By Christopher Green
A rant about coping with my condition that I wrote for an open mic night last weekend. I recorded it and posted it on You Tube.
What follows is the text. I am including a link to Howl for My Life so you can watch if you so desire …
To Scream, or not to scream, alas, poor William, that is now the question…
In the 2010’s ‘tis better, to scream than say …
No self-respecting self-absorbed modern day hipster would think of letting out a howl.
That is so 50- 60 years ago.
Back in the 50’s, well, there WAS something to howl about.
Now, it’s just screaming,
Screaming about anything and everything under the sun.
We are in love with screaming.
Or rather, I should say, we are in love with the sound of our voice at 150 decibels
Scream about what ever pisses you off, because you…
Yes, I mean YOU!
Are the most important person ever born on god’s green earth.
Then there all those people out there screaming, shrieking, really, while they blissfully ignore that man behind the curtain. They scream about how everyone and everything deviously conspires to fuck them out of everything they own, their very way of life, their god, their freedom just because it’s always better to scream about the other, who ever they may be at this particular time, than to take responsibility for who they truly are.
Oh yea, will someone please look behind that curtain?
That commercial, that one where everyone screams It’s my Money and I want it NOW!
Could anything be more perfect than that particular contrived and oh so very sad, when you actually think about it, tantrum to capture the geist of it all?
Scream and you shall reap whatever it is that impelled you to scream in the first place.
Screaming for God, about God , against god, or just because oh god seems to be the best thing to say under those certain circumstances that must be punctuated by you.
Oh the screams he/she/it has heard, nothing is deemed unworthy of divine screams, these days,
But with 1563 cacophonous channels on the cable, what else should we expect?
Me, ME MEEEEEEE Listen to meeeeeee. It’s all about the me.
Just ask the rubenesque raven tressed girl who does or doesn’t live by the Jersey Shore and why oh why, dear god, do I even know of this dilemma?
It makes me want to scream.
We all dream of being that one special me, to get all the attention if only for a moment, don’t we?
I got news for you, there are too many people for all of us to have those promised 15 minutes
Whoever said that the meek shall inherit the earth never heard a AM radio screeching from an open car window or watched intently the Vulpine prowling about the cable screaming loquaciously 24/7.
I suspect that howling was once enough, emotional rage spilling, curling, churning, around and around inside your head until it just had to get out, had to be said, had to be heard, had to be read…
You howl at the moon you scream at your HDTV.
Howling takes commitment and contemplation, Screaming just take … lungs
And so we arrive at the real subject of this particular screed, which could very well be titled another fine mess I had gotten myself into.
For fifteen years, every minute of every day I wanted to scream,
But I didn’t have the lungs power to muster even a good peep.
I wanted to scream, scream at the top of my diminished lung capacity…
I wanted to scream my 30% worth, 70% taken by a disease that could have been nipped in the bud, a disease that is all but gone from the earth, the lottery ticket disease.
I wanted to scream for my future, for the days I knew would never come.
I wanted to scream because all my vices were dropped one by one decades ago and still my lungs crapped out on me and left me gasping fishlike for air just walking around, surrounded by Oxygen I could not drink.
And then I just calmed down.
I remembered Gingsberg and how he had to howl to let it all out, to let his pain and humiliation come pouring from his soul so he would be able to live his life the way he wanted and needed to live it.
And so I plotted my howl,
I was desperate to escape from the purgatory that I had unwittingly fashioned for myself.
I finally did howl, and I howled long and loud, so loud it hurt my ears and yet no one heard.
I was trapped in my head, you see, locked in my drug filled hallucinating mind, incarcerated in a body clinging to precious life while I was left free, free to roam, to wander and to wonder as everything I ever feared or dreamed of or desired was splayed out for my reflection compliments of industrial strength doses of Ativan and morphine, twin turgid turbos surging through my veins and into the furthest reaches of my mind to yank it all free..
These howls, the ones that never truly escape but resonate within, are the best howls.
It was time to howl again, this time I howled to heal myself.
I just knew, even though blunted into a drug tinged stupor, that I needed to howl at my disease, howl at my situation, howl so I could live free of all that was set to drag me down into self-pity, depression and malevolent malaise.
And it was done, over.
I woke up, three weeks to the day, I was officially deemed clinging to life.
Just like that, the nadir of my life was now the apex of my existence.
With only a howl to blame.
Oh howl, I was changed.
If only more of us would just howl, the world would be a much quieter place.
A secret, late at night, once in a very blue moon, when the world around me slumbers, and darkness is the deepest, when my soul is at its weakest, I scream inside my head.
And then, it is over.
It is gone, this urge to scream, and I am back, ready to howl and prowl but never growl.
What have I truly learned from all of this?
It’s pretty simple. I need to accept the things that I cannot change and hope I can change the things that I am able to and folks, this is big, the biggest of the big, the wisdom to know the fucking difference.
Now that is something to howl about.
It is time to calm down and stop screaming so much.
After all, a little howl will do you.