Saturday, November 12, 1994

Just got off work. Hot damned day, no shirt on, my mind awash with disjointed negative thoughts and emotions careening by at 10,000 miles an hour, coursing through my being. When my thoughts travel this fast or in this fashion, mental control is tenuous.

About four years ago, a bunch of us took some powerful psyllocibin cubinza mushrooms that generated a wild ride (for me) on the tip of a stylized 1930’s art-deco pen, zooming along a landscape of steel and rivets, with an unnaturally glowing blue sky, with mountains in the distance that never got any closer. The image itself wasn’t necessarily bad at this point, and when all was quiet, the vision hummed along and was very satisfying. But when there was noise (which occurred frequently, as there were five others tripping with me), the trip was turbulent, me veering from left to right and back again, white knuckled, hurtling along the chemical panorama on this crazy pen, praying for absolute quiet, not only for enjoyment, but for the sake of my sanity. Love and hate took on very real directions, and the whole episode etched itself onto my mind, probably forever. The experience got really bumpy when the rivets sprouted thorns, but this is unimportant now. This time around, everything ended fairly well, considering no one, especially me, freaked out bad enough for the cops to come calling. My thoughts always travel this fast on a pretty regular basis, without the aid of mushrooms.

I called Mom after my first therapy session to tell her that I’d gone. Her somewhat chilly, cautious response was "I hope this isn’t something that goes on for years." Yeah, well, I hope so, too. Therapy is a dirty word to my parent’s generation. But if they could look into my head, they’d want me to go.

Therapy is a step in the right direction. Ana tells me it can be very liberating, venting whatever you feel, saying the unsayable. She’s encouraged me talk to myself when alone, and while this has been helpful, I must be careful where and when I speak freely to myself, and not to get too wrapped up in the overall significance of what I say aloud. After all, to vent is to vent; nothing more, nothing less. Turn the valve yourself. Ease the pressure.

I must slow my thoughts. I must take control of my thinking. I must slow down. I must..

Home

"What is this place?"
"Branson, Missouri. My dad says it’s like Vegas, if it were run by Ned Flanders."
-Exchange between Nelson Muntz and Bart Simpson, from "The Simpsons."

1994, looking back…

I grew up in Branson, Missouri, the Country Music Capital of THE UNIVERSE, as opposed to Nashville, Tennessee, the Country Music Capital of America. Branson is located about 15 miles from the Arkansas border in southwestern Missouri, almost equidistant to and triangulated by Kansas City, St. Louis, and Little Rock, Arkansas. It 40 miles to the north of Harrison, Arkansas, a stronghold of the KKK, and 40 miles to the south of Springfield, the world-wide headquarters of the maniacally evangelical Assemblies of God organization. Because of its central location, Branson is very auto-accessible. It is within a 15-hour’s drive of almost two-thirds of the nation’s population. The upward rise of tourists and popularity to the area has resulted in a frenzy of highway construction in preparation for future driving masses projected to come five to ten to twenty years from now, causing major headaches for the locals and newcomers already there.

Branson came into existence in 1903 as a post office. Built on the shores of what was the White River (Before construction of the Table Rock Dam), Branson’s evolution to its current incarnation caught most everyone by surprise. From nothing, really; nothing, to an end of the millennium wild (mid) west boomtown orgy of bad country music, has-been performers, non-stop buffet food, go-karts, bus gridlock, cranky old people, Southern Baptist moneychangers, and the wholesale rape, pillage, and plunder of the environment by any "investor" willing to plunk down some cash for a little piece of the "Branson Dream," the town’s expansive flux could not have been predicted.

My Grandfather was a realtor in town, who, during the course of his career, bought and sold every lot of land along Highway 76 from downtown to Indian Point Road, past Silver Dollar City, the 1880’s themed amusement park. He never held on to any of these lots, dying in 1981, nine years before this very same land became ground zero for the real estate and construction boom occurring there. Consequentially, our family remained middle class, while those who now owned the land became rich. One tract of land of 76 sold, in September 1992 for 50 thousand dollars and resold the next month for 250 thousand. Ain’t that a bitch? Grandpa never held ‘em -- He just bought and sold ‘em.

Branson is the number one bus-tour destination in America. Hundreds of thousands of senior citizens from all over the country and Canada flock there for a five to seven day blitzkrieg of all you can eat breakfasts, lunches, and dinners tucked neatly between shows at 10 a.m., noon, matinees at 2 or 4 p.m., and an evening show at 7 or 8. Then it’s up at 6 a.m. to do it all over again. Imagine a week of doing nothing but (1) Sitting – on a crowded bus, in a show, at a buffet, (2) Eating – snacks on the crowded bus, popcorn and candy at the show, fried foods and lots of dessert at the buffet, and (3) listening – to John Davidson digress, to Yakoff Smirnoff’s yuk-yuk ultra-nationalist agitation propaganda, to the oh-so-sunny but not quite all there Tour Director, and then imagine you think this is GREAT! Your adrenaline is in constant surge.

All this excitement can be overwhelming, and sirens sound throughout Branson, alerting the townsfolk that someone couldn’t mainline This Much Fun directly into their system and croaked. Casualties run high on the bus circuit, and as a result, Branson now has an extremely nice hospital, by rural standards. The hospital boasts lots of parking and is in a state of continual expansion, much like the town itself. Close to 6 million people will traipse through Branson this year, and the town is poising/bracing itself to be the logical mid-western hybrid of Orlando, Nashville, and Vegas. This is most visible on Highway 76, or "76 Mountain Country Boulevard," as it is now referred. The vulgar display and placement of lighting, corny advertising billboards, and cheezer hillbilly iconography draw comparisons to a miniature, tacky Vegas by more than a few tourists and locals. A stinging, backhanded compliment, if you ask me.

The recent rise in popularity is close to five years old, set off by a slew of national publicity, including features by "60 Minutes," The Los Angeles Times, Newsweek, The Chicago Tribune, and The Star. Since 1990, the town has been caught up in a serious gold-rush mentality, throwing up shoddily built attractions and lodging wherever possible with little regard to the environment or construction safety standards, as OSHA could probably attest. Traffic delays and roadwork are common, a nightmare of waiting to move, only to wait again, this time only inches or feet closer to your destination. Patience is definitely a virtue on Highways 76 and 65, the two narrowest, longest parking lots in the whole mid-west.

So in September of 1993, I left. I’d had enough of family values, narrow Midwestern mindsets, and thinly veiled greed destroying what had at one time been, albeit cheesy, a cute regional tourist town from April to October, and a pristine Ozark town during the off-season: quiet, unspoiled, and undeniably beautiful. Although there are flashes of its past still lingering among all the changes, that town no longer exists. So I moved to Key West, Florida, having never visited there, not knowing, but with expectations high, of a new life, South Florida style, in this, the first island of the Caribbean.

I had absolutely no fucking idea what I was doing.

Still 1994

I have recurring daydreams. I get out of a truck somewhere in the mountains and look in all directions, no one else around, and no one looking back. I breathe deep and smile to myself. The panorama is incredible, indescribable. There are no distractions. I am in love with my life, my situation, and my progress.

The vision dissipates as quickly as it congealed. I am at work. I work in a guesthouse. Housekeeping. Making the beds, sweeping the floors, and cleaning the toilets of the visitors visiting my new home, the island paradise of Key West.

It’s physical work. I’m wiped out after every shift. But this routine allows me to think. To wander freely mentally is good for my shaky sanity, as events have been a bit schizophrenic for the last year or so, coinciding with my move here.

Eight jobs in 13 months, lots of drugs and alcohol, numerous strange encounters with strange people, always choosing the wrong corridors. Always working, struggling so hard to remain poor. I trust almost no one here, and still I trust too much. I moved to Key West to relax, to find a career, to become comfortable with my homosexuality, to start over.

What has happened is something entirely different.