I originally posted this on Facebook.
Forgive me if I bleed out loud a little to loud...
My Landlord did me a great kindness. Many months ago when he saw I was still struggling with the theft of my bank accounts he came to me and actually said, "I think there is more I can do to help." He is a friend and has been my Landlord for 5 years. To lower my rent but to stay by the sea, he asked if I wanted to move into the adorable in-law behind the garage that he was using as a gym. Yes, I said! The energy felt right, too. Even though I had already lived up stairs and made it my own, it wasn't until four months went by that I decided it was finally time to put things on the walls.
I have intimacy issues like you wouldn't believe compounded with some abandonment shit. What it means is I don't want to signal that some place is my home by putting a nail in a wall and hanging a poster up because that would mean I live there and if I live there then it could be taken away from me. Its a mess. Some of it stems from being adopted. Apparently its all too common for adults who were adopted children to have trouble forming lasting bonds with people. It could be that or it could be the years my mom dragged my little brother and I all over California looking for "out new home." Or maybe it is this lifestyle I lead where I see the country at ground level getting from shitty point a to shitty point b. All I know is, I decided it was time to claim my creative energy space, man cave by the sea, guitar haven as mine. I put posters up. I unpacked my lovely Star Wars vehicles and ships collection to set them up. I gave into San Francisco's sweet tacky charm and bought 2 strings of white Christmas lights to run around the length of my room. I had a friend come over and help clean it up with me. This was my space! I was going to have guitar jams, comedy writing sessions and awesome sex with long legged skinny girls!
Two days later my Landlord and friend let me know that he was giving me notice. I cannot imagine ever wanting to put a fucking picture on the wall ever again. And the thing is, its not evil. Its not against the law. He gave me notice because thats what a good Landlord friend does. What he didn't know is that I had to fly out of town and start my month long tour ending in China on the 15th. Yup, it gets better and better, doesn't it? As soon as gay marriage became legal in California his boy friend popped the question. You see? You see what happened? They promised us that gay marriage wouldn't effect straight people and now I am the first causality of gay marriage. I kid because I hurt.
Now I have to face the box. The box is a small card board thing that has moved with me on every move I've made over the last 15 years. It has black & white photos from my childhood in it. Comedy Clubs calendars with my name on it, girlfriends photos, old set lists and objects of every sort capable of fitting into a small box. All of them have some memory connecting them to someone or someplace. Its part time capsule, part ark of joe and part poor mans idea of a emotional hard drive.
You can't reach in and pull at any just one thing. Each are connected to others so pulling on one string of memory brings on a spiders webs worth of connections.
At times in my life that simple box has been to painful to open. It sat in the back of a closet till the next move forced me to contemplate its contents. And this is how it goes. On average I must confront my little traveling tomb about once a year. The last few years I didn't really touch it, just out it on a shelf and forgot about it. Then, there it is today. And this time when I opened it, i started throwing away some of "her" stuff. I can't tell you her name because if you know it she will be soooo angry with me. But so what? Its done. Its been done for awhile, really. The problem is I am holding Tibetan prayer flags she gave me fully prepared to toss them into the first world death that a black plastic garbage bag is when I start to wonder about the karmic implications of doing such a thing. In the end I simply bunch it up and scrunch it down in-between newspaper clippings and the remains of what once was a whoopee cushion commissioned specially for the Punch Line San Francisco's 25th anniversary.
That stays but I throw out the comedy central hat we all got when I taped Live at Gotham. Fuck it. and fuck that channel, too. You know they once sent me a check for doing the show again in the form of royalties check only, I wasn't suppose to get it. Two months later they asked for it back and I said, I am willing to work it off but I can't honestly give you a few grand back. So, any royalty I get from Last Comic Standing or the episode I was on of, Live at Gotham goes straight to them. That means I get a statement from Comedy Central every once in a while letting me know how much my pitful royalties have paid off their accounting mistake. It hasn't made a dent. I keep them as a reminder of the business I so wanted to break into for so long.
There is a long slim rock from Zion national park that a woman purchased for me so I would remember our time there together. At one time there was a small wooden box with a tiny gold ring in it that was to be Samantha's engagement ring. After holding onto that for more than 7 years I finally only sold that last year.
I don't want to move again.
I don't know what to do with the contents of the box.
I don't know if holding most of the items is doing some sort of penance for some real or imagined sin or I simply cannot let go.
I don't know if just throwing it away means I've let go or I've thrown shit that only matter to me from a tattered old box into the street.
There is a real sadness that hits me hard when I think about just throwing it away. Why am I holding on to "stuff?" that mostly just hurts anyway?
Here is what the answer is and I think it is hopeful. Someday, I want to look through it with smiles and friends recalling adventures, broken hearts and triumphs reached. Someday. Someday turns out to be an impossible place to reach unless your willing to make someplace a home.
Wish me luck
My Landlord did me a great kindness. Many months ago when he saw I was still struggling with the theft of my bank accounts he came to me and actually said, "I think there is more I can do to help." He is a friend and has been my Landlord for 5 years. To lower my rent but to stay by the sea, he asked if I wanted to move into the adorable in-law behind the garage that he was using as a gym. Yes, I said! The energy felt right, too. Even though I had already lived up stairs and made it my own, it wasn't until four months went by that I decided it was finally time to put things on the walls.
I have intimacy issues like you wouldn't believe compounded with some abandonment shit. What it means is I don't want to signal that some place is my home by putting a nail in a wall and hanging a poster up because that would mean I live there and if I live there then it could be taken away from me. Its a mess. Some of it stems from being adopted. Apparently its all too common for adults who were adopted children to have trouble forming lasting bonds with people. It could be that or it could be the years my mom dragged my little brother and I all over California looking for "out new home." Or maybe it is this lifestyle I lead where I see the country at ground level getting from shitty point a to shitty point b. All I know is, I decided it was time to claim my creative energy space, man cave by the sea, guitar haven as mine. I put posters up. I unpacked my lovely Star Wars vehicles and ships collection to set them up. I gave into San Francisco's sweet tacky charm and bought 2 strings of white Christmas lights to run around the length of my room. I had a friend come over and help clean it up with me. This was my space! I was going to have guitar jams, comedy writing sessions and awesome sex with long legged skinny girls!
Two days later my Landlord and friend let me know that he was giving me notice. I cannot imagine ever wanting to put a fucking picture on the wall ever again. And the thing is, its not evil. Its not against the law. He gave me notice because thats what a good Landlord friend does. What he didn't know is that I had to fly out of town and start my month long tour ending in China on the 15th. Yup, it gets better and better, doesn't it? As soon as gay marriage became legal in California his boy friend popped the question. You see? You see what happened? They promised us that gay marriage wouldn't effect straight people and now I am the first causality of gay marriage. I kid because I hurt.
Now I have to face the box. The box is a small card board thing that has moved with me on every move I've made over the last 15 years. It has black & white photos from my childhood in it. Comedy Clubs calendars with my name on it, girlfriends photos, old set lists and objects of every sort capable of fitting into a small box. All of them have some memory connecting them to someone or someplace. Its part time capsule, part ark of joe and part poor mans idea of a emotional hard drive.
You can't reach in and pull at any just one thing. Each are connected to others so pulling on one string of memory brings on a spiders webs worth of connections.
At times in my life that simple box has been to painful to open. It sat in the back of a closet till the next move forced me to contemplate its contents. And this is how it goes. On average I must confront my little traveling tomb about once a year. The last few years I didn't really touch it, just out it on a shelf and forgot about it. Then, there it is today. And this time when I opened it, i started throwing away some of "her" stuff. I can't tell you her name because if you know it she will be soooo angry with me. But so what? Its done. Its been done for awhile, really. The problem is I am holding Tibetan prayer flags she gave me fully prepared to toss them into the first world death that a black plastic garbage bag is when I start to wonder about the karmic implications of doing such a thing. In the end I simply bunch it up and scrunch it down in-between newspaper clippings and the remains of what once was a whoopee cushion commissioned specially for the Punch Line San Francisco's 25th anniversary.
That stays but I throw out the comedy central hat we all got when I taped Live at Gotham. Fuck it. and fuck that channel, too. You know they once sent me a check for doing the show again in the form of royalties check only, I wasn't suppose to get it. Two months later they asked for it back and I said, I am willing to work it off but I can't honestly give you a few grand back. So, any royalty I get from Last Comic Standing or the episode I was on of, Live at Gotham goes straight to them. That means I get a statement from Comedy Central every once in a while letting me know how much my pitful royalties have paid off their accounting mistake. It hasn't made a dent. I keep them as a reminder of the business I so wanted to break into for so long.
There is a long slim rock from Zion national park that a woman purchased for me so I would remember our time there together. At one time there was a small wooden box with a tiny gold ring in it that was to be Samantha's engagement ring. After holding onto that for more than 7 years I finally only sold that last year.
I don't want to move again.
I don't know what to do with the contents of the box.
I don't know if holding most of the items is doing some sort of penance for some real or imagined sin or I simply cannot let go.
I don't know if just throwing it away means I've let go or I've thrown shit that only matter to me from a tattered old box into the street.
There is a real sadness that hits me hard when I think about just throwing it away. Why am I holding on to "stuff?" that mostly just hurts anyway?
Here is what the answer is and I think it is hopeful. Someday, I want to look through it with smiles and friends recalling adventures, broken hearts and triumphs reached. Someday. Someday turns out to be an impossible place to reach unless your willing to make someplace a home.
Wish me luck
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