Manifestations

We shared the same parents. How had I managed to become a lost man? Homeless. Addicted. Living in the woods. We come from a nice family, well respected in this small town. Wealthy, and with means. My brother would go on to be a doctor. Married. One child and another on the way. An officer and gentleman in the Navy. He followed my father's directions for his life to a T. I took a left turn at Albuquerque. I'd try so hard only to fail and to complicate things. I wanted so much to please my father -- to make him proud. I ended up alone, mentally ill, and bereft of friends and family.

I remember when my niece was born. I was an Uncle. I heard through the grapevine about it. Not from my family. I cried. I sobbed. I was jealous. The evening would find me in my tent drinking beer and feeling intense emotions. Why did my brother get all the lucky breaks? He had the perfect life of a loving wife and a prestigious job. I was left with nothing. "I didn't ask to be mentally ill," I would cry out in anger as I got drunker. That was when the thoughts of suicide would sneak into my mind. Maybe I could drink myself to death, I would think. I would eventually pass out to wake up freezing cold and still alive. It was terrible times -- like some horrible rendition of Groundhog Day. Times I want to forget, but temper the man I am these days.

That is what I just wrote in my memoirs and deleted. I am shying away from all things analytical. I felt uneasy about it as if I shared too much emotion. I talked about the dreaded suicide that so escaped me during those days. I think I have run talking about homelessness into the ground as well. Like some apparition from a dark past, it haunts me. Calls me. Come back to your old ways it seems to say. I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It inhabits my every waking thought like some penance I am doomed to pay.

The hardest part of writing a memoir? The past. It hurts to relive those memories. I want to go on with my life with some pollyannaish mentality -- forgetting where I've come from. For me to write these memoirs, I am going to have drudge up old, tired emotions and family dirt. The mental illness that all effected our lives for years. It is scary, but something I feel I must do to put the past behind me. Here's to hoping I would learn and grow, and not become some bitter soul living in the past.

Work is Never Done

I'm rewriting Hardscrabble Times. I started after lunch and a nap. It is more fun this second time bringing these written scenes to life. I am adding more descriptions, adjective goodness, and dialogue. All the while trying not to make it too wordy. Writing makes me admire the authors that can pump out books annually like it was just another day at the job.

I starting writing this book the first time with a grand plan. I have an elaborate outline written down on a back page of my paper journal. The story evolved and took on a life of it's own. I want to make it more interesting and vibrant with this second writing. It is slow going though.

The memoirs of summer camp are also going well. I wrote a four page story late this afternoon of one of my less well liked cabin mates during the summer of 1987. I was a counselor in training. Queef as we called Keith was stealing from his cabin mates. We concocted an elaborate plan to throw him in the canoeing lake at midnight. Into the water poor Queef went. It was a form of community vigilante justice commonly found in a boy's summer camp setting. We took care of our own and dished out punishment when necessary. It reminds me of that book: The Lord of the Flies.

Memories Past

Dear Mom,

Will you please send me more of the MAD magazines? The last ones you sent were great. All my friends loved them. I am going on a three day hike starting tomorrow. We are hiking to Cold Mountain, North Carolina. The hiking staff says the water is so clear and clean you can drink it out of the streams and pools along the trail. Breakfast was pancakes and sausage. The food is so good here. The cook is this little black man who is shorter than me! He is mute which means he can't speak. Alex (Ed. my brother) is still crying every day. He hates it here. Says the mosquitoes are terrible and he got Ear Dry in his toothpaste and thinks he is going to die. He wrote you a letter about it. Well, I just heard the dinner bell ring and must meet with my cabin to eat. Hope you and dad are fine.

Sincerely,

Andrew

P.S. - Send more magazines!!!!!

-- June 16, 1982 Age 10

I was thumbing through old letters I wrote as a child at summer camp this morning. It brings back so many fond memories. I can remember laughing at my neurotic brother for thinking he was going to die because of the Ear Dry in his toothpaste. He was dead serious. No pun intended. My mother was so good at sending us stuff in the mail like books, newspapers, and magazines. They were a joy for a little camper far removed from the outside world. My mother would later say she almost drove the 300 miles to get my brother and bring him home his letters were so pitiful and pleading. My brother hated summer camp. I loved it.

What brought this on was that I have been toying with the idea of putting together a memoir of sorts as an excercise in creative writing. It's fun combing through old photos, letters, and diary entries, wondering what I will use, what this says about that time in my life. I also have a written diary from when I was homeless that I kept everyday to help me write my old blog. I wrote very matter-of-factly with little expression, emotion, or description in my entries. I guess I was probably just worried about where my next beer was going to come from.

I will be incorporatiing some of these writings for my memoir as little snippets on the blog. I hope some of you enjoy reliving these memories with me, good and bad.