Twenty years on the outside can seem like a lifetime. I have fled the wreckage of family, hometown, God&Country. I ‘ve never owned a tv and I’ve never listened to pop music. I only sank deeper and deeper into a dream. I know what you’re thinking, no problem. It ain’t lost on me that I’m the envy of every suburban warrior denizen who for whatever reason bought in to this cheap culture of patriarchy and bloodsport. My aim was to never be like my Father who, for all his admissions to the Man, still found a way to live as far outside the madding crowd as the taxman would allow. Point is, I’ve done it. I’m never like him (besides the fact that I am him but, aho). Mission Accomplished. And in 11 short years I’ll have rivaled his lifetime, or go down like him, quick and young. Whatever the fates hold in store, if I’m not like my father then the question becomes what now?
This morning, instead of going to Yoga, I laid in bed drinking coffee and reading Damien Echols. I’ve been chain smoking Shag all day, never good, and drinking black roast. I listen to Blind Pilot and Nick Drake on Spotify, which is the worst of all these. Last night I took a trip down Resentment Lane, you know, just checking in. Another upset. Another rupture. Another splinter of isolation. I’m running out of people. I’ve blocked more people than you have on your friends list, and, you know what they say. If you encounter an asshole, they’re having a bad day. If everyone you encounter is an asshole, then you’re the one with the problem Brother. That axiom will do nothing for those of us who know we’re assholes, however.
I’m very aware that there is a fine layer separating me from the world at all times. Sadly whenever you talk to me, I’m away. In the past, the exception were those who I deemed true, whom I coveted, held court with, sometimes participating in an unspoken and co-dependent exchange. Our deal. They’d tolerate me, tempests of anger and ice-storms of isolation, battles over perceived slights and who knows what-the-fuck else, I wish I did, but drinking was part of the deal-and I’d suffer their flaws. A vicious cycle. Say what you will about alcohol but we needed it to scale our walls. Whatever it took. Some (most) of the best memories of my life involve alcohol, groundswells of emotion and passion that a Pisces like me thrives on. But the mornings got darker and darker. I got sick. I would say I got further and further from my authentic self but there was no movement. A whisky drunk can be fun when you’re young. After 30 it’s just sad.
My quest for Refuge, combined with bitter droughts of alcohol and isolation, has found me right where I left off, my Father’s son and at the bottom of a rock&roll journalist dream.
I was doing it wrong but I’m not letting go of the dream. There’s something calling me back into the fray. My eyes have been opened. I have seen and will never unsee. It’s not lost on me that as I sit here doing this Leonard Cohen bit, smoking by the window and writing lyrics, that just 15 blocks from here some of the wisest and most devoted practitioners of Yoga are gathered under one roof and answering the call to prayer. I can’t keep turning a blind eye to world affairs, keep hoping you’ll join me in wishing them from existence. I still believe we can do it but they’re all lazy offal. Thinking for themselves causes them to panic. It’s too much trouble but it ain’t no thing to defy the calls for peace and understanding and health care from an old punk rocking pacifist/iconoclast like me. I need to keep an eye out. I’m called to journalism. I’m called to health.
they’re calling out for war here, Rose
and I hope you’re safe in Dublin
I won’t say I’m redoubled. We’ve heard that before. I like reborn better, cuz I know now, and I’ll never unknow. I’m 40 and everything I ever wanted has come to me. I had a limited scope though, when I first drafted this dream. It’s up for review. I know what I want and I’m gonna get it. I’m reentering the fold. I can only imagine what I will find there, but hopefully it’s some original thought, some understanding, something to help keep my feet planted on the savage road. This health. This dream. This media and this journalism can be ours, you know. Despite what they’ve told you your whole life, it’s our world.
May your dreams know the mountain and your troubles hit the dirt.
Sincerly, L.Cohen
Going for the Throat 