Fragments I can remember from dreams about plane crashes.

1. The airport is crowded. Soundless. It is fluorescent white. People’s heads bobbed and arc-ed languidly in time with the others during the course of their individual walking destinations.

Smiles in anticipation. Commercial Jet. Speedy take-off. Wheels squeal at initial motion.

Steep ascent; sharp bank, tearing metal. Screaming, incoherence, plummeting, falling objects, gripping my arm rests. Fire before impact, then impact.

2. Clear, cloudless, sunny, cold day. Flying comfortably. Mountain range. Catastrophic Mechanical Failure.

Window seat. Oddly calm. Mountains become larger and closer. Different angles. The snow was important.

3. From the ground, observing. The plane is too heavy; it is obvious. Struggling on take off, slow to ascend, then failure. The plane belly flops on to another plane of equal size.

Massive fire ball. Gasping from a distance. Then running; all of us. No cries upon arrival; just burning. I knew someone on the plane who was now lost.

4. Unsafe plane. Foreign land. Close to landing. Wobbling. Chants and whispers in an unknown language. Will this suspense end? After the crash, I realize I am unharmed.

Flying and falling and falling. March 31, 1995

"You can force it but it will not come. You can taste it but it will not form. You can crush it but it’s always there. You can crush it but it’s always near, chasing you home, saying everything is broken…everyone is broken…"
-Radiohead, "Planet Telex."

Holy shit, I’ll be back in Missouri today. Soon. To stay. I haven’t even touched down from the last leg of my Key West to Miami, Miami to Dallas, Dallas to Springfield flight yet, but I’m pretty sure this was a mistake.

The last straw of life in Key West came, not surprisingly, by my own hand, reacting once again to some perceived or real injustice at the hands of who I called my boyfriend, but, by the end, the guy who said I was his roommate. One week has passed and events happened so quickly that I’m still not sure of the exact moment when everything died. I’m sure it’s better that way, anyway. He said something, I figured something out, and after he left for work, the dam burst. I remember thinking I would die if I stayed, my heart flopping around in despair within the confines of my chest.

So…I chose the most logical course of action I could think of at the time: Plan to leave. Quickly. I called UPS for boxes and shipping information, the travel agency for tickets, and Mom and Dad for money to get home ("Honey, can you stop crying? I can’t understand you…"). I wish I could remember more, but that’s what happens when you’re a huge pothead with a serious denial trip. Maybe someday, it’ll all come back.

I can feel myself getting all crazy-eyed here on the plane. I have to go to my friend Angie's wedding tomorrow. How’s that for timing? Mom and Dad are supposed to pick me up at the airport. I hope they don’t bring my sister. I can’t deal with her and our growing distance and all the implications of my own bullshit and how it’ll effect my parents right now. I’m starting to get mad at things that only happened in my head and some things that happened months ago. This plane ride will never end, will it? My mind is working really fast and I feel like I’m gonna cry when I see my parents. What have I done to myself? I can already sense their worry. Why am I so fucking weak? ___ ____ ___ ____ ____…please help me. But he’s not here.

I’m gonna fall out of the sky and land back in the same pit I left, only this time it’ll be worse. Jesus, I’ve got to straighten up. Got to go to the wedding. Must be able to converse with my friends without losing it. Got to find a job. Must live with my parents. I have to get some money. I have to face the same old ghosts.

Oh man; I have got to get some pot.

Uh-huh…

"I accidentally touched my head and noticed that I had been bleeding, for how long I didn’t know. What was this, I thought, that struck me?? What kind of weapons have they got?? The softest bullet ever shot…"
-The Flaming Lips, "The spark that bled."

"I saw you; and him, walking in the rain. You were holding hands, and I’ll never be the same."
-Oran "Juice" Jones, "The Rain."

The cook. Or chef. Whatever he was. The waiter. The redhead with the goatee and flat top. The guy from New York.

All those old boyfriends who "just happened" to be visiting the island, although I wasn’t allowed to see or meet any of them. The conch. The DJ. The guy that worked the front desk at the motel who got so pissed whenever I answered the phone.

The guy who ___never wore underwear for, when they went for "walks," underneath shorts that required them. The guys from his past. Guys in his present. The guy from the boat. The guy he went to "watch TV" with, from Ohio.

And let’s not, shall we, forget the guy from Boston.

I think he thought I believed him. I did at first. I wanted to so badly.

Each discovered disappointment ripped into the last, tearing the soft matter of my brain and heart. Oh, God; the blood.

Soon

"Out of the island, into the highway; past the places where you might have turned…"
-Vertical Horizon, "Everything you want."

A major part of growing up is learning to accept the fact that when something is gone, it’s gone. Job, old love, period of time, etc.

It’s over. Now move on.

The other part of the equation is learning to accept and embrace the circumstances and blessings of your present situation. Here you can stay. Because, after all, this is where you are.

And this is where you belong.

I guess now I belong in Branson – again.

Branson, April 1995, #1

Gnaw gnaw gnaw numb numb numb black nothing nothing
Can’t today – maybe never.
Nothing – No Thing.
I can’t.
Can’t.
Not anything.
I still live, though, for some reason.
Turn.
Change.
Close.
Something.
Please!

This will get better?

Branson, April 1995, #2

The first few weeks’ back swirled around with beer and pot. Seeing people I didn’t want to see again (and those I did, of course). Going back to my old job. Living with my parents. 29 and gay, broke and broken, boomerangin’ back to Momma and Daddy from Key West, now completely different.

They are visibly concerned about my current state of behavior. And I don’t posses the will or desire to allay their fears. I drive around the hills surrounding Branson much more than I did before leaving. The stereo is always loud to drown out the silence ringing just behind my ears whenever I’m awake. I always obey the speed limit while on autopilot.

I think about what I can while driving.

I usually wait to cry until I’m driving, too.

!!

What drives me on drives me down.
What doesn’t kill might strengthen,
but in the end,
those things will,
in fact,
do me in.

Green to amber to red –
don’t think of not running it –
kick out the jams, damn it!
Godspeed please –
One light ahead –
a pinprick.

The air-eating, life-sucking cataclysm always just behind me,
already vaporizing the last bit of tire track,
while my vehicle roars,
driving on,
creating more,
just ahead of the beast.

If survival is possible (it is, isn’t it?), then I must,
just,
do it..

go NOW!

It couldn’ta happened to a nicer buncha people…

Society is accelerating so fast that it is becoming humanly impossible to keep up with current events, politics, trends, new language fragmentation, technological advancements, much less familial and social obligations. These are workings and connections that civilize civilization. Diversity of experience, the chance to relax, breathe deep, and drink in all that is ours.

This faster pace makes it difficult for the average person to be humanely and societally well rounded, involuntarily forcing all to choose their own slice of reality. Fragmentation leads to collective isolation and objectification of others, stretching the spectrum of acceptable moral behavior to progressively inhuman standards.

Behold us, the new barbarians.

Congratulations!

Congratulations!

Your devolution is progressing nicely.

Please continue same actions and/or responses, completing your descent into another behavioral sub-category.

Don’t forget your Road Rage!

Computer culture’s effect on the first wave, computer-immersed generation – 1995 (one positive, one negative thought).

pos

This generation begins assimilation and application of computer literacy, technological aptitude, and sophistication concerning medium almost from time of birth. Implications and positive theoretical advancements within discipline during the next 20 years unknowable due to generational familiarity with operation and influenced thought systems. No matter what anyone says, we really don’t know what Billy and Suzy are thinking or doing with their PCs or how they’ll use that knowledge down the road, or how their enhanced aptitude will effect society. We can’t know that yet.
And it could be…amazing.

neg

Production of desensitized waves of adults with skewed life, value, or violence priorities. Application of computer related sensibilities to worldview and corresponding behavior. Hyper-violent applications in games or on the Internet detract from life worth. History can be revised virtually unchecked. Other humans viewed as objects. Aggression viewed as viable problem-solving solution. Possible root cause for generational fracture within American culture.
Implications could be very serious.

Waiting, late evening, April 1995

Societal and historical revisionism through the influence of the new media is reality. Forgotten history is doomed to repeat itself. The media forgets for us. Tabloid media in all its forms reminds us not of the important events of the last decade(s) and those lessons learned, rather sensational non-events that divert the public’s attention from valid issues and concerns.

Talk shows pander to the lowest common denominator of behavior with desensitizing topics designed to simultaneously titillate, provoke and jade the Proletariat. Jerry Springer, have no fear. Your name is etched in history. You’re infamous. One of many accelerators of our decline. Forever known as poison.

"So, what do you think?"
"About what?"
"What I just read you, dumb ass."
"It’s pretty serious…" he was smiling, almost ready to giggle.
"And…"
"Well, what are you gonna do with this?"
"I don’t know. It’s just a thought I wrote down. Do you like it?"
"Yeah. It’s good…I don’t know why you wrote it, though."

I was at the office of my friend, into the late hours, stoned, waiting for him to finish up. I haven’t been home even two weeks now and I’m back into the same routines, feeling as hopeless as ever, bingeing more, and growing more distant from my family. I’m mad at myself, my circumstance, and the world around me, acutely aware that it’s spinning out of control and there’s not a damn thing to be done about it. But that’s not what he’s wanting to hear.

"I don’t know. Springer pisses me off, I guess."

"C’mon, let’s smoke a fatty and get the fuck out of here."

Finally, a plan. We ended up driving to the lake, gettin' more stoned, talkin’ about Jesus and how the world was goin’ to Hell in a handbag.

Manic – May 1995

Mania means never having to say "coincidence." Honing and applying the perspective of analytical-interconnectedness to your daily regimen rules out the possibility of that phenomenon. Everything is linked. There is no coincidence. On a good day, this modus operandi can be full of positivity and FUN! On bad days, though, thoughts morph to shit and paranoia tempts. But that’s all part of the deal…

Manic Depression, with all of its faces, is a thinking disease. Dis-ease. The overwhelming power of the brain can result in a wide array of bizarre, yet related behavior in the afflicted, from crying jags and isolation, to feelings of invulnerability and a heightened sense of perception through analysis of body language and verbal selection, to alienation and hostility towards others. Manics are always thinking. About who knows what (probably something convoluted and grandiose), but make no mistake, their thoughts are somewhere out there, careening along on some freakout tangent or other, travelling so fast they can’t tell anyone how they might have gotten from point A to point X. But the thought line is there. And the process is so complex and involved that, to articulate every machination is, at times, impossible to relay with much or any clarity.

Lithium helps, kind of. I took it for about three months, and there were positive aspects to the salt isotope, like I didn’t feel crazy, which was nice. But the downside was that there were no highs. That was the trade-off for the removal of the low end of my thoughts. The peaks on both ends were eliminated. Everything felt like the color gray, and was 1.75 degrees off-kilter from normal. Almost happiness. Almost.

I was working at the Front Desk of the Casa Marina in Key West when I started my first and only cycle of Lithium. My quack of a psychologist (whom I only went to three times before fully realizing how full of shit she was) told me that confusion might be a side effect to be aware of before the Lithium reached an effective saturation in my blood stream. It took a little under three weeks for the drug to start working, and there were times when I would look at the reservation computer and not know where to start, or not know the name of the person next to me, just for a second sometimes, sometimes longer. The confusion added to the everyday stress of the job, making it almost too much to bear without crying or unusual or inappropriate behavior.

I can’t fully articulate these perceptions; they’re too subjective for words. But everything was off. And the back of my brain felt like it was squeezing itself. A sensation I really didn’t like. So the whole grand Lithium experiment was a trade off of remedies, side effects, and restrictions, with the negative finally outweighing the positive. So Lithium got pushed by the wayside with little fanfare.

It is very easy to destroy the self-image of people who think too much.

The Land Man. May 1995, Branson

"Today’s Tom Sawyer, he’s a mean, mean man…"
-Rush, "Tom Sawyer."

Back from Key West, waiting tables again, unhappy and unstable, I was desperately in need of a career change. My friends were of some help, but the humiliation of failing to succeed at anything in Florida was my own burden, and I really didn’t carry it well. The same drudgery I had left took on sharper pain, coupled with the memories of freedom I had tasted and abused. I had worked at an Australian-themed restaurant for three and a half years before moving, telling everyone I knew I’d never do that again. Then, a year and a half later, here I was; again. 1995 was not a real fun period.

One Sunday morning in early May, I was looking through the want ads, when I came across a bona fide opportunity. The ad said a new advertising agency was opening up in Branson and they needed ten dedicated individuals to be trained, then train others for a career in advertising and marketing. I called immediately, thinking to leave a message for someone on Monday. My future boss Jim answered on the second ring.

I had mentally practiced a message and wasn’t prepared for a conversation, but was also pleasantly surprised that I’d gotten a response without trying too hard. I wanted to know more about what employment there would require. He said the agency was based out of Chicago, and that he was one of the Principals overseeing the start-up operation, but not much more. Would I like to schedule an interview? Yes, that’d be great. We set a time and he gave me directions. Tomorrow, my life would change in ways I couldn’t yet know.

The next morning at 9:50, I pulled up to the house. I had not expected to see a house, but the address matched. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. Situated almost on top of Mount Branson, the front yard overlooked a panoramic view of the old part of downtown.

I knocked on the door. I was greeted by a man who bore more than passing resemblance to "Mr. Burns" of The Simpsons. After a brief introduction, he had me sit down and get comfortable. He then began to tell me an anecdote about a restaurant promoting a special so popular they couldn’t keep up with demand. The problem was the pans in which the entrees were prepared were too large to fit in the steam table on the line. The transference and extra waste were the weak links to the situation. "How would you fix it?" He asked.

"I’d get smaller pans that fit the steam table." He smiled and said, "That’s marketing. Getting the message or the product to the people it’s intended to reach. But it’s also about the processes involved, too."

He had been making pretty direct eye contact throughout the conversation, then did a double take, smiling at first, then direct, intense, and expressionless. When no confusion registered in my eyes and expression, when he understood I understood, he smiled. I was sharp, articulate, and not easily intimidated. That day, I became his right hand man. I became "Waylon Smithers."

The first week or so, he would talk for hours and I’d take notes. Then he would give me exercises to perform, like culling phone numbers from every boat dealership throughout the region, using multiple directories. Then I called these dealers for their proper mailing address. All this information (Phone numbers, addresses, and contacts) was then entered into a database. The process was then repeated, this time with Recreational Vehicle dealers. Then with farm equipment, followed by realtors with large tracts of land in the immediate area.

He was methodical in gathering and assimilating the information he required. It was fascinating to watch, to participate, and to grow continually more aware of the processes involved building the database. As the pool of information grew and locked together, the implications of the "Bigger Picture," as seen through his eyes, began to form for me, also. Branson was ready to usher in its second wave of economic development: Conventions, Trade Shows, and Expositions. And this man wanted to be in the middle of it all when the money started flyin’ around. To him, it was simply a matter of numbers and proper preparation.

Branson hosts between four and six million tourists a year. Some visit every year, some every two years, and some only come once, etc. Eventually, randomly, the numbers will synchronize so that, rather than four to six million, ten to twelve million people will descend on Branson during the same season. His intent was to prepare for this statistical explosion and usher in this second-wave economy, thus becoming "King of the Trade Shows." Huge, but for the moment, I am still working on commission, and no money has changed hands yet.

I quit waiting tables to work more than full time at the Agency. I had $800 in savings. I figured that, when I ran out of money, I’d either quit, or I would already be making money. I ran out of money in less than two and a half months.

There were four others working for him. All of us worked very hard, logging the long hours required, for nothing at all. Strict commission was definitely his game. He "spun" long distance service between Sprint, MCI, and AT&T. He had graphic artists prepare renderings, fully intending not to pay them. He had me serve a subpoena once (Boy, were the recipients surprised!). This was the problem: People sensed that he was not trustworthy.

He was from The City. He was slick. He looked like Mr. Burns. He was intelligent and intimidating, when he so chose. People’s distrust of him didn’t bother him in the slightest. "Keep knocking on doors, Lance, and eventually someone will let you in." I was also his "face," or Advance Man, reeling in prospects via letter, phone, or in person.

During this time of two and a half months, he had four tenants, two women and two men, stay in the spare bedroom of the Agency/house, one at a time. Their average occupancy was about two weeks. The women were both in their early 20’s. Initially, he talked with them in warm tones, ignoring the interruptions to our progress. After awhile, he became cross with them, then ignored them completely, then evicted them. A new tenant would then move in. The men were of marked lower intelligence and rather creepy in demeanor. He had little to do with the men and would become cross with them if one should venture into the living room during work.

He had visits from associates from Chicago. They arrived in BMW’s and Mercedes, parking next to his 1970 GMC pick up truck. They came to discuss future development for the area surrounding Branson. It was a fascination. These obvious heavy hitters coming to speak with their brilliant, eccentric peer/mentor, in the middle of his living room, some low rent boarder wandering in and out, surrounded by his "employees," his people, all working for free. They visited six, maybe seven times.

Not only was I observing I was also a key player -- his heir apparent. I trusted him, but not entirely. I was in too deep to quit and in denial about our collective chances for success. By the end of my time there, I’d begun to feel panicky and react with panic, like I did in Florida.

He had health problems, like the beginnings of kidney failure/bad back/emphaseyma, and was constantly in pain. A few days before I quit coming entirely, he began to pull out two of the front bottom row of his teeth, wiggling, then extracting them, in front of us. During this episode I thought "It’s happening again…What is happening here? Is this real?"

The very end came one day in a meeting with some people with property near a major road in town. The lot could easily hold 100 RV’s. The people were willing to do business, but he kept adding stipulations, violating his own first rule of business: Don’t Get Greedy. But he did get greedy, and the people balked. So no contract was signed, no money changed hands, and no money was made.

I had run out of money. I freaked out. I completely lost my shit on him, screaming, "You’re breaking my heart! Why are you doing this? Why won’t you help me?" Whatever trust I had in him was broken, reminding me, in the process, parallels to my recent trust disappointments in Key West. The denial, the humiliation, the pain of the recent past…I wasn’t yelling at Jim in the present. I was yelling at ___, in the past, over circumstances that could no longer change.

I ran out the door, sobbing, still screaming at them. I didn’t go back, ever. I couldn’t face making such a big mistake after making such a big mistake. The implications were too much for me.