I was finally able to extract a bunch of data from an old hard drive. I was sure it contained old writings, school projects and music but what I forgot about were endless amounts of photos. It was basically a 10 year old time capsule of every shenanigan from early college on through the days at Sony and Warped Tour. Lesson learned- I’ve already made several backups of the data.
It was truly wild looking back at so many things that I had forgotten. My mind is always focused ahead, or not even on reality at all- backwards is a direction I rarely travel.
When I first started going through the photos I was really excited, like I had found personal, priceless buried treasure. I couldn’t believe the different parties, travels, special occasions and absurd shit that we were able to get away with. It became compulsive to see what was next, my afternoon ruined until I reached the end of all 7,000+ pictures.
As I’ve become older, out of my twenties for a couple of years, I’ve found myself settling into a pattern of reveling in solitude.
When I was younger, I had to be plugged in. There was a driving force behind finding someone, anyone, to meet up with for a movie or drinks. It didn’t matter who it was with or what we were doing, as long as I had a story to share the next day. Inside I felt like I was “loser” if I didn’t go out. Somehow I had failed if I didn’t have plans. I’m not sure if it was out fear of being alone- being forgotten. If I didn’t go out, I’d slip from everyone’s circle in a weird “out of sight, out of mind” scenario or I was just desperate for approval.
I attended a panel at Salt Lake Comic Con’s FanX15 that stuck with me and spurred a bit of deeper thought and reflection- Equality In Fiction. First off, props on that- I love when something inspires and pushes boundaries- socially, politically or personally. I love a variety of experience and perspective, I believe that leads to greater understanding of “us” and attributes meaning that allows for empathy.
Natalie Whipple, Cindy Grigg, Aaron Lee Yeager, and Mette Ivie Harrison were bid with the difficult task of paneling the topic. Using the word “difficult” is an understatement due to the inherent complexity of the subject matter. For one, it’s completely opinion and perspective based which opens oneself up to considerable vulnerability. To speak freely and honesty on anything as controversial as race, gender, sexuality, theology, disability, creed, origin- any identifiable trait that makes us unique to the masses is potential career suicide given our hyper-sensitivity as a culture to these issues… Which, in itself, is not equality. No one is going to solve the issue in a 50 minute panel at Comic Con, so to consciously open yourself up to the criticism and put yourself in a situation where one mis-spoken word or unconventional idea can have significant consequences is commendable.
I was going to write Bill O’Reilly this evening and ask him why with the civil unrest in Yemen, Americans dying in a terrorist hotel attack in Libya, maybe a brief word on the genocide in Africa, and an all-female Ghostbusters cast being announced today he decided to spend the majority of his show speculating on which Republicans may choose to enter the Presidential race in 2016- without mentioning a single word about a possible Independent or Democratic candidate, besides Hillary Clinton, who was an assumed muppet. With almost 2 years before the election, eons in the political landscape, why was today’s real news ignored and how am I now a more informed viewer after watching?
My “Mad As Hell” letter to him was going swimmingly, I was patting myself on the back after several witty one-liners and pointed, legitimate questions concerning his journalistic integrity. In order to give my letter a shred of credibility and not be completely hypocritical, I jumped over to CNN to fact check a few of my statements. Then I went to ABC. Then I just said “fuck it” and gave up on the letter entirely. Bill O’Reilly wasn’t the problem, it’s our news. Executive producers, network presidents, and agenda driven ownership groups have stripped the slightest bit of journalism from our consumption.
I used to pour my guts out. Seems the only way I ever understood my feelings were to read them. The collection within these pages used to know me better than my closest friend. The writing used to be honest, uncensored, and unapologetic. I never considered what happened beyond the typing- there was a naive and innocent freedom in approaching a blank page without an agenda or audience. It was like I was screaming at the top of my lungs off of a cliff. It felt good to yell, to have my words bounce around the stone walls and echo back so I could hear them. No one else was around to hear what was going on, so it didn’t seem that crazy.