Sway

So I sit here this evening with a migraine and a toothache and Sticky Fingers on the iPod. Not exactly an inspirational record but it seems to fit my mood to a tee tonight.

I've felt out of phase and off kilter all this week in ways I haven't since the bad old days, yet without having indulged in any of the 'better abuses through chemicals' that accounted for such a funk back then. My 'head full of snow' (thanks Moonlight Mile) is purely of my own making this time. By that, I mean it's physiological, which to me is more frightening than the pharmaholic hangovers of yore. That, by the way, is a great name for a rock and roll band: The Pharmaholic Hangovers of Yore. Ya heard it here first.

Now before you get all excited about some amazing scientific breakthrough you think I've discovered where I can tap into my psyche to get an organic high with no need to pay for drinks, score dope or whatever it is you might otherwise do, you should know I've only stumbled upon the capability to induce the hangover portion of those particular rides. It's like discovering a get-rich-quick scheme wherein you instantly become a multi-millionaire in the eyes of the IRS and have to pay taxes on this money, but you never actually get the money itself. I can't imagine anyone wanting such a gift.

How did I unlock my inner hangover?

It was really quite simple: I started nosing around where I don't belong in a Pandora's box of childhood memories I'd heretofore kept on ice in my subconscious, repressed into a stone cold coma. There they stayed lo these many years, nice and somewhat quiet (except perhaps for the ulcers that occasionally flare up, but that's only a guess and in any case, indirect). Until last year, when I decided I needed a proper hobby and said to myself, "Hey, how about trying my hand at some creative writing, some 'factional' short stories about Growing Up Birnam." Think one part That 70's Show, two parts Titus, two parts Twilight Zone, a jigger of Married with Children, a healthy splash of The Night of the Living Dead and a slice of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind on the side.

I started with one of the few memories I had of those carefree, Leave It To Beaver days: Dad throwing his hat on the rack in the front hallway, loosening his tie and calling out, "Honey, Kids - I'm home!" Yes, indeed. Then I switched off Nick at Night and tried to get my focus back to the task at hand, my memories, my childhood. No Barbara Billingsley, no Hugh Beaumont (though I'm sure Otis Campbell from Mayberry was really there on occasion). Start at the beginning, Ben, concentrate. Think of each significant event and start riffing on the keyboard. Think, remember, write.

Think, remember, write.

I've spent about 15 months of doing this now and each memory pulls another one out of the ether along with it, up and out of my pounding head, like doing shots of Tequila then fast-forwarding past intoxication to the aftermath. I think this week's sort of the culmination of this journey. The first week of the year is always tough for a number of reasons. One is because it means the holidays are over and as much as I profess to dislike this time of the year now, I loved them as a child. My dad usually managed to hold it together during the weeks leading up to Christmas and I don't have any bad memories of that time of year but then came January and business as usual with drunken bickering parents. Sort of like a segue from It's a Wonderful Life to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? To add to this, the first week of the new year means I just got back from time spent with my sisters in AZ, which I enjoy but which inevitably means much reminiscing about that childhood. Too much whine can give you a hangover to rival too much wine, it seems.

The tone for most of this 'therapy' is too dark for posting to this blog (believe it or not, the shit I have thrown up here is the 'lighter' side of my memories). Beyond a black hole of depression, the rejects are frankly not all that entertaining at this point (certainly not all that funny). Or maybe they're the good ones and it's the shit I've been posting. Or, most likely, they're all shit but nevertheless my shit and I should throw caution to the wind and see what sticks. I need to figure out the angles before most of these screeds see the light of day, and that's if I decide it's even worth the price of admission to continue on this odyssey of self discovery redux.


Unfortunately, tonight I've got a psyche full of snow and the rabbit ears aren't working (damn digital broadcast switchover, nobody told me it applied to my head). Time to turn out the lights as I listen to the sound of strangers sending nothing to my mind ...