Cappy

Last night something incredible happened to me. I lay in bed, trying to get to sleep, thinking of a story I’ve been working on. I had decided the general sequence for the final scene, and as I turned back and forth I suddenly realized the details, like the story was finishing itself up for me… and me without a keyboard at hand! So I got up and headed for the laptop and started taking dictation.

This story, I should tell you, has taken on a life of its own. The events taking place, the characters within it, even the principles espoused, have been very closely (though inversely) mimicking a portion of my life right now. I won’t go into detail, as this is not the place for such things, but I will say that I am not Jonathan Stark.

I’ve written several stories so far this year, and many more besides, and none have them have ever really effected me emotionally. When something is good, I can tell, but it doesn’t make me sad or elated or whatever it is I’m trying to get across. But somehow, I got tied to Jonathan Stark, like he was some great friend of mine, and I was reading helplessly the account of the hardest part of his life. It was wild.

A little over half way into the story, I allowed Jonathan his first moment of real joy, just before I was about to smash him again. And when I read over the dialogue at the end of that scene, just after writing it, it made me tear up. Just a bit, mind you, but a tear was shed, and it was the strangest thing. But last night… as I wrote the last five pages of the story, I finally gave Jonathan what he needed to see his choice clearly. And I kid you not, I burst into tears and laughter as I wrote it. A more incredible, bewildering experience I’ve never had. I had to stop for about 15 minutes, pacing the floor and splashing water on my face (this was around 1:30am, mind you), until I regained enough composure to go on.

If it sounds like I’m bragging on my writing, then I haven’t made the point I’m trying to convey clear. While I do think this is the best thing I’ve written so far, I am more interested in what made both this story and my reaction possible, and that is the thing I can’t discuss! Bah! But I will say this: I have been ripped wide open, and I feel that I am experiencing everything in extremes, without a shade of gray in any event. It is debilitating, exhausting and makes me act pretty oddly at time. And I hope it lasts!

Personal

Tomorrow I get on a train from Atlanta to Mississippi. That’s right, not only do passenger trains still exist, but there are still people who ride them! Trips to Mississippi always make me a little edgy and uncomfortable, since I’ve never really felt any commonality with any of my family, and time away only heightens my awareness of our differences. Since I left Mississippi at 19, I’ve been back just a handful of times, probably not even enough to make a month of days.

I used to think that I dreaded (yes, dreaded) seeing the family because I am their antithesis. I don’t worship god, I don’t have any babies, I don’t mooch horrendously off of our wonderful mother. I felt that I didn’t really have anything to share with them, and as such we couldn’t really be of value to one another. But recently I’ve come to think differently…

You see, I have a fantastic relationship with my mother. She is the one person with whom I share blood that I believe understands me and truly enjoys my company, beyond the level of relative-relative, or even mother-child. I call her often, and she confides in me, and even asks my advice sometimes. But even after a few days with her, I know that I have to get away, and that I won’t feel myself until I do so. That is what makes me think that I’ve had it wrong, backwards even.

I don’t stay away from my family because I don’t value them. I stay away because I’ve learned that I actually really do value them, which leads me to feel completely helpless with them. My family is collapsing in on itself. Both of my siblings are single parents, take no initiative,  have no ambition, and completely rely on the unfailing support of our mother to get by. And my mother lets them get away with every bit of it, knowing very well that she is only hurting herself and them in the process. Yet her identity is so enamored in her children, that she can’t bring herself to deny them.

When I visit I can only keep quiet for so long, and as soon as I open my mouth to offer suggestions or criticisms, my siblings turn a deaf ear. In the South, having a child immediately makes you an expert on children, education and morality, so I, a childless bachelor, cannot offer any advice without heating their blood and starting an argument.  And I can’t claim to know what’s best for my niece and nephews, but I can clearly see what’s better.

So that is the internal conflict that I will battle over the weekend. Hooray!

Personal