Unicorn Barber

Last week I decided to get a haircut. This wasn’t a choice made out of tact or preexisting conditions, more or less, it was an impulse purchase. I’d like to believe that I don’t often make impulse purchases, but a decent amount of reflection coupled with the decision to write tonight begs a different conclusion from my internal denial. Either way, my hair was getting long, greasy and wild. I love it when I have long hair though. I feel carefree and less self-conscious with a large bottle of gatorade. When my hair is longer, I also secretly hope that some random passer-by would think I skate board or are some sort of freelance slam poet, you know, much cooler. But I had some money that I shouldn’t be spending and needed a pick-me-up, so I did it. After careful research I decided to check out a barber shop that all my local friends raved and fawned over, the White Oak Barber on Dayton Boulevard. I am sort of like my Father in some instances, even though I knew the general direction and address I still mapped out how to get there from work because I had never been there before. After making a silly right turn I found myself circling the block like a broken wheel on a shopping cart to avoid nearby cops and a crowded Taco Bell drive-thru. My mind was pulsing full of nerves. I had already belayed several pro and cons as to why or as to why I shouldn't spend the thirty some odd dollars for a haircut that I was certain any ten dollar “sports accentuated” salon could do. These places are an odd fixture for today's progressive standards. These places revolved around appeasing to man’s basic desire to watch sports-ball, discuss the patriarchy of delicate lawn care and latest Garfield comic while getting a military crewcut from a heavy chest woman named Misti (with an ‘i’) that refuses to call you anything else besides, “Hun.” One of these venues is literally next door to where I work. It’s called “Great Clips”, and it’s also ten dollars.

As I parked, I realized I was about a block farther than I should have been and walked down the sidewalk in the blustery Tennessee air. When I’m making an impulse decision, I often approach as if I was going to go in the curtained off room in the back of a local mom and pop video rental store. I don’t tell anyone where I’m going, what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I keep my head down and refuse to make eye contact with anyone that could possibly have similar facial features of my kin. As I walked into the barber shop, my social fears had been realized in an orange lit oaky room with large checker board tables; large southern white males were everywhere in baseball caps splaying local college football teams and gabbing about sports. I saw only one gentlemen with chewing tobacco in the lower pouch of his cheek, but statistically there were more, just being factual folks. He sat next to me. Had I made the wrong decision? Was it too late to get out? Well, if I hadn’t placed my name in the queue then yes, yes I could have escaped. The only thing that made sense and bonded with my social anxiety was that touch-pad screen that required my name and phone number, but it was also now the gatekeeper. It allowed me to request a specific barber of my choosing, but I had not clue who was beyond in the next room where the large checker board mats and professionals, so I selected, “ANY”. Its blue glow taunted me as I could see my name now, “BRADY — NEXT AVAILABLE — WAIT TIME — 15 MINUTES.” The large dude shifted in his cushion as I took the only seat available next to him. He flipped through the Motortrend magazine, which has no half-naked women in it, just engine stats, so I was certain he was just looking at the size of the trucks pondering how a nice set of “Truck Nuts” would look on the undercarriage. It’s okay to comment on how I was being incredibly judgmental and crude, I get that, but I can’t help but be transparent. Perhaps one day, you will be too. 

A husky voice called out, “Keith, come on hun.” The large burly man was Keith, and the redheaded heavily chested barber that had emerged gave him a firm motherly look as he grunted and feigned setting down his magazine as if he was really reading how the 2017 Volvo V90 Cross Country T6 AWD was “not just for pansies” anymore even though it’s technically a wagon and incurably spacious for a family of five. I call your bluff Keith. You wouldn’t be caught dead in that wagon even if you won it at The Price Is Right. For the sake of this piece though, the barber that Keith went with, her name is now Jewel. Keith waddled up to Jewel and exclaimed that he wants it “Not to much today, juh bored today ma’am.” Jewel folded her arms and scowled, “Your ole lady ridding that back of yours again?” Keith was caught. Sold out by Jewels natural cunning wit and peppery discernment. “Well, you know her, squallerin’” Jewel, that fiery minx. She wasn’t having it. “Just sit down Keith, I’ll do what I know she like. Okay hun.”  Keith had lost , “Ye’ ma’am.”

I was on the edge of my seat, feeling around 50/50 about the current situation. As much as I was loving this rustic medley, I couldn’t help but feel as though I was about to be “sat in one dem seats” under the same scrutiny. I have no ole lady, nor do I have the social reservations to not say something incredibly dumb. If you’ve met me then you know, I’m a twat. But then it came, my name. As if a jester or Pierrot had been hiding behind my seat had jumped up and turned to the audience to mime my discomfort for an invisible audience, My stomach grumbled and my face scrunched as a Unicorn rounded the corner and became the face to the voice behind my name. 

She. 

Was. 

Fucking. 

Stunning. 

Years ago, during my first unicorn encounter, one of my closest friends made an incredibly astute comment. “You never go out looking for a unicorn, you always stumble into them while walking sideways.” And one that very day, I was zig-zagging like a lost girlfriend in the circle pit of a Bane concert. “Brady?” She said radiantly, “Are you ready?” No, no I am not. 

“Buhhhh, yeah, I guess,” that was my prototypical squat response. “Well,” she waved her hand towards her station, “come on then.” Now would be a fantastic time two interrupt this story and comment on two things that you believe had ANY context to this story. Number one, I have been incredibly depressed for the past four months, Secondly, I have had Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Games” stuck in my head for the better part of nine days. I don’t know about you, but I am now getting to the point in my life where melancholy songs about the loss of love or the forbidden nature of love are permeating my emotional disposition like the richness of grandmas chocolate cake that hasn’t been fully digested. These songs are pushing me farther and farther into an emotional coma. 

As I treaded towards her station I fumbled around my pockets hoping to find my phone so I could conveniently distract myself and hopefully seem aloof and cute. Looking to my right Keith was still getting a talking to by Jewel. Something about listening or paying attention a woman needs like a bubbling crock-pot. “Now that crock-pot, it ain’t supposed to boil Keith.” God I wish I was Keith, because then at least I’d already have my narrative ready and not feel like Robin Williams in the movie Jack. I sat down. She fringed the barbers bib over my like a blanket upon fresh grass. 

“My names Lleana by the way.”

“My names Bra…”

“So what are we doing today Brady?”

“I.. I’m tired of looking like,” I couldn’t think, “tired of looking like…” she stared at me. “ …a troll.” And there it was, the start of my social skills beginning to deplete. I’m just proud of myself that I sat down correctly. I almost thought it appropriate to sit ‘Indian Style” but no one, no one ever does that in a barber shop.

“A… Troll?”

I bit my lip, “Yeah… or I mean. Like, normal again? I don’t know. You’re the professional. I just don’t want to have long hair anymore. Going for a drug test soon.” 

Long ass pause.

“Just kidding.”

She took a step back and rubbed her hands through my greasy hair as my thoughts screamed bloody murder. I should have fucking showered before I came in, or at the very least wore some cosmic cologne. 

“Well, you don’t look like a troll to me,” Lleana said smiling, “and I rather like long hair.” 

Was she saying I shouldn’t be here?

“But we can do whatever you want,” Lleana continued with in a bright cadence,

Shifting in my seat I replied, “Well, how about a little off the top.” Lleana buttoned the back of my barber’s bib and let out an inquisitive tone, “Oh, that’s a cool shirt you have on. What is that?”

“Oh, it’s a Skyrim shirt… it’s about dragons…”

“I know what Skyrim is.”

“Oh.”

“So just a little off the top,” she came around and examined me from the front. Lleana had long dark hair that rolled down her back like a silk tapestry. Her eyes burned with notes of hazel from freshly roasted coffee and orange hue from a setting sun. Lleana’s eyes were complimented by her diamond pierced victorian nose, guarded by balanced and gently placed freckles that sparsely pollinated her skin. Lleana rolled up her sleeves on her well worn cotton blue shirt as she ran her hands through my hair. Wind, wind through November leaves. Her brow sighed into as relaxed state as she examined me. “Mmm, actually lets just do more on the sides.” Both arms were heavily tattooed, some old school sailor jerry style, others, unique and dressed in pixel dots and symmetrical designs. My body began to relax, and my mind began to soften with each passing glance as she studied the grooves of my hair. Stepping back from me, Lleana folded her hands together, “How long have you gone without a hair Brady?” 

“It’s been months.”

“I can tell.”

“Last time I got my hair cut, it was done by a turkish man with only sheers and refused to call me anything but lad”

She giggled with curiosity and stepped back behind me. I could hear her rummage through her scissors and other utensils. Her voice changed from nurse to friend; the ending syllables proceeding down in pitch,"A turkish man? Where was this?”

I sighed “Oh, well, it was in…”

“Brady could you take off your glasses for me?”

I immediately fumbled for my face, making the barbers bib flutter like a parachute, “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

“You’re fine dude,” she said sternly. “But where was it you said you had it done last?”

“Um, England.”

Each syllable now in a fluttered pitch,"In England? Wow, why were you there?”

For the next fifteen minutes I gave Lleana the highlights over my overseas adventures. It was like the beginning of the song “Pretty Pathetic” by The Smoking Popes. A melody, sung grotesquely cute by a nasally Chicago pop-punk icon; I felt a thousand feet high. With each new chapter Lleane would stop cutting my hair, “Wait, so this one girl, who wanted to sleep with you threw up all over your bar while you were working and said, ‘sorry about the mess’ on her way out?!” 

“If you can believe it, yes!” I almost screamed. She stepped back and lifter her arms in the air, “Dude that’s fucked up. Okay, okay, so what happened next?”

My mouth raced to keep up with my endorphins, “Well, I have a terrible gag reflex…”

“Nooo!”

Admittedly I peppered in some ‘flexible details’, but for the most part I stayed true to actually events. Near the end of the hair cut she meekly asked me why I came back to the United States. I really had no answer for her, so I made something up. I told her that my parents needed me to come back home and I felt obliged to be back in the states. I even went on to say that I was getting bored, and homesick. I tried to convince her that I was some sort of philosophical entrepreneur who could shape his life however he wanted, but in reality, I’m just a depressed dude with Wicked Games stuck in his head who thinks he’s getting his hair cut by a unicorn. Needless to say, my hair cut was fantastic. As I got out of my hair I gave her an eight dollar tip and told her that I’d be back as soon as body would allow it. She thanked me and smiled I walked past a folded up Motortrend on the bench where Keith was earlier. He was gone and now Jewel was giving another regular their usual. 

Walking out of the barber shop I felt indifferent though. My thoughts were scrambled and my body was shivering. All I could think about was that I haven’t had a weird and genuine conversation with a stranger that knew nothing of me or my past ever since I left the UK. I recalled the first few days of being back. Not being able to fully answer or be honest with my friends as to how I was doing, or where I was going. I borrowed money and ungratefully returned the favor with pop-tarts and social quips about how “that’s not how they do it over there.” I’ve lost that magical charm I used in stand up comedy to make crowds giggle and calm my own personal anxiety. I’ve been unmotivated to reach out to those who once truly required my humor and spontaneous gimmicks. I have even completely lost touch with one of my closest friends from my college days. He was able to cheer me up no matter what,  even when I had cancer.  Nothing is the same here, and neither am I. I have been living in my sister's new house with her boyfriend, working a shit retail job which feels like being behind on the bills of “life”. Leaving England has taken a quantum toll upon my expectations, and I don’t believe I am living up to any sort of “passable” or “enjoyable” standard.

As Lemuria’s emo power-pop hit, Hawaiian T-Shirt goes, “Every funny guy has a serious side,” my serious side has gone beyond a simple cold chill and to full blown ammonia. I’m asking myself, why am I writing about a fucking hair cut? Why am I nit-picking large southern men, or failing at basic human communication? Perhaps because I’m going through the sharpest growing pain of my life, what to do next. 

Believe me when I say that I have no earthly idea on what to do. But so far, the only thing that makes sense is pick up right where I left off with these blog entries, what happened after Scully? Well my friends, that’s the epic of Edge Hill University and the songs that accompanied me during one of the strangest, but yet most gratifying parts of my life. Perhaps I’ll start with Halloween Night at Odyssey.

October 31st, 2015…

I didn’t have a costume…

[Bands/Artists Mentioned: Chris Isaak, The Smoking Popes and Lemuria]

P.S. Found out two days ago that she's engaged. 
R.I.P. Unicorn Sighting 2017-2017

Your Own Ending.

Your Own Ending

When I was a child I read these teen horror fiction novels called Goosebumps written by R.L. Stine back in the mid to late 90’s. My grandfather, Poppy, would take me to the book store every once in a while. Poppy liked to balance out my intake of action figures with literature, and since I wasn’t really apt to read Byron at the age of eight, I bought Goosebumps. As I look back on it now I don’t know how my 70 year old grandfather thought a child's novel about people being stripped of life due to a haunted camera would be healthy for a kid that simultaneously  thanked God for boogers and farts in Sunday school. But he just wanted me to be happy. Either way, Stine is famous for books like, The Night Of The Living Dummy and Say Cheese and Die. These novels were creatively fun, slightly scary and also a rich environment for a child's imagination, and my imagination grew like fractals.

 Eventually I wrote my own little sadistic stories. I wasn’t concerned with being published since I still couldn't spell “library” to save my life. Was it liberry or Liebary? I didn’t show anyone these tales, and they are probably deep in an underground ashes pile below my old tree fort in Healdsburg California right now. Either way, in one of my stories the main characters were swallowed up by an evil vacuum and the only way to destroy it was to lure the neighbors robotic cat into a confrontation with the usurper. The robo-cat would hack up its fur-vomit and the vacuum would be sent back to the fiery depths of hell... where chores came from. There was also one where the chevalier of the story was sentenced to pick weeds out of his mothers garden for the rest of eternity as punishment for letting the princess kiss the big baddy. I was a fairly melodramatic child. Eventually the hero picked enough weeds, and the watcher of the eternity took pity on him, had a change of heart and allowed him to play video games with his lady love. Either way, I liked creative endings where I won, but only because of the presence of heart, not for my actions.

As I got older and read more Goosebumps, Stine started writing novels that had a “choose your own ending” portion or scenario. In these books your heroes would come to a gritty and macabre scenario, then Stine would offer you what felt like an ethereal option. In bold blood black letters it boomed, “Turn to page 83 to find your heroes in peril” or “Turn to page 120 for your heroes to meet someone they never expected…” Now naturally, being the young little gremlin that I was, I would turn and read the first page of both endings in order to make my assessment on how my heroes would continue. I started this habit because I learned the hard way by unknowingly picking the tragic ending, and my little heart couldn’t take it. THEY ALL DIED AND IT WAS MY FAULT.
I never reread the novel.

I couldn’t even go back and cognitively apply the happier ending either, for in my mind, once they died, they were dead. The sorrow that I felt for their peril suddenly felt incredibly close and personal. It was as if I dragged them to the foggy quagmire  myself to have their eyes balls sucked out by the Werewolf janitor to be turned into ice cream for the local treat truck. I don’t know if I realized it, but I was becoming acutely self aware. Choices matter, and everything in life is oddly interconnected. We could always be forty pages away from becoming revolting goop. What was ironic though was that the section where the heroes encounter peril, they made it out safely because in a pinch the marginalized kid developed the ultra secret weapon to defeat darkness, whereas what appeared to be the safer option of the two, “Meeting someone they did not expect," that turned out to be some zombified hero from the past that ended their journey in a real desolate manner. Talk about Psych 101 for the age group terrorized by whats happening to their penis as they stare at the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated in the line at Safeway.


Either way, as I got older I thought about these… duel endings. I thought about them a lot. The potential duality of life afflicted my decisions on whether or not to put The Offspring on the mix cd for my senior year crush or if I should take the long drive home after being diagnosed with cancer. Whenever I felt that there was a decision approaching I begged the heavens to at least let me see the few seconds of the beginning of each choice, or at least still have my grandfather present at the check out counter; I don’t want to pay for these decisions myself. I’m sure the spirit of R.L. Stine is chuckling somewhere in a foreboding oak tree, or he’s proud that the creation of garden gnomes anthropomorphizing Leatherface made a preteen think about hyper-realities. I’d like to think that Stine prepared me for these, these… choices. But in the end, these are choices without an alternative page to turn to. So I would say fuck it; I replaced The Offspring with Alkaline Trio’s “Every Thug Needs a Lady” and took the long drive home that night so if I felt the need to cry, my tears would dry up long before I saw another human being. Its safe to say that I felt fucked each and every time I saw my life potentially diverting. My mind goes haywire, like, what if I accidentally picked the wrong ending? There’s no going back. And if I pick the “good” ending, how do I even know that this is the good ending, for how do we understand the light without the dark. Oh, my god… so this is what drove Schrödinger crazy. Each choice creates a new road of memories within my mind. And each choice that closes one road and then continues me down the other. So, by the age of 28 I now have thousands upon thousands of abandoned roads of memories and thoughts.

Which brings us to today.


Floating deep within the human ether my subconscious dashes like a fox on these abandoned roads. It clutches my happiest memories in it’s retracted toothy muzzle with a sly grin as it scampers from my grasp. I’d like to argue that every once in a while I get close enough to catching him; fingers teased by a single bristle or two from it’s fleeting tail. The foxes bristles prick my skin as a needle would if they drifted like leaves in the wind. Alas though, I get slightly distracted by these metaphorical dead ends on a daily basis, and I am confronted and reminded about the choices that I made and those that I left behind. As I pondered this in the shower two distinct memories emerged from the mire to the tip of my tongue. About eight years ago I stood amongst broken picture frames and in front of a very exasperated, but newly birthed ex-fiancé in Cleveland, Tennessee. Eight years later, and almost 28 days ago I slept on a stiff empty bench in an uninhabited airport in Copenhagen. Each of these memories aren’t what the fox keeps from me, in fact, these memories would be the dirt that it has kicked up as it disappears in a cloud of dust.

These memories were the result of bold choices. The first was to finally say, “No” to an abusive relationship and the second was because I said, “Yes” to an experience of a life time. And sometimes I wonder what life would be life if I had reversed those decisions. Where would I be in life right now? If I had said, “Yes” to the engagement, would I have gone to England for a masters degree? And if I said, “No” to getting my masters would I be here right now writing this awkward diagnostic of my life? And because of these “major” choices that I’ve made, there have been a slew of other roads that were created and also more that were abandoned. And as of right now I am reflecting on the choices that I made that has lead me to what appears to be irreversibly depressed, broke and wishing that I was back in the hospital. I mean, if I was back in the hospital right now, I wouldn’t have to worry about getting fed, what excuse I would tell my friends on a Friday night that I can’t go out because I can’t afford a PBR. Or I wouldn’t be focused on why I haven’t been able maintain an intimate relationship longer than a few months. When I was in the hospital before, it allowed me to have the ultimate “get out of jail free” card for social interactions. People had to come to me. I was stationary. I was a beacon. I was a thought, an idea and an icon rather than an adult with a name and tainted past who cries at night because he has no clue who he is anymore. Perhaps it’s unhealthy to drag the past to the surface, but when everything in this world seems to be interconnected, it’s hard to ignore what I’ve gone through.

Years ago I heard this metaphor that attempted to described the difference between how men and women think. The metaphor goes like this:  A man is like an Ego Waffle. The waffle has tiny square divots that catch and compartmentalize the flowing butter and maple syrup. Each thought, or in this case, sugary goodness, finds its proper place in little chambers. If one so chose, they could eat each square individually. Whereas, a woman, she is more akin to a plate of spaghetti. Everything is interconnected, and it’s hard to single out a single noodle or thought without having catching others in the fray. So, to put it simply: Men can focus on the bite size pieces of life, whereas women see the bigger picture. Each have their strengths and weaknesses. I don’t believe this metaphor applies to continuing the binary divide between genders though. In fact, after some focus in the shower, my experience opinion causes me to believe that this is the difference between the uplifted and the depressed when analyzing life choices. I am currently looking through my leatherback journal that I took with me to England, and each page is littered with someone who is lost and trying to figure out who they are by assessing their past choices. My journal, my life, it is a plate of spaghetti, but it’s the plate of spaghetti that I chose.

Earlier in this blog I wrote about a girl name Scully, and how she changed my life when it came to looking at love. As much as I would like to continue the story of her, it is over and I have drained that cow of its milk. So what is there to assess now? Perhaps the beginning of England; the beginning of the new narrative that has lead me here. So, if you are reading this, please give me time because I do have a story to tell. There were faces that I’ll never forget, and names that still cause my hands to shake as they exit the bullet chamber of my mouth. And yet, after everything, I still don’t know where I belong. While I was there I dated a girl much younger than I due to heartbreak,  preoccupied my drinking habits by taking money under the table a local pub, I bloodied my eyes with literature, lost friends as fast I gained them, and finally, finished the dying promise I made, get a masters degree in England.

So let’s begin with day one…

Day One: Cool.

Standing in my eight by ten cell of a room I held the phone in my hand as if to take a selfie. My hand trembled. This is new, I thought. Why are my hands shaking? Probably because I haven’t eaten for 8 hours. I just need to hold the phone still long enough to record my self for Scully.

 “Hey, so I made it…”, my voice cracked… fuck.
I looked down at my shirt in embarrassment.
It still smelled funky fresh from the 9 hour flight and hour-an-a-half cab drive to campus.
“I’m finally here, In England.”
My lips curled, and my nose twitched. 4000 thousand miles, a five hour time difference and a shitty wi-fi signal was all we had. It was all I had. I looked back at my self in the phone’s video. It was still recording, say something.

“And, uh… I smell like shit…”

My hand shook. I was becoming blurry in the video message. Maybe that’s what I’ll be, a blur.

“…I miss you.”



To be continued.

Last Track

"Get in your car and count to ten."

Pondering in my bed the other night, I was thinking about some of my favorite records. In An Aeroplane Over The Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel, Good Morning by Alkaline Trio, Control by Pedro The Lion, Deja Entendu by Brand New, The Soul Album by Otis Redding, ( ) by Sigur Ros, and Blue Skies, Broken Hearts... Next 12 Exits by The Ataris. So I made a playlist of all my favorite albums and their last tracks. If anyone knows me, they know that I am pungent dick-weed when it comes to making mix CDs, tapes, or playlists for people. I even have a braggadocios aura to my posture whenever I talk about it as well. Either way when I put the playlist on shuffle it didn't take me long to realize that the majority of the final tracks were less-than happy tracks. Take for instance the track Rocket City off of Northstars album Pollyanna, I mean as much as the record takes the notion of melancholy to a very trendy and catchy arena of life, the last track seems to not try and bury the misery.

"And when I fall don’t forget me….
Cause if I stay here I’ll be dying forever…"

The whole track has a rather scathing Icarus vibe to it. And maybe that's what it's like completing a monumental record. You find yourself flying to close to the sun. The closing track to the infamous playlist, Is That You, Scully was a toss up between Big Star's Thirteen or Otis Redding's Cigarettes and Coffee. Both of those songs have a deep meaning for me. I always imagined having my first dance with my wife to Thirteen because it's an adorable acoustic ballad about young love and telling the girls Dad to fuck off. Romantic, right? But then there was Cigarettes and Coffee, and hot damn, that song perfectly described my favorite moments with the people that I love. Just being together, smoking cigarettes just talking... or just simply being present. I'm fairly positive I chose Otis in the end, but what does it matter now, right? Otis was my Icarus song. The moment when I flew to closeto the sun. Perhaps that is what its like when you're at the end. You can fully see the sun when you fall back to Earth. 

 

This is the best story I have about the sun.

[Also I apologize in advance for how emotionally graphic this gets. But I wrote this in October of 2015 after leafing through an old journal and seeing the physical entry about this day.]

I'm Sure You'll Call

Within the ethos of love, loss and or just being simply pathetic, communication seems to be a practical notion of life. Growing up in the generation where you called the home phone while silently praying that her Dad didn't pick up first; having an auditory experience with another human being means a lot to me when there is distance involved. I've experienced all forms of distance. From having a crush on the girl that's just down the block, to trying to keep up with family affairs thousands of miles away, I am no stranger to picking up the phone. But with that said, I am also one who is terrified of the phone. There have been late nights, early mornings or sunny afternoons where I've picked up the receiver to hear news better saved for when hugs can quickly be applied. So when one is attempting to transverse the miles and miles of your own unexplored personal constitution, you tend to need that auditory experience to keep you grounded.

As I've been exploring not only my own personal cognition, but as well in the academic world, I have come across two rather interesting things that I begun to apply to myself. An ontological framework and epistemological conclusion. Ontological, or ontology is from the branch of metaphysics that deals with the nature of being. Traditionally this philosophical framework deals with this question of what is real? Essentially ontology makes you question the existence of 'being'. Yeah, I know what you're probably thinking, "Dude... are you trying put me to sleep?" Well just think about this, if your body can simulate a fever but you don't actually have one, is the simulation of the fever more real than an actual fever itself? Or what about this. You are fairly positive that someone has caught feelings for you. So therefore you do everything in your power to find out if these feelings are real or not. And for a short time you interpret everything that person does through the lens of "They like me." What is more real in that situation, the feels that you perceive, acted on, and also can cognitively sense, or the reveal that the person actually does have feelings?
As for epistemology, it is essentially knowledge. Basically, what can be known. So take the previous example of the random dude/chick that you perceive to totally dig you. You calculate what is known. They've texted you several times.
They've smiled in your general direction, whether you were looking or not.
Your friends constantly tell you, "Hey, you'd be a great match."
Hence, it is simplistic data gathering.

Basically what I am saying is that every time you look into a persons eyes and think, "Sweet Jesus, I think want to go the party in their pants", you're about to have an ontological and epistemological experience. Are these feelings real? And what do I know about these feelings or that person in particular (this is also a very post-structuralist way of dealing with feelings, but I won't get into that). I believe that we become very philosophical when we are horny. Balancing out the "do's and don'ts", the pros and cons of doing this or that, and so forth.  Perhaps I am the only one who believes that we don't only think with our genitals when making an intimate decision. There's math involved.

ANYWAYS.
Back to the phone, or lack there of.

Back in October, I wrote a series of letters to Scully. I oddly preferred epistolary relationships, which is essentially what we did as kids. You'd be in class, and you'd find yourself passing notes to that cute girl several rows back. Just the idea of receiving physical mail made my heart flutter. That feeling of parchment in your hands. The ability to imagine their face while they wrote it. Oh, it was all glorious. The written word was my phone. And I always was certain that she would call.
I called a lot.
Sometimes my conversations were short and sweet. All nicely dulled out on the back of a scholarly postcard. As for the others, well they were pages long. I know for a fact that some of these letters were received with glamour. The others, well it took a fortnight till I got a response, and the response included a single sentence and an emoji. The sum total impact of those letters on her heart or mind are still a mystery to me. I simply ran out of data to collect. My referential sign of our reality faded like a song that ends to soon. 
Either way, I was digging through my documentation box on my computer this evening and I found a letter that had not been sent. It was a phone call that never happened. As for why I never sent it, well I can only assume that I buckled on the pressure of trying not to be a complete psycho. Or perhaps I was just to sad to send it.

But now, here it is.

And if you're wondering how I am doing mentally right now, here in this very instant.
Well to be honest.
I am completely fine.
Whether you believe this sort of expression is unhealthy or a sign of mental fortitude, I personally this method of unearthing the past extremely therapeutic. To be able to present it, call it for what it was worth and move on is the greatest form of personal healing that I can do.
And also, may I remind you... You don't have to read it either.


This song is what this letter sounds like me. And no, it's not on the playlist. But there are hints to what was on the playlist within the letter itself.
But to complete the playlist, tune in next time. 



October 14th, 2015.

Dear Scully,

Laugh Track

I've made many spur of the moment decisions in my life. "I've never lined up a shot in my life." Currently trying to coin that as my catch phrase, well besides, "HERE'S THE THING!" Either way, these ad hoc choices range from the clover tattoo on my ass because I thought, "Aw, fuck it. I'm in Ireland", to signing up for an exchange program in Japan because Japanese girls were incredibly appealing to me as a sixteen year-old boy. And its true, the Asian-persuasion is a very real thing. But that's not what this is about. Months before I met Scully I tried my hand in standup comedy and it was one of the best choices I ever made.
It takes a lot of guts to get on stage in front of bunch strangers and make witty dark comments about your life story. And much like this blog, it was extremely therapeutic. But sometimes the experience was even more painful for me because I was preforming at the club in Chattanooga where my brother-in-law got his start in comedy, JJ's Bohemia. He now lives in Los Angeles and has become very successful at what he does. So the night that I decided to go check out the local comedy and become a part of it, it was extremely nerve racking. All the comedians already knew who I was because my older sister and brother-in-law are considered 'Chattanooga Royalty'. So when I entered the smokey saloon I already could hear, "Brady Effler?! What are you doing here?"

Around May of 2015, I had my first night at hosting at JJ's Bohemia. Yes, I had worked my way up to the point that Ryan Darling, the MC of the comedy room presented me with the honor of being the first and last thing the audience sees. It was also the night that Scully met me. I remember her telling me much later that she thought I was cute and funny. She might as well have said I was the sexiest man on the planet and could bench press the hopes and dreams of every third world country. I remember reflecting on this night over and over again when I moved to England. Each time I thought about it the memory got less and less real, but the feeling stayed the same.
I record the experience in my personal journal. The events that follow are real.

And if you've been keeping up with the other posts, you know that these entries revolve around a particular playlist. Well since this is technically the start of the tale, here is the first track of Is That You, Scully?

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter // The Anniversary.

 



(Sometime in May.)

Riveting.
That’s what I need to be… riveting. How many times should I... How many times do I need to hear this.

Candy Cigarette

 

Being in church has always been a despondent place for me.
Growing up in a religious household one would think that I would have either come to love church or hate it. That seems to be the integral paradigm for a pastor's kids.

You are either are a saint, or you are a heathen.
Hymns not sins.
Prayers not affairs.
Hugs not drugs.  

Pews not brews.
And so on.

Possibly by the end of this I'll remind my self that I am not unique to this binary system either. I mean I do have several more potent blogs to write that exfoliate my motley past. But church has always been a sad place for me, and sometimes the mystery of why stands the test of time. Perhaps it's the graphic design of their power point sermons, the tap-water coffee or the great expectation to be boring...
But oh well.
If you couldn't tell I just shrugged at my desk.   

When I was a teenager growing up in the new land of Chattanooga Tennessee I tried my hardest to fit in. Fuck, I even joined the football team because all the bleach blonde kids in Nike trainers with Big League chew did it, and they seemed to dictate at the time who was in or who was a 'faggot'. I certainly did not want to be 'faggot'. I can't recall if it was the piss in my cleats or that I didn't know what "coon hunting" was, but I felt out of place most of time. I was missing the golden plains of California where the ocean was just a short drive away. And oddly I really didn't care for the beach when I was living there either. As I spent more time in Tennessee I found my self dreaming about the beach, or literally anywhere else. As I grew older I made it my personal vendetta to see new lands and move out of my comfort zone, because like or not, some asshole is gonna do it for you anyway. Thus there's the the time when I fought to fit in at church.
I taught myself to play the bass guitar, then eventually the regular guitar, which in my mind was the one that would either give me the worship leader position or get me laid. At that point in my life, both seemed dangerously cool and out of my comfort zone. Eventually I was both annoying and dedicated enough to actually convince the Youth Pastor to give me the gig. I Brady, landed the position of youth group worship leader. Terrifying.

Yeah, I did that.
In retrospect it still kind of shocks me.
I led kids in ages of 11 to 17 in worship.
I said all the cool things worship leaders are supposed to say.

I love Jesus, but I'd sin for pizza. (LOL)
Lift your hands, or you can rock out silently.
Who wants to go to the Skillet concert in Atlanta!?

I had the proclivity to always pick songs in a minor key. I wanted songs that echoed the torturous grief of being human. That was my shtick, and it worked. I often pawned that off as being a "free thinker" while openly explaining the tattoos I was going to get once I left my parents house. Thus, if someone wanted a happy song I'd say some thing like, "You're not paying attention to the world brah! We're all dying here?! I need the lord to set my soul ablaze..." That would shut the haters up. And on occasion the haters were my age, therefore I'd just flip the conversation to be about Relient K and how they are the christian equivalent of the Offspring to our generation. Those were always nifty conversations... Well until someone said that Pillar was better than P.O.D.  
Those people got bumped to the back of the prayer list.
But yeah, church made me sad. And I made it sad. It was reciprocal relationship. I held the worship leader position for only a year and some change. After a death at a local high school, falling out with a friend of mine and getting rejected from a cute piano player, I couldn't take it any more. Life had caught up to me. So I left the worship position, decided to be a rebel, take up drugs and alcohol and got kicked out of college for a laundry list of reasons.

Drugs not hugs.
Brews not pews.
Sins not hymns.
Affairs not Prayers.
And so on.

So if we fast-forward to today; I woke up in England, miles away from any one close and with the same sadness. The sadness of church. And she was softly sleeping within her thermal nest that's somewhere above my heart and below my neck. And that sadness comes generally comes from this question: What Am I Doing Here?
I asked my self that in church. I asked myself that in a hospital. And now I have been asking my self that here. As I shuffled around my bed, I began to recall the night I had before. It was July Fourth and I had managed to get into another serious argument with one of my best friends. Fairly certain our conversations will now be in ques at grocery stores where we accidentally run into one another. I can't tell if I fucked up again, or I'm just really, really good at staying alone. As I walked home alone last night I opened up "Is That You, Scully?" again and put it on shuffle. Family and Genus by Shakey Graves started playing. I started silently singing as if I was back in church. I remembered why I put this song on here for her too. I saw into the future one day while we were driving with the windows down; the breeze splashing our hair around, laughing like a pair mental patients. As her hair toppled past her ears I knew I'd lose her. I knew that some where in life one of us would drift away, like a balloon in the mist. If that happened, I wanted this song to comfort her:

"If,
If I,
If I ever wander on by
Could,
Could you,
Flag me down and beg me to
Drop what I'm doing and sit beside you."

Life is sad. Life is tough. But fuck it. I traded in my candy cigarettes for real ones a time long ago. I'm turning Scully into a song for all of you to hear. I'm sure when I get to the end of these tales (Because I am going somewhere with it, don't you worry your pretty little face) I'll have a deeper appreciation for the moments I let atrophy into antiquity. 
This open road is now a church.


 Journal Entry #11**
"2/11/2015
A form of ridiculous. This childish pander for love and affection. I've written letters and mailed post cards to her, but still no reflection of anything that I've done...
She has truly added silence to this distance. And perhaps that's for the best. I still have no waded fully into the waters here. I've dipped my toes into this new life. But why? I have this fear that if I fully submerge my self that I'll lose her forever. But maybe that's supposed to happen.
I am not doing well in my studies either. I frankly don't know what I'm doing. Am I ashamed? Is this what I really want? Scully, she lit up my soul. I had soaked it in the rains of missery and painful memories, but when she met me... It was as if a pillar of fire burnt my alter dry. The artist of my heart is sleeping restlessly with the corpse of our memory. I just long to be desired by what my heart has begged for. I don't know how to quit her. 
This place... it is making me question who I am. And more importantly how I am to be. What would it be like to forget you? WOuld I be tossing away what I fought for? Or is this even a fucking battle?
[...]
Now for some acctual documentation. 
Met this girl named Farah, well rather Steven made me talk to her. Made out at the bar several times. She came over last night and [...] how romantic right? 
Bar work has been fun, but I think I hold myself back from having more fun.
I'm sitting in Cobble, a local coffee shop, avoiding work. I'm not going to give up...
I'm going to press on.
[...]
God show me the path.
Whether I walk alone or not, at least light the way."

**
**Also, these journal entries are real. But they have been edited. Obviously names have been changed and some graphic details are omitted... for now**
**

Time Tape.

Last night I started writing again. 

It is time to stop sulking quietly, and at least start exercising my frustrations out loud. Over the past several months I have built up this incredible amount of bile. You know what bile is right? It's that dark yellow, greenish liquid that is excreted in your stomach to help you break down yum-yum food stuffs. But if your stomach builds up to much bile, then your stomach will develop the personalty of blood-raged cowboy who lost their family and small baby calf in an Indian raid. It's about to bust a cap in your side and not even ask if you feel lucky, punk.

Anywho,  I need to burn this shit off like a rocket burns fuel before it breaks through the atmosphere, and we are going to start with what's at the bottom of the tank. And in this particular metaphor, I have no clue what the atmosphere could be, well besides that soft-core hip-hop duo from Minneapolis. But I do know what bile consists of, therefore this could make for an interesting adventure for you readers.
In fact, I've been internalizing this venomous melodrama for so long that my next several blogs could be as impetuous as Han shooting first. And don't you argue with me on that either (There's a time and place to discuss the tragedy of CGI).

Either way, in my last blog post I mentioned a particular playlist that was constructed for a female from the past. Ha, ha, oh wait. Aren't they all from the past?
Anywho, the mix was titled, "Is That You, Scully?" And it wasn't titled that just because Gillian Anderson is a one serious sex kitten, but because maybe every once in a while I felt like Fox Mulder when she unconvincingly sighed in my general direction. For those of you who do watch the X-Files, you know, as I know that I'll be stuck in a constant state of wanting to believe if I am to play the role of Mulder... So to be the Fox, is to be forever alone. But just in case all the tacky fan fiction holds up, SCULDER FOREVER!
I think I went off on a tangent, back to "...Scully."
Have you ever looked into someones eyes and thought to your self, "I know what the second to last track will be on the mix I make for you when I ask you to marry me?" Come on, raise your hand if this particular phenomena has happened to you.

Don't be shy.

Ah! Yes! You in the back.

I see that hand... May the lord bless you child.

But yes, I remember looking deep into those fathomless titian eyes. My insides expanded as if I were a crumpled piece of dry parchment that had just been soaked in water. Kind of like when as a kid you'd shove the wrapping down off of a straw so it would make a small chode like pile. Then you'd put one droplet of water on it and watch it turn into a worm. Yeah, that was feeling... well that coupled with an awfully dumb smile and the thought of, "I already know the second to last song that would be on your tape."
And just in case you're wondering what the fuck I am talking about, here is a Youtube video that could possibly destroy this sweet and lovely imagery.

So with that said, have you ever wished that time travel was real?
Not so you could win the lottery, but simply so that you could go back and watch a moment one more time. One more time before it all turned to shit. And let's be honest here, you are reading the ramblings of a hopeless romantic. One that has a hard time letting go of the past, simply because he thinks he hasn't learned his lesson.
And maybe this is it.
Maybe these new blogs are just for me.
Perhaps all I am doing to taking my self through some metaphysical therapy session with bad-ass pictures and sad songs as my guide.
Or perhaps there are other people that feel this way as well, and for some reason you're glad to be in good company.


The second to last song for Scully was Wolves by Phosphorescent. And I wanted to use the live version of the song too. I thought the ambience of him being in a church would be a nice touch to the end of the mix. I chose this song because we would not understand extreme joy without reflecting on extreme sadness. And there's a lot more I could say about the song, but I'll reserve that for someone that cares to listen. But I'll also let you take from it what you wish. Also, while you listen, down below is an old journal entry from when I first arrived in the country.

Journal Entry #5

"28/8/2015:

Its been several days, and frankly I thought I'd be writing more, but I haven't. I've been distracting my self with drinks, trying to meet new people and consistently talking to Scully. We've literally talked everyday. I'm sure at some point it will taper off, and I'm already dreading it...

I'm confused about the reality of my feelings for her. Am I in 'love' or am I just in the wrong place and the right time? Classes haven't really got hard yet, and maybe that's because my heart isn't into it.

I don't know where I want to be... 

Do I want to be home with Scully? Or do I want to be here pursuing a future that has yet to take shape and form? Maybe I'm just a bum waiting to get lucky. You know, have fortune fall into my lap just like my misfortunes have. 

I hope I am doing the right thing.

Maybe one day, I'll return and be a better man. 

A strong man.

A man worth a family and job.

I need to be asking myself, why am I hung up on Scully? I mean she was instant. It was like I was sleeping bullet that had been loaded into a sniper rifle. The blast awoke me, and then all of sudden I was in someones heart. Maybe when you know -- you know.

I just don't want to be wasting my time or hers...

I know she cares for me, but I am a very selfish man and its almost never enough for me. I am constantly thirsty for love and passion. Perhaps its an in human thirst that can't be cured by the touch of a woman, or maybe it can be.

Fuck it Effler, make a list: Start Comedy Society, Phone Calls, Address, Read-read-read, and Grow."