Package Plan

The romanticism of individualism has always been linked with the "road less travelled" immortalized by Robert Frost. I've always said that Frost son of a bitch left a whole lot out. Have you ever seen that meme that says something like "I took the road less travelled and now I don't know where the hell I am."? That about sums it up.

Long ago, I came up with my theory of the "Package Plan."  Conform or die. It's the unspoken command we hear when we are poured out of our homes and into institutional processing. The "Package Plan" is what most people unwittingly sign up for. Forego free will. Forego identity. The benefits are worth it. It could easily have been something a young punk like me could sneer at, but I understood it. But then there were a lot of folks like me who didn't sign up. It turns out there was another plan: the "Group Plan".  For the remainder of my formative years, I watched as those who rejected the "Package Plan" scatter and found their groups.

"Here is where we came from. But I never left. When you ran away from home, you left me alone." Only The Loner by The Infinite Vacation.

And so it's been, ever since. I've grown to understand this as well, marvelling at the obscurity and specificity of the groups that folks heave their allegiance upon. So what did this make me? An individual? Is there an "Individual Plan"?  If you ask anyone from the other two plans, most will tell you they are on that plan. Everyone's an individual.

I discovered recently that on the "Individual Plan", if that is what I am on, I am only half a man. There is something called the "Partner Plan". Because of us, I can be me.

Don't get me wrong. Everyone finds significant others. Everyone mates and marries. Who knows if they're in the same plans or not? I made the whole thing up. It's a hypothetical framework. And within that framework, I imagine that those on the "Individual Plan" are those that are fully realized human beings whose ideal partners are other fully realized human beings .Good for them.

So how does one know they are on the "Partner Plan? I'm not that bright. It took three steps:

1. Break up with partner.
2. Realize you don't want anyone else.
3. Realize you don't want her to be with anyone else.

Though I'd like to say I've had a partner before, I would say that certain people have been placed in my life by God. To balance me. Because, believe me, I am imbalanced. It's why I'm obsessed with balance. Through them all, God has kept me alive. And all of them have led to her. God has been speaking to me through more and more people. Probably because he's afraid I may still be enough of a moron to not get it. Could you blame him? My partner probably feels the same way. And I can't assure because I'm a moron. So, God, please guide our little ship, the way you've guided me for so long. Thanks.

Docking

I am by no means tribal. However, if a war among tribes breaks out, I would probably assign myself to the Nerds. Not because I am one, necessarily. It has more to do with the meek inheriting the Earth and wanting to have a good seat. Anyway, I am sure I would gain admittance because I do associate parts of my body with characters from Star Wars. Hear me out. Though I am only 40, I already make sounds like Yoda when I try to get out of my car or up from a difficult sitting position. Long ago, I decided that if I had to give my ass a name, it would be Chewbacca. Let that settle for a moment. But in all seriousness, my brain is the Millennium Falcon. Yes, the Falcon is a spaceship but I defy you to prove it's not a character in those films. Why do I call my brain the Millennium Falcon? Because she's got it where it counts. I've made a lot of special modifications. She might be the fastest ship in the fleet.

OK, but back here on Earth, actual spaceships make the old "bucket of bolts" look like, well, a spaceship. After watching First Man, Damien Chazelle's film about Neal Armstrong, I was reminded of how insane it was to strap oneself into anything they called a space craft back then. Have you ever been to a carnival or amusement park and noticed that the ride you're about to go on must have been around for decades? You notice the old seat belt, faded paint, rusted metal, old car smell? You probably questioned whether or not you should get in, as well you should! Not only did guys like Armstrong get in something similar, they let someone shoot the thing into space, with them in it! And they were engineers and stuff!

Where am I going with this? As I watched Armstrong pilot these claustrophobic death traps thousands of miles above the Earth, I was reminded of piloting my own brain. I recalled comparing it to the Millennium Falcon. Most importantly, I made an important connection to the crucial mission that occurred before Armstrong made it to the moon.

As the commander of Gemini 8, Neal and pilot David Scott had to dock with the Agen a target vehicle. Bear in mind, just piloting one of these things is a feat of impossibility, much less perfectly aligning it with another craft that has found its way into orbit. Docking was the most crucial test in the series of missions that led to the moon landing. This first attempt was successful but soon after, the joined spacecraft began spinning out of control. Neal separated but this only made matters worse. Mission control even cut off communication with Neal's wife, so she wouldn't have to hear what was going on. She wasn't having it, so she marched right down to Mission Control and let them have it. Neal was able to regain control but most importantly, as we all know, he mastered docking and eventually walked on the moon.

Are you still with me? I began this new volume of my blog with an entry called Re-Entry. I was going for a metaphor of me, in my spacecraft, crashing to Earth. As a metaphor for my relationship with my life partner, it implied that she was grounded and I was from space. More recently, we celebrated our two year anniversary, but it was less than a year since that so-called Re-Entry. I wrote something for her The Spaceman & The Explorer. You know who the Spaceman is. But in calling her The Explorer, I think I understand her and us so much better. Explorers originate from some point on Earth but they are most alive in the exploring. They are curious. So I think she made it into orbit. And we've been docking.



Oh yeah. We've been docking. And the moon? That's just the first stop.

The Single Guy Retires

Fear. It can't hurt me. So, it hurt another. Through me. One would think having someone who loves you, waiting when you land, to be a good thing. I went for the other option, which was to "spare" the person who loves me from whatever awaited me on my new journey. As always, a third option existed, which is usually the true path. Fortunately, I saw that path the moment I landed.

In the past, no matter how despondent I might be after a break-up, the first part of me in motion is "The Single Guy". He's ready to go but willing to wait for the rest of me to catch up. Of course, "The Single Guy" could also be mistaken for a certain body part, but in my case, he gets to be a character i my story. There are many characters in my head, I mean 'story'. Oh, and I'm sure this "Single Guy" sounds like a lot of guys you know. But like I said, he's just one of many and from the moment I wake up in the morning, everyone is ready to go and everyone goes together. That's right, it's like the running of the bulls. So, no matter how excited "Single Guy" is, he knows he has to wait for everyone else to catch up.

This had to be rough in film school, right? In New York City? A building full of actresses and dancers? What kind of torture was this for "Single Guy"? Well......none at all. Not a peep from the guy. He'd retired and no one told me. 

Normally, when Single Guy leads the charge, everyone else has to summon the energy to ask questions, be original, ask for a number, etc.  None of this was happening. Wanna know the weirdest thing? Without the neurotic energy of pursuing women, I enjoy them so much more! So, that was a relief. But someone else was enjoying the opposite sex, or so I thought. And I'm sure she wasn't going to be as thrilled as I was about my discovery. Sure, I was excited to let her know that I had found the right path and it did not involve dating at all. But she made sure I knew one thing. She wasn't done dating at all. 

There I was, with a new life and no one to share it with. Go on, tell me what an idiot I was. I know by now. I'll be writing more about life since then in future blogs. My life with Maggie. But what did it take to set me straight? I'm afraid it's anti-climactic. Cute, but anti-climactic.

I went to see Black Panther a second time. I was by myself, which is actually fine for me. However, I was sitting in my car and a single thought occurred to me. What's Maggie doing? Then, another. Is she on a date? That was when Single Guy's friend Mr. Imagination took over. Don't worry, it didn't have to go far. All I saw in my mind was Maggie on a date with a guy who didn't even have a face. And they were having a helluva time. I immediately shut down.

So I take out the phone and send her an e-mail. I inform her of what Mr. Imagination has done. I don't like it. I DON'T like it. Not. one. bit. So I suggest we see Black Panther together. Was there something special about Black Panther that got us back together. Not at all. It could have been Transformers 15. OK, maybe I'm getting carried away but the point is I put my hand on her knee and when I got away with it, I swear I knew I had a chance. That hand on the knee would be my first in however many steps it took to get her back......AND........

WE MADE OUT IN THE PARKING LOT!

Gone

It took me forty years to join the human race. Can you blame me? I was born here. That much is true. I often refer to the story of Superman because I owe so much to my adoptive parents. Still, as much as I don't feel like I'm from around here, I was not actually born on another planet. I used to tell people I was born in Rosedale, Queens. That is where my parents lived when they brought me home. When I was 25, I had to fish out my birth certificate for the DMV to update my license. It said I was born in Buffalo, NY. I had to ask my parents what that was all about. Now, I know that, in December 1978, a young Catholic couple gave me up to a Catholic orphanage for adoption. My parents, who were on a list, were notified. They immediately flew from Queens to Buffalo. They had to answer questions and do paperwork but had to leave without me. The orphanage sent someone to Queens to inspect the house I'd be brought to. Finally, in February of 1979, my parents flew to Buffalo again to bring me home.

Maybe those two months were a head start. I love my parents. I have never been curious about or sought out my birth parents. I used to say my origins are mysterious. You might say I claimed them for myself. Speaking and reading came easily. Not long after I start school, they put me in a program called Gifted & Talented. This seems to trigger a particularly aggressive wave of "What are you going to be when you grow up?" pressure. On some level, I must have sensed that my mind was something of value. It became my cockpit. Instead of taking it in all the directions placed before me, what if I grabbed the controls and never let go? What could I accomplish? It seems I ascended and took my place among the other satellites, unwilling to come down until it was on my terms. See the previous entry, Re-Entry, if you're curious how that went.

I named this post after a U2 song with the refrain: I'm not coming down. That would be roughly the first forty years of my life. Yet, this year I began a one year conservatory program in film and TV producing at New York Film Academy. On the same day, I broke up with my girlfriend. Again, see previous entry. 

Then, see the next entry.

Re-Entry

This blog ended on a Wednesday, April 8 of 2015, with a post about collecting all previous posts in a booklet that I would go on to use to promote my graphic novel, my album and my mental health awareness endeavor, Outside Looking Out. These things make up my personal coat of arms. A lot has happened since then. You will have to follow this blog to find out more, if and when I refer to the time before my re-entry.

What do I mean by my re-entry? A satellite does not remain in orbit indefinitely. It gradually returns to Earth, passing through thicker and thicker layers of atmosphere. The compression and friction generates a tremendous amount of heat, which can melt or vaporize the satellite. You might say this describes a shooting star, which would make for a much lovelier metaphor for who I am or how I've lived my life. It does not, however, explain how I've lived my life or what that's done to people who have loved me. The good news is that some satellites do survive re-entry, because of specially designed shields. What you are about to read is about how my shield was built, who built it and the effect my re-entry has had or is having on my life.

This is the logo for Outside Looking Out. It features a nerdy looking fellow blissfully unconcerned with the world that he is circling on his satellite. Instead, he gazes out into the unknown. It's a bit of an exaggerated ideal that I wanted to present to kids who felt like they were on the outside. The world still characterizes them as being on the outside looking in, as if that is all that interests or defines a person. What about the great individuals who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetnessthe independence of solitude? Well, that was my intention. I played a few solo acoustic shows and raised a few hundred dollars for my good friends at Attitudes In Reverse. Now, I have a confession to make. The kid on the satellite is me. It has been for longer than I can remember. I have been broadcasting from a remote location. 

Is this a healthy way to live? Probably not. I guess it just felt safe. It gave me some sort of edge. I look at the world and don't want to be a part of it. Can you blame me? I don't like what you've done with the place. But I do live in the world. The boy on the satellite signifies my relationship to the world. It signifies my relationships, period. So what has kept me in orbit all these years? The simple answer is love but what kind of love? If love is fuel for this vessel, what sort of fuel are we talking about? How do I obtain this fuel without endangering the source? It depends on the source.

God. It has been said that we cry as we enter the world because we are leaving God, the womb, and being placed into the hands of man's world. You might say some leave kicking and screaming. I think I held onto God's leg and wouldn't let go. When I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of seventeen, it was because I had had a sort of breakdown with suicidal impulses. I never attempted. I sought help instead. It never felt like a wish to die. It was more like I just didn't want to be here. In the hours of darkness that followed the Thorazine, I felt like I was facing a malevolent force, the Devil perhaps. It was like a negotiation room, with God as my only companion. But I did the negotiating. How was I going to live?

Born in December of 1978, I was adopted from a Catholic orphanage by Charles and JoAnn Wilkey, taken home in February of 1979. Who took care of me for those two months? One answer could be the nuns at the orphanage. In my heart, it was God, as if I had a little extra time with Him. One time I asked my grandmother, who was in the last year of her life, who her best friend was. I was expecting her to say the name of a friend she used to leave downstairs watching TV while she hung out with me and my parents. Her immediate answer was God. As a kid, I didn't care so much about going to Church or attending CCD, but I would get excited any time I heard stories about Jesus. Someone had given a name and face to this friend of mine. Once, I showed up at my best friend's birthday party at The Ground Round and proclaimed "Jesus is Our Brother!" Did it occur to me that my friend, her family and most of her friends were Jewish? No. Was it appropriate for a child's birthday party? Not at all. It just thrilled me to know I had this friend. That is one source. THE source, if you will. People have spoken the word 'love' for all of time, in some language or another, but God's love is unconditional, which humans may be capable of feeling, but will never understand. God cannot be hurt. Humans can. Enter the cause of a fear that could very well be the death of me.

Parents. They are the architects of my shield, commissioned by God. When I had my breakdown, I was in the grip of great fear. It felt like I had turned on myself. I had somehow skipped self-destruction all together and arrived right in the middle of an immediate need to cease to exist. What fear could be greater than that? I was told to explain this to my parents. For some reason, I didn't even look at my father when I was told this. Only my mother's face came into focus. I had never seen her cry. It's like watching cracks emerge in a dam. From that day on, there has been no moment I am not terrified of hurting someone I love, or who loves me. I will give humans all the love I have to give, as per my friendship with God. But I'm not coming down. I AM NOT COMING DOWN.

Satellites do not stay in orbit by themselves. They are managed by engineers on the ground. God is great but he clearly left all operations in our hands. Who is going to oversee me? The father and mother that conceived me were clearly not fit for the job and luckily they agreed. What a lucky break, right? I've had oodles of those, trust me. So, during my first two months with God, the orphanage had my parents fly from Queens to Buffalo so they could take tests and fill out paperwork but they had to return home without me. That was followed by the orphanage sending someone to inspect the home in Rosedale that my parents would be bringing me back to. This was 1979 Rosedale, not present day Rosedale. Timing is everything. God really chose well, being God after all. Still, God must have known I would need more.

Stories. Richard Donner's Superman: The Movie was released the month and year I was born. I would not know this until many years later but this fact signifies a great deal. Is it Jesus that's been there for me my whole life? Superman? Superheroes? Allegories aside, the world on the other side of the page and screen has comforted me for as long as I have had sight or could speak. How is that I can vividly remember hearing of a big-screen Batman movie on the evening news and waiting most of a decade to see it, fully making the connection between the two events? How did I get from the urge to write a comic book to self-publishing a graphic novel? Why have I spent upwards of $50 a week for the last 20 years on comic books? Why is the movie theater the first place I go to for solace in anxious times? Why did I apply to film school at the age of 39, after two college degrees and three careers?

Maggie. Just one name. No others. I have to write now while I still can. The burning of the re-entry. Who will survive it? God's fine. My parents will be hurt but I've hurt them before and they have proven almost as indestructible as God. The worst part? To love someone properly, you have to join the human race. That comes even before being happy or loving yourself. Up on my perch, I could see so much and know so much and judge so much. But for someone to love me the way Maggie did, she had to actually be on the satellite. Has anyone else been with me like that? Perhaps, but I kicked them off when I realized what it meant. That they'd be there with me when I finally came down. She was so good at understanding how I've been living. So much smarter than me or anyone else has ever given her credit for. And she loved me more than anyone else. She saw me on the ground, in outer space and most importantly, all the times I didn't see myself, which was a lot. Do you know what I did? I kicked her off the satellite. I stuck her in an escape pod and hit eject without so much as a warning.

She knew our relationship might not survive re-entry but was willing to see it through. I did not have that courage. I failed her.

Success? It took forty years to touch ground. It is hard to form a status report. That is what future posts will be about, among other things. I guess it makes some sort of sense that my health, especially my mental health, has been of primary concern. See, my body has been on Earth this whole time. Did I not make that clear? Operations are handled via satellite. I hope that clears things up a bit. I am not happy with the condition I have left my mind and body in. That alone is going to take a great deal of work. Have I hurt others in the process? I did. Mores o than I could have anticipated. It has been messy and I fucked up. But I landed. Keep reading to see what comes next. I will continue to live my story as I write it...or write my story as I live it. Something like that.

Epilogue A great deal of the above might be rehash but I felt it necessary to bridge between posts from three years ago and now. Could I have offered an actual recount of the events of the last three years? Of course, but that would not be me. Besides, I do have loads of experiences to share with you about the last three years.  There's been a band called The Infinite Vacation, with a forthcoming EP. Wait until I tell you about my friends from Silver Oaks. That will all somehow be woven into the seminal tales of my next forty years. I will be reporting to you, from the ground, for the first time in my life.