Mason

Dear Universe,

Holy nuts, you work in mysterious and interesting ways. Last night you sent a ferociously drunk guy to my front door who proceeded to stand there on the steps and talk in circles about his night. "Are you gonna' turn me away too?" he said. "Well...yeah, because it's 2 in the morning and you're freaking me out." "Yeah, I thought so." "Okay yeah, so I'm gonna' shut the door now." which I did. And locked it. When he continued to stare into the front window, my roommate and I called the cops. I guess in retaliation he decided to bust a window and book it. Thankfully, he got apprehended. My buddy and I are rattled, but okay.

Today, another guy comes to the door. I had to admit, I was a little wary at first. He sported long hair, a massive healthy beard (his Russian ancestry, I later find out) and glasses. Initially, he came to inquire about a friend's car, which has been sitting in our driveway out back. The chat about the car turns into several hours of us sitting on the front stoop and talking about life.

I find out that Mason was in jail in northern Idaho for five years on an aggravated assault charge (someone had broken into his house, and threatened him with a knife. He chased the guy out, and when the police arrived they tazed Mason and took him to jail.) While he was incarcerated, he was cut off from his entire world. The pain medication he was taking from a sawmill accident that landed him in a coma was cut off with little explanation. Friends of his that tried to visit were turned away or told he wasn't there. He barely received any mail that was sent his way (and when he did, it was postmarked three weeks prior and blacked out, like he was a political prisoner.) No television. No books. The best he could do was purchase a subscription to the Spokesman Review--the only thing that kept him sane. The city had brushed him under the rug, his trial date kept getting pushed further and further back--with very little hope for justice.

(I forgot to mention that the break-in that spiraled into his jail time came not 24 hours after he was released from the hospital to recover from a car accident that seriously injured him and took the life of one of his dogs.)

In any event, Mason told me about the five years he served. He told me about how his 6(!!) siblings have passed away, some from natural causes, one from suicide, and one from police brutality. He told me about how he worked as a machinist, fixed cars and motorcycles, bred dogs and horses, and has a degree in large mammal dentistry. He told me about his grandparents, still going strong into their 90s. He told me about growing up in Birmingham Alabama in the 70s. He told me about his incredible ups and devastating downs. He told me that the same day he considered just giving up on it all, he received a letter from his daughter that completely turned everything around for him. After chatting a while, he parted with a firm handshake and some very kind words.

So, Universe, I guess I'm trying to say I'm grateful. I'm grateful that the day after some Ridiculous Bullshit(tm) pops through, you allowed my path to cross with someone who is an example of absolute and incredible resilience. Resilience in the face of impossible odds and staggering unfairness. A person who was given the rawest of deals, who's struggling still, but has not and will not give up.

Thanks for the lesson. If we meet again, I'm buying him a beer.

Love you all!

Dakotah

Draculas

I watched this fantastic Stephen Fry documentary yesterday, and it got me thinkin' in my head and heartparts about some of the feelings I've been grappling with for the past year or so. Now I don't know if I'm on the bipolar scale at all, though that might be a trick of the ego--determined to save itself by declaring that admission 'a weakness' and distancing myself from it. I think my low points have more to do with being fairly lonely in the fishbowl that is this city, not having seen my family in about two years(!!?) and being hilariously broke most of the time. Like...gathering my change and deciding on laundry or eating broke. Like...having to choose which bill to pay broke. Like...trying not to jump out of my skin when folks invite me for dinner because HOLY CRAP A HOT MEAL broke. To be fair, I can now publish a cookbook entitled "The Resourceful Chef: Whipping up deliciousness with the random shit you find in your pantry."

Anyhoo, in the course of the aforementioned documentary, there was a quote that really jumped out at me.

"The opposite of depression isn't happiness, it's vitality."

Um...yep! Depression is a Dracula. Feeling how I generally do now hasn't stopped me from accessing happiness at all, it's just made a lot of things feel INCREDIBLY difficult to summon up the energy for. Creativity? What's the use! Of course I could write that play I have a zillion ideas for (what if schizophrenia was actually the result of parallel universes exhorting their influence on people who had a special sensitivity to 'quantum consciousness'?) And sure, I COULD put some hours into working on my game (it's 10 hours strong already, and I'm about to hit that part of the RPG where you finally get a vehicle--in this case an enchanted hunk of rock called the 'S.S. Partytime') and sure, I COULD write that song I've been thinking about (a snarky anti-ode to the contemporarily hip manic-pixie-dream-girl idea) but none of those things feel engaging to me. Rather--they feel like they wouldn't accomplish anything. Self-expression? Why? I can't pay rent with self-expression. Frankly, I believe this to be another sophisticated trick of the ego. "Why the fuck would anyone care about your art? You're just some douchebag with some geeky ideas, bro. You can talk mad game about it all, but what do you have to show for it? Until strangers are fawning over your brilliance, which by the way--you don't truly believe you possess, who the hell are YOU to deserve anything?" Um...in actuality, I've written several plays, short stories, poems, comics, and a novel...and I'm making a videogame--but those don't FEEL like 'work'. Why? Because Draculas can hypnotize. Draculas can dangle an expectation in your face like a carrot, and beat you with the stick of self-loathing for not achieving an impossible goal. And they can turn into bats, I guess.

So what's helped? I mean, I'm all about realizations, but it's only helpful to me if I can also reach a new understanding. Otherwise it's kinda' like...welp, this sucks! So, okay, anyhoo--honestly for me, being able to characterize these internal Draculas helps me externalize these thoughts I've considered 'reality' for so long. "MAN I SUCK AT EVERYTHING." becomes "Man, the Draculas are telling me I suck at everything(IRONIC, HAHAHAHA BECAUSE-)" and then relax back into my authentic self. Separating your feelings from your identity is critical--because how you feel about yourself isn't who you are. You are a complex miracle of a human being, and if you stopped to truly consider every single facet of what makes you you, you'd be staggered and amazed. You are enough. In this very moment, no bells and whistles, you are worthy. The Draculas have their own intentions, so understand what those are and meet them face to face. Shed a little sunlight on their pale skin and see them for what they really are.

Cuz it turns out, they're nothing but dust.

Love y'all!

Dak