My Novel, In a Fragment
So, there we were, having taken our positions on the couch in the living room to celebrate Christmas as best as we could given our circumstances. My parents were separated and going through what I could only describe as I lengthy, exhaustive, and bitter divorce.
I proceeded to unwrap my sister’s gift to me. It was a copy of Joy Division’s album “Closer.” I believe she had decided on this particular gift as an innocent, yet provocative, gesture. A gesture that symbolically told me that she was now, somehow, cooler than me, since I had really no idea who this band was (at the time).
“Thank you Jen,” I said, rather dronely.
Even though it was apparent, I did not want her to think she was cooler than me. It was not her time to take her place on the pedestal above me, at least when it came to music, for Christ’s sake. I worked at a reputatable, independent record store (thus making me the envy of all my high school peers and my sister) and she was only a freshman in college, where she had a two-hour radio show slot. All right. I will concede a bit just based on the radio show fact. That was pretty fucking cool, in my eyes, especially since my sister and I shared many hours lying on the floor with our ears (figuratively) pressed to the speakers of our respective radios and/or boomboxes listening to the same radio station she was now semi-employed at (although, it was solely a volunteer-based position).
I passed over my sister’s gift, almost like it was a vial of the HIV/AIDS virus, not because I was consciously trying to be an asshole about it, but because I was in my own haze of self-pity and self-loathing, due to my parents’ impending divorce, of which I felt 90% responsible for, since my mother had said, not in so many words to me, but it was rather obvious, to me, since I was the one being a complete and utter shithead. My mother would later try to explain that it was not my fault, that I did not hold the cards that defined the relationship my parents had for twenty-two years. There were in fact a lot of cards in play, perhaps too many. So, I beg the question: isn’t it in a teenager’s design to be shitty and hard-to-live-with? Why should I have to apologize for what seemed like a rite of passage? Besides, the suburban life had gotten to me, I suppose. The shelter of an existence with the bubble of such a safe, guarded community was becoming unbearable for someone like me, who wanted to test the boundaries and limits that had been set upon him for many years. The Catholic school/church upbringing was a shelter and dome I was beginning to find cracks and faults in, which I tried (however mildly) to bend and break the more and more I tried to push the boundaries. Mostly, I did this at school, because I felt safe there, like I could not get in too much trouble since my mother had been a well-respected alumni and teacher there (plus my father’s name seemed to carry weight, too). By my senior year, or the middle of junior year to be more exact, I had also given up hope in any sort of normalcy that my life’s educational path seemed to be taking. I certainly did not see the value in my education, so any plans of furthering it after high school was out of the picture. I just did not care to learn. Like most teenagers I felt like I already knew (enough of) it all.
Perhaps I should not have written off my sister’s Christmas gift with such ease. Honestly, it sat on my shelf (lost among the alphabetically and chronologically arranged albums) after probably one or two courtesy listens; then, I dove right back into my consecutive spins of Nirvana and Nine Inch Nails albums, since they truly seemed to be the only artists who knew the pain I was going through). With a tracklisting such as:
Side One:
1. Atrocity Exhibition 2. Isolation 3. Passover 4. Colony 5. A Means to an End
Side Two:
1. Heart and Soul 2. Twenty Four Hours 3. The Eternal 4. Decades
As I took “Closer” off the shelf approximately a “Decade” later and listened with more perspective and appreciation, I clearly had a kindred spirit in Joy Division’s lead singer, Ian Curtis (who ended his life by hanging himself in the kitchen of the house he “shared” with his estranged wife). I would spend hours in “Isolation” with my thoughts, a notebook and pen to write out my aforementioned thoughts, and of course my music. I had clearly felt “Passed Over” by a mother who had seemingly chosen a different path in her life, one that did not include her son. I believed that my parents’ divorce was an “Exhibition of Atrocity,” to be melodramatic. My “Heart and Soul” had been (figuratively) ripped out when my parents shed light on their marital problems and impending divorce. I was looking for “A Means to an End” to the madness in my life. And, well, you get the point, I hope. Listening to the album also forced me to gain an appreciation for my sister’s Christmas gesture a decade or so earlier. Perhaps she had an intuition on that Christmas that I was struggling emotionally with thoughts clouding my mind. Thoughts pertaining to myself, to our splintered family, to my mother, to my father, to my life (in general). She was able to see something within me, maybe based on my appearance on the outside, that I clearly was unable to see and/or want to deal with at the time. I guess that comes with being self-involved, which is kind of ironic when you think about it, because the idea of self-involvement means you are absorbed with yourself, so why wouldn’t a self-involved person be able to recognize the fact that they are struggling internally. But, on the other hand, self-involvement also lends itself to the inability to soul-search within oneself, I suppose.
So, my sister was able to recognize a pain I was feeling and since she knew me (better than I knew myself, apparently), she had gift-wrapped this particular album as an act of charity or an act of therapy; or maybe even as a way of reaching out to me. Not in so many words, my sister was saying, “I get it. You’re hurting. I’m here, if you need to talk.” Although, at the time, I took it as her telling me, “Look who’s a poseur now!” So, I shelved it and any real chance at creating or building a bond/relationship with my sister at a crucial point in both our lives, one in which we could feel safe confiding in each other. We had the sort of brother-sister relationship that had been built upon a musical foundation (which I will get into later on, in greater detail). Why couldn’t I see this gift for what it was? A hand-out, metaphorically speaking, of course. Why couldn’t I take her grand gesture as a sign that she was reaching out to me?
I proceeded to unwrap my sister’s gift to me. It was a copy of Joy Division’s album “Closer.” I believe she had decided on this particular gift as an innocent, yet provocative, gesture. A gesture that symbolically told me that she was now, somehow, cooler than me, since I had really no idea who this band was (at the time).
“Thank you Jen,” I said, rather dronely.
Even though it was apparent, I did not want her to think she was cooler than me. It was not her time to take her place on the pedestal above me, at least when it came to music, for Christ’s sake. I worked at a reputatable, independent record store (thus making me the envy of all my high school peers and my sister) and she was only a freshman in college, where she had a two-hour radio show slot. All right. I will concede a bit just based on the radio show fact. That was pretty fucking cool, in my eyes, especially since my sister and I shared many hours lying on the floor with our ears (figuratively) pressed to the speakers of our respective radios and/or boomboxes listening to the same radio station she was now semi-employed at (although, it was solely a volunteer-based position).
I passed over my sister’s gift, almost like it was a vial of the HIV/AIDS virus, not because I was consciously trying to be an asshole about it, but because I was in my own haze of self-pity and self-loathing, due to my parents’ impending divorce, of which I felt 90% responsible for, since my mother had said, not in so many words to me, but it was rather obvious, to me, since I was the one being a complete and utter shithead. My mother would later try to explain that it was not my fault, that I did not hold the cards that defined the relationship my parents had for twenty-two years. There were in fact a lot of cards in play, perhaps too many. So, I beg the question: isn’t it in a teenager’s design to be shitty and hard-to-live-with? Why should I have to apologize for what seemed like a rite of passage? Besides, the suburban life had gotten to me, I suppose. The shelter of an existence with the bubble of such a safe, guarded community was becoming unbearable for someone like me, who wanted to test the boundaries and limits that had been set upon him for many years. The Catholic school/church upbringing was a shelter and dome I was beginning to find cracks and faults in, which I tried (however mildly) to bend and break the more and more I tried to push the boundaries. Mostly, I did this at school, because I felt safe there, like I could not get in too much trouble since my mother had been a well-respected alumni and teacher there (plus my father’s name seemed to carry weight, too). By my senior year, or the middle of junior year to be more exact, I had also given up hope in any sort of normalcy that my life’s educational path seemed to be taking. I certainly did not see the value in my education, so any plans of furthering it after high school was out of the picture. I just did not care to learn. Like most teenagers I felt like I already knew (enough of) it all.
Perhaps I should not have written off my sister’s Christmas gift with such ease. Honestly, it sat on my shelf (lost among the alphabetically and chronologically arranged albums) after probably one or two courtesy listens; then, I dove right back into my consecutive spins of Nirvana and Nine Inch Nails albums, since they truly seemed to be the only artists who knew the pain I was going through). With a tracklisting such as:
Side One:
1. Atrocity Exhibition 2. Isolation 3. Passover 4. Colony 5. A Means to an End
Side Two:
1. Heart and Soul 2. Twenty Four Hours 3. The Eternal 4. Decades
As I took “Closer” off the shelf approximately a “Decade” later and listened with more perspective and appreciation, I clearly had a kindred spirit in Joy Division’s lead singer, Ian Curtis (who ended his life by hanging himself in the kitchen of the house he “shared” with his estranged wife). I would spend hours in “Isolation” with my thoughts, a notebook and pen to write out my aforementioned thoughts, and of course my music. I had clearly felt “Passed Over” by a mother who had seemingly chosen a different path in her life, one that did not include her son. I believed that my parents’ divorce was an “Exhibition of Atrocity,” to be melodramatic. My “Heart and Soul” had been (figuratively) ripped out when my parents shed light on their marital problems and impending divorce. I was looking for “A Means to an End” to the madness in my life. And, well, you get the point, I hope. Listening to the album also forced me to gain an appreciation for my sister’s Christmas gesture a decade or so earlier. Perhaps she had an intuition on that Christmas that I was struggling emotionally with thoughts clouding my mind. Thoughts pertaining to myself, to our splintered family, to my mother, to my father, to my life (in general). She was able to see something within me, maybe based on my appearance on the outside, that I clearly was unable to see and/or want to deal with at the time. I guess that comes with being self-involved, which is kind of ironic when you think about it, because the idea of self-involvement means you are absorbed with yourself, so why wouldn’t a self-involved person be able to recognize the fact that they are struggling internally. But, on the other hand, self-involvement also lends itself to the inability to soul-search within oneself, I suppose.
So, my sister was able to recognize a pain I was feeling and since she knew me (better than I knew myself, apparently), she had gift-wrapped this particular album as an act of charity or an act of therapy; or maybe even as a way of reaching out to me. Not in so many words, my sister was saying, “I get it. You’re hurting. I’m here, if you need to talk.” Although, at the time, I took it as her telling me, “Look who’s a poseur now!” So, I shelved it and any real chance at creating or building a bond/relationship with my sister at a crucial point in both our lives, one in which we could feel safe confiding in each other. We had the sort of brother-sister relationship that had been built upon a musical foundation (which I will get into later on, in greater detail). Why couldn’t I see this gift for what it was? A hand-out, metaphorically speaking, of course. Why couldn’t I take her grand gesture as a sign that she was reaching out to me?
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