Mind Nomad Writing

Since humanity emerged victorious from the dark primordial swamp and began to stand upright and use tools, no instance of societal organization could find a solution to the challenge inherent in frayed ends. For a countless number of other inventions the point of dysfunction simply spurred new innovations and a return to function, if not an improvement. A dull blade can be sharpened. A loose floorboard can be nailed down. A bent rod can be heated to a point of malleability and molded back to form. A misdialed number can be identified and redirected. A fray, however, presents a much more daunting challenge to the intelligence of our collective cognitive capacities. 

Be it a rope, a cable, a telephone wire, an electrical system – when a fray begins, no matter how small, it is only a matter of time until it splits. Further fraying can be postponed but the final rift and tearing apart is unavoidable. Try as humans have, the fray offers the bitter reality, reminding us of our fragility. The sad tale of human ingenuity, eventually culminating in a rupture, a violent pulling apart of what was once meant to be connected, starting with a small fray and resulting in disconnection, silence. If worn and frayed enough, the splitting can lead to an all consuming flame that devours all that was once braided together.

No clearer example of this extreme and costly outcome exists than that of nationality. The origins of this antiquated approach to the management of humanity offers clues about the intent behind an invention so clearly rife with risk and destructive fraying potential. When viewed in context, humans engineered the concept of associative groupings to mitigate threat. Survival anxiety pulsed in the minds and hearts of our primal ancestors. This drove them to find solutions to quell this existential dread. Their solution was to label increasingly larger sections of their immediate population as countrymen. While this initially cultivated good will and safety, it inevitably began to fray. 

Simple attempts to mend the fray and keep the system together offered no recourse. Like tying a knot cannot prevent a frayed rope from failing and taping a cable cannot prevent its eventual demise, so too the attempts to address fraying bonds of nationality only served to delay the fate, in some cases even hasten the outcome. Propaganda, broken treaties, forced assimilation, and bloodshed comprised the earliest sets of strategies for mitigating what was fraying. Subsequent offers of tolerance, accommodation, immigration, and diversity provided little more than a psychological salve for some and acted as a caustic irritant for others. Century after century. Generation after generation. Election after election. Coupe de tat after coupe de tat. All attempts to unite and strengthen the fray fell short. And so the challenge persisted until the necessary adaptation was made.

When our species endured the required conditions long enough, the ancient resolve was accessed and spurred change. We finally found the solution for fraying and could finally outgrow our misguided attempts to fix the fray in the first place. Our eye-like organs finally observed that all our attempts had done nothing more than prolong the inevitable rift and had, in fact, simultaneously prolonged our progress. We held a collective moment of silence of the lives lost in service of producing this glorious future – mostly to satisfy what remains of our nervous system.

The irony was not lost on our brain-like organs. The solution to a fray is simply to watch it come undone. We now correctly interpret a fray as a sign of something in need of severance. And so, we frayed. We still share the land we once referred to by some long-forgotten arbitrarily assigned name and borders. We now live much more sensibly distant from one another. We now roam the land free from the ties that bound and constrained. Sure, we may need to arm ourselves when we go out and vigilantly monitor the behavior of our neighbors, but it was likely prudent to do so earlier anyway. The formalities, traditions, and pleasantries that prevented further fraying also prevented our evolution. Free from the pretense of fabricated shared allegiance, we can see one another, and our intentions, more clearly.

#Vestigial

here is where innocence evaporates into an atmosphere of realism. even sleep is void of dreams. every word is stripped of sentiment. all truth is drenched in cynicism. this is self-help at its finest. subtle criticism was the only sound that poured from his father’s lips. never an affirmation of love, simply a hallow embrace. a self-esteem branded by short-comings. he dressed his insecurity in an elaborate suit of pride. searching for acceptance, he finds himself between other people’s sheets. he dreads sleeping alone and letting his mind wander back to the sulking child in his closet. numb and tired of sharing her heart only to have it broken, she resolved to settle things her own way. she now wears her hope on her wrists. control and feeling are welcomed back in a crimson tide. the dependable pattern has become second nature. we have taken the salvation of mankind upon ourselves. if i didn’t know we were dying i might find it beautiful.

#Staycation

i sit beneath the glowing neon sign, that hangs in the window, as it flickers twice and then extinguishes itself. the day is done and the people are heading home to be with their wives and kids. to feed their dogs and watch their tv shows. to eat their warm dinners and sleep in their warm beds. to put aside their responsibilities and rest their weary souls until another day begins. their day is done and mine is just beginning. 

my shift has just started. and right on time the men in uniforms show up and tell me to get on my way. i don’t resist and i slowly gather my few earthly possessions. i don’t blame them, it’s their job and im used to it by now.

history has a funny way of repeating itself. 

most cultures have those “dark centuries” that they try to brush under the mat. the continually occurring theme of the native people of the land being forced out. but the government never fails to make up for the inconvenience by so graciously giving the indigenous back a little land that was already theirs. the australian aborigines have the outback. the native americans have reservations. african slaves were actually taken away from their homeland to be given a “home” on a distant plantation. 

and here i am today, the same kind of unwanted resident, told to vacate the premises and roam my native land as a foreigner, we are just pushed aside in a more socially acceptable way. 

history has a funny way of repeating itself. 

we are the displaced. we are the down-and-out. we are abandoned. we are vagabonds. we are homeless. and i know that stare all too well. the judgmental glance and disgusted look from passing strangers. therapists dress it up as xenophobia, it’s curiosity, it’s sympathy, it’s harmless. but really none of it bothers me, it’s a stale stereotype, it’s nothing more than the product of a conditioned society. but that’s how i want it anyway. when no one can find beauty in you, it becomes effortless to see beauty everywhere you look. in a warm smile, in a handshake, in a genuine conversation, in a good laugh. 

if only they knew about the life we lead while they dream safe and sound in their homes. by day this place belongs to them but by night this city is ours and these still streets bear our names. the cool breeze whispers our freedom. just like the knights of old rode their majestic horses out to save the damsel in distress, so we too ride the midnight subway through the land to protect and to conquer. it may not be as romantic as the medieval tales of history but this train is our ever valiant steed and this city is out beautiful damsel. 

we are the watchmen. we are the night guards. we are the explorers, charting a new course. each night we take one step deeper into the dark places nobody else would dare to go. just living a simple, yet fulfilled life. and we aren’t always looking for great pity, we may just have a little more to offer. 

history has a funny way of repeating itself. 

jesus of nazareth was a wanderer, expecting nothing and giving everything. ghandi was a nomadic preacher of love and hope. siddhartha gautama became a vagrant wanting nothing more than knowledge and asking for nothing more than a listening ear. 

history has a funny way of repeating itself. 

as the sun rises we hand the keys to the city back to the general populace as we say goodnight. take care of her for us, we will back tonight.

#Staycation

Do you remember that day in grade school when your teacher, with her glasses resting on the tip of her nose as she peered down into your naive little eyes, shattered your perception of reality? She came into your life uninvited and, with words like a sledgehammer, smashed everything you thought to be true. You would think that they would train teachers in tactful conflict resolution or breaking the truth in a gentle, non-confrontational way. But no, she just lays it all out there like a surgeon displays a corpse on the cold autopsy table for all to see. 

She explains to you, in the most maternal voice she can muster, how your heart really isn’t the pretty red shape you practiced coloring inside the lines on for homework last week, but that it’s actually a big, disgusting, chunk of pulsing muscle. Your stomach drops and your ears go deaf. You can see her plump, overly-red lips moving but you can’t hear another word she is saying until the wretched sobs of heart-broken classmates welcomes you back to the real world. 

Do you remember that day? That was the day that Santa fell off his sleigh and drowned in the Atlantic Ocean en route to the needy kids in Africa. Do you remember that day? That fateful day that you began to question your faith in your parents. If they lied to you about this huge, life-altering scientific fact, what else were they lying to you about? What if the stork didn’t really drop you off at their doorstep? And what if that balloon you let go of was burned up by the sun and didn’t really make it to heaven? 

And then she proceeded to inform you that it was just a small part of some big, bloody system with tubes and veins. And she commanded you to listen as this chunk of meat pushes the gory mess through your whole body. 

Do you remember that day? That is the day that the Tooth Fairty was squashed under a little boy’s pillow as his head rolled on top of her fragile body while she collected his baby teeth. Do you remember that day? When seconds seemed to last an eternity as you anticipated some kind of heart failure. You couldn’t take your mind off your beating chest for fear that it might suddenly and inexplicably just stop working. All the other kids were laughing and having a good time on the bus ride home but you were too busy concentrating on feeling your pulse the whole ride to join in with them.

Do you remember that day? The day your heart became a ticking time bomb. That was the day that the Easter Bunny ventured into open season territory looking for a shortcut home from a long day of hiding eggs. Do you remember that day? Well I do, and I have never looked at a Valentine’s Day card the same ever since.

#Staycation

A collection of short stories – no binding themes aside from the ones a reader may find meaningful on a personal level.

A collection of writings processing the experience and implications of being a child placed into an adult role early in life. 

The collection makes room for considering the impact of outgrowing ones’ parents’ own emotional resources at a young age, intuitively knowing this yet not fully understanding, and being tasked with navigating life on these terms.

#Parentify me Capin’

I think I have a lot in common with furniture. I can be quite helpful, pragmatic, and useful. I’ve gotten used to observing the coming and going of those that forget that I’m around. Being seen and not heard always came easily. 

I’m not sure furniture asks itself the same kinds of questions I did during my childhood, though. I wondered if it was common for furniture to feel as lonely and discarded as I did. I wondered why it was that I sat there collecting dust like some kind of child-trophy that had lost its sheen.

Why not play with me? Why not talk to me? Why not admire me? Why not comfort me? Must be boring. Must be worn. Must be defective. Must be repulsive.

While I struggled to answer these questions, I foolishly mistook my parents’ invitations to play their telephone games as a bid for my connection. Here came mom, unbothered by the thin film of dust caking my clothes, she was coming to engage with me – so I told myself. Here came dad, able to look past the sheath of rust left by disuse, he was coming to spend time together I hoped privately.

Wishful thinking. Naivety. Childish optimism. Defense mechanism against hopelessness. Call it what you want – I called it my best chance. If I could listen closely enough maybe I’d be good, maybe I’d earn my place, maybe I’d solve their problems, maybe I’d become valuable, maybe they’d come visit me more often.

This game of telephone was never quite as fun and definitely never as forgiving as the games of telephone we played at school. These ones seemed to have ever shifting rules, one parent not waiting their turn and interrupting the game while it was the other one’s turn. Classroom voices were most certainly not used and even when I heard the message there was never any reward for relaying it accurately back to the sender. 

Eventually, I came to realize just how much I have in common with furniture. Like the furniture, purchased to mark important steps toward ‘success’ and financial milestones, I occupied space as a placeholder for my parents’ social accomplishments. My existence marked the completion of an important task in their role as parents – to create ornamental children to commemorate the fact, to themselves and to others, that they had ‘made it.’

#Parentify me Capin’