April 1999 ac/dc by Todd Levin |
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Portrait of the Artist as a Young No-Talent (This is part one of a very special two-part ac/dc...)
The last time I bothered to visit my parents, I was politely instructed
to "sort through any of the things that are still in storage from several
years ago" and "please decide what should finally be thrown out" or
it would be "gathered into a huge, stinking pile and set on fire, just
like all of your fancy books filled with all varieties of salacious
notions and college-boy double-talk." (My parents, like many people
of their generation, are hippies-turned-yuppies-turned-backwoods-fundamentalists.)
The task of rummaging through these trifles of my youth proved somewhat
difficult, actually. Time has a way of imbuing even the most incidental
objects with a treasured sentimentality. How can you throw away an old
pair of Boston Celtics sweatsocks that you distinctly remember masturbating
into when you were discovering your own sexuality? How can you possibly
dispose of that retro-cool Atari 2600 console that you remember masturbating
into as well?
Things took a sickeningly sweet turn when I had to make a decision
about throwing out ancient correspondences and personal writing dating
all the way back to 1982 (I was only 11 years old then). Scores of love
letters on preppy stationary, folded a million times over to facilitate
more clandestine classroom note-passing. Crushes reciprocated and recorded.
Cute little drawings of my friends and family with cartoonish daggers
poking into their genitals or little flames shooting out of their eyeballs
as a funny half-man, half-goat floats in the blackened sky above them.
Tokens of childhood that seemed criminal to discard. Then I found some
poetry I wrote as an early teenager and immediately decided to throw
everything away (I did keep one of the drawings to show my therapist,
though).
Wow. I actually wrote this and printed it in a "literary" zine I published
for a Jewish youth group while I was in high school. I remember the
youth group -- it was a carbon copy of thousands of other such organizations
that promoted intra-faith premarital sex disguised cleverly behind a
series of elaborately staged weekend "religious conclaves" -- and I
suppose I remember this zine, though only marginally well. But I somehow
managed to completely repress any knowledge of this "poem." And I was
hoping I could keep it that way.
I must confess, though, this little (eerily untitled) scrap of rhyming
verse probably has more to say about the state of adolescence than it
has to say about me (the author would so desperately like you to
believe this statement). Teenagers, because of their youth, are
able to make their feelings completely accessible, often left right
on the surface for public examination. You can record your feelings,
to share or pretend to hide from others. Your daily existence maintains
a pendulous balance between hysterical farce and flamboyantly acted
tragedy. It's nice; for all the pain you think you're feeling, the ready
release of it is really liberating. Best of all, you get to use words
like "soul" and "burning sand" and "bleak" without attracting ridicule
or theater majors. Cool.
Fortunately, as you grow older you learn how to properly repress your
existential crises until you're just too darn stuffed with the sad little
thoughts that you swallowed to avert conflict. Then you start wearing
greasy brown paper bags as hats and parking yourself in front of Walgreens,
yelling about how your spit tastes like it's been poisoned by the Lebanese.
That's what growing up is all about.
There are learned behaviors and appropriate reactions that come slowly
and instinctually as you mature from adolescent to prematurely balding
man. No one coaches you on refining tools for handling certain emotional
circumstances; you simply develop reflexes on your own, quite naturally.
As a quick primer, here are some examples of situations and how they
might be handled differently from adolescence to adulthood
:
I think it was only my youth (and my poor education) that allowed me to write (and feel OK to print) this poem, and that's fine. Maybe I did feel like I was "just a mouse" when I wrote those lines. Maybe I hadn't yet developed the emotional shades of gray which would have informed me that a poem needs a rhythm but does not necessarily require a rhyme scheme (especially an A-B-A-B scheme -- yikes!). Maybe I had an overdeveloped sense of self that lacked the perspective of distance and experience to inform me that my exercise in self-expression was a bit melodramatic. And maybe I got to french kiss about 20 reformed Jewish teenage girls who read that poem and determined I was a frail creature in great need of emotional support and physical affection. But isn't that enough? (stay tuned for part two, in which the author deconstructs the great untitled verse of his youth...)
back to the junk drawer |
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