Despite all my rage at 3am

I used to be able to talk about the sound of birds or the shape of clouds. Everything feels like numbers and commercial spices these days.

I miss the fog of grandmother’s porch, and chasing the fireflies barefoot through the grass. The sound of the blast furnace at dawn as the freighters crossed lake Ontario. The Falls never impressed me so much as Norwood. While skating at 3am, angry at the reflection of my father, the police asked if I was okay. In that parking lot I wanted to cry. They actually meant it.

Nostalgia, I’m not sure, but it feels wrong to throw it away. In the now it’s nearly 3am, and looking back, haha… I’m not sure which I’d have: the skateboard and KMFDM or an Erron chair and silence. The roads impressed me, but never as much as the man who plowed them. I sat on his porch and he let me in without a question. Uncle Carl inspired me with clocks, trains, and electricity.

My father mostly upset me. I think he might have felt like I do, like life has become nothing but math. For him it might have been shingles, but how are my numbers so different? I used to have a broken piano named Poe, because only the left half worked. Now I have a workbench that’s taken over a year to assemble crowding my living room. The piano was free with the help of a friend, lovingly moved into my garage. Fedex left the workbench in my parking lot and I lugged it inside alone.

Ages ago I didn’t care what anyone thought; I was used to being ignored. I played at painting, sculpting, and writing nobody would ever see. I’d be up right now painting with Mountain Dew. At some point what other people think became way too important. Is that when numbers started to matter?

I don’t think that’s quite right. Numbers became a defense from false friends. I’m starting to realize something, but I’m not sure what it is. All I can say is 3am seems to have gotten less fun over the years, and I don’t want to be 45 remembering this moment in a positive light, unless it was the turning point.

I remember staying with my grandmother once when I was 7 or 8, up in the West Virginia mountains. She was always kind to me. I don’t remember the exact situation, but I was allowed to stay there without my mom for a few weeks. I couldn’t sleep the first night, so around 3am my grandmother fixed me a t-bone steak and potatoes. She thought I was homesick, but that’s the first time I felt home. Truly safe, warm, and loved.

Eleven years ago, at 3am I was fleeing a snake. After making chili and cornbread, wishing for friends, I went out looking for the police. This evening is better than that one, by the numbers’ saving grace. And that’s the crux, my invisible friends. It’s hard for me to tell you about the clouds when I’m never sure who means to drown me.

I remember escaping the violence with Spike Spiegel at 3am, that is until my parents canceled cable. If anyone wonders why I can’t sleep at night I hope you understand now. To me, memory isn’t linear, and it comes when unexpected. Events are hard to remember in order, but the lighting of my cigarette is a type of trigger. I hope Netflix does Beebop justice.

Now I’m afraid the numbers are all that’s left. I know I’m more, but it’s hard to be myself. I have work tomorrow, but the reflection lies that I work for myself. I’m not sure which would be better. To get this all out, or try to sleep to please others. That’s the thing about the numbers. They keep a roof over my head by allowing the world to steal my dreams. People have told me that my story is inspiring, but they don’t see I’ve followed Buffet’s advice about only painting what the public can see. Do what I say and not what I do, because in so many cases, it will destroy your happiness to act as I do. I can build decent software for strangers, but I can’t update my own computer. If you’re reading this you’ve probably had my food, and it might bewilder you why I eat nothing at home.

I think I drink to avoid this hour, or the feelings it reminds me. It feels better to drown myself than be wounded again. As much as I talk about being proactive, it’s more of a cautionary tail. I’m an expert on what not to do, and it’s improbable I have the best solution to anything. If I seem smarter, it’s just because I’ve probably lost teeth to more mistakes.

They say just about the whole sky is in retrograde right now. I’m not sure I believe that effects me, but it gives me permission to feel. I wouldn’t be who I am if not for my past. If I had a time machine there’s nothing I would change. Some happiness can be drawn from the past. It’s not about age. I realize the changes have to happen in the now. My Warhammer army was better than the army men I’d lost, and at 3am painting listening to Rainbow I was living in the moment. Maybe I should do more of that.

It’s not looks or health or friends I need to salvage, it’s the childhood I didn’t have. Even back then, the numbers were around. I was playing Magic and 40k for money and couldn’t enjoy them with most friends. My decks were venture backed startups compared to their lemonade stands. It wasn’t fun for me, but friends wanted to play anyway. To them I was a legend, but I felt guilty. “Remove your deck from the game” was a magic trick to them, and no profit for me.

I think it’s a question of light and shadow, and neither can be ignored. In the sense it should be possible for the numbers to be fun, or vice versa. I just know for a while the numbers have mattered too much, and without emotion and freedom to drive them, they’ll consume me.

Today I realized I’m a closed beta tester for a game I dreamed about when I was 17, back when I was playing Magic and running UplinkLounge for free. I collected about $200 ad money every quarter that I used to treat my friends to dinner. Back then I was never wanting for Mountain Dew or vodka in my freezer. The Mage and D&D games I ran filled my house with donated snacks, and while I often starved I enjoyed the games I made. When my server crashed a donated hard drive was a small ask. Then again, Taiki was right, I ran Blackcode like a juvenile, because that’s what I wanted to be. Ironically, Blackcode had 500x as many users, and some of the earliest nerd rappers. Meanwhile, I was living in a basement, up at 3am making artwork.

That said, I haven’t played the game for a week. Instead I’m stressing about cardboard boxes, returned leather jackets, and a retired sniper. Most of this won’t make sense to anyone but me. The numbers want to play warehouse tycoon, but the child wants to play Indiana Jones. I want to uncover lost relics and ideas, and bring them into the modern context for fun. That’s why I’m so attached to things like the Model M, the oldschool weather dial on my porch, and churchwarden pipes.