13. Guardian Angel
It was raining. I was heading home, sitting at the platform waiting for the Bart train to arrive. I was up in Rockridge, and had spend a few extra days away from home. It was one of those desperate calls where I begged to come home, and my mother said just come home. I sat there, thinking those things over that aren’t actually conscious thoughts.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” A pale-eyed blond man was suddenly sitting next to me. He looked like the guy who played hammer dulcimer on Telegraph Avenue every day. I loved that music. Some nights I would just sit with him and listen.
“Sure.” I said.
“Do I look familiar to you?”
“No.” I said. But he did. He fucking did. It was really creepy.
“Are you sure?”
“No.” Images of Gary Leroy, a babysitter of mine from when I was three or four began flowing through my head. All us kids painting each other in the Smith’s garage. Laughter, and hoses spraying in every direction. The smell of turpentine. That red, raw, rubbing sting of paint being removed from skin. Happy images. But I wasn’t going to ask this guy if he was Gary Leroy. No way.
“So I do look familiar to you?”
“Yeah, kinda. Who are you?”
“That’s not important. But I recognized you immediately.”
I felt really uncomfortable suddenly. Was this someone’s dad? Was this guy trying to pick me up?
“I’m not trying to pick you up.” The man looked down, as if the idea embarrassed him.
Woah. This was giving me the creeps, and I was looking for a way out of this.
“Have you got some time?”
“For what?”
“Just some time, maybe to miss a few trains and talk a while with me?”
“Sure.”
This man spoke softly to me about how he was involved with a group of people who were interested in psychic powers. I laughed. He explained generally how he’d gotten interested in the connected between certain people, and why somehow we are inexplicably familiar we are to each other. How this was only true for some people, but not for everyone. This kind of talk went way over my head. I generally made fun of people who were interested in this kind of thing, and especially when they admitted it. This man was gentle. He was quiet and sincere. He seemed to believe that I was smarter than I was pretending to be. I liked that.
“Like how you meet someone, or just see someone and its like you’ve known them forever?”
“Exactly.”
“Are you Gary Leroy?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
I didn’t have any attention span for hippies, or religious people. I was guarded, and hateful. I was the guy who chased the Jehovah’s Witnesses down the street, sprayed Windex into the eyes of the Hari Krishnas, and who’s only interest in the Rajneesh, and the Utopian Classroom had been the possibility of sex, free food, and a place to take a shower. I had nothing but contempt for anyone who wanted to talk about God. How could there be a God? How lame.
Finally the clean up train was in front of us. That’s the absolute last train. So we got on together. When we got on the train he said that he sensed that I was very powerful, and I liked that. But that I was completely untrained, and I didn’t like that.
“So what, do you sell training?”
“No. I’m just a friend. I’d like to help you.”
“But who are these people you’re working with?”
“They’re just people interested in the same things. But I don’t think they would like you.”
“Why not?”
He paused and just looked at me. “Because I believe they would be threatened by you. Jealous of you.”
“Me? Why?”
“Just because sometimes people are like that. Have people taken kindly to you in your life?”
“Me? Ha! No. No way.”
“That’s kinda what I mean.”
I didn’t understand.
“Would you like to try something right now?”
“I have to get off at the next stop.” I was back to thinking he wanted to have sex.
“Just close your eyes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Now open them.”
I opened my eyes, and he had placed his hand over his nose and mouth, so that between his hair and hands, all I could see were his eyes.
“Do I look familiar to you?”
“Yes. Yes, you do. Dude, what is this? Who are you?”
“I was hoping that you would be able to tell me.”
“What?”
We pulled into the station and the doors opened. We were just sitting there staring into each other’s eyes.
“I will see you again.” He said and smiled sadly.
“How?”
“I just know.”
“See ya.”
I got off the train, and watched him through the window, collecting his things and straightening himself. The train pulled out of the station. I stood there on the platform for a long time thinking about how fucking creepy that was. Wondering, still, if that was Gary Leroy or not. That’d be so trippy if it was.
My life took a serious turn for the worse after that night. I stopped going back home. I ran out of space to fuck around. Lost a lot of friends. I got pretty strung out. Things were bad. My world was getting very small. And I was beginning to think that my world views about “us and them” really just meant me. To my mind, I was a prophet of rage, a black panther. A reminder to everyone that they sucked, that they had failed completely. Between talking to myself on street corners, and nodding in public bathrooms, I made it my mission to disrupt anything happy, or full of shit that I encountered, or came to find me. It was my self appointed pleasure to throw up on strangers, whup out my penis and pee on people who were trying to help me, throw things across rooms, and sucker punch people wherever possible. Just like that, for no reason. I would slug someone in the back of the head. And if they were still standing, I’d look around like that was fucked up, and where’d that guy go?
One afternoon two Cal swimmers were walking down the Ave. together talking. I knew they were swimmers because they had that greenish hair, plastered to their heads that only swimmers get, and don’t mind presenting to the world. They broke out into laughter. Convinced they were laughing at me, I walked up behind then and cracked the blonde guy over the head with a baseball bat. It dropped him. And his companion wheeled around and looked at me in complete shock.
“What did you do that for?”
“Fuck you ass hole!”
“What?”
The cops came, and a few people who’d seem me do this gathered and were telling the story to police officer. I just resumed my post against the wall, rocking back and forth from one foot to the other. They were in another dimension, and it was possible they couldn’t even see me.
“Son, can you step over here a minute please?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Why?”
The cop approached me, unthreatening, pad of paper out, pencil in hand.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“How should I know?”
“You didn’t hit this man with that baseball bat?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“Because they were fucking laughing at me.”
The cop turned to the other swimmer and they talked. I could hear the dude saying “No, he just came up from behind us…” and “We didn’t do anything to him.” An EMT was asking the guy I’d hit some questions. He was sitting up now.
“You fucking jock liar!” I shouted. “You were fucking laughing at me, and you know it.”
They both looked up at me.
“And I know what’s gonna happen here. I know how it goes. You’re gonna fucking take his word for it because he’s a fucking jock faggot and you’re a fucking cop!”
Somehow the swimmer’s word came into question. And for whatever reason, I really don’t know why, they dropped the whole thing and let me go. The cops stayed there a long time after the swimmers had left. I stood post. I wasn’t going anywhere. Eventually the police were done, and they rolled.
A few months later, maybe a year, I was going to see Black Flag at the Mab. Me and a bunch of punks were walking up from First and Mission, through the financial district. We were right around the Crocker building when the guy from the Bart station stepped out of the shadows and called my name. I didn’t remember right away, and just kept walking. But he followed me and kept calling my name.
Finally I stopped, turned around and looked at him and said “What?”
“Hey.” He said, catching his breath. “What’s the hurry?”
“We’re going up to the Mab.”
“What’s that?”
“A club.”
“Oh.”
“What do you want?” I remembered him now.
“You got a minute?”
Did I have a minute? Yeah, I had a minute. I was an impressive ninety-nine pounds. I was dope sick. I was so lonely and angry. I had a fucking minute.
“Sure. What do you want?”
“Hey, you don’t look so good. Are you ok?”
“I’m fine. What do you want?” I was postured like he wanted to fight me. But somewhere inside I was glad to see him. Relieved.
“Why don’t we go over to a place I know that’s open and get you something to eat?”
“Sure.”
We walked a few blocks to a place in the Civic Center called Salmagundis, or Solomon Gundies? Something like that. We went in the back door, and my friend talked to someone about us being alone somewhere and just having some soup and coffee. The person led us down the stairs to a small room where we were alone at a table in the corner. There were mirrors at head level, slightly angled down. He sat with his back to the wall, and I was facing the mirrors. I really didn’t like seeing myself. I looked like shit. He ordered soup and bread, and water for both of us. We made small talk a little while. I told him how good everything was going. He just seemed to be looking at my mouth while I talked. He looked sad. Sorry for me.
The soup came. I ate mine, all the bread, and most of his soup while he talked about how things hadn’t worked out well with the people he told me about last time. How he had been trying some other things to help him explore consciousness. I wasn’t interested in him at all. I didn’t care. I was glad to be eating something warm. I was glad to be inside.
“Do you want to try something?”
“What?”
“A thing I learned recently.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Just close your eyes and listen to me.”
I closed my eyes.
“Now relax. Take a deep breath.”
I did.
“Try to breathe deeply, and just listen to the sound of my voice. No matter what happens. Just try to relax and keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them.”
Some of me thought something fucked up was going to go down. And another part of me thought that maybe he was going to give me some kind of present, and when I opened my eyes there would be money or something on the table. So I did what he said.
“First just try to clear your mind.”
Immediately my mind filled with clutter and noise.
“There’s a lot going on in there. It’s ok. Just imagine an arm, your arm, reaching in and removing everything. One by one, take everything out of your mind and put it into a little black box.”
I could see a black plastic box, and my own mechanical arm was carefully reaching into my mind and taking each thing in there physically out of my head, and dropping it into the box. Some things would come right back out of the box, and dance around in my head.
“Some things will slip out of the box. It’s ok. Just concentrate on your breathing, and take them out again. Everything that you place in the box will stay there. It’s safe in there.”
I did what he said.
“Soon you will need to put the arm into the box. And even the sound of my voice.”
I put the arm into the box, and the sound of his voice.
“Now close the box.”
The box was already closed. There wasn’t any opening. Things went into the top by passing through the wall, and they couldn’t get out. The box just hovered there in my mind’s eye.
“With each exhale of breath, allow the box to float away from you.”
Every time I inhaled, the black box would glow, and hover between my eyes. And with every exhale, the box would move away from me.
“As the box travels further and further away, you will feel more comfortable.”
The box moved out into space, and when it was no bigger than a star in the sky it just sorta flickered out. I felt like I was falling. Really falling. It scared the shit out of me, and I grabbed the chair.
“You are going to feel like you are falling.”
Damn. How did he know?
“But it’s ok. You are safe here. Whenever you are done falling, you can just stop.”
I fell a little while, and then came to an abrupt stop and swirled around like after a really good dive.
“Just rest here a while, listen to the sound of my voice, and breathe.”
I was sweating. The fall had really freaked me out. I thought of Muhixma Muhalia Mahoy. I remembered being scared of roller coasters as a kid. I was glad to be floating here, safe.
“Now imagine a bright blue sun. Visualize it. See it hovering over your head.”
I tried, and what happened was this; you know the lights you see when you close your eyes? Well, they kinda went all blue. I focused on them, and they got bigger. They were like suns in my mind’s eye. I watched them until they came together and made one sun.
He placed his hand softly on top of my head and said, “Now imagine an opening in your head, right on top. It’s full of yellow fire.”
When he touched my head, the skull melted away, and I could see a glowing yellow fire inside the hole.
“Now as you exhale, bring one of the blue suns into that hole.”
I exhaled, and the sun started to go in. I could feel it in my balls. I got scared and let the sub pop back out.
“Don’t struggle. Just accept them into the hole.”
I tried again. And the sun went in.
“Continue welcoming them into the hole. Take as many as you need.”
They were picking up speed now. I was bringing them into the fiery yellow hole, lots of them. They were cool, and soft. I felt wonderful.
“When you’ve had enough, you can open your eyes.”
I opened my eyes, and my friend was sitting across from me at the table with his hands over his nose and mouth. I could only see his eyes.
“Do I look familiar to you?”
“Yes.” I burst into tears. “Yes you do. Who are you? What is this?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
We sat there a long time in silence. The waiter came, my friend paid the check. I drank another glass of water.
“Look in the mirror.” He said.
I looked up into the mirror and was horrified. I didn’t see the gaunt, anemic and angry kid that I was avoiding looking at when we first sat down. What I saw was the stupid fucking fat kid that I had been before all of this punk rock bullshit began. It was me.
“What the fuck is this?” I sobbed. “Why are you doing this to me?”
He stood up and came around the table, lifted me to my feet. Here it comes. This is where he’s going to kiss me, or try to fuck me. He just hugged me. And I let him.
“It’s ok.” He whispered. “It’s ok.”
I pulled myself together, or rather, allowed myself to be pulled together. We got our stuff and headed out onto the street.
“I’ve got to catch a Bart train.” He said.
“How can I find you?” I asked.
“Find me?”
“How can I get a hold of you? Can I have your phone number?”
My friend smiled and said, “I’ll see you again.”
“When?”
“You’ll know.”
“Thank you.” I said to him, and I meant it.
He laughed. “No, thank you.”
I wandered around the Civic Center for a while. I didn’t feel like going to the Mab anymore. But there wasn’t anything else to do. I had nowhere else to go. So I walked up to Broadway and went into the club. Black Flag were great. Dez was singing for them now, and he kicked ass. They had so much energy. The bass player was funny, he looked like a chicken. Robo, the drummer was amazing. And the guitarist was just awesome. They were like a totally different band.
Things really changed after that night. Not for the better. Not at first. I hate to jump around like this and blow the whole story, but I bottomed out completely. I overdosed on heroin, and I died. I was hospitalized, and eventually released. I didn’t go home to my mom’s house. I stayed on the street. I felt that the people here were the only people I really had, and I needed to know if that was true.
Well, of course it wasn’t true. The people I’d shot heroin and speed with were not happy that I had gained a hundred pounds, and finished puberty. They were not pleased that I had kicked, and seemed to be feeling a lot better. But why would they? These were the people I had lied to, stolen from, fucked over, slept with, and slept with their girl friends, boyfriends, mothers, sisters, fathers and cousins. Just because I had survived and gotten clean wasn’t any kind of amnesty from the damage I’d done.
But I wanted it to be. Being clean wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Fat, curly hair, hair on my chest, a teal and black Hawaiian shirt, and converse hi tops were bad for my self-esteem. I stayed out on the sidewalk handing out dollar off coupons. I reclaimed my three-foot tall trailer to sleep in. But it was shitty.
One afternoon I was going to go home and visit my mother, stepfather and little sister. I was headed to the bus stop when I ran into a nurse I’d had a crush on when I was in the hospital. She was very fair skinned and had thick red hair. I was surprised to see that she was very pregnant.
“Hi” I said.
She looked at me curiously.
“It’s me.”
“Oh… Hello!” She smiled. But then she looked me up and down and frowned.
“You’re not sober.”
“Yeah I am.”
She shook her head and moved away from me. “No, no you’re not.”
I just stood there with my mouth open, arms outstretched as she boarded the bus.
“Yes I am!” I called.
She didn’t look back.
I just stood there wondering for a moment if I actually clean. Her flat out refusal to even engage with me, convinced I was strung out again, left me spinning. Yes, I was unhappy. Totally unhappy. But I was clean. Not actually clean, as in bathed and groomed. I didn’t have a bathroom; there was nowhere to take a shower. I was not enjoying being sober. But I was.
Another month passed very slowly. I gained even more weight and if I couldn’t stand the sight of myself before, I was having difficulty passing shop windows now. I would catch a glimpse of my bloated self and get angry. I wanted my friends back. I wanted to be handsome again. I wanted to belong somewhere. This was shitty.
I decided that I was not going to stay clean. That if clean meant lonely and fat, then I would rather be dead. I knew that Social Distortion and 45 Grave were playing at the On Broadway in a couple of days. So I spent them letting people know that I wanted to go, and finally found a group of people who would let me come along. I had to take the bus up to Wendy’s house, and I could go with them.
In the back of my mind the plan was to cop a bag and shoot it in the bathroom. Not to tell anyone. Just a taste, and I’d keep the rest to keep on tasting. Maybe someone in the group would want some speed, and I could use their money to get myself something. I was going to store it in a matchbook. I had it all worked out.
I got to the bus stop late. I had to be there now, and the fucking bus was going to take forever. I could have walked, but I didn’t like walking. I saw the bus at the stop down the street. It was just waiting there. I hated that, when the fucking bus driver would get off the bus and go to the bathroom, get a coffee, and have a smoke where you could see him. I had to fucking go man. Finally the bus arrived, it was packed with people. Many of them were wanting to get off the bus here. There was some clown in a wheelchair that needed to get off. The driver had to stop everyone from getting off the bus, undo the straps, let the wheelchair come forward to the platform, and turn on that Beep! Beep! Beep! While the elevator descended to the street. Finally the guy was down. He had his head all the way back, mouth open, a beard full of drool. Fucking retard. Then all the people had to get off the bus. A plume of people, Students, teachers, kids, all coming to Telegraph Avenue for a big Friday night.
I was pissing and moaning out loud about how long this was taking and how late I was going to be if they hadn’t already left without me, because they sure as shit weren’t going to wait for me, when our eyes connected. My friend, the man who had taught me about meditation and bought me soup. There he was, standing right in front of me.
He smiled sadly. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“How’s it going?”
He took a deep breath. “Not very well actually. Have you got time to miss a few busses and talk with me?”
“No, sorry I don’t.”
“Oh.”
“I’m really late, I sorta have to go.”
“I understand.”
“Sorry.”
I got on the bus, and drove off. I shot speed and heroin that night. I raped a girl. Well, I pathetically masturbated all over a sleeping girl I had always been crazy about. While the nausea of opiates fought it out with the firing neurons of meth-amphetamines in my central nervous system I imagined that she was awake. I imagined that she loved me back, and would roll over at any moment to confess her deepest feelings of love and attraction for me. I imagined that she could no longer contain her passion inside for my swollen, disgusting and unwashed body. We would caress each other well into the day, and eventually be married. She was the one for me. “I love you,” I whispered as I released myself onto her back, and then finally fell asleep with my head resting on her shoulder.
I don’t remember the concert. But I remember this girl telling everyone what I’d done in the kitchen the next morning. I remember the sour; hate filled faces of a kitchen full of people I had fucked over one too many times. I remember grabbing my jacket and getting the fuck out of there.
I remember my friend’s face as the bus pulled out. He was grey around the edges, and very sad. He had been there for me when I needed him the most. And all he asked in return was that I miss a bus or two and talk a while with him. But I was in a hurry. I was in a big hurry to take a shit on the last people who would ever make an exception for me. People who had looked up to me. People who thought I was so cool. I tried to be cool. I wished I was.
I spent years looking into the faces of dishwater blond haired men with ruddy faces and pale blue eyes. I was searching the faces of men for my guardian angel.
56 Comments
thank you for sharing these chapters…i’ve really love reading them and I look forward to more.
Love!
Thank you for your response.
I’ve written this book already. This is the rewrite process (the first one anyhow.)
It’s slow, because I rewrite as i go, sometimes removing huge parts of the work, other times expanding into totally new areas.
I’m ok with how it’s coming along.
Your appreciation, as my sister and friend, means a lot to me.
thanks.
sunshine,..
keep writing, and i will keep reading.
these stories are amazing.
it’s really heavy shit. vivid, the part
in chapter 5 about the first time
shooting up in the shower. it made me
queezy, and i don’t get queezy easily.
i really respect your writing and your
honesty in shareing these stories so
openly.
thank you.
I hope, in and among the heavy shit, you’ve got some perspective and are able to laugh too. It’s true, most of this is the abolute worst of my life. But there’s a lot of love in my writing, forgiveness, and hope. I hope you are laughing along with me, even if you are horrified or disturbed.
we’ll see.
1311 more chapters to rewrite.s.
sunshine,
your writing is filled with perspective.
you’ve got me laughing, singing, smileing,
sad, happy, forgiveing and hopeing. it’s as if
i was following you around while it was going down.
all i’m saying is i can feel the love in the stories.
no worries.
love
gino.
Now if only i could actually say what it is i want to say, the way i want to say it without a non-stop-run-on-sentence, we’d really be making some progress.
style=content
s.
Reading this memoir (I’ve read through chapter 8: ‘Call Home’ so far) is so interesting for me. It boggles my mind that you were out having these experiences while I was at home being a little girl. I have spotty images of you as a ‘punk’, but it never ceases to amaze me how little I know of your history. Your experiences. Your trip (both kinds). How carefully sheilded I was from the reality of the situation.
That all being said. ‘Call Home’ made me cry. I love that chapter.~~Another thing I love is when you’re telling the story and then you suddenly admit that that’s not the way it really happened. I remember you once told me you used to make up stories that were completely not true and to be honest, I’ve done that too, so I relate to rearranging events and making them work out better in your imagination. It’s a great writing tool for you!
I love the honesty, the unapologetic voice, you’re using to tell this story.
Thank you! I’ll keep reading…
*a.
Meaning comes from contrast. What is a good existence?
The sociopath lacks any conscience at all and lives inverted; their life the opposite of meaning, a black hole, sucking pieces of other lives into the bottomless chasm. Evil.
The schizophrenic falls out of reality or never enters it, and lives doomed to an infinite spectrum of secret meanings that can’t be validated. We give them medication, trying to help them find some kind of contrast.
Finally, an existence more ironic than all others.
The one who strives and yearns to always do the right thing, to please, every breath hoping, that they are a good person, yearning for meaning through purity. Perpetually striving to burn off the impure within. Any weight to even the small inevitable mistakes and rebellions simply evaporates; a puff of smoke incinerated by the never-ending guilt, the screaming hypocrisy. Purity isn’t goodness. Purity is nothing. This one never existed at all.
Blessed are the contrasted.
Nate, that’s beautifully said.
impressive.
I’m going to spend some time re reading and reflecting on your words.
Thank You.
s.
sunshine, fyi.
some people are signifigantly more resistant to HIV than other people.
interesting stuff. specially bout the needles.
i cant stand needles now.
very interesting, very cool (is that the right word?)
erich
Well, Thankfully it seems I was in and then out of the IV Drug world before patient zero arrived.
I have no idea why i don’t have AIDS or HIV. I was seriously depressed about that for many years. Felt that i should be dead, while other, much more wonderful people should be alive.
I have forgiven myself, and today I count my lucky (fucking) stars.
It’s hard, i think, for a young person of today to relate to what the hell we were thinking in the late 70′s. It was truly another time altogether.
However, I am deeply grateful that we can relate so much better today than we could then. The disparity between decades was so vast and impossible to breech.
It’s better now in so many ways.
Even if there is a Bush in the whitehouse. It’s still better.
I’m done.
(with the second re write)
I’ve read it all now. And as I sit here alone, fighting tears from running down my face, I simply feel so supremely grateful that you are here, alive, and are my family, my friend.
While I cannot imagine how cathartic it may have been for you to write (re-write and publish it here) it has also been cathartic for me to read. I understand you more now. Understand why you tell me certain things. Adivse me in certain ways. And I am even more proud now to have you as my brother than I was before. Because you’re really fucking brave and wonderful!
A Third revision is now reposted here. I went through and corrected all the spelling, grammar, syntax, and tense issues that I could find.
A few things were revised, other lines added, and a few portions removed. I also included an incomplete errata section. So if you have questions about language, frame of reference, or slang used in the work, let me know and i’ll add it to the errata portion at the end.
I have a .pdf of this now too if someone preferrs to read things in a different way.
Draft 2 technical revision 3 is now complete.
sunshine,
this was an amazing read. i feel
like i know you on a different level
now. i’m not sure how to explain it,
or if those are the right words.
i am so happy to have met you
and to be able to call you a friend.
again, thank you so much for shareing
these memories.
love,
gino.
Thanks Gino and Ali,
I really, really appreciate your input.
Sunshine,
I have a freind who I belive would love to read your book.
His name is Tomas. We met about 13 years ago when he came to Amsterdam. He is a light engineer for parties. Before coming to amsterdam he moved from a smalltown on the Swedish coast to Big town Stockholm. There he got into contact with punk culture.
Our conversations often come to this period but i have little knowledge or experience about and with punk culture, nor such a ‘life period’. I think he’ll really relate to your book
Tomas not having internet, it would be great if you could email me that pdf file. If this is to far fetched for you, i’ll understand. But i think we can make someone happy here
Joera
Joera,
It’s at the end of appendix II, at the bottom of the page.
Dear Sunshine,
I started reading your memoir today and didn’t stop until the end. It’s some of the most engaging writing I’ve read in some time. All I can say is…wow! What a story. In some ways it cetainly did take me back; it has been a long time since I’ve heard mention of Martha and the Muffins or Japan, or a number of the other artists I used to listen to as in the early-80s. At one point you mention this as fiction, but in most of your comments you discuss it as autobiographical. That has left me a little unclear…these are your memoirs? Anyway, it sure is a compelling story. What’s next?
Thanks for sharing your thoughts,
Astral
I’ve corrected a few pretty awkward paragraphs today, and reloaded the .pdf file with revision 3b instead of the old Rev 2. Just too many errors in the pdf to leave it up here with any degree of pride or good feelings.
Enjoy the corrections.
i miss the pics in the chapter headings in the pdf.
me too.
The online version is much better.
: )
FYI: While I’d prefer to talk about this book here, there’s also a thread about it over on the imperial DUB message board. That’s located here
One very minor thing. I really liked the song samples, and when I would get to the bottom it was nice to listen while finishing up the end of the chapter. Then I would move on to the next and the sample would stop, and I was too anxious to keep reading to go back and listen to the whole track. If the sample was listed at the top of the chapter, then it would make for good background music while reading. I’ve never read a whole book online before, but sure was drawn in to your tale.
You know, I felt that the “soundtrack” was essential. And i toiled over how to present it. I thought about adding the music at the head of the chapter, and realized that it was difficult to read while listening. Next i thought of only including the music in the musicology section at the end, but that would alientate the songs, isolate them and leave them hanging out back for no real reason.
Finally, i felt that adding them at the end was best. When you are done reading the chapter, you can sit a minute and just listen. Sometimes it’s irony, but most of the time it’s release.
That’s what i was thinking anyway.
s.
i have a couple of friends in boston that were in to the punk scene here when they were growing up and i let them know about the book. just wanted to let you know that they’re both enjoying it and tellign their friends too!
erin
Well, it has been a long time. Thanks Mr. Shine. The time we spend on this planet is a human journey. We interact with others, take obsevations and construct patterns. Style, economy, hopelessness, biology, cities, come and go. At the root of it are our connections with others. The reflections we see of ourselves in those on TV, in person, in a book, over the phone. China today, or perhaps Central Asia, is the place of new emerging art and social condition. Yet, the old west, the Transbay Terminal, the blue jeans, the United States, from Douglas MacArthur to Sally Mutant, are worth recording, and examining – All before the environmental and economic collapse. Still connection and a shoulder to lean on make it worth it. Girls, boys, love, music, drama, sly eyes, and the beat beat beat make it real.
Love, -Peter
Peter,
you are stealthily buried in there too. disguised under your former psudonym. i wanted to tell the story of the night that i snorted all the rest of the speed off your living room table so that the yucky girl i’d been with all night wouldn’t do it, but i felt i’d described my state of mind well enough to leave that out.
Also, fine a fellow as you have always been, there just wasn’t a lesson to learn or point to make about people like you who were (or seemed to be) wise, and thoughtful, enjoying themselves and never terribly judgmental.
That and a fucking great artist!
I’m saving the blossoms for the next book. It’s begun…
Hope you enjoyed this read, and found mercy, and all the love i put into it.
I wrote it very specifically for you, and all of us who chose some of the more difficult paths.
love,
Sunshine
i really enjoyed reading this.
Thanks, Sunshine!! :)
I’m loving the book so far.
I really hope you keep writing.
-jason
** reprinted here in part from another entry. Placed into context for the benefit of those who come to links here, and read without browsing the rest of the journal. **
I am the ex-bass player, not singer, of Animal Things. This is not my superhero status. I read what S. Jones wrote about me and am pleased that my maternal instinct has been consistant…I have a three year old son, Emilio, and based on the parenting I got I’ve wondered how it is I know how to be a good one. We can react to what we didn’t get and provide it, or we can live an unexamined life and just pass the shit on. Who are you S. Jones?
Tresca
Wow…
I’m so blown away to hear from you.
Not only did I miss spell your name, but I forgot that you were the Bass player…. Of course you were.
[color=green]/* slaps forehead */[/color]
I will write.
Thank you for your reply.
I just re-read the piece…amazed that it was edited so swiftly….but the part about your accent..the fake british one…i remember you! I just started writing a memoir of sorts…memory is so strange…it almost doesn’t matter what actually happened, but how it made us feel..or how we interpreted it. ….which is based on our hardwired, yet hormonally fluctuating neurochemical responses, formed of course by previous experiences which may or may not have happened..etc….etc…I have basically gleaned from what I’ve read that you are in the city with a wife and child..or children. I didn’t read much, but want to know more. How old are /is your child/ren? What gender and name? What do you do? WHY is your name sunshine? The last time I took lsd was a long time ago..my friend Brad asked how much I wanted….in an offhand way without turning around i said, “whatever you’re having”…that turned out to be an awful lot. Twelve hours later I could actually see enough through the patterns to make out two enormous cats laying on top of me….they were sitting on me as if I were a warm dryer….just purring in time with my vibe…soaking it up, staring intently into my face. Several hours later Brad, Peeyok, and a couple of members of the Sea Hags took me out to the beach on the west side of the Golden Gate bridge. They buried me in the sand for safety and frolicked with dogs.It was two full days at least before i could get on a bus back to the east bay. I truly thought I would never come down….that i had flipped the irreversible switch. My mom asked why I didn’t call her to pick me up when I told her later….I realized I never thought of her as someone who I could depend on for help. I loved her but… That was in the late eighties. Ok, I have to ask again: why is your name Sunshine? Tell me more, Tresca
I wrote you back.
Right… that was me. A melodramatic poseur all the way… faked it until it was real.
Those were the days!
If you’re looking for any party fun from the past, check the bottom of the second to the last page of the book. There’s a link there to a group on tribe.net that I started. Lots of people from the past. I already posted in there about having heard from you.
Wonderful that you are alive, and well, and seem to be thriving!!!!
But of course you are.
: )
Chapter 5 really hit close to the heart for me. I have spent 7 years of my life fighting that monkey on my back. I had a child and that is what made me stop, but the urge is still there and will always be. I love your writing. It may seem dark but it is inspirational if you look deeply into it.
I really enjoyed the “war stories” from the early SF Punk scene.I remember a guy named jake action who used to get every high on huge metal bottles he carried in a truck to shows.The first real high in the punk scene was black beauties and whatever booze was available. I played in punk bands in SJ and went to SF for lot of early shows. The Mab, On Broadway, 10th street hall, the Elite club. It all seemed very agro going into it, but everyone did care for each other. Razors, chains & spikes maybe, but in those days if you fell down on the pit, people helped you up. I think the suburbanation of the scene, the unflux of jock mentality kind of ruined the scene for me. That, and trying Herion. Funny after all these years, I may be playing in a new band with Rockin’ Rick and Johnny Genocide.
GASP! is that you? Don’t ask how I got here but I am glad I did! Lets see if you remember….. I am so clad that somebody took the time and effort to do this…yes oh boy which bathroom was worse? The one at target video or the one at the Mutants????
Jennifer
Jennifer,
baby, i met you in the bathroom at 10th street hall… remember?
Biff, if you need a bass player, or a sound engineer, let me know.
I’d love to see you guys again.
I don’t expect you’ll remember me; I was part of that extended Telegraph scene so long ago and so far away. I was going out with Juliet Harris when I knew you. I discovered your memoir and I’ve been sitting here at work reading and reading, at first (I admit) looking for people and places I knew (not so hard, since that scene wasn’t so big) and then just getting into the whole story and the dead-on descriptions (for a minute there I swear it was 1981 and I was with my girlfriend in the bathroom at the 10th street hall snorting a punk dime of bad meth out of the same bag at the same time with McDonald’s straws). I’m looking forward to enjoying it in its entirety at my leisure. But I’m glad to see the punch line is that you’re happy. And congratulations on your son. I have two kids; Juliet has a really cool son. Who’d have thought we’d all grow up?
Benjie,
I totally remember you. Couldn’t forget your calm, and gentle face.
I agree, it’s bizzarre that we’re alive, and it’s actually pretty fucking cool.
: )
That’s not the way I remember it…..
25 + years is a long time Maudy. what the fuck do I know?
Probably even less than I think…
Nice to see a sign that you’re alive my friend. So nice!
“They just couldn’t keep up with our decline.” Such crisp, clear, elegant writing!
It puts me right back there, only this time with context.
It was different, being a young-and-small-but-tough-enough girl, especially one who initially did the reverse-commute to run away from SF. I wasn’t aware yet that some-somewhat-coherent-one or two or three were sort of watching my back, and neither was Carol, but it turns out I could fight girls just as well as I could fight whichever skinheads were lame enough to pick on me in the first place.
I never quite got the beer-at-the-tennis-courts culture, and was never invited into it – though I imbibed plenty of other things one-on-one with most of the cohort (the gender thing, I’m guessing). It’s great to [read] that Benjie’s doing well. I wonder what became of Corky, of the Speed Queens. And Julie, who apeared one day from Lawrence, KS and who taught me one of life’s toughest lessons, by demonstration. And Vonda, and Summer, and Oliver, and the fabulous Buttfest sisters. Some souls still seem exactly the same, and seeing them on the street kind of sets me in a tailspin: once the jailbaitiest of punk rock jailbait, witnessing that intertia makes me feel so, so old.
Thanks for putting that whole scene in such a clear, shifted perspective.
Jessica,
You have a very nice blog, photoblog, travelog, and biolog yourself. I really appreciate your photos, and the commentary.
I remember Julie from Lawrence Kansas, I actually have a really funny picture of my sneering my head off with her in a headlock. She’s calm, shaved headed and you would think I wasn’t even in the picture.
You didn’t miss anything at the tennis courts. Maybe some of my vomit, and a lot of Johnny Puke’s non stop talking and laughter.
I don’t think it was a gender thing… In those days, the first blossoms of our advanced stages of alcoholism, we were mainly more preoccupied by how much there was to drink, and how frustrating it was that it was never enough.
I’m so glad to see your politics refine and define themselves and that you have embarked upon a journey of productive and insightful revolution beyond self-destruction.
I’m so glad you are alive.
Yes…I’m alive..and well…and so is Nina…You should come and play with us one day!
WOW! I just finished the paperback version last night. The book was riveting, raw, and deeply depressing, but somehow uplifting at the same time, if that makes any sense. I have absolutely no experience with the punk scene whatsoever, so the journey was especially incredible. You book gave me so much to think about. So beautiful to see so much love rise from so much angst and sorrow. We are moving ourselves so time is scarce lately, but I’m excited to see I popped in just in time for the rewrite. Looking forward to getting the chance to check it out.
much love
Hey Fee.
I’m so glad you read the book. You know, after some behind the scenes difficulty with the content of this book I lost momentum. A few people read the book half expecting a history book, or maybe a modern politically correct view of the past, my past. I realized after being accused of sexism and homophobia that I hadn’t put this book together correctly.
I mean to say that you don’t see any insight until you get to the end. How could you? I made every effort to present my state of mind in that moment without any apologies. The idea being that my experience as a punk, with all those people was that of a sociopath, a liar, a broken child with a lot of problems struggling to work it out. And not as a condemnation of punk rock, or society, or anyone else, but rather a kind of a celebration of how punk rock actually saved my life.
How other peope had other points of view, other behavior, but I was almost entirely unaware of them. Unwilling, and unable to hear them, or to learn from them.
A friend of mine is reading the book now, and we talked about it last night. I stayed up late re reading it. I haven’t picked it up in some time. It was good to read it again. I’m not sure where to begin with the re write. But I can see how it needs a complete reworking, and intend to give myself to that project.
Mod is nearly ready for presentation. I may wait to rewrite until all three books are done.
I couldn’t get it to come up on line, so I ordered my own copy. I would rather read it like that anyway.
How come you couldn’t get it to come up? Can you explain exactly what the trouble was? Maybe something’s wrong I’m not aware of…
OK, this is very strange, becaust thismornig, I was able to pull it up, but yesterday said something like “sorry such and such cant be found”
dunnoe
but I am happy to have a copy, or will be rather.
weird…
but what exactly was the problem? like, the page wasn’t found??
yeah, there was nothing except
sorry your document can’t be found
but I found it today.
good!
: )
Wow.
Incredible story.
You have no idea how much I enjoyed reading this, because I really enjoy the punk music/lifestyle and this was just amazing for me.
Is there any chance you’re selling your book in a store like Coles or Chapters or some store like that?
I’d do anything to own this book.
Thank you, so much for this.
I must have more.
Alex, you can buy this book in paperback at lulu press.
For more info follow this link:
http://sunshine-jones.com/inprint/