Day 4 of 1500

Day 4 of 1500

Still the constant pain, nausea, and feeling like there is a colony of ants burrowing under my skin when I am adventurous and tired enough to try to sleep, but… it’s getting better. *I* am getting better.

I have tried before to do this. Tried, and failed. This time I am winning. The halfway mark has been passed. I WILL win, I will come back from over four years of the numbness, the absence, the nonexistence, the empty shell of who I was, the man I remember who was burning with passion and fought for dreams.

It was well over four years ago that I was prescribed my first bottle of morphine, and then it made perfect sense. The pain was bearable but still got in the way of most things I wanted to do, so when my doctor recommended the opiates, I warily accepted. I knew what would come of it as I still had clear memories of the agony felt over twenty years ago when I was kicking heroin for the first and final time after a daily two year habit. I knew what would come of it but the alternatives were weighed and the decision was made.

Twice over the years it appeared as if I wouldn’t need to wrestle with this, that everything as far as the morphine addiction goes would be well taken care of by simply dying, but appearances can be deceiving, and here I still am – one year and one month after my last hospital stay, and getting better as the days progress. Better, but only in some ways. Everything was still blunted, vapid, uninspiring. With the help and inspiration of incredible people, I had conquered death  – but only to come out on the other side still a ghost.

I want to give you more than that. I want to give ME more than that, more than haunting memories of seeing how high I could fly, how big I could dream.

No more. No more wishing I was here.

I’ve gotten over what I hope and believe to be the hardest part, last night was actually able to sleep for four hours after being awake for thirty six, and though I am still days away from “better”, this time I am NOT going to give up the fight.

There is no way in hell that I am going to go through this again.

In a week I’ll get my monthly ‘disability’ check for the impossible-to-survive-on $380, and hell – I just may celebrate by spending some of it on a nice dinner, seeing as it will actually have time to digest after all of this is over.


The Return of CultureFlux is COMING!

It seems to be needed now more than ever.
After a three+ year hiatus and one HELL of a lot of considering whether I wanted to unearth the carcass of what was, … is COMING BACK!
First articles & interviews will be uploaded towards the end of June. That should give me time enough to make some changes and remember how to do everything involved, as well as wrangle some incredible people & groups to interview…
I am aiming primarily for video content this time around, but of course there will be written and audio as well.
SO – who do you want to see in it?
As was the unwritten way before, the interviews will hopefully *not* follow the common formula, and instead be as candid and raw as possible.
This time around, it would be nice if I could get some help with submissions and anything else as well, instead of trying to carry the whole damn thing like its previous incarnation.

Oh, and yeah – of course there will be shows produced on occasion, (CultureFlux Presents…) because I really love doing that.

Been sitting on the edge of this cliff for far too long. It’s time to jump again.

***Please feel free to share this with those who you think might be interested in one way or another, whether being interviewed or contributing somewhere. It’s only letting me tag 20 people, but I’m certain that there are *many* out there that aren’t on my radar as well who would add color, beauty, inspiration and delicious insanity to the mix. Oh, and sexy too. Gotta love sexy, in any shape it takes.

Love you all. It’s nice to see you again.

a better man without you

I don’t quite know what to make of this. How to respond, or even if I want to.

A couple days ago, I received a generic LinkedIn request from my mom.

The last time we spoke was about three years ago while I was laying in my hospital bed at Maitri, trying to figure out how to go about staying alive and fighting like hell in order to do so, was when she was visiting my sister who lived in the City. My sister had told her I was in a hospice, and they called. Well, my sister called, saying that mom wanted to talk

I was hesitant about speaking to my mom – it seldom goes well, and I had cut off ties with my parents a while before due to the realization that there were differences between us that were simply insurmountable. It didn’t matter what I was doing in my life or how happy I was, it seemed. To them I would always be the screw-up, the drug addict, the lost cause.

I would never be who *they* wanted me to be.

It would be wonderful if we could patch things up, start new, without their ignorance, bigotry, thoughtlessness, and desire to change me being a factor – but as sad as it makes me, I truly don’t think that is possible without some drastic changes. Given, I wasn’t the best kid but I tried to make them happy, to make them proud of me without sacrificing my own soul to do it, but no matter what I did or who I was, it never seemed like enough. It never seemed like it was my happiness that they were interested in. It never seemed like they tried to understand that I wasn’t like them. That I had no desire to be, never would be.

I’m sure I could have tried harder. I’m certain that the fault does not only lay on them, but I also believe that through it all, they fail to try to see me – to see that maybe, just *maybe* I am a good person, and forever striving to be better. That it isn’t necessarily money or security that makes me happy. That my dreams are different, and reach different levels than theirs. Not essentially better, but better for me.

It is sad, as I’ve also lost a dad who at times could be pretty damn alright, and a sister, the same. However every time I spoke with any of them, I felt like I was being judged on standards that don’t and never will apply to me, and always left with a sense of feeling less than, a failure, the one who would never make them proud.

When I die, (*if* I ever die), and if it is before them, I feel that this is the last time I wish for them to see me. I want them to meet all of the astoundingly incredible people in my life, who will hopefully talk to them, and let them know two things: that I loved them and appreciated them, regardless – and who the person that their beliefs prevented them from ever truly getting to know actually was.

I think I’ll leave this one alone, and continue to go about my life. If she actually wants to recommence communication of any sort, I believe I’ll need more than a generic LinkedIn contact request from her – or any of them.

It’s unfortunate, but certainly not sad – and I’m better off without the weight of them crushing my spirit anymore.

A Present

A little every day, I try. Piece by piece to be put away again until another time, so many lives dug out of their holes in my motorhome and packed in whatever I had handy, whatever was available; bags, boxes overflowing with who I have been to me and others. Who others have been to me, and always will be.

Take away the decay of memory, take away the flesh of time and I am left with the bones.

It is these that I have kept – pieces of those who wandered through my life, who perhaps unknowing to them, changed it.

If I could truly open my eyes and look at all the things I have kept – a ring, sock puppets, words, a couple mixed tapes, play-piercing needles… a sonogram buried with an apology in an old journal the same day she and I released Blue from binding us forever… I keep bones. I keep tributes, testaments. I hold onto lost dreams because in the shadows, the forlorn and forsaken, I reach harder for the light.

A little every day, remembered and put away again. Who I was. Who I am.

I should have kept one bullet from the .38 Colt I held to the roof of my mouth to remind me that so many of these things would have never happened if the smallest bit more pressure released the cocked hammer, but no. I have the words written when I put my gun down…


I’m looking at it right now, another part of my past, my present. A Present. A flier from not too long ago that found its way into my hands for a show. “SideShow – A Benefit For kSea”

I am proud today to say that it still brings tears to my eyes, still inspires me, still refreshes me and makes me believe in Who I Am.

Helps me to remember so many things, and so much love.


The years in the hospitals, watching so many die around me but not giving up, fighting Every. Fucking. Day to stay alive, to get better, and promising myself and so many incredible people that if I ever lived, if I ever made it out of those doors, the dance would continue… those places took my soul, but you gave so much of it back. The rest was up to me… and now, somehow, it is time again to be who I need to be.


I still have room for so many more beautiful memories…