(14.03.07)

I write this to clear my head of thoughts and to cleanse my soul of pain and to make manifest in the clearly tangible form of the written word all of my feelings; and as often occurs, my purging of emotions begins with music because I am always so inextricably tied to the passionate expression of singers, songwriters, and other artists.  I find that sometimes the recorded words of others can more accurately depict thoughts, emotions, and ideas than I am capable of illustrating myself.

In this particular instance, I was cruising down I-85 North doing 80 miles an hours and, having exhausted my CD collection, I decided that I would use the scan button on my stereo to peruse the local radio stations to see what they had to offer in the way of music.  The first station that my stereo antenna was able to pick up was an R&B one that was playing Mariah Carey and Boys II Men's "One Sweet Day." 

Immediately, I was transported to a time and place in my mind and heart that held fragments of a quietly violent past -- both recent and distant -- from the death of my youngest older brother after being removed from life support less than a month ago, to losing my son in a much more dramatic, yet less public way years ago.  As I sat listening to this song,

my sense of loss, sharpened by every note of the song, grew painful, a knife of emotion twisting in my chest.  Yet, I was loath to turn off the stereo or switch it to another station and deprive myself of the tenuous moment in which I could privately mourn without having to guard against the possible perception of weakness that is often associated with tears.

For years, maybe even decades, I have nurtured an image of myself that has sustained me during difficult times and I always strive to avoid compromising this carefully constructed facade.  In this self-portrait, I am tough, resilient, tempered by terror at an early age, seasoned by grief, and qualified by experience to be able to handle anything in life and I never show moments of weakness and vulnerability.  Alone, I had learned at an early age, to carry all the weight the world had piled upon me.

However, this was not a moment in which I could successfully continue on my own, no matter how much I hated to admit it.  Like Atlas, I needed to shrug.  My ability to focus was stolen from me by remembrances of times past -- both happy and sad.  I braked to a stop and pulled over and then sat shaking with the effort it took to contain the flood of emotions that was threatening to burst forth and release a torrent of tears, breaking through the carefully constructed dam of control I told myself I had over my emotions.  But instead of any semblance of power, I was manifesting all the signs of weakness.  I was only able to take shallow breaths, shuddering at the weight of the memories, at one point, I held my breath altogether.  But still, I could not reach out.

I remember the last time I did though.  It was one of those rare occasions and there was liquor involved.  It was they day I found out my brother, Jaime, had been shot in the face for simply standing on a street corner in Chicago with his hat tipped the wrong way.  Grant it, he knew what he was doing and someone who took severe offense to it brought to life Juelz Santana's lyrics, "I'll slide eights through the side of [his] facial," and just like that, J's life was brought to an end with three shots through the face.

I was at work when I heard the news and it was horrible but, because there was always work to be done, I finished the day there and then went on to the club because there was work there I had to do as well.  That was Valentine's Day (2007).  And in true alcoholic fashion, I drank to ease the pain.  I had rum and coke after rum and coke after rum and coke and it was pretty free flowing because well ... it all went on the DJ's tab.  Needless to say, by the end of the evening I was more than through and sufficiently inebriated enough to have fooled myself into thinking that I was okay in dealing with my brother's being shot.

Guess what?  I was wrong.

The moment I got to my friend's apartment, I was instantly curled into a ball, like a kitten cuddling with its mother for warmth, protection, and comfort.  I was a mess -- crying, sniffling, and reminiscing -- yet I felt like such a weak person for doing it but I had to.  I had to let it all out and I am grateful to him for letting me, for holding me through it, and for listening.  He did not know my brother and did not necessarily have to try and help ease my pain but he did.  He let me unburden my grief but since then, I have yet to be able to do it again with him, or with anyone else.

I know that this is a fault of mine.  I know that reaching out and connecting with other people is something that I need to learn how to do and I am trying but like I've said before ... I'd much rather let life, and the situations it brings me, fester so that I can deal with it in my own time because I always feel the need to project an image of strength and solidarity within myself because it makes me feel as if I am in control.

I suppose I need this control because with control I feel that there is power and so many times in my life, especially early on, I have felt that I was in a position of total powerlessness.  But I've come to learn that I can let things go.  I can relinquish control.  That tears are not weakness and that my own strength is not compromised by depending on others.  It's like steel having an extremely high melting point, but it is higher still when alloyed with tungsten.  Or like cashmere is a strong fabric, as is silk; however, a cashmere and silk blend will be more durable and provide more warmth than either fabric would do alone.  So, I am already strong but when shared with someone else, and counting on their strength as well, we are stronger.  We compliment each other.  Where he is weak, I can be strong and where my weakness lie, he is my strength, and where we are both strong -- well, watch out world!  And this applies not just to "him" (because there is no significant "him" to share with right now) but to everyone in which I deal with.  But at the same time, patience is a big thing because I am just learning.

As a part of this learning process, I am discovering that I cannot always plan for everything.  My whole life I have been a planner and I have always planned my life not just a month ahead, not even just a year ahead, but a decade or more in advance, setting goals and striving ever toward them because without a clear purpose, without a long-term plan, I have always felt adrift.

I want to survive, of course, live day to day, but that has never been enough for me.  To be motivated, I need something more profound.  A profound purpose and a greater meaning.  And this is why I write -- pages crystallizing into chapters, chapters accreting into books; the story painting, spell casting, truth telling work of a writer is my lifelong purpose.  I have learned that talent is a gift from God and that as a writer, I have a sacred obligation to my Creator to explore my gift with energy and diligence, to polish it and to use it to brighten the landscape of anyone whom I may find lucky enough to call my readers' hearts.

And the one thing that comforts me beyond anything else is that whole worlds might perish, but in my mind, the written word never will -- it's kind of like music.  Once it has been made tangible, it exists forever.  But, just because this is what I feel is the purpose of my life, does not mean that I need to plan every minute detail of every little thing.  Talent will speak for itself and the things that will occur, will occur anyway.

This is not to say that I will stop planning because there are still things that I will accomplish but I will learn to be more flexible and spontaneous -- to stop trying to exert so much control over events and occurrences to perhaps live more by "que sera, sera."   Knowing that what will be, will be.  That if it is intended that I write and change the world, or even my little corner of it, it will happen.

So, in closing, the preceding was just some of the thoughts I had while trapped in a car, all by myself, with nothing but open road and my thoughts.  I also thought of the following:

1)  If it is true what I learned; that the opposite of love is not hate, but apathy; then what is the opposite of hate?

2)  Why does cell phone reception always cut out when crossing state lines?

3)  Can love ever be quantified or have a time-limit set upon it?

4)  Is it possible that writing is not my purpose but just a stop on the way to finding my true destination?

5)  If vodka is supposed to be odorless and tasteless, how come it never is?

6)  Why does gin always make me do the stupidest things?

That is all.

-Kornika