I struggle with writing. Not in the technical aspect; I have impeccable grammar, solid mechanical skills, and an innate sense of style which can be adapted to Chicago, AP, internal or personal metrics. I was a Rhetoric major for fuck's sake, which also required courses in Logic--breaking down each sentence, statement, argument or whathaveyou into components of a mathematical equation that meet the four basic requirements.

No. I struggle with what to write. I read stories I wrote in my pre-teen and teenage years; they are often overly precocious, rambling illustrations of impossible and unnatural sitauations. This is in part due to my heavy LSD use at the time, and a marked lack of structure in my upbringing and emotional development. I read all the articles I wrote while the Editor In Chief of my HS newspaper; they are idealistic, well-intended but arrogant, boorish even.

There are days I wish I'd written a million books by now; but the other side of that coin? I think it is strange to write about my life as some grand adventure, so early in the game. What business do I have writing a memoir? It's just horse shit. It just feels narcissistic, myopic even. Friends have urged me to write about my life for the sheer fact that my outlook is entirely different than most although I come from so many tiny histories shared by millions of people the world over. 

Another issue I face, is that I have been urged not to write about my family and my life until my mother has passed. That is just an awkward conversation entirely, as my mother and I have yet to undergo the necessary steps to rebuilding a healthy relationship, in whatever capacity is suitable for this late in the game. The more I learn about COA dysfunction, and our own family, the more I understand her. Yet I hit a recurring roadblock; my maternal Grandfather is likely the missing link to a lot of the way that family is, to things I want to know and understand. He died when I was seven.

But I have yet to fully accept the fact that these are my own fucking memories and I have every right to them. So, then... If I am to accept this fact and move forward... where the FUCK do I start?!

I took a dark, boring, internet-less night last month and wrote up a bullet-point list of highlights across my years. I didn't want to miss anything. I didn't want to get the details confused as one horrible event lead into another, and compromise chronological integrity. I ended up with 19 events / topics and slowly began to illustrate these vignettes into small, digestible pieces. By slowly, I mean I only completed about four of the 19 items. The process is much harder than I expected as I relive the details, remember the colors. And now, my list has grown to about 34 items. The more I fill in, the more the disjointed fragments come together. Now, the only things I can guarantee are: humor, and truth. And a lot of discomfort.

Excerpt #1 (The Beginning)
Approx Age: 2

Our first real house after I was born was this red thing in Concord. There was a brass “5” on the front porch beam. We had a deck and a yard, all the good shit, but I remember the inside being fairly dark, blandly appointed and with that vomit brown low-shag carpet as most 60s ~ 80s units are prone to.

We only lived there for about two years before moving to the Outer Sunset, as my parents got divorced and the whole “roommate” thing wasn’t exactly working out. My first vivid memory in this house was of sitting in a diaper, staring up at the TV. The “A View to A Kill” music video was on. From this room, the main hall and stairs were behind me. I looked back - My dad was at the top of the stairs and my mom was in the bottom of the stairwell. They were screaming at each other. He may or may not have pushed her down the stairs, I’m not really sure what all went on with that. The screaming and endless arguing was a fairly regular occurrence so I’m not sure why this stood out different from any other day. So that is my first vivid memory of this house - I was sitting in diapers wiggling along to Duran Duran on the TV. All you can do is wiggle, you know? At that age you’re still sort of a lump of child and any dance moves more complex than wiggling would just topple you over.