The Narratives: Anthology: The Narratives, #5

By Vince Guaglione

The Narratives series of works is a collection of short introspective essays written by an average guy in an effort to better understand himself, his life, and his relationship with the world around him while traveling the road of self-discovery. These works can best be described as the author's unique brand of journaling, encompassing both self-reflective entries, and an expression of thoughts and opinions surrounding social issues of the present day.

The Narratives: Anthology is a compilation of all four previously published Narratives works that were written over the course of two years, following the death of a loved one. The collection traces the author’s journey through the five stages of loss, his healing process, and the beginning of a new phase in his life. The highs and lows are pronounced and seep through in the writing, taking the reader on an emotional journey through moments of personal triumph and exhilaration, but also through moments of anger, sadness, and total despair. Each short essay style narrative touches on a particular personal or societal topic, but when taken as a whole, they are recognized as emotional stepping stones in the transformation of the author’s life. This book contains new material including a Forward section that details the history and genesis of the series, plus five new essays written post-volume four.

The Narratives: Anthology is the fifth volume in The Narratives series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vince Guaglione
• Release date: Nov 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781533787279

Book preview

The Narratives

Anthology

Vince Guaglione

Text copyright ©2014 Vincent P. Guaglione

All Rights Reserved

For

All of those who believe in me and in what I do

Acknowledgements

A very special thanks goes out to all current and former Starbucks Brier Creek employees. Over the past two years, I’ve called this place my home away from home, and have had the opportunity to get to know many of you personally. It’s been both a pleasure and an unbelievably rewarding experience.

All the best goes out to Kristy Cannon, Danny, Adam, Dex, Kyle, Nick, Ashley, Brittani, Laura, Emily, Aislinn, Caitlin, Ray, Trevon, young Nick, Madelyn, Alyssa, Jayme, Nikki, Dori, Leslie, Kiel, Garrett, Holly, and MJ. Thank you for making me a part of the Starbucks Brier Creek family. You guys rock!

And as always, I would like to thank my copy editor, A.D. Reed. Not only does he correct my grammar and punctuation, but he provides great insight in helping me become a better writer.

Table of Contents

Foreward

The Narratives:  Keeping The Soul Alive

I – The Voice

II – September

III – My Religion

IV – We’re All Assholes

V – Fear

VI – Drive

VII – Loss:  Part I

VIII – Calm

IX – Living the Dream

X – Ivory Tower

XI – The Dead Spot

XII – Boxed In

XIII – Zombie Nation

XIV – The Dark

XV – Loss:  Part II

XVI – Unfinished

The Narratives II:  Dusk Or Dawn

I – 89 Days

II – Letting Go:  It’s Harder Than You’d Think

III – The Metaphysical: Part I

IV – The Metaphysical: Part II

V – Journaling:  Then and Now

VI – The Domino Effect

VII – Social Media:  The Preferred Medium for Airing Dirty Laundry

VIII – Texting:  A Disruption of Epic Proportions

IX – The Right to Remain Boxed In

X – Isolationism

XI – Going It Alone

XII – It’s About Connections

XIII – Dusk or Dawn

The Narratives III:  Fanning The Flames

I – Fingerprints of Evil

II – The First 42 Years Were Easy

III – The Oscillating Nature of Inner Turbulence

IV – Conceal and Carry Discount

V – The Greater Good: A Misplaced Value

VI - Feeding the Homeless: A Despicable Act

VII – A Skeleton on the Grill, Another in the Closet

VIII – Of Pilgrims and Price Drops

IX – Black ’n’ Blue Friday: The Capitalism Orgy

X – Hate: Our New National Pastime

XI – Assumption Is the Mother of All Fuck-Ups

XII – I Know You Better Than You

XIII – A Shaman in a Past Life

The Narratives:  Evolution

I – In Retrospect

II – Really Letting Shit Go

III – Clearing the Clutter

IV – Life’s Little Dilemmas

V – Flipping the Switch

VI – The Pursuit of Depth

VII –Behind the Window

VIII –The Past Revisited

IX – Pride ... for the Right Reason

X – The Endless Battle with Distraction

XI – Adaptability and Change

XII – My Evolution

XIII – And on the Seventh Day...

Post Narratives:  Evolution Essays

I - A New Chapter

II - Getting Back To Being Me

III - A Big Piece of the Puzzle

IV - Winding It Down

V - My Yellow Brick Road

About the Author

Foreward

I’m sitting outside my local Starbucks here in Raleigh, North Carolina, on a warm evening, as the tail end of August, 2014 is upon me, and I look back to a time not so long ago that is eerily familiar. The setting, the scene, and the thickness in the air are the same—the same as they were almost two years ago to the day—when I took my first step towards rediscovering my past, and myself.

I’m a sunshine-and-warm-weather person by nature, something I’ve always known about myself. I’m at home in the heat, and in the light. That hasn’t changed in forty-five years, and I don’t see it changing from here on out. The excessive daytime heat and murky, soupy, thick summer evenings warm my heart. Whenever I can get by without a coat or light jacket, I’m in heaven. And conversely, whenever a chill runs through me, or I find myself shivering outdoors, hell appears. Then a dark cloud hangs over me and I feel myself slipping away. But I know this is only cyclical. I deal with my moodiness, crankiness, and generally sullen disposition as best as I can, and, naturally, it passes. I might hate the cold, but it does make for interesting writing.

Two years gone, and I’m here once more. This place has become my second home. It’s where I come to generate ideas, and put pen to paper. It’s where I come to take in a wonderful evening’s sunset, no matter what time of the year it is. But most of all, it’s where things flow.

In these two years I’ve written more than I ever imagined I would. Once it got started, it just kept going, and going ... and going. Now I couldn’t stop it if I tried. It has become a part of me, and for that I am thankful.

This journey of mine started two years ago, eight months after the death of my significant other, twelve months after the untimely demise of her youngest son. Even though I used my writing as therapy, it was never my intent to recount the details of the four months between those deaths. Some of that story can be garnered through reading many of these essays, but large pieces of the puzzle have remained hidden away from prying eyes, as they should.

For me, the writing was a soothing tool to heal, to help me make sense of my plight. Simultaneously, and conversely, it helped take my mind off the tragic events that had all too often embedded themselves front and center in my world. It was exactly what I needed to find my way through, and move into the next stage of my life.

But those four months...

They are forever etched in my brain. Though many of the details have fallen by the wayside, the overall experience will remain with me forever. Watching someone sink lower and lower, with no means of halting the spiraling downward, is misery at its finest. We had the help of a therapist, family, friends, and support groups, but it wasn’t enough. She needed to find the wherewithal to keep living. She needed to find a purpose to go on. She never did.

I was overwhelmed with helplessness, confusion, anger, and despair. The person I once knew who was always joyful, expressive, full of life, became a shell of herself. Her spirit had been sucked out of her, leaving behind a walking corpse, sitting in wait. Waiting for the end.

That experience, and the ensuing suicide, changed me—but not for the worse, for the better. Following her death, I was forced to walk in similar footsteps. I had lost the love of my life and was faced with the task of pressing on without her, just as she had had to do four months previously. At first, I had no idea how I would do it. It took all my strength to raise myself from the couch, put both feet flat on the floor, and force myself to stand up. But I did it. I got it done. I understood that I needed to continue living and do what I could to honor her memory and that I wasn’t going to be able to do that lying supine on a couch while life slipped away.

But taking that first step was only the beginning. I needed to get back into a routine and start living. For the first three months after her death, I was restless, still in mourning, and filled with grief. I floundered about, going through the motions, just existing, yet I could never seem to fully switch my brain off. I was going about my daily routine on auto-pilot. I couldn’t put two consecutive thoughts together, or remember anything that happened to me the moment before. As the months wore on, it took a heavy toll on me physically. I was always exhausted, yet, zombie-like, I never got any rest.

In a fit of both anger and sadness, after awakening yet again in the small hours after only ninety minutes of sleep on a stormy late-summer evening, I asked—no, pleaded—when this would ever end. It had to: it was taking me down with it.

And then something fired in my almost useless brain. Something that took me back to a time long ago when I could fully express how I felt through the written word.

That’s how it started.

I still don’t know what allowed me to pull that solitary thought forward through the fog and haze that had built up in my mind over those eight months, but it was a godsend. It was exactly what I needed at that moment to go on living—it gave me a purpose. And what I found went far beyond anything I could ever imagine: a rediscovery of self, or, more aptly, a rebirth. It sent me on my trajectory toward self-discovery, and toward finding my passion. Funny how life works sometimes.

Once I’d given the idea a go, there was nothing that could stop me. After all, it was only my sanity, my very life, that was at stake. To this day, I still can’t imagine it working out any better than it has.

I started writing furiously. The thoughts and ideas that were floating around in both my conscious and subconscious mind were bubbling to the surface. After crafting sixteen short essays, I decided to publish them as a collection in what became The Narratives: Keeping the Soul Alive. Initially, I thought this would be it, that having found what I needed to get me over the hump and back into living life, it had served its purpose. How wrong that turned out to be.

Shortly after the release, I realized I still had plenty of ideas in my head, and plenty of things left to say, so I thought, why not just keep going? Just like Forrest Gump after he ran across the county and reached the Alabama state line. I was enjoying the process and energized by the additional ideas that had since come forward. Four months after The Narratives was published, I release The Narratives II: Dusk Or Dawn. Once more, I imagined this was the end of the road. There was nothing left in the tank, and I was reconciled to believing that I’d be content to have left two short works behind—my legacy to humankind. But then a funny thing happened: I started feeling really angry.

My anger wasn’t apparent on the surface; it was deep within me. I had no idea why I was angry or even what I was angry about. And subconsciously, I recognized that it wasn’t going to stay locked in there forever: something signaled that it was trying to find its way to the surface. So I decided to let it out through more writing, and out of that internal fire was born The Narratives III: Fanning the Flames.

That collection was released just over fifteen months after I began writing Narratives I, and in thinking about this, I understood that what I’d experience over that period was all five stages of grief. Count those fifteen, add the eight months before I began writing, and the four months between the two deaths, and I understood that it had taken me twenty-seven months to get through the loss of a loved one. The time frame is different for everyone, but in my case, it took a little over two years.

I was astounded. It took that much time to get through the grieving process and start feeling like myself again. Once I fully realized what this meant, I looked inward and accepted that letting it all out through my writing was what helped bring my grief to a close. I struggled with that acceptance, but in the end, confronting it with my words was what set it—and me—free.

It was during the Christmas holiday break, 2013, that I had my meltdown. I can’t remember all the details of what happened but I do recall standing in my apartment screaming. It’s likely the angriest I’d ever been in my entire life, and what made it even worse was that I had no idea why. As I processed this, I came to understand that what makes me truly angry is the confusion surrounding the anger. I’m not an angry person by nature, so when it happens, it’s entirely due to my lack of understanding. If I come up with no answer to the why, I blow my top. Thankfully, I haven’t experienced many of those moments in my life: the feeling is horrible, and one I don’t wish on anyone.

After calming myself, I focused on the why, and then it hit me. I was angry because I hadn’t fully grieved my loss. It took two full years from the date of her death for me to get angry about it, or, more precisely, to understand that I was angry about it all along. I couldn’t change what had happened, and at this point I didn’t want to. Life isn’t about what happens to us but how we deal with what happens. It was time to put things behind me and live.

Almost immediately after figuring out what was happening, I felt better. I understood where this was coming from and acknowledged it. It was then that I realized I could start fresh, and move on to my next chapter. And this is the moment The Narratives: Evolution was born.

Evolution is a very different piece of work than the previous three because it defines me. It’s who I am, what I think about, and what I see when I look inward. It’s a work that goes deep, and shows the reader my inner light, once all the layers are peeled away. This is the part of me that seems so difficult to access at times, and is also the most questionable in my mind. But it’s only because I’m highly critical and sometimes want to find fault, even when there’s no reason to do so. It’s who I am, whether I care to admit to it or not.

As I worked through Evolution, I found that the topics on which I was writing required deeper thoughts, and a deeper understanding of life. I began learning more about what was really important to me, and doing a much better job filtering out the surface-level noise. What mattered was focusing on my feelings and on my emotions, and how to allow the beautiful things in life, such as an expression of joy or wonderment, to fill me up and make me overflow. This was what gave me the insight to finally view the part of myself that all too often got buried in the grind of daily living. What I was seeing was my own growth—my evolution as a human being.

Also, I noticed that with each new work, the writing became progressively better. It became more cohesive, more expressive; it seemed to have more soul to it. Evolution is the work I’m most proud of, not only because it’s the one in which I rediscovered my authentic self, but also because it’s beautiful. When I reread some of the essays from that book, I sometimes find myself welling up a touch. It has a different feel from the other three because it’s tranquil: I can’t detect an ounce of anger, sarcasm, or pent-up emotion in it. It’s who I am at my best, and it will always be there for me when I need to remind myself of that. When I sit down and think about it, I know in my heart that what lives in that work is my life force.

The book you hold in your hands is not just a collection of short essays, but a roadmap tracing my two-year journey on an emotional rollercoaster. It’s a collection of thoughts and feelings that were formed through the loss of a loved one, through coping with that loss, and then through the start of a new and significant phase in my life.

When I started this process, I saw it as only an avenue to give my mind, and body a much-needed rest. But what it has given me is the means to continually improve myself, and it serves as a reality check when I find I need a little reminder about achieving my potential. These short essays are mere snapshots of my recognition of a life worth examining. But it is in the recognition of these thoughts that leads me to a more complete understanding of who I am, and how far I’ve come since first putting pen to paper.

29-August-2014

The Narratives:  Keeping The Soul Alive

I – The Voice

Open mail...

Read mail.

Open Facebook...

Read new posts.

Open Yahoo news...

Read headlines.

~

Refresh mail...

Refresh Facebook...

Refresh the news...

I’m constantly deluged by stimuli. Coming from all directions and never stopping for just a second. The sound of parking lot traffic outside the local Starbucks where I’m sitting enjoying the last month of warm evenings before the season changes, the chirping of car alarms, the foot traffic of people coming and going – their eyes buried in the screens of their smartphones, texting or posting to Facebook, all while walking and not paying any attention to anything in their path, bombarding me at every turn. 

Amazing...

Amazing how my attention span has turned to shit in about the last fifteen years. I just realized that the trash that I needed to take to the dumpster and had placed in the trunk of my car only ten minutes ago is still sitting in the trunk.

At times, I have the attention span of a gnat. And only now, after all this time has passed have I realized it. I remember back to a simpler time, about twenty years ago, before the Internet, before smartphones, hell, even before cell phones, to a time when I felt quiet and could easily be alone with my thoughts. It was a much simpler time, a time when I actually could think without distraction. I was in my early twenties and had boundless creative energy. I was a writer. I picked it up as a hobby in my teens, filling a journal with life experiences, dreams, and fantasies. I enjoyed writing so much that I began branching out, pulling the thoughts in my head together to be creative, to come up with stories and put them on paper.

I used to sit on the stoop of my parents’ home in the summer, bask in the evening’s warm glow and, with pen and paper, draft short stories and write in my journal. In college, I did some writing for my college literary magazine and submitted a few stories to independent comic book publishers in the hope I’d get writing credits for a few published stories. Unfortunately, I landed only one backup story in a future issue of a book titled Quadrant that never went to print because the publisher went out of business. I missed my fifteen minutes of fame by one issue... Number nine. I had the backup story in issue number nine. The last book in the series was published with issue eight; heartbreaking for a twenty-year-old who wanted to get published.

Yet I persisted. I kicked around a few other ideas and began working on a story of my life growing up with my friends. It was a monster project that I finished as a draft just this past summer. I can’t say I’m entirely happy with it for a number of reasons, first and foremost being the lack of character development and imagery. Looking back at my early work, I realized these two core components were always a struggle as I never seemed to hit on all cylinders. In re-reading what I’d written for my literary mag and for the comic books, I realized I’m really not all that creative. I love the horror and thriller genres but don’t possess the imagination and the competence to write the next great thriller. No. It’s not in the cards.

What I can say after spending lots of leisure time writing my life story is that when it comes to writing, my bread and butter is in narration. It’s where I’m most comfortable, and the thoughts flow easily from mind to paper. And this brings me back to the here and now.

Whatever creativity I possessed in my formative years has been lost. The creative energy and sheer excitement of writing down what was in my head was such a rush! I miss it. This is my attempt at getting it back. It’s my attempt to find my voice once more, for it has been lost in the immediacy of each day, and has been bombarded into oblivion by the endless distractions I experience in my daily life. Many nights I’ve lain in bed and have starred at the ceiling fan above my head in the darkness, wondering why I couldn’t turn my brain off just enough to fall asleep. Plagued by insomnia, even on those nights I’ve been completely exhausted. 

Out of balance. 

Something’s definitely wrong with this picture. 

It took me long enough but I’ve finally figured it out. Instead of starring at the ceiling when I can’t seem to turn off, I will write what’s in my head. I have no idea where this journey will take me, nor where it will end, but if I can learn something about myself in the process and can learn how to switch my brain off, it will have been worthwhile.

So it begins...

Recapturing my voice.

II – September

Facebook friend requests...  It’s what makes the world go ’round.

It’s amazing the conversations you hear sitting out in front of the local Starbucks. Aside from the general craziness and chaos happening both inside the store and outside on the patio, you hear the fragments of conversations. Sometimes, it’s just a word or two...

A sentence...

A partial thought...

Or an entire rehashing of the events that transpired the previous night at a local club. 

But Facebook... yes Facebook! That’s where it’s at. 

Only two minutes after I sat myself down under an umbrella on the Starbucks patio did I catch a voice nearby shout, Hey! from around the side of the building, then some chatting. A few moments later, I heard a car parked around that same side of the building pull out of the lot, then saw a young couple emerge from that general direction and walk towards the entrance. I caught the young woman in conversation saying, She hasn’t responded to my Facebook friend request yet! Why wouldn’t she do that? She was obviously referring to the woman in the car who had just left the scene of the crime. 

I don’t know why.

The young man walking with her couldn’t offer up any answers either, and really, why should he even try? The expression on his face was that of a defeated man. 

Poor bastard. 

I wonder what other mystery-of-life questions he has to field for her.

Inanity. 

We’ve become bogged down with the inanity of today. I sit here and watch another beautiful late summer sunset, feeling at peace and wishing I could do this year round. It calms me. It allows me to clear my mind and think about my mystery questions of life: What’s my purpose in life? What goals can I accomplish? Where do I go from here? Well, I do know I’m not going back to my other Google Chrome window to check on the status of my pending friend requests.

September.

It’s a transition month for me. I’m a warm-weather person by nature, and the cooling of this month is slightly depressing. I revel in the warmth of summer and enjoy the entire season, regardless of the fact that it gets hotter than the seventh level of hell here some days. Yes, I’m a little crazy to enjoy the heat as much as I do. I can only hope they serve coffee in Hades.

Give me a few weeks and I’ll make the transition. I’ve always done my best work while sitting outside in the evenings with a warm summer breeze blowing lightly across my face and the colors of red, orange, and purple filling the western sky.

Cathartic.

It’s easy to let life get in the way of this experience. It’s happened to me time and time again. I take some solace in the fact that I now know when it’s time to unplug and ground myself. Yet for many, it’s hard to do. It takes an