binary thinking is making you a b!tch

it's not your nervous system, babe

Mike Marichino was the hottest five year old I knew.

I was also five, and don’t know what constitutes as “hot” when you’re that age. What I can tell you, though, is when I found myself sitting next to him at Art Table, agreeing to draw a butt (we love a collab) I was like “oh helllll yea”.

The rules were this:

1 . Draw separately

2. Reveal simultaneously

As we all know, timing is everything.

The following photos are exact replicas of the pieces created that day.

Like any normal person, I drew this:

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Mike Marichino drew this:

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Immediately, I knew one of us had misunderstood in the assignment. And it wasn’t me. Either that, or Mike Marichino didn’t know what a butt looked like. Either way, I decided he was an idiot and didn’t like-like him anymore.

[Disclaimer: Kindergarteners are never “hot”.]

…

I sat on the floor of my room in rehab and the staff member who led me there left with and encouraging smile as she closed the door.

I’d been to detox many times, but never rehab. It was February at 6pm. Cold seeped into my bones, replacing the waning meds.

That staff member had just been sitting in a small historic cottage with me and another kid, reviewing a packet of rules.

The other kid had been there many times and knew them already. I forgot to listen. It smelled wet.

I did hear that everyone else on campus was finishing dinner and there’d be a meeting at some place that I had to go to at some time later.

I didn’t have a roommate so the room was fairly empty. The twin beds and I sat in a circle.

Decades of non-aggressive lavender gently flaked of the wall.

I was close enough to the wall that the non-aggressive lavender took up most of my view. I wasn’t really sure what to think about other than non-aggressive lavender. I was blacking out on non-aggressive lavender.

Mike Marichino was drawing a butt from the side.

…

Sometimes, when I have a creative idea I don’t immediately act on, it goes on The List. (A graveyard, really). Six-months of non-action later, I’ll see someone who’s brought it to life already.

And at first I’m like mthrFCKR.

But then I think more, and I’m honored. I can’t feel lonely and balk at the evidence I’m not. I’m honored for the proof.

…

Someone commented on an article of mine something that made me totally furious; to the point where I had to be like —- [dudechillwhat?]

I was angry because I believed my goal had been misinterpreted. Their response was critical of my points, offered counterpoints, etc. Usually, normal and welcome stuff. But I was angry because I was like- excuse me, this is my dIARY?!

I love a conversation, trust me. But I was showing you my tomato plant and you thought the fruit was to eat.

If I wanted to write a cultural think piece you better believe it’d be too long for email. You better beLIEVE I’d cite my sources and would unearth and decode an ancient artifact if it supported my thesis. That’s not what I’m here to do.

So what am I here to do?

…

I had a conversation with a person today who was born when I was sneak-watching Spice World at my neighbor’s house.

“I feel like finding someone is about finding someone who is similar but also different enough to compliment you”.

I nodded emphatically. Too emphatically, neck-breaking emphatically.

“Everyone in my generation is [so quick to cut you off for being different]”.

I admire the earnest, inquisitive, easy way about him.

I’ll spare you the rest of the dialogue, but I’ll say this:

• I’m sick of things being cringe or not. Cool or cancelled.

• I’m sick of defining everything and experiencing nothing. Why tf did we make expression of experience require diagnosis?

• I’m sick of a statement defining a speaker’s worth.

• I’m sick of the black and white thinking inherent in our “how to” and “5 steps of…” articles. As if there’s a right and wrong way to ever at all navigate whatever the fck we’re doing here.

[~Ohhh but krIsTeENnn its iMportAnt we hOld pEoplE AccOuntAblE ~ shut the fck up. we both know that’s not what i’m saying here. i’m saying maybe sometimes we’re overcorrecting and not giving each other grace. maybe we’re holding each other accountable for shit that doesn’t matter to make up for the fact that we’re not holding our society accountable for shit that does matter. idfk man, i just work here.]

No matter how many times someone wants to write about their breakup, I want to read it. No matter how many people write about their “season of transition” I will read it. I will gather expressions of experience like dandelions and strangle the stems in my sweaty little fist. I’ll stuff them in a jar and their dry and dusty carcasses will line the shelves of my rich inner world and I love it here.

I don’t want to worship one person as an authority on anything. One piece I’ve held onto from the 12-step world is “take what you need and leave the rest”.

Not everything is for me. Not everything is about me. We’ve been playing conflict offensively and why? If that binary thinking is comforting to you, then party on, Wayne. It’s too stagnant for me.

…

I’m grateful for that person commenting on my post. It led me through the mental playground to exactly right here. And it led me to asking myself:

Why do I write?

Why do I write publicly?

I write because it feels right. Every feeling I’ve had since birth has caused me to reach for a pencil and I cannot tell you why.

I write publicly because I lie to myself. I tell myself I’m the Only One who feels this way. I write publicly to remind me I’m not.

I write because writing has gotten me through some excruciating feelings. I write because I want to explore the other ones, too.

I write publicly because I don’t want the only piece of my writing online to be my younger brother’s obituary anymore.

…

P.S. I dedicate this piece to him. Today is his birthday. He would have been 28. He loved butt jokes, gave kindness freely, and at one point, watched Shrek daily until the VHS wore out.

P.P.S. To my commenter: If my writing is too “murky” for you, bring galoshes. Otherwise, maybe this just isn’t your kinda swamp.