on yours? I think I'd like to listen to it, I may like to meet you. 

We are all Storytellers

Human beings have always told their histories and truths through parable and fable. We are inveterate storytellers.” (Beeban Kidron)

There are few things I get depressed over, other than the loss of a close acquaintance or the bottom of a scotch bottle. Whenever I spend too much time away from the keyboard or putting the pen to the sepia tone pad my ex girlfriend gave me back in high school, I am saddened. Whether we are truthful or prevaricated we tell a story, and it is important to someone, if not then to ourselves, to write.

Through every piece of fiction we find factions of truth - A character that shares mass similarities with a childhood friend, a struggle that parallels a the authors family member, a reality in the story that was a lifelong dream. I tend to read fiction because it is in the falsities that I find the true inner being of the writer. I see their desires between the black print and folded back pages. I highlight points where their true self is most transparent.

For lack of a better term, I hope that I am an open book. I find with literature, and the stories that I most relate to, are written by authors who are the most vulnerable. They are willing to bleed a bit on the pages and not worry about the cuts and bruises being exposed to sunlight. This doesn't mean the artist has to get all Edgar Allen in order for me to to have some sort of semblance of respect for them. The Picture of Dorian Gray is not beautiful because it is gloomy, but rather it is nebulous and invokes thought stemming from a character who is doomed from the life he chose to lead and his Faustian bargain. Oscar Wilde, a man who rose into societal acceptance debuting as an actor only to be exiled leading to his imminent death, wrote with passion and unprecedented prose.

So as I stroll through life pontificating with strangers, friends, family and foes, I write. I tell the stories that are true to me, or at least part of my subconscious. Our history is told through parable and fable, without storytellers, the world rotates on its axis and the days are numbered, but everything is left in the dust. Now some may argue that is it best to let the past die, and only to carry forward the favorable parts. This form of thought/story natural selection seems the furthest thing from natural. We should remember the growth of the trees and the wildfires that brought them down. Whats the point of knowing your best sexual encounter without remembering the erectile dysfunction scenario? Maybe some want to push that shit away and move forward amicably but not I. Any writer who ignores the facts, positive or negative, is doing the reader and themselves a disservice, present and more importantly, future.

Live, write, die, and do it again.