Remembering Ozzy

Here I am, struggling through a personal essay for yet another attempt
to get out applications before January.  However despite a collection of
soothing instrumentals and jazz, and despite there being absolutely
nothing to distract me (obnoxious, belching co-workers included) except
my own buzzing procrastination, my internal editor, and the ever present
internet, it really is a struggle.  I've got a lot on my mind, you see,
and its set me on a sort of bitterly angry, frustrated mood. 
Everything sounds so tongue-in-cheek, not the kind of impression you'd
want to give an acceptance committee, and every revision sounds even
more like I'm saying "Y'know what?  Fuck you.", albeit in more eloquent
banter.

And then I rememberd Ozzy.

The question was 'When
did you become interested in this field (creative writing/English)..."
and my immediate answer was, of course, 'Since Childhood, when I would
overindulge in an overactive imagination'.  I'd expanded upon that by
mentioning that everyone used to sort of laugh and point at the kid who
spent his precious break-time talking to lizards and contemplating the
daily lives of those who resided in the kingdom of clouds.  I was
considered a little bit weird for commanding invisible armies and stupid
for trying to feel the heartbeats of trees.  But after we started
writing in language arts classes, I'd sort of found my niche.  If anyone
thought my stories were weird or stupid then, they didn't say.  The
closest ones too me didn't at least.  They just said 'Write more.'

If
I were to be completely honest I'd admit that this only applied to
those that were in my age group, and with the way Belize's Primary
Schools are managed, I knew all 30 kids in my age group personally,
since I had to sit in the same class room with them day in and day out. 
The younger ones, even those a year younger, wouldn't get it.  And the
older ones wouldn't care to.  The long hours my mother used to pull even
then meant that I was often left alone with the older ones, and being
accepted by my peers didn't mean much when my peers were no longer
there.  The big kids didn't just laugh and point and try to make me feel
bad.  Some, just for kicks, seemed inclined to beat the imagination out
of me, but Osmond Chan wouldn't let them.

It started out
strangely.  I was in my own world, being weird and stupid in the
schoolyard piloting helicopters over the countryside, seeking
out enemy military installments or artillery units to neutralize, when
suddenly someone jumped over the school fence and started making
du-du-du-du-du noises with his mouth I came under heavy
fire from an enemy chopper.  I got scared, but no less weird or
stupid I broke off from my original target and took evasive
action, but her pursued with his arms tucked in tight at the
elbows and fingers pointed missile-pods fully loaded and
vulcans hot and ready.  I ran around a bit, almost ran into the
wall, turned and went Pshew! Pshew! Pshew!  Then he pretended to
crash.  I tried to evade as best I could, and even managed to
slip through a narrow ravine where, despite some damage to my rotors, I
was able to empty my remaining payload and burried him in the rubble.

Here
was someone who could engage with me the way no one else had so far. 
Who didn't just play with me, but played along, adhering to the rules
and laws that we made together.  We made it a regular thing after
school, slaying dragons and fending off alien invasions.  Mind you, many
a time our adventures would descend to 'Lets wash these magic dishes',
but I let him have those every so often.  It was the least I could do
for all the times he'd protected me from meanspirited older kids eager
to rob a ten year old of his snack money, and even for saving me from a
group of kids who thought I should have my first hit of weed by force. 
Most importantly though, he accepted me. and told me that there was no
reason I should feel ashamed for having a bright imagination.  I owe
Ozzy, as he had me call him, endless thanks and appreciation.

I'd
been in New York for about two and half years, and returned in 1996. 
Sometime during that time Ozzy died in a traffic accident.  Though I may
remember him occasionally, I'll never forget him completely.

A Sudden Spark

I do this thing online.  Its a game really, but its much more than just marbles or jacks.  It’s a world built loosely around a system of rules and structure.  I create realities, worlds, people and scenarios, and keep this imaginary, mostly fictional world spinning with nothing but the combined creativity and imagination of the players involved.  With that kind of strain; purposely exhibiting multiple personalities, emotions, even personal ideosyncrasies; its no wonder that we occasionally get burnt out.

Burnt out.  As in ’no fuel for the fire’.  That’s how I’ve felt lately.  Like I said, it’s pretty common when you Roleplay, and the solution is pretty much accepted and understood.  A player cries ’Burnout’ and everyone essentially says ’Go home.’  Go take a nap, or a week of naps.  Play with your dog, write a letter, go to the beach, watch TV, do something but get away from the computer and just recharge.  Simple as it was, it worked, at least for me.  You fell off the face of the internet and and came back a month or so later feeling good as new.  It works, every time.

But not this time.

I feel like its because my rest isn’t as restful as it used to be.  And no, I’m not talking about insomnia.  My sleep is so precious these days that I wouldn’t dare miss a moment if I didn’t have to, chemical imbalance or not.  No, I mean my downtime.  My time away from imagining.  It used to be filled with fun things, or at the very least, gentle, relaxing things.  I’d be too busy with work or pretending to be someoee else, so i’d write to remember who the real person was.  I’d absorb the good vibes my friends put out so I’d spend endless time with them doing nothing in particular.  And I’d read.  I’d read because i loved words, and loved the pictures they put in my head. I’d read the worlds these other writers had conjured up and i’d be struck with admiration.  I’d do these things until I fell asleep, and when I woke up I’d do them again.  And I’d feel whole after a while.

Now all I do feels like work.  If I write it’s because I haven’t written in a while, and I know i’ll be expected to say something at a show, so i’d sit and force something out of my head, squeezing and clenching my creative muscles.  If I go look for my friends its because I’ve been so busy doing other stuff that my relationships deteriorate into loose acquaintances.  I didn’t even know that my best friend had a near stroke until he was out of the hospital and chatting to me online.  I haven’t seen my friend’s or my cousin’s babies, and the latter is already four months old.  Organizing a dinner with friends is almost as difficult as organizing these Poetry Night shows, which is suffering as well.  And I only read because I’ve been reading the same book since the start of the year and I’m ashamed to admit it.  People say ’Are you alright?’ like I’m terminally ill or something.  The few close friends I have left come right out with it.  "You look like Shit."  Alexis said to me one night, which was disappointing because I was actually smiling that night.  I was happy.  Jubilant, even.  I haven’t been truly happy in so long.

My colors were faded.  I don’t know if everything went gray.  I was too busy to notice whether there were actually colors or not.

So I called Merri, in whom I confide all things (even the things I probably shouldn’t) and told her I was depressed.  I explained that it wasn’t a ’Toe in the shotgun trigger" depression, so much as it was a "What’s the fucking point" depression.  I told her I’d deal with it, and life went on.

and on...

and on...

and on...

At least that’s what it felt like.  At one point I’d confused motivation with worry, and realized that the headaches I had at the end of the day were from me furrowing all day.  Everything else was an obligation, and some obligations weren’t worth bothering with.  I did  I’ve been doing what I swore I wouldn’t do and, rather than bow out of certain responsibilities I simply left them hanging.  But I remain now, as I did then, numb.

There is hope though.  The other day I received a delivery for work.  Two servers that I submitted the specs for myself, and a 3000VA UPS and extended battery pack.  At first there was only the worry of how heavy all of it was, and how I’d find time to set them up.  Then, with the help of an unexpected friend I discovered that they fit almost perfectly into the Server Rack we already have.  As I stood there with this bahemoth of a machine in my hands and regarded all the potention 3 Terrabytes of disk space held, I felt a bit of a flutter.  It was a sudden and fleeting spark of happiness, and excitement, without any sign of anxiety.  It reminded me of when I first started working here, back when I still felt I could learn something, and when I reveled in the freedom being able to stay in the office as long as I wanted.  It was only a second, but it was so glorious.  I felt something for the first time in months, and it was unsullied by anything else.

So maybe there’s a light just up ahead.  Who knows.

---

Also, just a few hours ago there was another bout of pure emotion.  This time Heartache.  Not ideal, perhaps, but it too lasted just about a blink long.  And it too was atypical in its intensity.  Maybe I’m not so numb afterall.