Recycled Memoirs

Appendix A Cont.
29/03/2012
Pg. 9 – 11. Pt. 1

(The following is an excerpt from the journal that I kept for two weeks while I traveled around Western Europe. I specifically wanted two journals while I was studied abroad; in the end I had three. A handicapped schoolmate gave me the first about ten days before I departed, his name was Caleb and we remained close friends during my undergraduate despite my irrational fear of disabilities and prosthetic limbs. The journal Caleb gifted me was Star Wars moleskin that could fit into my pocket. It was my favorite as soon as I laid eyes on it and I declared that it would collect my misgivings and adventures while I studied in Cambridge. Its contents still haven’t seen the light of day. The second was more of a “myth” or rather what I considered to be, controlled entries. The entries themselves were “homework” assignments that I would email to my professor periodically; ninety percent of the time I wrote them the night prior and still cannot recall what was written inside them. I received high marks. As for the third, well the day I purchased I told myself that it would only consist of my tales from Europe.

 

I often felt irritated whenever I left a journal empty, but as for this one – it’s remaining pages shall stay blank. The journal itself is made from recycled materials, not chosen on purpose so don’t believe for a second that I was or still am considerate of Mother Nature’s feelings. The cover is made of a light brown cardboard and as for the pages themselves, well they feel like silky leaflets that one would tear from miniature bibles for rolling papers – how fitting. Most of the time these entries were made on board a train, so if I were to make Xerox copy of the actual pages the term ‘legible’ would be most hazardous. The following entry below was made on a train somewhere between the quaint city of Bruges and what I would later consider a complete blackout in memory, “the-blank-page”, Amsterdam. For kids my age, or of my generation Bruges has been famously made known for it’s dreamy atmosphere and the cult-classic action/drama “In Bruges” with actor Colin Farrel. Bruges is tucked close to the English Channel, northwest of the capital of Belgium, Brussels. It is about a three-hour railroad tour from Brussels with a nice stop in between at Ghent. If you do decided to go, don’t be afraid to linger at the train stations, they have great coffee.) 

And so the sun rises.

It was remarkably foggy in Bruges as I walked to the rail station this morning. I remembered as I walked past the river, the low-lying clouds covered the riverbank -- a puffed grey pastry, it was a crust that cushioned the water. The shallow murk had some sense of warmth beneath its cool nature, perhaps like those molten “lava” desserts; with a scoop of vanilla on top of brooding delicious goo. As I walked I felt it’s crisp breeze beneath my sweater. Clouds exited my lungs without any inhalation. It was a good cold; one that awakened the body and spirit.

Bruges was quiet and kept remarkably clean. The city workers were out in the bracing cool breeze collecting waste, whisking the cobble streets with thick bristled stalks and polishing glass storefronts. I had not had the pleasure of seeing this yesterday when I first arrived in the city, but now I’d almost wake up every morning just to see this; the refrigeration of this remarkable city. I hardly remember yesterday morning; it seems like an eternity ago... but just like yesterday I’m on this rattling carpet again.

If all morning were like this then call me a convert and sign me up for next one. I’m surprisingly in a good mood as well. Let’s see if I can remember the important details: I drank to much (again), flirted with the house management, might have gotten a resident at the hostel arrested and was violently woken up to what sounded like my “roommate” butchering a wooden box with a baseball bat.

Scenery, it changes a man.

I am truly on my own as I write this. I’m on the train to Antwerp, destination Amsterdam and not a damn person knows where I am right now . . . The childlike thrill of making up a name to go by is no longer in the deck. For I remember when I'd travel in the states, each airplane ride I was a new name, new job and depending on the level hotness’ I sat next to... a new crisis that I was “managing all on my own”. In fact, now there is even a thrill in saying my own name. No one has heard Brady Matthew Effler, or has seen this smug face. I do not have a partner, no proverbial cock-block, nor do I have a professor guiding me like toddlers rudder. I am moving by my own inhibitions and it’s terrifying. I might as well be a dream, passing by each city as a friendly wisp.

I liked Bruges.
And before I forget I should probably write this down.
But God this morning...
That riverbank ...


When I first arrived yesterday in Bruges I stepped off the platform still in a daze. I had not eaten with in hours and I was still hungover from night prior. It had took me longer than I had hoped to find my hostel, the Snuffel Backpacker Hostel, located in the old part of town. All the streets felt the same as they spider-webbed throughout the town. I must have passed at least eight canals. But then I found her, the Snuffel Backpacker House. It looked like a small tenant building in San Francisco, nuzzled in-between two businesses. It felt like home instantly.

I walked into the hostel through it's open door, which provided about 70 percent of it's lighting. A rosey "Hiya" ponytailed around my ears as my eyes adjusted to what appeared to be an oak tiled room. It was the first english greeting I've heard in two days, but it really has felt like it's been a week. Turning to the counter on my left I saw a mid-sized red head beaming at me from behind her computer. I later learned that her name was Elizabeth; she was a natural ginger, had a French accent and her laughter was like a pot of boiling water – European hotness’, it’s like I never saw it coming. Upon my checking in I made several friendly passes at this cutey. I don't believe any word of what I said to her sounded sensual or proactive. I felt keenly aware of my bankrupt lingo when Elizabeth told me to relax and have a beer at the bar while she finished checking me in. 

“It’s a good place to start,” she said nodding towards bar, “unless you're dying to get with that movie tour like everybody else.” She nodded to the poster behind her, “If ya are, it just left...” 

Elizabeth might as well have been wiping the counter down as if I was in some speakeasy, dishing out juicy info for the hung over white tourist. She was referring the movie In Bruges with Colin Farrel but as I lament in retrospect I was too exhausted to keep up and snidely replied, “A movie about this city?” She pointed at the large poster once more; it had Colin’s eyes cutting me deep. She pecked at her computer and muttered, “Yeah, you’re ... In Bruges.” I’m convinced that if she were a bank teller she would've slide the glass right down in front of me just then.

“Right... I’ve seen it...” I mumbled the last part to which demanded a “What?” on her behalf. Elizabeth’s “what?” sounded much more like “wet” so I just pointed at the bar, took her advice and sat down. I was too tired to do anything else; I also didn't feel like taking the metallic spiral staircase to my room, it looked like death felt like instant defeat. The bar was in the same room as the dining area, lounge and check-in. It had large wooden signs and a few beers taps protruding like stray thorns. The bar was the largest piece of furniture, it was wooden and stoat. You could tell it’s seen years of colorful patrons. I grabbed a stool next to a larger fellow, balding and layered in khaki colors. For the story we'll just call him Toffee...

(to be cont...)

You Already Know How I Feel: The Five Songs We Use Not To Talk. Pt. 4

The Best Taste.

Several months ago more than a few of my friends got onto a Big Star kick. It was hard to shake and it was an addiction. Unlike a drug addiction a music addiction has the oddest “tells”. You might be at dinner with one of them and not even notice. But if you pay attention you’ll see. They might pause or interrupt the conversation, no matter how serious it is and say something like “Hey! This is great song”, or “Did you ever hear that crazy rumor about Rod Stewart”. Before you know it you might find yourself in a conversation about how the Deftones self-titled was their best record or how Flannery O’Conner could have been the best folk artist of her time. Finding their drug of choice to is just a matter of asking the right questions, such as: What were you listening to in your car on the way here or What do you want played at your wedding/funeral. These questions will help you out and possibly them as well because I guarantee it that are really wanting to talk about it, but back to Big Star.

If you don’t know anything about Big Star then don’t feel left out. Big Star is a musical treasure that only a few people have actually discovered. They were an American rock/power pop group from Memphis Tennessee back in the 1970’s. The Big Star story is not only a heart warming tale but it also totally pulls on your heart strings and makes miss authentic musicians. They never became a huge success until after the band had been disbanded for decades. Now with only one of the founding members still alive their music has only kept alive by musicians covering their songs or referencing them as a musical influence. Our addiction, well it all started with the documentary that was made in 2012 called, “Big Star: Nothing Can Hurt Me.” The documentary was showing at a local indie theatre downtown and it was all we could talk about in the weeks leading up to the screening. The three largest campaign managers of the Big Star addiction was Rob, Chris and I. Now Chris had a good reason for being on the sonic crack, he was throwing the event but for Rob it was painfully obvious. He has been addicted ever since he discovered the G chord. How do I even begin to describe this man?

Imagine that you are at a dive bar in a small southern town that you’ve never been to. The wind is blowing, the rain is falling in sheets and the sun won’t be back for hours. You sit alone at the bar, destitute and questioning if the person you are waiting for is really worth the awkward stares. You might have asked the bar keep for another brew and then suddenly felt that it was to late to recall your order. Then it happens. Crash! The front door bursts open with the wind howling and the rain sneaking in like a herd of cats. A tall figure looms in the doorway. His shoulders are broad, chest built like a whiskey barrel and his beady eyes are hidden by a prickly red and orange beard. The figure saunters towards you in a holiday pace and places his large mitt on the table top right by your beer. He looks you straight in the face and smiles.

“Dude, you straight up look like John Rzeznik! It’s uncanny! You smoke? Okay good. So do I. Want this expensive cigar, well to bad. Now let me tell you something, Broadway... not the most solid rock/pop song of the 90’s but damn, it was so much better than Iris. Are you drinking a Guinness? That’s my favorite. Irish, couldn’t you tell. Can I ask you something, have you ever listened to Carmen? Let me tell you something man... that song the Champion, doesn’t matter if you are an atheist, that song will save you. So what do you think of that cigar?”  

You can’t even get a word in. His cadence is like a freight train but his demeanor is that of a liturgical father. You feel comforted but yet at risk of learning to much. You softly sip your soothing juice as the night ages on. You have met Rob.

Mecca

That’s Rob in a nut shell, well besides the fly fishing of course. Rob has been a close friend and father figure in my life since I was 16. I met him at a small church plant and I quickly fell under his wing of musical guidance. Mainly thanks to people like him I was never able to let go of the 90’s and I am eternally grateful for that. Rob had a pension for all rock music and what I mean by rock music is Rock. Music. So when he heard about the Big Star documentary, he was in my face fast. We would pump each other by posting our favorite Big Star songs on each others social media sites and taking photos of CDs we found of theirs in used record stores. We’d talk about the passion it took to write such solid tunes for hours upon hours. Then it started, the music challenges.

I awoke one morning and decided to open my laptop before crawling out of bed. I could see that Rob had posted something on my wall and it said, “MUSIC CHALLENGE!!!!” He posted a play list for me to listen to and he “dared” me to have my mind melt by the power of rock. It was Big Star and Teenage Fan Club back to back to back and it was glorious. It was a perfect short compellation of their best tunes. I listened to it several times over and ever since then we have been dishing out Music Challenges. The Music Challenges range from “rock music for the sake of rock music” to “this is a serious tune that appropriately describes my soul.” To this day I open my laptop in the morning just to see if there is a Music Challenge waiting for me.

At the end of 2013 we had a celebratory get together at our favorite watering hole for Robs upcoming wedding. The bar was packed with all of my favorite people, but then their were the “locals”. What you have to know about this bar is that there is a jukebox in far corner. Cloaked in smoke and neon lights it sits, waiting for a suitor to bring it life. This jukebox is often abused by the locals. They braid it with songs by Creed, Shinedown and newest and latest pop travesty. When ever a good song is played it is swiftly followed by butt-rock. There was no winning. Imagine trying to train a puppy. You get him to shake for a tasty doggy treat but then, as soon as you turn you back he has turded all over the carpet and you are stuck with the stench for weeks. But that evening we had the Best Taste, Rob defeated the jukebox. Rob had dropped around 40 dollars in it and the whole evening was nothing but pure musical bliss. We heard Bush, Smashing Pumpkins, Sugar Ray, Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen, Weezer, Garbage, Blind Melon, Everclear, Our Lady Peace and much, much more. Our entire table was in sync. Every once in a while a random person at the table would be like, “Hey, hey! This song! This song right here...” and then they’d dive into story. The locals looked like lost and confused parrots. They’d strut around the pool tables and cock their head to the side trying to decipher what was playing. For them it was a different world, for us, it was the Best Taste.

We were lost in a world of nostalgia with the closest of comrades. Often when people in my generation have flashbacks of nostalgia it’s a haunting tale. We talk about the hard times, but also times when our best friends were there for us, with our arms wrapped around their shoulders. But the Best Taste is a dose of nostalgia with only the best of times being discussed. On this evening not a word had to be said, we were remembering the best moments in life where music had placed a song in our heart and smile on our face. When we use “The Best Taste” our soul connects to the fondest moments of our life and is uplifted through the power of music. The “Best Taste” can only be had though when we are surround by true friends. They understand our faults but see us for our strengths.  The friends that get us, know us and could pass for us on an electronic dating profile. That evening was the Best Taste in it’s purest form. We drank fine bourbon, smoked the best cigars, told the loudest of stories and listened to music that mattered. At the end of the night Rob turned to me and yelled, “Brady! I beat the jukebox! This better go on your website. I just completed the ultimate Music Challenge.” I raised my glass to him, saluted and said, “Yes Rob, you just played the Ultimate Music Challenge.” So maybe it’s time for you to gather your close friends, find a jukebox and partake in the Ultimate Music Challenge, defeat the beast and have the Best Taste. If I learned anything from the “Best Taste”, my friends and also Big Star it is this: The light that you have is the only light that you have. And you better put that shit on the line.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you... BIG STAR!

An enzymatic chimera

The other night I had vivid dream. 

As soon as I woke up I knew I had to write it down. 

Three hours later this was the result.

There I was, on the shoreline. My toes dug into the sand like a kitten’s paw and my hands felt as if they had just held their first cup of morning coffee. The sun was shining like a molten marble. Its surface was a tempered glass and it's dusty tangerine rays slipped into the water like molasses. The sky around the sun acted like angels stuck in a mural. The clouds swirled like a fog on a bed of roses creating a painting of damp apricot yellows, coral pinks and a tawny red. Like feathers, the clouds got close, but not to close to the marble sun. The scenery moved like an oil painting instead of setting naturally like a floor prop at the opera house. It just hung there, dangling in the sky.

The carrot, the stick and the horse.

I stood there perplexed in it's queer beauty, "this had to be a dream" for like Frost, I don't believe that anything gold can stay.

I may have stared at this sun for only minute, but it felt like hours. Then, over the crashes waves there was a plea. My name, it was being called. I turned around to see a massive ship that may have just been a large tugboat and people were boarding. Walking up a wooded gangplank all the people were dressed in elegant suits and diamond incrusted gowns; it was a royal wardrobe. I stood there on the shore watching them from a distance as they all walked up the ramp like giant birds. The sun made their faces perfect; their complexion -- it was perfect. Then it happened. A tan gown, hemmed with golden fur, spotted like a leopard with diamonds the size of paperweights shaped into teardrops shimmered like a ribbon in a vineyard. Her arms and legs were a noble cream pale and her face burned like a rose stovetop. She wore white gloves to her elbows and small golden crown as thin beret.

I watched her from the shore like a snake. She walked up the gangplank onto the vessel like peacock, shimmering from side to side. 

My eyes traced her body, predicting her steps and imagining that she walks like everywhere. She walked like she had walked on water. But then she stopped, as if frozen in time or someone had pressed pause on videotape. She stood there perfectly balanced and composed in mid air. She turned her head just enough for me to see her face and at that moment I recognized her immediately. She smiled at me like she had done before, before the beach, before this dream. She brought her hand close to her face; she waved at me. Just as still as her pause, she waved. Time stood as still as a man's heart could and my body was an earthquake. As she looked at me her hand fell from her face and drifted to her side. She clutched the arm of the man walking her and then kept on going.

My lungs boiled, my stomach croaked and my heart calloused. I could feel my hands constricting like a statue and my feet pulsing. I was moving. Closer and closer to the ship like a creeping best I walked. Each step felt thicker, but with each step I grew stronger. The sand wrapped it's self around my ankles and parasitically bore it's way into my flesh. In and out, in and out the sand tunneled its way under my skin like a worm. It was not trying to stop me, for I could not be stopped. It wanted to come with me. My paces quicken leaving craters of footprints. Disgusting, it was disgusting. My forearms were bursting open with sand like puss. Which each new cavity the sand would spiral inside my wounds, like the worm it was feeding off of me. I no felt no longer human, I felt disgusting. My legs had become the size of cannons, forearms contorted and ribbed like sea rusted rebar and my eyes were bullets that had buried them selves deep within the concrete of my face. I stood in front of the ship, ready to explode. 

I heaved my carcass up on to the gangplank, snapping little bits of wood and shell littered the ship. The ramp creaked like a thousand year groan and the steel of the ship found its voice, it's dead hallows echoed in my ears from the weight of my body. I was an intruder and I was ready to act as such. But there was no one. In anger I placed my mitts upon my head, grabbed my hair and ripped it from my scalp. Sand, like to the texture of dried vomit oozed from scalp and drooled over my face. As the sand perpetrated my vision I could feel the anger subsiding. The monster in me was being tamed. I could no longer see and could only assume that soon it would creep into my open mouth and sing me to an eternal sleep.

Every thing in a bright flash went hazel orange. I couldn't remember what the boat looked like or even what she looked like. I could only remember the sun. And like the dimming flash from a camera my eyesight returned to me and I had not moved an inch. I was still standing on the ship, the sun was still hanging like a stocking and as I looked around there they were. Every person was looking straight at me. They were staring with a powder gaze and jinxed twitch in their fingers. I looked my hands and they were normal. My legs, they felt normal. I felt my face and it felt normal. I saw my self, and I was normal. The only think out of order was that I was dressed. I had a suit on and sailor’s hat. But it wasn't just any normal sailors hat, it was the captain’s hat. The fast forward button somewhere had been pressed. I was carried off to a gallery room by a blur of cocktail attire. People circled around me as if to congratulate me, made lines past me as to thank me and even all together avoided me as if to leave me.

In this blur I saw faces, terribly bland and unoriginal faces. The suits were all black and white while the dresses brushed the deck with the same hollow scrape as an empty can. 

I was alone now, alone in a room to which I could not see anything; except for that sun poking it's head through a small circular window. It still hung there. I had to escape, so I walked out towards the bow. I was alone again, alone to what fate had next for me. 

As I looked down from the railing the waves crashed against the hull, smacking it like toddler handling a balloon. The seagulls yapped and cawed above; it was just like it should be. I turned around to find my self-staring at the gangplank. It was about twenty yards from me and the sun had positioned it's self behind the women who was now walking towards the gangplank. It was she.

I ran to her but my feet went nowhere. The sun was blinding and the air was thick. I was still twenty yards away and she was getting closer, getting closer to leaving. I ran again. Nothing. I ran again. Nothing. Was the sun pushing me back or was the air holding me down. I ran one more time. My foot moved forward like an oar, and then the next foot. I was getting closer but then my feet developed a poor quality. I collapsed on the ground, my hands splintered by bracing my fall. Blood had collected around my palms in a sticky puddle.  I looked up to see that she had just made it to the gangplank. My throat took my body and set it on fire. I screamed her name. She stopped. She turned and smiled again, like she had done before, but this time she whispered something. But I could not hear it, I could not taste it and I could not feel it. I could only feel what was happening and several pieces of wood were burying their tack heads into my palms, the sun was glowering and the girl was leaving. I screamed her name once more. She waved at me once more and then she kept going. She had heard me, I know. Into the rays of the sun and golden heart of sand she was gone.

I regained my strength and brushed my self off. I looked down and my hands and they were clean. The rage came back and my body began to quiver. I marched back inside of the ship to find the crowd still; they were lingering with drinks and d'œuvres on tiny plates. Mouths full of crushed eggs and ranch soaked carrots. I pushed my way through the crowd like a plow in the field and made my down below deck to the engine room. It was full of grey steam that stung my cheeks and bristled my beard. I was alone again. There was one small port window, and there it was the sun glistening. 

The sand entered my body once more as I began to punch a very large control panel. Flames and metal glazed my fists as each impact went deeper and deeper into the metal box. The gears popped and fizzled like eggs on a skillet. My face filled with blood. I screamed again and again and again with each strike. I feel the life the ship crumbling beneath my weight once more. The room began to fill with hot flames. The great pistons of the ship snapped and started to thimble holes through the floor.  I gazed upon the engines, as I knew I was about to take its last breath when a hand placed it's self upon my shoulder. As I turned to look to see who had touched me the hand spun me around and it was a close friend of mine. He peered into my eyes and said, "It's time to go Captain."

I awoke with this song stuck in my head.  

A Far Cry // We Were Promised Jetpacks.

Varúð

Varúð // Sigur Ròs

My hands trailed across the table like a pale fog looking for steadier ground. My palms were cramped, my feet were needled hooves prickling in pain and my chest creaked like an oak barrel. In a groggy haze my fingers fumbled for my glass and my body shook. The intoxication robbed me of a propped stance, and the pulsing pain in my hip scratched like a chalk board but I get up. I had to see here. It was her.


I hunched over in my cherry oak stool, like a child peering through a church railing of people I spied on her longing to be caught, longing to be rescued. There she was standing at the end of line holding a single beer in the air. Like a torch in the air her eyes lit up like the yellow orange flood lights of a ship and in the storm of people she was uttering something. She was peering straight at me, saying something. Her mouth moved like a colored pencil, only squiggles of sound entered my eyes as my ears fought to learn this new language. “What?” I screamed. “I… I can’t hear you”.


She lifted her chin higher and spoke again. And with the temperance of a papal sermon her whisper was cryptic, resounding with authority and parted the ocean. People began to clap. They began to scream and chant. My name, she was saying my name. My name became a drum beat and her voice was a sheering cymbal, crashing after each beat. The crowds feet made bellows of sound like waves swelling upon the hull of the empty vessel of my body. Their blended caws carried like the dismal echoes of a siren. I screamed louder and louder, “I can’t hear you…” but she still couldn’t hear me. The louder I screamed the more my body hurled in pain. No one could hear me. I screamed and screamed, and each time I scream blood pored from my arms. I collapsed on my stool to see a scarlet trail leading away from my cup to my arms. The railings lined back into place. All I could see were her eyes. I sat there as we inspected each other across the tide of bodies, waiting. I sat there waiting, waiting for my blood to run out.


I awoke before the light ever left her eyes. There I was in my hospital bed with a needle entering my arm. There was a dim yellow haze in my eyes. Momoke, the Mongolian nurse stood above me “Brady… Brady… Good morning Brady.” I looked up to find her with a small flash light in one hand and in the other she pumped blood out of me into a black bag. She was wearing scrubs with anchors sewn into the sleeves. Her eyes were filled with water.


"Is it raining outside?"


She sniffled, and snorted. She always thought I was making jokes. She pulled with the needle from my arm and a puddle of blood filled it’s crease. “Yes, yes it is you silly boy.”


"Why do you ask?", she stuttered, "Just a nice drizzle though, it’s been going all night. Must have helped you sleep." She wrapped my arm in a large orange bandage like tourniquet. I could see belly, my gowned was open. There were burn marks, red scrapes and welts from all the shots "micro-surgical" procedures.


"There we go." She smiled, then cupped her mouth. "Opps… let me get that off your pillow." She leaned over and picked up several chunks of my hair off my pillow. "Not as much as yesterday" She smiled again. I grabbed my gowned and cover my belly. "I only save it for you dear."


"Of course you do silly boy. That’s why you’re my favorite."


"I didn’t want to wake you but there is someone here to see you and I thought I’d go ahead and give you your medication. I’ll turn on the light so you they can see you."


"Please… leave the light off."


"Of course. I’ll send her in."


Momoke left the room and closed the door behind her. There I was, alone looking through the plastic dividers on the window. The rain gently kissing the glass, allowing the smallest refractions of light to enter. My room was covered with cards, pictures and stuffed animals. My people, I thought.


The rain then stopped kissing my window and started knocking. The door opened and an orange light poured in from the hallway,


"Brady…" she said, "… Oh Brady."

I never thought I’d be home for Christmas.

Two weeks on, one week off. 

Two weeks on, one week off. 

Two weeks on, one week off. 

Two weeks on, one week off. 

Two weeks on, one week off.

And on and on it goes, this repeating viper. Curiously my mind hasn’t dried up yet from repetition, just a methodical regurgitation and inhalation of recycled thoughts. My months have been lined up like pews. Doctor visits have become confessions and the voices in my head get louder after each “hail marry”. Like an empty cathedral my positivity gets lost within the arches and stained glass walls. Sometimes an echoed thought will come back in a different octave. When I fail to recognize that it’s my own projection, I laugh at its awareness’s of my current state. It will make me chuckle and I’ll hear my self say, “Haven’t heard that laugh in a while.”

It seems as though each injection, whether self induced or nuzzled in by the beaks of motherly nurses, has more than just life altering chemicals. They all burn but the skin only feels a fragment of what the rest of my “body” feels. Every single injection of this liquid cure burns like gunpowder. My veins might as well be dry grass as I feel the fire crawl under my skin and peel my insides like burnt bark.

On days when I sit in the treatment room’s chairs I’m struck with a reflective silence. I play a quiet game. 

“You’ve been sick for years, you found out last year, oh and you over there... well it looks like you don’t give a shit anymore”. I’m quiet while I watch “my peers”; separated by decades, receive the same type of treatment. I wonder, are they jealous? I make up conversations in my head.

“You’re so lucky. “ They’d say, “You’re so young. Here we are, wrinkled and gray while you ink your skin, playing for big gain and new dreams.”

Sympathetically I’d reply, “But aren’t we equal, we both dream of flying. “ And perhaps they’d call my dreams a niche in this mortality market, or maybe they think the same thing as I do: I didn’t know what it was like to dream till I lost sleep over... my mortality.

My safe place, whether you believe me or not, is on my bathroom toilet. No, nothing crass; it’s just me sitting down on the toilet lid. I’ll prop adjacent window open allowing the breeze to swirl within my pearl cream-white tomb, light a candle and stare out my window. Sometimes when I have it too I’ll smoke a little pot. Takes the edge off my nausea, chemical fatigue, self deprecating thoughts and I found out that I smile a bit more as well. Can you blame me? I can sit there for what feels like hours because I can’t hear anything else going on in the house. It’s hard to not be alone. I’m a magnet. One half will follow a friend to space and the other feels the need to repulse to a distance where they can never touch me. Even on that toilet I can’t decide if I like people or not. Sometimes, if I have my record player on, I feel like I separated my self from a cool party. “Oh hey, they’re playing Built To Spill... those must be some rad people. I wonder if they have any Otis Redding records” It helps me feel normal again, that sort of music snobbery that I used to use to separate my self from freshmen girls.  But my safe place is not always my safe place. On days where I have to inject my self I find my self-staring into the reflection pool of my bathroom mirror. 

My mental check list becomes a military battery. Or if it's not a bundling of rations, it's as if I am stuck in the film Trainspotting, just waiting to freak out. Luckily, none of my medication has any sort of hallucinogenic properties, so my concept of reality is still stable.  Either way, my mind is racing every time. 

Rubbing alcohol, check.  

Cotton ball, check. 

Cap off the needle, check. 

Love-handles clean, check. 

Okay, go.

I lock eyes with this dude looking straight back at me. He looks scruffy and uncomfortable. He holds the needle in his side like a pen, but his sides... His poor sides, they look bitten by a farm of red ants. And then I feel it burn and burn some more. The needle withdraws from his belly like a wasp and a droplet of blood wells up like a teardrop. Oddly and recently he’s smiling back at me. He whispers, “I’ll be home for Christmas”.

Over the past six months friends, family and strangers have blessed me. I have been experiencing Christmas since July. Its moments like that I wonder if I can ever effectively communicate my thankfulness. It reminds me of the speech from “The Great Dictator”, and how befuddled Charlie Chaplin’s character was. But at the end he was able to express one of the greatest gifts that God has given us, the ability to create happiness.

“In the 17th Chapter of St Luke it is written: “the Kingdom of God is within man” - not one man nor a group of men, but in all men! In you! You, the people have the power - the power to create machines. The power to create happiness! You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure...”

In October I thought I’d be in Nashville for the holidays. I was originally going to be crammed into another hospital while every one I knew would be back home. But that has all changed when I had the blood clots at the beginning of November. Perhaps it was a miracle in disguise because I got to have Thanksgiving with my family. Now I’m home for Christmas. This month is important for me. On Christmas day I’ll be celebrating life. Back in July the doctor told me that I’d have six to nine months to live if I didn’t receive treatment.  Well here I am in December looking forward to not only 2014, but also 2015 through 20...70 something.

I hope that everyone has a blessed Christmas. May the light of our Lord shine down upon you no matter who you are, for if you have given me joy then you have brought joy to the Lord as well.

Also here's the full speech below with awesome music by The Album Leaf. 

Songs of the Year.

Five songs that have gotten me through a tough time (2013).

1. Pirate Blues // As Cities Burn

“Before you, your mom and your dad

Used to smoke in the Texas sun

They were young once too…”

Life has a reciprocal nature. We've heard phrases like: “Do unto others as you would have done to you”, “what goes around comes around” and “He’ll get what's coming…”. This song beautifully captures the lead singers foresight of the circular track of life. For me this year has been much like this song. It’s caused me to look back on not only my life, but the lives before me and the lives that will follow in my footsteps. I even have my "future" cryogenically frozen. It was in this perspective that I’ve found myself doubting how life will turn out. Like the deep beat of this song, my heart pounds and my thoughts race, but I've found peace. This peace has no defining features besides that it is not of my own. Who really knows what shall happen to them by the end of the night? But because time has a mind of it’s own maybe that enough reason for me not to fret.

“Oh, I wanna find out I'm wrong

And every road leads us home…”

2. Dirty Paws // Monsters of Men

Finding out you’re not alone is a bizarre experience. When this song first “clicked” for me this year I was in a friends car. We were cruising on the interstate like two single dudes do. It was nighttime. Our lectures were procured from our interactions with the alien species called "woman" and where we felt like we should be. We let the smoke collect and the conversation smolder as his iPod blared catchy tunes. Once Dirty Paws by Monsters of Men came on we fell silent. The driver did some air-drumming while I sat still feeling my way through the piece of music. The story of the song isn't mind blowing, for if you've ever listened to Murder By Death you know how stories are meant to be sung, but it was gorgeous. There’s something about the chorus gang vocals though. It feels victorious, it feels comforting, inviting and most of all as if you belong. When I found out I wasn't alone through the fight that I am currently experiencing, it felt just like this sounds. 

3. Car // Built To Spill

“I need a car, you need a guide, who needs a map?

If I don't die or worse, I'm gonna need a nap

At best I'll be asleep when you get back…”

I’ve always been a huge Built To Spill fan, but like great movies or books some albums don’t really sink in until later. I’ve always loved this song, but it’s now been a song of comfort because I feel like it understands me. If you ask my friends or even ex-girlfriends (I'd prefer you not too), you’ll find out that I often have “itchy feet”. I have a hard time staying in one place for too long, which has both rewarded and punished me. This year I’ve felt the “itchy feet” syndrome more than ever. I’ve looked into moving across country, across the sea and also just down the road a few blocks. After the diagnosis I became stuck mentally, emotionally, and literally. I couldn't drive and had to use a walker or cane to get around. Once my pelvis healed and the doctors said it was okay for me to drive I wasted no time and gingerly put the pedal to the metal. The first song I listened to was Car. I sang along with the windows down and felt movement. Whenever I’ve need movement I play this song.

4. Memories From The End Pt. 1 // Right Away, Great Captain.

“...but i

i want it all

oh i want it all

and i won't stop if i fall

cause i want it all…”

“You’re being so positive Brady!”

I've heard that a lot.

I've faked that complement a lot as well.

Some days you can barely see it on my sleeve and others I’m lying right through my teeth. I’m surprised that it hasn't bitten but only a few people. On my hardest day I try and focus on what keeps me going, what makes me happy and that I'm still here. I’m still here, my friends are still here, so why should my positivism go anywhere? Well somedays I wander off, down a dark and vacuous alleyway. It is in those dark corners where I find the foundation of my strength, hope. When death lingers not only your doorstep but also has hitched a ride instead of your body, perspectives seem to change. I remember when I was in the hospital for the first time and my sister Kelly came to visit me. She walked into the halogen lit room, stood three feet from the doorway and began to cry. When I looked upon her face I felt a hot fury well up inside of me. She was in pain, perhaps a far greater one than me and I knew that I had to smile and tell her that I loved her. Ever since then I’ve made it my goal to show those who love me that I am strong and that my strength will not fade. On those days of complete sadness I remind myself that I’ve made it this far, I have a beautiful future and I won’t stop until I fall. 

5. Jesus // Page France

“...And Jesus will dance while we drink his wine

With soldiers and thieves and a sword in his side

And we will be joy and we will be right…”

At the end of the day I am just a boy. Out of the billions of people in this world I am surrounded by a few, but those few remind me daily that we are created in Gods image. It is those few people that show me that God has a face like our and cares about the one boy who suffers through the hardest time of his life. Jesus by Page France is my song when I need to be uplifted. It’s the song that I need to be reminded that God loves those who are stuck in the dirt. I believe that one day I will be in heaven. I hope it’s not anytime soon, but if it is I know that I will be drinking from the Lords cup and it will be so delicious. I’ll be so intoxicated in heaven that I will sing a song for Jesus, he’ll dance, clap his hands and stomp his feet.

Honorable Mentions:

1. I'll Talk To You Tomorrow // Calibretto 13
2. Dog Days Are Over // Folerence + The Machine
3. Harrison Ford // Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin
4. Scenic World // Beirut
5. Fade Into You // Mazzy Star





My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed. That is the truth, but it is also not because I don't want to work, I do. I was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma at the end of July 2013, and now I'm fighting the good fight. I am currently going through chemo treatments. From the advisement and orders of my doctor, I am not supposed to be working. Currently I am in the waiting process to receive social security, but that is taking it's time. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). I'm not going to lie to you, some the donation money will go towards gasoline, or perhaps even a cup of coffee. Anything you give is awesome. Feel free to shoot me an email too if you'd like. I can also make you a gnarly playlist.
Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest.
- Brady

Blood Clots & Swollen Feet.

Updates come as updates go. As far as this update I can’t tell yet if it will be short and sweet or long and compelling. Perhaps we’ll both find what we’re searching for at the end as my fingers figure it out. While I write this, not but five minutes ago, I had just finished my self injection for the night. 80 milligrams of drug that thins blood and leaves tanned bruises on my love handles. The embarrassment of the injection is far greater than the sting of the needle. You may wonder, “But Brady, why are you embarrassed?”. Perhaps the embarrassment comes from old photographs or seeing old friends. A time before blood clots, radiation treatments, blood work and hushed waiting rooms. I remember a time when I used to party all night. I’d stay up to greet the sun with a wicked grin and an embossed stench of male camaraderie. I’d toast to youth or hug my bed like a teddy bear. But now my feet swell, my joints ache, my stomach is bruised from chemicals and if I really stop to think my face burns. It doesn't burn like it used to though. Instead of becoming ill tempered over silly girls leaving goodbye notes, an over-drafted bank account that cancelled 75 cent taco night or a prose fight with a close friend, it burns because I miss how tragically wonderful those moments were.

On November the 2nd I came home from northern California in an odd misery that I've never felt before. A pain in my chest knitted my lungs closed with needles. It spread from my lungs to my joints as if someone had ripped thousands of industrial stickers off my bones. That night I looked in the mirror and asked God for one night of rest. He granted me just that. I slept for about five hours. When I woke the pain returned and in a greater magnitude. I stumbled into the bathroom, closed my eyes and began to heave and spit. As I opened my eyes I saw blood on the toilet seat and bobbing in the water in minefield of mucus. My parents had just come home so I walked down stairs, and confessed that I wasn't feeling well. Ever feel guilty for being sick? Well I do and I have hard time shaking that attitude. I told my parents that I honestly thought about driving my self to the hospital the prior night because I didn't want to be burden. But I have to let people take care of me... one of the hardest lessons I'm learning. 
Moments later we called my doctor.

“Describe to me what’s going on Mr. Effler?” he said with a bald tongue. I explained to him what I had just experienced. With each detail he’d clear his throat and make a noise to let me know he was nodding his head. “Sounds to me like you have blood clots in your lungs, but I’m not certain… Can you get to an Emergency Room right now?”

“Um… yeah.”

“Okay, well go to the Emergency Room right now.”

“Yes sir.”

I spent six days at Memorial Hospital. Every day I had to ring the bell for the nurse to take me to the bathroom. I couldn't even shower without help. Every day I received injections to keep my pain level from a “seven or eight out of ten” to a “two or three out of ten”. Every night I slept in a fox hole. And every few hours my eyes opened with my chest rattling. Blurred by tears my hand would grip the call button. 
They’d always come. 
The nurses, they’d always come... eventually. 


On the third night it really sunk in that four hours of sleep was a major victory. After multiple tests it was confirmed, two major blood clots had traveled from my legs to my lungs. Each day I got better, stronger and was able to breath easier. But like all rehabilitation, I started crawling and now today I can stand on my own once again. 

After I was released from Memorial I isolated myself to my room and made good friends with the wall. To those of you that tried to connect with me, I’m sorry about the the lack of communication but it wasn't personal. I just needed time. I don’t know if this or was my darkest moment, but I’m having a hard time finding the light switch every once in a while. Not only do I have multiple tumors from a rare cancer but now I’m at risk consistently for blood clots. These blood clots just teased me though. “We’re so glad they stopped at your lungs Mr. Effler… For if they found their way to your heart…” Doctors find ways of turning good news into moments of me counting my lucky stripes. If it is luck, I hope it doesn't run out anytime soon. 

Today is a new day and tomorrow will happen no matter what, and I want all of tomorrow. I’m starting chemotherapy again. Four more cycles of blood, shots and pills. The doctors want my body, or more so my lungs, to be healed before the stem cell therapy. So for valentines day I might have a cute date with transplanted cells in Nashville. I’m not facing it alone, and honestly sometimes I need to be reminded of that. Sometimes I need someone else to find that light switch for me. And sometimes I need someone to sit with me in the dark. I have love for all of you that have supported me thus far. I may not seem like the most thankful turd at times, but I really am. I’m not gracious when it comes to receiving gifts or acts of kindness but none of it goes unnoticed. So thank you, all of you. So, updates come as updates go. Turns out it was longer than I expected or even intended to be, but I can’t help it. But, one day I shall toast to the rising sun again. With a wicked grin and glazed eyes I’ll pour a two drinks. One for me and one for the Myeloma. I’ll finish mine but the cancer, well… it won’t be around to drink its portion.