Author: The Madchronicler

What can I say? I'm an amateur writer, an eternal optimist and a hopeful dreamer. Sometimes I play the fool, but most times I try to avoid it.

On Six Years and Appeals to the Universe

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Six years. It doesn’t seem like a long time, does it? Given an average, human lifespan of 70 years in 2024 (SOURCE), and a universe that is billions of years old, six years seems like nothing. Less than a drop of water in the world’s biggest bucket. Less than a grain of sand on the largest beach on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Six years is miniscule when compared to other, time-reliant concepts. Yet for me, your old buddy The Madchronicler, who was formerly known as El Autoro and before that, Frank Marsh, six years feels like an eternity.

I was shocked upon opening what my good friend Ed likes to call “The Book of Faces” this morning, going to my memories (one of the rare things I check daily on it; on that point, I apologize for not wishing all of my 350 or so followers a Happy Birthday consistently for the last, few years–I simply don’t spend a lot of time on social media these days) and realizing that today, September 30, 2024 is the six year anniversary of when I moved into my current home in Swarthmore, PA.

Six years. Six years since I left my once-home in Broomall, PA for the last time as a resident, my then-truck (my trusty Honda Pilot, which finally fell apart at a shade under 160K miles, last Fall) loaded down with the last of my sparse possessions–the others were already here in the place I am writing these words now, from my now-combination office/bedroom on the second floor, overlooking a dreary, humid and chilly early-autumn day which hangs over the street below. Blackrock Road. What a cool name for a street. I should really look up, after six years, why they call this street “Blackrock.” Be right back. Or, in teen-speak, BRB.

Not unsurprisingly, there was nothing on Google (or Bing; I use both on this computer) to explain why my street is called “Blackrock.” The most I could find was a Wikipedia article on SwarthmoreWOOD, which is the sub-sect of Swarthmore, PA that I reside in. Given the lack of online information about Blackrock Road, I am going to simply assume (even though doing so generally makes an ASS out of U and ME), that when this area was developed in the 1950s, they found a bunch of black rocks lying around or in the soil. My apologies for how anti-climactic that probably is to a few, if not all of you reading this. Even storytellers, sometimes are forced to simply say “ah, f*ck it.” Acknowledge and move on.

I digress. Back to six years. I remember that day vividly. It was a surprisingly beautiful Saturday given what was happening–I guess Mother Nature didn’t think my situation was dire enough to warrant a gray and gloomy day like today. The temperature was about the same as it is currently–hovering in the high 60s/low 70s–and it was a bit humid, as the last vestiges of summer seem to hang on the longest in the Mid-Atlantic, every year. I remember watching my soon-to-be ex-wife drive away from our home in Broomall with the girls in tow, heading to dance class. I remember my friends and some family arriving to help me pack the last of my belongings into my U-Haul and Pilot. I drove the U-Haul down Route 320 (known colloquially as “Springfield Road”), 20 minutes away first, left it here, and then went back to get my Pilot courtesy of someone driving me back (apologies that I cannot remember who). Thereafter I was back here and have been here almost every night since I arrived save for those few nights, over the last six years where I was away for the weekend, or on vacation, or on a business trip. I never slept another night in Broomall, and that house is no longer owned by either a Marsh or a Gentile, my ex having moved out many years ago. As best I can tell–because I still spend a lot of time in Broomall and Newtown Square between school, and dance–it is now owned by someone who doesn’t like trees–they cut them all down–and hates decorating for the holidays. Every time I drive past it, I say a prayer for them. I hope they made/are making as many, wonderful memories as we did for many of the years we lived there.

Six years folks. Over the last, six years I’ve watched my two daughters grow into teenagers. I’ve been in a few relationships, but all ended for one reason or another–usually me. I retired the Pilot in favor of a gently loved 2020 Equinox which I hope to pass onto my oldest when she starts driving. I’ve maintained my abode in SwarthmoreWOOD as best I can, though admittedly, some repairs are starting to evade my expertise. I’m on my third job, but I’ve been in my current one for almost five years. I’m a lot greyer than I was in 2018 and a bit skinnier, and I can no longer deny the fact that my once-beloved head of hair is beginning to recede. I’m less than 365 days away from the Big 5-0 and I’m having difficulty coming to grips with the idea that the average human life expectancy in 2024 is 70 and I’m less than 21 years away from that. Maybe my keen awareness of such things is a product of the comfort level I have achieved in my life after the six most turbulent years of my existence. I’m not averse to the changes. Time can be a cruel companion, but only if you let it be one. I tend to look at time these days as a welcome partner on my journey deeper into the latter third of my life.

Six years. Gone in a blink. 21 more until I hit (and hopefully exceed) our corporeal terminal velocity as human beings. Six years to get to a point in my life where things have grown relatively quiet again. The past remains–the pain I felt, the hurt I endured and what I regrettably dished out at times–but only because, to quote Matthew McConaughey, “sometimes you gotta go back to go forward. And I don’t mean going back to reminisce or chase ghosts. I mean go back to see where you came from, where you’ve been, how you got HERE.” There are lessons to be learned from the past, but you cannot let all of the above factors affect your present, or your future.

Six years. When I started writing this piece, I was fixated on that. But the more I compose, the more I think that this little blog entry, piece of Mental Flatulence or Dissertation is more of a reflection on where I’ve been, and where I’m going. Inevitably, we humans reflect on where we’ve been and consider what we could have done differently. I’ve done plenty of that in my 49 plus years, here on my side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. When I was in college, I considered going into IT like many of my friends at that time. Frank Marsh, Computer Programmer. There was and remains a ton of money in that field, though the landscape has changed a lot–I see it every day in my current job. IT folks are opting for the life of a digital nomad versus a steady, in-office, 9-5 mundane, routine existence. Many of them become independent contractors and work multiple gigs for multiple companies at a time. They’re not tied to one place… One location. They can do the same job from East Jipip that they do from Bumf*ck (or, if you prefer a less vulgar comparison, SwarthmoreWOOD and Dominica). IT folks in 2024 are part of a world in which there are no borders save for the ones that their forefathers and mothers drew, hundreds of years ago. It’s about as close to the digital world of Neuromancer as we’ll ever get as a species (sorry William Gibson, but AI is going to take the digital highways and byways of this world over long before people start “jacking in”). That could have been me. But sometime in mid-high school I fell in love with English and there was, from that moment forth no line of code that could or would ever replace it.

Speaking of English, my plan had always been to teach. I had it all figured out, and I came closer to it than I did a career in tech: A few content credits and a stint as a student teacher away from an MA in Education. Yet those of you that know me know that didn’t play out the way I drew it up either. Life, and Probability and Statistics intervened, and I settled for a career in the staffing industry which… If we’re being honest, has absolutely nothing to do with English unless you count drafting emails as a similarity. That decades old vision of me, bearded and standing in front of a group of high school or college students as Frank Marsh, MA or PhD in a pair of faded jeans, a button-down Oxford shirt and a corduroy suit jacket with patches on the elbows teaching Shakespeare is only a memory now. It too could have been me.

I could continue to cite examples–Frank Marsh, Actor/Director. Frank Marsh, Published Author (I guess this one kind of happened, though if you ask some folks, self-publishing does not count, even if said self-publisher made a profit, and maintains a relatively high rating/review standard for his two, SELF-published novels), Frank Marsh, Outside Salesperson for a hydraulic and pneumatic distribution company, Frank Marsh, Training Store, or even Regional Manager for CVS/Pharmacy–but to do so at this point is fruitless. All could have been me. But this is not about reminiscing or chasing ghosts. This is about NOW. I am a 49 plus year old Business Development Manager. I know how I got here. The answer is simple: I made a choice. I made choices that led me to this point. And let’s be fair friends: I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My success as a BDM is one of the main reasons why things have grown quiet in my world for the first time in… Honestly longer than six years (because none of what led me to that beautiful but fateful, late September Saturday morning six years ago today happened overnight). I still deal with stressors, but for the first time in a very long time, career-wise they’re not primarily employment-related. I have and will continue to embrace my NOW, here, on the cusp of 50. I intend to make the best of whatever life I have left beyond this moment in time, up to and God willing past my corporeal, terminal velocity. But there are still questions that beg to be answered because despite the general silence, there remains a desire for more. Six years. I know where I was six years ago today. The question: Where will I be, six years from NOW?

It’s later now. I’m at dance, waiting for the girls to finish their nightly slate of practice–four hours for the oldest, and only one for the youngest. The above asked question has haunted me since I posed it to myself (and you, readers) a few hours ago. I don’t know that I can say, for sure where I WILL be. But I know where I want to be, and that may be the closest a non-divination human of 49 plus can get (yes, that was a veiled D&D reference).

Leg one is simple: I want to be even more secure and at peace than I am now. No more lingering home repairs or financial concerns. Fewer stressors. A better sleep pattern and about 25 additional pounds lighter than I am presently. But legs two, three et cetera are trickier (or “tricksier” to quote everyone’s favorite Gollum). Here’s where I grow tentative because I know what I want to answer. I’ve answered this same query, the same way multiple times pre-tonight. But I’ve never had the ability or, to be honest (TBH in teen-speak) the energy/desire to follow through. I’m okay with being a co-parent, homeowner and BDM. I’m okay with being a Dance Dad, Theater Papa, Basketball Father (and occasional private coach for my youngest daughter) and whatever else the universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence desires me to be. I ask only one thing in return of said universe, and if he/she/it can grant me this, okay. Let’s f*cking go (LFG in teen-speak).

Six years. Six years from now, I want to be, nay I need to be a writer too. I have too many stories kissing my subconscious, some more forcibly than others to not keep doing what I’m doing right now. Here in this silence, I’ve never felt more imaginative. I feel like I have a new idea, or the return of an old idea every day. My words are beginning to flow, more freely than they have in some time and there’s something new in them. Good or bad–I leave that up to you, friends; I can see it in this blog entry–I have… I am changing. Evolving once again, both as a writer and a person. I want to harness this. 21 years is still a lot of time, and assuming my trusty Marsh/Hamilton genes keep me upright like my trusty Pilot kept me mobile, 70 may just be the start. After all, my mother and father are both well into their 70s and my grandparents, for the most part lived well into their 80s and 90s. There IS time. And if you, oh universe grant me this, I swear to you, this night–as the rain that has been threatening all day begins to slowly, methodically pitter-patter on the fuselage of my new, so far trusty Equinox–I will be everything that you require me to be and more.

Back home now and sleep is calling. Or some semblance thereof. I know I need to be up early in the morning to run the girls to school before returning, back here to Blackrock Road in SwarthmoreWOOD to work. I’ve no scheduled meetings tomorrow–which is not always a bad thing. Tomorrow is October 1, 2024: Day One of Q4 and marks the start of my yearly “sprint to the finish.” Can I hit my numbers this year? Can I exceed my output from last year? Thus far, each year has improved on the one before it. Hopefully this year–which has, at times been very good, and at times less so–follows suit. Good, bad… The continued duality of my existence on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, no matter whether I’m living in Broomall or SwarthmoreWOOD, PA, or somewhere between the two. Much of my life, these days is spent in that gray area between the two locations, and some is spent between the two poles of morality. Maybe that’s just me, going too hard on myself. I do believe I am inherently a good person. Even good people do bad things sometimes. I guess I’ll leave the final ruling on that up to the universe that I am appealing to but one thing I know for certain is that every decision I have ever made, not just in the last six years, but over the course of a good portion of my 49 plus year life has been a measured one. I trust in that. I trust in myself. I trust in the universe to hear me this night and maybe, just maybe, the next six years WILL prove to be less chaotic, and more peaceful than the previous six.

Six years. An appeal to the universe. And hopefully a good night’s sleep. I wish you all the same, friends.

Booyakasha. RESPECT. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

F.

On the Return of Power Ballad Friday and Retrospectives

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

NOTE: This was originally written on Friday the 17th of November, I just forgot to post it.

Back in the day–when a select few colleagues and I worked for a semi-large fluid power distributor, halfway between York, PA and Royersford, PA (and no one lived anyplace else)–our in-office, Friday tradition was to listen to Power Ballads from the 1980s and 1990s for as long as we could before our boss, or someone else in the office ordered us to turn them off. We usually made it until around lunchtime before our radio station (yes, we used to listen to the radio back then) was silenced. I remember those days fondly, even now–as I sit here in my home office on an unusually mild, November day less than a week away from Thanksgiving in the Year 2023 of our Lord–so much so that every so often, I have my own, Power Ballad Friday whilst I go about my week ending business, and pray that someone doesn’t hit me with a rush pre-5PM EST. So far, so good today. Fingers crossed that it remains so. It’s been a long week.

For those of you reading this that do not know what a Power Ballad is, I offer you this definition, courtesy of Bing and the interwebs: “A Power Ballad is a slow love song that is sung with a lot of emotion and grows bigger, louder and more fervent on the way to [it’s] impassioned finale. Power Ballads are a mainstay of popular music since the 1970s and combine the euphoric uplift created by rousing music with sentimental themes and ploys. Power Ballads often sing of an emotional Valhalla where everything has to be forever.”

Okay so maybe that last part was unnecessary, but any reference to “Valhalla” is a good reference in my opinion, so I included it. The key part of the definition is the first sentence, and while I understand that technically, the Power Ballad (abbreviated PB moving forward to save time and space) has been around since the 1970s, it wasn’t truly perfected in my humble opinion until the 1980s with the rise of bands like Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, Poison, Motley Crue, Guns N Roses, Cinderella, Whitesnake et al. I could go on and on–there were more bands releasing PBs in the 1980s and 1990s than there were Motown bands releasing hits in the 1960s and 1970s–and guess what friends? Every one of them was a hit. And every person that grew up and listened to PBs then has their own Top 10 list, me included. While I’d love to share that list herein, I’m worried that doing so would eat up too much time and space and keep me away from the whole point of this little piece of Mental Flatulence. Which is? I am glad you asked.

Full transparency: Power Ballad Friday (shortened to PBF moving forward in the interest of yadda, yadda yadda) was only a gateway to retrospective. I was listening to PBs long before the call I had this morning with one of my prospective market makers (what we call staffing companies in my staffing-adjacent business, abbreviated to MM moving forward). I get to speak with a lot of folks on a daily basis in my line of work. I also get to leave a ton of voicemails and send a ton of emails and LinkedIn messages, but I prefer the conversations. While I tend to keep my written correspondences diverse and targeted, I find that the conversations I have with folks speak more to my strengths. Back in the day–long before we all lived between York and what we endearingly called ROFO and listened to PBs all morning every PBF–there was limited email and no LinkedIn. We couldn’t even text one another which I am quite sure comes as a shock to the same segment of people, reading this that had no idea what a Power Ballad was and think Cinderella is a Disney princess, a deaf leopard is a big cat that can’t hear, and a motley crew is a… Well? A motley crew. We communicated in two ways: Via snail mail (that would be the USPS for those of you who are uninitiated and too young to remember when stamps actually had a monetary value and weren’t just “forever stamps”) and most commonly, via phone.

Ah, ye’ ol’ phone call. I had dozens, maybe hundreds of epic phone conversations back in the day. They weren’t just “hi! How are you” calls either. We’re talking two-to-three-hour marathon sessions which oftentimes happened after dark and occasionally resulted in one, or both parties passing out with the call still connected. And oh, my friends and loved ones, I am here to tell you that there is nothing cooler than waking up in the middle of the night with the phone still by your ear and hearing the sound of a friend or a girl/boyfriend you truly care for sleeping on the other end. You wake them up with a soft recitation of their name, only to hear a low sigh, and a breathy voice speak your name before saying, “I must have fallen asleep.” You can see the soft smile upon their face despite the fact that it is only their voice you are hearing. That was trust, guys and gals. Attachment. And more often than not? Love. At least it was for me… More often than not.

I digress. This morning, I had a call with a prospective MM that I have been speaking with for a few months now–what we in the Business Development (abbreviated as BD for short) world call a “slow burner.” The upshot? He was being forced to put a move forward on hold indefinitely due to… Wait for it… The divorce he was going through with his soon-to-be ex-wife. She was the co-owner of his recently dissolved company, and everything related to it and his future business dealings were and are to remain frozen until sorted through. This knowledge led to genuine sympathy on my end, and a deeper conversation about relationships and, more accurately, separation and divorce. Shockingly enough, his situation was, and is very similar to the situation I found myself in over five years ago now. I won’t get too heady on the specifics as that would be a disservice to him, his soon-to-be ex, myself and my own ex whom I truly consider both a co-parent and a friend. For me, what is passed is Past, but for him, what is in my Past is his Present. I told him this, and his response?

“How did you get through it?”

Anyone who has been through a divorce has, at some point been asked this question by someone else who is going through a separation and a divorce. Hell, I’ve asked it of people in the past, and the responses I received from them were as different as “Something To Believe In” by Poison is from “Hysteria” by Def Leppard. For all the Gen Z’ers reading this that are still grappling with what a PB is and why a band would name themselves Guns N Roses, those are two of my favorite PBs and for educational purposes, I am linking them both herein so that you can see what I mean and maybe, just maybe experience the majesty and awesomeness of a PB for the first time.

Rad, huh? Totally tubular. In 2023 terms? Lit. I’d love to hear your thoughts so hit me up in the comments section if you’d like or just… You know, forget I ever introduced you to these and go back to listening to Olivia Rodrigo. I won’t judge you. I’ve got two teenage girls and believe it or not, I think Olivia slays.

Anywhos, back to the question I cited above. How did I get through it? How did I, an uber emotional, hopeful romantic survive losing the woman I once vowed to spend the rest of my life with? How did I go from the guy, celebrating the anniversary of his last, first date to the guy writing these words today a shade over six years later? Unaware of how I was going to answer my colleague’s question, I started talking, as I oftentimes do, and have done for as long as I can remember dating back to those nights on the phone with my friends and girlfriends until one or both of us fell asleep without disconnecting the call. Many times, in the past, I’ve started speaking and have quickly forgotten what I said, but today, I realized quite quickly that the words coming out of my mouth were and remain the greatest lesson I have learned from my own, personal experience in the last five plus years, and I should remember them. While I won’t list them verbatim, I feel comfortable paraphrasing them herein.

It’s never easy. Regardless of how amicable the split is, voluntarily walking away from something you committed heart, mind and soul to x-amount of years before is hard. Damaging. You will carry the scars of it with you for the remainder of your life, regardless of how long that life is, where you go, if you love again et cetera et cetera. You will wake up at night in a cold sweat occasionally from a nightmare, and you’ll promptly look to your left or right for the person that you’d snuggle with in the past to ward off the fear. They will not be there. You’ll go somewhere during the day and remember the time you and she/he were there together, what you did, even what you ate and what you talked about and if you’re like me, you’ll even recall what they were wearing. Yet they will not be there. You will find yourself in a place where you are looking for “something to believe in” and you’ll wish that you “didn’t know now the things you did know then.” You may even “get hysterical, hysteria.”

The key, in these moments is to not give into despair. When you’re struggling to pay your bills and you wish you had a second income to contribute, don’t grow withdrawn and depressed. Embrace the challenge of learning how to do it on your own and draw strength from it. You’ll have moments where life blindsides you–as it did me a few weeks ago when I had to buy a new car with little to no warning–but that’s not because you’re on your own. It’s not God or whatever deity you believe testing your resolve or paying you back for the bad stuff you did before. It’s just the nature of Life with a capital L. As time passes, these moments will begin to pass too. They may never entirely go away, but through perseverance… Through not giving up, you will develop into something you never thought you would when your relationship took a hard left turn into Sh*tsville. An individual. You, but a new version of you. You 2.0. And you’ll realize, eventually that you are in a better place than you were before. You’ll move on with your life into the “magical mysteria” that is your new future. End paraphrase.

The result of this was a decision to speak again pre-the end of the year, and an offer extended by me to speak with my prospective MM again in the future if needed, whether said conversation is work-related, or other. We hung up, and I went about my day which, eventually, found me writing these words on my lunch break. I realize–as I read back over what I just composed–that somehow, against at times overwhelming odds I moved on. It didn’t take me five plus years–this started some time ago–but I’ve not yet been able to fully explicate the feeling, and my current state like I did today and am doing now. As for how I feel, I’ll be honest with y’all: Not much different than I did when I woke up this morning. I think that too is a sign that this has been a gradual process of emotional evolution as there is no watershed moment that I can point to where the light just “clicked” on, and I knew I was okay. But I am okay. And given the conversation I had with my colleague earlier… Given the moment when the punk truly became the godfather and spoke to someone facing the same, uncertain future that I did back in 2018, I am grateful… Beyond thankful to those who saw me through those early days, post-separation and pre-divorce when I admittedly ran low on the strength to continue, and they shared theirs with me. It would take me too long to list them all here but if they are reading these words right now (and I’m pretty sure that more than a handful of them are)? Booyakasha. Respect. Yoda once told Luke Skywalker (Star Wars, guys; even Gen-Z knows Star Wars, right?) in “Return of the Jedi” and again in “The Last Jedi” to pass on what he had learned. I guess that really is the way of not just the Force, but Life with a capital L. Lesson learned and passed on guys and gals.

I think that’s a good place to close this little blog entry/piece of Mental Flatulence out. My mind grows weary, and my lunch break is just about over. I feel like I should have written more about PBs and PBF, as well as MMs, BD et cetera. but as I mentioned earlier, those abbreviated topics acted as a gateway to what I really needed to write about, and in that, I have achieved my goal. Fitting that the last PB I’m listening to as I conclude is “Heaven” by Warrant. No, I didn’t plan that, it just happened. Why? Well, give it a listen. You tell me.

Happy Power Ballad Friday friends and oftentimes casual readers. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

F.

Late Evening and Early Morning October Musings

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

It has been almost 10 months since I last published anything here. That is something of a shock to me, given I have gone through lapses in the past, but nothing this extended. I just asked myself “why.” Literally. In the dead silence surrounding me, I spoke aloud, and my cat Daisy looked up from her habitual spot upon the foot of my bed, her eyes half closed to judge me. I get it. It’s 11PM and normally, I’m in bed and under my covers by now. But there’s something in the air tonight, this cool, early October evening and sleep is a relatively distant consideration though admittedly, my endurance for late nights is not what it used to be. I’m a far cry from the days when I and my brethren all lived in J-Town, or Oz/Ab-Oz, or State Pen, or one of the many, other places we congregated when we were younger. Now a few years away from the big 5-0 (some closer than others), we’ve managed for the most part to stay local to each other, a fact which I am eternally grateful for. Yet late night diner runs have given way to early morning runs to and from school for most of us to drop the kids off, and late afternoon runs to pick them up. Does this sadden me? A bit. But it’s not something I am upset about. It’s just life. Adulthood. The next stage in our respective evolutions on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence.

This year has been interesting, and not always in a bad way for once. Quite the contrary, it has been perhaps the best year I’ve had in a long time. I’ve travelled both for business–I got to see Boston for the first time–and recreation–a week spent away in Mexico with my minions and a few, good friends. Long gone are the days when I lived somewhere between Indianapolis and Philadelphia, or between the train platform at Temple University and the one in Norristown, and “travel” was a day trip down the shore. And despite a rougher-than-the-2023-norm few months which have left me feeling slightly exhausted, I am still in a good place. When you deconstruct the “why” of me, not blogging for almost a year down to its component parts, the answer is surprisingly simple. Because there really hasn’t been much to blog about. I am not a travel or food blogger, nor a mom/dad blogger. I generally write from a place of anti-inspiration and anyone that has known me since I first starting penning pieces of Mental Flatulence back in the mid-90s knows this to be true. But… Brace yourselves friends. For the truth may shock you. For the first time since my life went sideways over five years ago, I am not sad. I am not bitter. I am not angry. I just AM. I exist in a place where the only angst I feel is angst of my own creation. It is not peace, nor is it contentment, for I still have my bad days, but to employ an old cliche? They are nothing to write home about. Or blog about for that matter. The mundane, routine existence I fought against for a large portion of my life is, for once, welcome. And while I still have dreams of where my life can go from here, I must admit: They are not quite as lofty as they used to be.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life over the last decade fighting against things I could not control. I will not mention those things herein because if you’ve been keeping up with the story o’ my life since the mid, 2010s you already know them. I did so because they were divergent from the course I’d assumed my life would take back in the 2000s. Yet I’ve grown to understand that life in general never follows a straight line. The only Point A that exists in life is birth, and the only Point B that exists is death. Much like a story, you go into it knowing the beginning and you anticipate the ending. Yet that anticipation often times is rose-tinted and what you had hoped for doesn’t pan out the way you outlined it. Previously, I’d belabor my mind over this to the extent that I came close, once or twice to madness. Yet railing at the almighty, wringing your hands together, gnashing your teeth and screaming “why me” is the only, sure path to going crazy, and frankly (no pun intended), that is not a luxury I can afford, nor is it one that you can afford when you have others that depend on you to keep it together. Your family. Your friends. Once you realize how many folks need your strength, your desire to do battle with the inevitable because it doesn’t fit your narrative loses its appeal, and you find yourself where I am right now: Sitting in front of my computer at 11:45PM, embracing the silence save for the sound of my cat purring in contentment as she sleeps three feet behind me. Now? Silence does not equal loneliness. It illustrates an end to my seemingly endless, internal conflict.

There remain a handful of inevitable questions. “What now” is probably the most prevalent. I know myself well enough to know that I will not be happy forever, sitting in silence as I am this night. I can already feel that itch to do more and accomplish greater things creeping back into my subconscious despite the ache in my neck from hunching over my keyboard for the last hour, and my desire to be well-rested for my 9AM call tomorrow with a prospect in the UK. It is only a matter of time before I start dreaming forward again but for now, simply existing, free of a cloying amount of internal conflict is a desirable place for your old buddy the Mad Chronicler to be.

This past weekend, I and a handful of my closest compadres went to see a production of “Evil Dead: The Musical.” You may not have heard of it. That is not surprising. I don’t think it was as well received as “Wicked” or “Hamilton” was. But it’s hysterical, especially if you grew up as a fan of the Evil Dead movies. It was a small production, but it got me to thinking, and earlier tonight, I embraced those thoughts and revisited some of my oldest Mental Flatulence. The pieces in question were composed between 1998 and 2005 and collected into a binder-bound volume in 2006 which I called “Mental Flatulence: A Collection of Essays from Beyond the Wormhole.” There is a second volume, as well–I think I called it “Mental Flatulence: The Myspace Edition (Including the Collected Couch Chronicles of 2006)”–and if I can find that one, I’ll be reading it tomorrow. But I remember thinking as I was compiling them that selected pieces would make a great, one-man or one-woman stage show. Try as I have, I’ve always failed to kick the theater out of my heart, mind and soul and now that I have two children who are as interested in it as I was then and still am, the idea of finally working on that project resonates with me. There are others, as well, that I’ve been working on and have promised to work on including the completion of HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD, my long-gestating J-Town project and others, including a one-off horror story and an idea that is bigger than anything else I’ve ever attempted. I believe the moment when I get back to work on these items will come soon, but for now, I am content to simply BE. Will I be back on this site posting more ruminations in the near future? I certainly hope so. Inspiration remains a fickle bastard/bitch for me, but when it hits it does so with the force of a speeding semi, careening down I80 from Indiana to Pennsylvania, or a SEPTA train speeding from Temple to Norristown.

I plan to be ready for it when it arrives.

Goodnight friends. Sweet dreams.

F.

Searching for J-Town – A Primer

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Oscar Wilde once wrote that “memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.” I’ve written about memory on many past occasions, often in the electronic pages of this, and other blogs. I wrote three novels and published two that were a fictionalization of my memories. You could argue that I am haunted by them, and my uncanny inability to forget them. Yet could the argument be made that the terms “haunted,” and/or “haunting” are not negative ones? Rather, could one such as I claim that to be haunted is to be the keeper of certain memories for others? Could one argue that what I have often considered the bane of my existence is, in fact, a gift?

I have never shied away from talking or writing about my past before now. In many ways this blog was always meant to be the diary that I carry about with me. So were/are the ENDWORLD books. You could argue that my desire to electronically journal that which I once scribbled in a copybook or leather-bound notebook for only my consumption was a product of pretentiousness. Folks might wonder “what makes my story or stories so important that I need to write them down, in the First Person (no less) for public consumption?” The short answer to that question is a simple one: Nothing. My life truly has been, for the most part unextraordinary. Yet the long answer is a bit more complex. I was, and I am keeping a promise or promises that I made to “write it all down one day.” I am a big fan of keeping my promises, which brings me to the WHY. Why this blog entry? And what does it mean for my future? I invite you, my family, friends and oftentimes casual readers to read on for the answer to that two-part question.

2022 has been a bizarre year. I think I’ve made that abundantly clear in my last couple of posts. So much good, tinged with so much bad: A true representation of Yin and Yang, light and dark et al.. 2022 was very much a year, representative of my life in microcosm. Given that, what are the implications for 2023 and beyond? What happens next?

It goes without saying that the completion and publication of HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD, at least from a writing standpoint is tantamount. As a good friend told me recently, “you need to finish your trilogy.” That is and will be foremost on my list of non-work related, and non-home improvement related goals in 2023. But what comes afterwards? Where do I go once the story, I have labored for almost 30 years to complete is finally fleshed out? What happens after I fulfill that promise? The answer to that particular question is also simple: I move onto my next promise. And that one is why I am writing this blog entry today, December 30th, as I glance behind me in the clear, Winter stillness at the year that was, and prepare for the year that is to come.

That same friend who I referenced above–the one that advised me to finish my trilogy–followed up that answer with another. The question? What then? That answer was ALSO a simple one: “Write about what you know.”

Some time ago… Decades honestly, I sat outside my last apartment in Jenkintown, PA with my friend Emily and discussed the prospect of writing a memoir about our experiences, growing up in what we endearingly referred to then, and still refer to now as “J-Town.” It is likely that many of you reading this know about Jenkintown. Even if you didn’t grow up in or around it, you’ve likely heard of it in the last 10-15 years. The actor/director/producer Bradley Cooper grew up there (and apparently was Confirmed with me; go figure). The hit TV series “The Goldbergs” is set there. Jenkintown has grown into so, much more over the last couple of decades than the Frank Lloyd Wright House and the old Wanamaker Building. It is now an integral part of pop culture. I’d go so far as to say it is semi-famous. Yet back then–When Emily and I sat outside in the parking lot of Madison Manor on a warm and breezy, Summer night–it was little more than a product of OUR collective memories. Not just hers and mine, but my sister’s. My mother’s. And all of the families that we grew up with us there. Not just the Marshes and the Cooneys, but the Rings and the Harmers, the Hungerfords and the Fitzgeralds, the Lyons and the Breslins. Even the Morenos. And that was just our street–Maple Street. If one were to branch out further, one could include the Kyles. The Parkers. The Scharnikows. The McCreaveys. I am sure there are other families that I cannot remember currently but may in time. J-Town, for Emily, myself and so many others was at that time still the world we knew the best. Post-college but pre-adulthood.

In the time since that unforgettable night, we’ve all moved around a bit–some more than others, sarcasm fully intended (I’ve probably moved around the most). We’ve grown up, started families and started careers. We’ve developed close, bonds of friendship with people that have only ever heard of J-Town because of Bradley Cooper or “The Goldbergs.” When asked how I became the man I am today, I generally speak of my experiences post-high school, and never those during or before. Yet truthfully, the person I am NOW started then. On a tiny street in a tiny town on the outskirts of Philadelphia, PA. So, if I am and remain committed to the e-publication of the diary I carry with me, how can I exclude Jenkintown from that discourse any longer?

Roughly 10 years ago, I received a message from Emily on what my friend Ed likes to call “The Book of Faces.” Most of us know it as Facebook. It was in response to a post I made about a new story idea.

Not to distract you from your story idea, but your post reminded me of something I thought of over the holidays. So many of the Maple Street/Hillside crew are on ‘Facebook.’ Maybe it’s time to start soliciting memories and stories from them like we talked about doing once upon a time? I don’t know. I really don’t know anything about doing something like this. What I do know is that we all have so many memories–good and not so good–and I would love to capture both. I think capturing both is key because if what I believe is true, it does take a village and ours did a stellar job.

I cannot recall if I ever replied to her post or not, but I remembered it… Jotted it down for posterity, even after whatever story idea I came up with that day had faded. I went so far as to reach out, and the idea grew and grew as more folks from our little village were looped in via email, phone or The Book of Faces. A few months later though? The idea petered out. It took a proverbial backseat to Life with a capital L, but in the time between that post, my subsequent outreach and the last email I received from my sister Katie on it, ideas were shared. Memories were remembered. And I started what was, at that time a compilation called “Searching for J-Town.” I still have it–hell, I’m looking at it right now. “Suicide, Jolly Ranchers and Bloody Lips” courtesy of Sean Leahy. “Of Snow Days and Memories of Childhood” by yours truly. The idea never left me, and many of the folks I grew up with there have, in the years since, approached me about it, even as I toiled away at my own Life with a capital L, and re-re-writing and publishing The ENDWORLD Series. Elements that had been intended to make it into the compilation popped up on this, and other blogs too. “The Mayor of Maple Street” for instance. Through it all I asked one question of everyone that brought it up to me: Why me? Why should I write it? The answer to that question was, predictably simple: Because I am first and foremost, regardless of anything else a writer, and it is my story to tell. Sometimes, the answers to the questions we ask are not complicated.

Write about what you know. I am haunted by my memories of my childhood, yet not in a bad way. Courtesy of my propensity to remember my past, I am and have been the keeper of those memories since Day One. A curse? Sometimes. As Emily said in her message, some of our memories are “not so good.” Yet even the not so good memories played a part in turning me… Turning US into the people that we are today. Just like love, lost inspired The ENDWORLD Series, J-Town and specifically, Maple Street inspired not only this blog post, but the next project I will be undertaking after I finish my trilogy. I did, after all, promise every one of those people that asked me about our ill-fated “Searching for J-Town” that I would write it down one day. And I believe in keeping my promises.

I should note a few things before signing off with my standard winky emoticon/smiley face. The first? Simple. This is my “on deck” project. I have to finish The ENDWORLD Series first. My plan is to do so and have it ready for reading in late April of 2023–no pressure on my editor or cover artist (I love you Amy and Cat, and I will of course work at your pace). A bit of a truncated timeline to be sure, but the hard part–the first and portions of the second draft–is already done.

The second? Given my outline, elements of past blog entries will make it into this memoir. One cannot speak of or write about Maple Street and J-Town without talking about The Mayor of Maple Street, Big Bill “Mister” Ring. I’ll try to keep them as true to form as they were when I initially wrote them, though admittedly, my writing has changed a bit (sarcasm fully intended) since and I have a knack for not just editing, but re-writing things I previously wrote (see: The ENDWORLD Series). I do so in the interest of voice consistency and continuity.

The third? My memories may not be the same as yours, and if you are reading this right now (I will likely tag you when I post this to the Book of Faces), I invite you to share with me YOUR memories. I promise I won’t steal them and call them mine. Much as Emily and Sean were earlier, you will be credited.

And the fourth and maybe most important thing? My WHY. I’m not writing this to get on Oprah’s now-defunct booklist. I don’t write for profit. I’m writing this because I am a storyteller, and I like to tell stories. And I truly, whole-heartedly believe that this story needs to be told. Given the world we live in now, our little slice of old school Americana is about as extinct as the Dodo Bird. 2022, bordering on 2023 is a much colder, and cynical world than the one that we the children of J-Town grew up in circa 1980-1993. Occasionally, my beloved minions ask me about what life was like for me at 13 and 10 (respectfully). And I tell them as best I can. Many times, they look at me like I have two heads but every so often, their eyes gleam with a smidgen of understanding and wonderment, as well as a healthy bit of skepticism and disbelief. “How could you live without a cell phone or computer Dad?” “Your parents let you stay outside until 10-11PM over the Summer?” “They let you wander by yourself, across Old York Road–a highway–and up to Foxcroft a mile plus away to go sledding in the Winter?” My answer to these questions is always accompanied with a smirk, and a story unfolds. Those answers are the inspiration for what I will be writing in an effort to capture my, and hopefully YOUR memories for the next generation. The children of Maple Street. Back when we all lived in a little town we endearingly referred to as J-Town…

And no one lived anyplace else.

Winky emoticon. Smiley Face.

F.

On the Year That Was, and What Lies Ahead

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Admittedly? It seems a bit early to be writing a retrospective on the year that was, and what lies ahead. Sadly, I’ve always been and remain incapable of suppressing my muse when it calls. Whether said muse is a person, place or thing changes from one moment of inspiration to the next. In this moment? It’s choice D – None of the above. Which is in and of itself a new development for me. There’s really nothing driving me to write and reflect right now save for the need to write and reflect. As for how the result will look when I’m done? Your guess is as good as mine. Let’s find out together, shall we?

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table…

I’ve read and enjoyed many poems in my life, yet to this day, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot has been and remains my all time, favorite piece. It’s slightly amusing that it was literally one of the first poems I ever read and wrote about in school–I think I was a freshman at the now defunct Bishop McDevitt High School in Wyncote, PA–but a good poem… Hell, a good piece of writing sticks with you, regardless of the passage of time. It’s why after innumerable iterations, the first line of my first novel was always “It is difficult to remember a time when my life had meaning.” It is why the LAST line of my third novel (and the third and final book in my ENDWORLD series) has been and remains the same as it was when I first penned it back in 1999 or 2000–I can’t remember the exact year. Literature is timeless. It’s the reason why regardless of my career success or whatnot, I always come back to writing. But I digress. Shit, when do I ever not?

This year has been maddeningly rewarding and challenging. One wouldn’t think that two extremes can co-exist so seamlessly but hey: That’s me. My career has reached a high point. My stability in all facets of my life is better than it has been in years. My children are for the most part happy save for the occasional, pre-teen or teen emo/stubborn moment. I’m reasonably healthy, albeit suffering from a little condition known to most folks as Getting Old. Outside of my need to finish Christmas shopping with only 11 days to go until that jolly old, bearded elf makes his appearance, I’m in a better place than I’ve been in many, many moons.

And yet the year that was was not without its obstacles. I won’t go into the particulars in the interest of anonymity and being respectful to any and all people that might be reading this right now. Fortunately, everyone and everything is reasonably on the mend. Even so, there were times this year that I was more exhausted than I have ever been, and I will not soon forget those moments. As I know some of you potentially reading this will attest to, 2022 was a year that we will remember for a long, LONG time, both for its high points, and its low ones.

Yet as I touched upon in my last post, challenges, while exhausting, can also lead to a degree of enlightenment. No, I am not talking about an eastern, philosophical state of being, but a secular one. They force you to take a look at your life where it is, and they give you the opportunity to foresee your life where you want to it to be. For so long now, I’ve struggled. With life. With love. With the idea of being in a relationship after my marriage went sideways and, TBH (as the kiddos say), pretty much any and every relationship I have ever been in ended poorly. With finances. With the occasional bout of depression, inherent in my bloodline, and spurred on by the sense that nothing will EVER be the way I want it to be. With my health (though not as much as others thank God, or whatever deity or deities you believe in). These struggles? They have been an inherent part of my life for as long as I can remember, and any of you reading this that have been with me on this crazy, 47+ year journey on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence know this, almost as well as I do.

The secular enlightenment I referenced in the previous paragraph comes not from mediation, but introspection, and within the last, few weeks I have come to the conclusion that nothing, no matter how much I want it to be, or how hard I micromanage myself will ever be as perfect as I desire. Scenes like the one I penned, so many years ago before this blog and the one before it, back when we all lived in one, geographic area and no one lived any place else, that found me hosting a BBQ for my friends and family whilst wearing an apron that says “kiss the chef, earn a super-burger” are… brace for it…

Fiction. A story with a happy ending. That thing we writers write to give our readers a warm, and fuzzy feeling on the last page of our narrative. That moment that makes them say, “when is the sequel coming out?” Its Marketing 101 guys and gals. Manipulation. IRL (again, props to the kiddos and their “command” of the English language, sarcasm fully intended) happy endings never happen the way we dream them up in our stories. I herein redirect your attention back to “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” and how that poem ends.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

“Till human voices wake us, and we drown.” Happy? Far from it. Given the lead up to that sentence you would think that the picture Eliot is painting is the ideal lead into a happy ending. But no. In the end, Eliot and we reading it awake from the dream to the really, really REAL world and realize that our existence is not a BBQ at the end of time, with all our friends and family around us, reminiscing about where we have been and how we got to where we are. It’s not a “fade to black” moment because the story… Life continues. Even given a moment of serendipity, when “human voices wake us,” we don’t know what is going to happen next. Despite my reliance on destiny in the past–to meet and spend the rest of my life with my ideal partner, to write the next great American novel and get on Oprah’s now defunct book list–I have come to realize that destiny simply does not exist. Where we go, who we meet and what we become? It’s on us, and not written in the last pages of a book, penned by God or whatever deity or deities you believe in. Our last line is not “the end,” at least not yet. It is “to be continued” until the moment when we at last shrug off our respective mortal coils. Even then, is the end REALLY the end? Or is there more? That’s a topic for you, your belief system and your respective deity or deities to discuss. But for me?

Despite my well-documented status as a recovering Roman Catholic for many, many years here is the thing: Of COURSE there is more. The end is only “the end” until the first line of the sequel. And what I think of as Heaven (or Hell; need to give the devil his due, LOL (thanks again kids)) is just that. As for what form it takes? I haven’t the slightest inkling. I have my idealized version of what I want Heaven to look like (let’s not even talk about Hell; I like many former English majors read Dante in college), and spoiler alert: It is very similar to the scene, pictured in the aforementioned BBQ at the end of time, but neither I, nor anyone else that I know of, currently existing on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence can speak to its form or its existence. You either believe in it or you do not. A non-believer might tell you that Heaven is nothing more than a psychological manifestation of hope, set against the backdrop of the inevitable pain of life. Similarly, they might say that Hell is little more than a manifestation of our fear of the unknown. I’m not the best source for a psychological interpretation of the afterlife, given I got a D in the only Psych course I ever took in school. I’m not discounting or belittling that belief. Quite the contrary. I respect it. But hey: It’s not me. And I won the Ted Barnett Religion Award at my Eighth-Grade graduation from the now defunct Immaculate Conception BVM in Jenkintown, PA so whereas I may not be qualified to speak about psychological matters, I could and may still one day write a thesis on Jesus Christ as a tragic hero or a pathetic literary figure if we approach the Bible not as THE truth, but a version thereof. A story. One with elements of truth but not 100% autobiographical.

Am I digressing again? Shit, I don’t think I am. Because this all plays back into the idea of destiny which… Like Heaven, is little more than manifestation of a person’s insecurity about the future, and the path before them. It’s quite simple to say my life went sideways because it wasn’t my destiny. I’ve personally done it more times than I can count. But the follow-up on that is now, I’m expecting that at some point, I will realize my destiny and live… Wait for it… Happily ever after. And when I don’t? When the final line of the book of my life bears a resemblance to the final line of “Prufrock?” I will shuffle off this mortal coil, not at a well-deserved peace, but wondering why? Why didn’t I meet my ideal partner? Why didn’t I write the next, great American novel? Why weren’t ENDWORLD, CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD and/or HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD prominently displayed on Oprah’s Book List? As an avid reader I’ve got to tell you: I will not read the sequel to that story. Regret is a shitty plot point, no sarcasm intended whatsoever.

I’ve heard people say that life is pain. To them let me say that life is not pain. But pain is a part of life, as is birth, death, joy et al.. What separates IRL from Fiction is the preponderance of all of the above IRL, whereas in Fiction, you can pick and choose. Do you want to write a love story? An adventure tale? A dystopic vision of the future? Or maybe choice D – All of the Above? As many of you know, I opted for D in both the case of The ENDWORLD Series, and my Psych class at the never-defunct Penn State University in Abington and State College, PA. I opted for the latter because I made a choice to skip my lectures and tool around with my friends in what we endearingly referred to as “The Clubroom” and later, with my new and old friends on “The Porch.” I was not destined to get a D in that class. I made a choice. Which in a relatively long and roundabout way brings me back to where I started this post, many, MANY paragraphs before this one. On the year that was, and what lies ahead.

This year, I have spent a lot of time thinking. Not necessarily writing but pondering what to write. I finished draft one of HEAVEN over a year ago, and I haven’t touched it in months. What am I waiting for? I’ve started a handful of other stories and musings but stopped a few pages in. Why? HEAVEN is a great story. Maybe the best of the ENDWORLD books. And some of the other stories and blog entries I’ve started but never finished? Similarly good, and yet there always, ALWAYS comes a point, any time I am writing something where I stop. I’ve come to conclude that the problem is not around me, but within me. A simple fact about me that you may or may not know.

I hate endings. I always have. Stories end. Movies end. Jobs end. Relationships end. And eventually? Life ends, hopefully many, MANY years after it started. But endings are an inevitable part of everything on this or any side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. I’ve always had issues accepting them. I grasp as firmly as I can to that last, wispy tether of what was when in fact I should simply let go of it. It’s a biproduct of my aversion to change, likely traceable all the way back to that day I found out that my mother and father were getting a divorce. I was nine or 10 (I can’t remember which; only that I was close to Cara’s age when we told her and Natalie that we were divorcing). The years that followed? A blur of counselor visits, being bullied and wanting to be with whatever parent I and my little sister were not with at any given time. Pain. A part of my life, but not the thing that defined it. Because with that pain came hope. Joy. And after a while? Love.

This cycle has repeated itself countless times throughout my life, most recently post-2018. These are epochs. But the one thing that has remained consistent throughout is my aversion to change and my hatred of endings, even ones that I initiated. I have spent so many of these epochs as a prisoner to memory. A past ideal that I strove for but blindly failed to find. Because in my mind, I was destined for something more. Yet in hindsight and as I mentioned a few paragraphs ago? Destiny is an excuse. A crutch that I have leaned on for decades and subsequently, one that I can no longer rely on if I desire to move forward into whatever version of me exists in what lies ahead. The time has come to state in writing and follow through on a fact which has been hiding in my subconscious (some might say in plain sight) for ages before it finally, in this year that was became blatantly obvious to me.

Should I, after teas and cakes and ices
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

The story… The cycle is mine to end. For I am the writer. I am not acting out a page of pre-written dialogue, nor am I a pawn to an abstract concept and excuse to take the sting out of making a poor decision or being the unwilling recipient of the consequences of a decision (how poor it was being relative to the person or persons who made it). The strength to “force the moment to its crisis” has always been within me and me alone. El Autoro. Lunatic Lover. Madchronicler. Yet I have let it continue in fear of letting go of those things that made me… Me.

I will so do no longer. I, like Prufrock, am not Prince Hamlet. I am no tragic hero, nor am I a pathetic literary figure. I, like Prufrock, “Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious and meticulous; Full of high sentence but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous–Almost, at times, the Fool.” I am also the keeper of my own story and the master of my own outcome. And for the moment? That outcome is for the first time, maybe ever one that is not governed by the pain of my past, nor by my desire to be more than what I am at this juncture: A fellow shithead, living amongst you, my oft times casual readers, on one side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. I have my work, both the job I get paid for and the one I only get paid for occasionally. I have my Minions. I have my friends and my family. And most importantly? I have hope. Hope that I can write this next chapter of the story of my life in a way that gets me close to that heavenly BBQ at the end of time that I envisioned once upon another epoch. Close to joy. And maybe, just maybe one day? Close again to love.

If you’ve managed to make it this far? Congratulations. This may be the most vulnerable I have ever been on this blog. Thank you for following along and as I stated at the beginning of this piece, learning the outcome, with me… Together. There may be one or two of you (you know who you are) who mistook my musings on life, death, Heaven, Hell and whatnot as some sort of cry for help. I assure you: This was not that. Merry Merry, Happy Happy and all that. I am good. Content. And working on happy. I’ll feel better when I hit “checkout” on the two or three, odd shopping carts I have waiting for me, online with the last of my Christmas shopping in them. But for now? My pillow calls.

Dream well friends, family and oft times casual readers. And when you wake up tomorrow morning? Take a step toward your future, even if it’s only into the kitchen to make a strong, cup of coffee. Do not do it because your destiny awaits. Make the choice, and embrace the possibility, inherent in the road ahead. Let pain become hope, joy and love. The BBQ at the end of time awaits.

Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

F.