My name is Gino. My folks named me Eugene, after the Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winner, American playwright Eugene O’neill. But my name is Gino. Even though I have been alive for more than twenty-three years, I must say that life did not truly start for me until about a year ago.

I had just finished a hitch in the Marine Corps, and I was anxious to tackle Life once more. Four years in the military, comprised mostly of “hurry up and wait,” allowed me to devise plenty of ingenious plans for my life. I had already known that I did not want to be in the usual rat race everybody else seemed to be in: graduate high school, go to college, get a “good” job, then work for someone else for the rest of my life paying off credit card bills for things I don’t need in my life. I wanted something different. I wanted passion and that ever-so-elusive sense of accomplishment. The materialistic, modern lifestyle of the typical consumers (by which we are upstanding citizens if we would only throw our hard earned money back into the whirlpool of economy) never did interest me.

It was during this period of soul searching that I discovered within myself certain panache, a flair for words, which previously went unnoticed. It did not come to me as too big a shock; I had always been a devourer of literature. Fiction, mystery, science fiction, classics, self-help, philosophy; anything I can get my hands on I would feverishly read and attempt to assimilate into my being the ideas contained within. So it was with great joy that I decided to be a writer (amongst other things of course, as Lazarus Long said:
“A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.”) Time Enough For Love ~Robert A. Heinlein~

Now that I had set a somewhat hazy goal, I felt pretty satisfied with myself, smug even. But no destination on a map is worth a damn if the starting point is unknown. This meant I had to take a look at myself: a good, hard, and honest evaluation of who I am. The sight was not pretty. In fact, it was a downright painful, and at times seemingly futile, exercise. I took stock of my personality, characteristics, temperament, and talents. I reflected upon my strengths, and more importantly, my weaknesses. The picture of my Self soon became clear, warts and all.

I then started visualizing the man I wished, nay! yearned to become. I imagined the type of physique I would possess, the style of clothes I’d wear, how I would move, talk, and walk. I saw my hairstyle, friends and social life, the kind of laugh, the type of woman that would intrigue me, etc… I made it so real and tangible, down to the minutest of details, that I could open my eyes and see “him” next to me. What steps would I have to take, came the inner question, for me to go from “here” to “there” automatically? Thus I started out, with a single step, on my ten thousand mile journey.

The plan was not perfect; I failed everyday. The journey was even farther from perfection, more like riddled with potholes and littered with abandoned trenches. I still fail on a daily basis, but someone once told me, “Perfect is boring.” That became somewhat of a mantra to counter my perfectionism. Things will never be perfect and the stars will never be aligned just so. I realized that I would just have to suck it up and embark on my imperfect journey with an imperfect plan. Get the ball rolling and refine as you go along, otherwise we’d never get off our collective asses.

Now my days consist of: waking up, scratching my buttocks for three minutes, doing whatever housework that needs to be done (to “get the ball rolling” and build tiny bits of sense of accomplishment and motivation,) perform my daily practice (I start with joint lubrication exercises, then proceed to a mix of kettlebells, clubbells, and bodyweight exercises. Whatever tickles my fancy at that particular moment,) check my e-mails, then ideally write or study (still working on being consistent) until I leave for school at 3 o’clock. During the weekends I work part-time at Whole Foods (even after I win a Pulitzer and appear on Oprah, I would still work part-time there; I just plain enjoy it, and twenty percent discounts on groceries really add up.)

Someone told me that by paying attention to other people’s Life Models (ie: life is like a roller coaster, box of chocolate, carousel ride, etc. ad nauseum…) one can gleam significant insights into what makes that particular person tick. Some people feel that life is a trap, others think it’s a endless game, still others surmise that it’s just one big joke that God is playing on us mortals, but I prefer to live as if Life is a grand adventure. Here is my Life Model:
I am driving down my Life Path, a dusty road remniscient of the way to Vegas. Once in a while I spy a fellow traveler on the side of the road. If they are going the same direction as me, they are welcome to hitch a ride, if not there’s no harm done. Now the traveler and I can laugh, joke, tell stories and have a grand old time, they may even suggest some detours to check out the sight. But at no point are they allowed to grab the wheel, because this is my Life, my journey, my Path. The moment our directions divulge, I shall thank them for their company and cherish forever the memories we’ve shared. I will remember the things I learned from my fellow travelers. But what I will not do is sacrifice my Path to go on theirs, for the sake of remaining together, nor force them on mine. Ultimately, this is my own Path to walk, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I look forward to being fourty years-old. I look forward to being fifty, sixty, and so on. I look forward to finding out if there is anything after Death. But not yet.

“To die would be an awfully big adventure.” ~Peter Pan~

This is a short story that I wanted to get published, but ended up totally forgetting about. (It has italics in it to indicate the "other" voice, but Xanga doesn't show it, so you'll have to use your head to figure out which voice is which. Kinda like real life!)
May 24th, 2006


It’s been three days since I slept. Three long, god-forsaken days. Or is it four? I don’t know. I can’t remember, a perk enjoyed by the sleep deprived. The voices are ceaseless, they won’t stop no matter what. It started about a week ago. I was driving back from the bookstore, it’s where I go to relax and check out new releases of Spiderman comic books. I grew up on Spiderman, and I don’t care what anyone says about Wolverine or Batman, good ol’ Spidey’s the coolest cat around. Spiderman’s a coward and a nerd. That’s how it started, something as trivial as that, pretty silly right? How can I think Spiderman as anything less than the greatest superhero ever? But that incessant voice keeps popping back in for seconds, then thirds, until I started questioning myself.
It didn’t stop at Spiderman, no siree. Today the voice, or voices, it’s hard to keep track now, suggested that my relationship with my girlfriend left more to be desired. She’s cheating on you, you know? How can you not see that? It’s plain as day. No, shut up. It’s not true. Oh isn’t it? Well, how do you know? Did you smell her new perfume? She doesn’t have a new perfume! Ya, but she could have. And if she did, who she wearing it for? Makes ya think, don’t it? Fuck. Naw, I’m just being paranoid here. Or are ya? Or maybe we’re the instinct, the hunch, the gut feeling that you’ve been ignoring lately, cuz you’re too much of a coward to face up to reality. I gotta hand it to them, they knew which buttons to press.
My father had called me a coward when I was in the eighth grade. Well, not exactly in those words, but I knew what he meant. I was going through my rebellious stage, hanging out with the bad boys, trying to be “gangsta.” Felt like the big man on the block, till a bigger man came and slapped me around like a bitch. Then I’d go take it out on some poor kid. Big fish eats small fish; bigger fish eats big fish. Way of the world, I figured at the time. Way of the world.
Ya right, you can rationalize all you want, but we all know the real reasons you did what you did. My friend Richie got in a fight one day. Walked away with a black eye and some minor bruises. I brought him home to patch him up. My pops came back early and caught a glimpse of Richie. We told him he fell down the stairs, how original, right? My father was no fool; he’d been in scraps when “he was just a young buck himself.” Or so he claims.
Later that night, he said to me “Those weren’t no falling wounds. Richie’s got himself in a fight, didn’t he?” Naw, pops, I told ya, he slipped on wet floor and fell.
“I ain’t stupid son, so don’t treat me like I’m stupid.” Well, you ain’t gotta worry pops, we’ll be just fine.
“Of course, I’m gonna worry, I’m your father. I know you’re going through your rebel bullshit phase. Of course I worry. But I ain’t too worried about ya, cuz you’re gonna outgrow this “gangsta” phase. You got a good heart son, you haven’t got the stones for that kinda life. Gangster.” He snorts a little.
Bam. There it was, the one statement my father made that would direct the course of my life for a long time. You haven’t got the stones for it. Thinking back, that’s probably why I joined the Marines. That’s probably why I volunteered for infantry, the most dangerous jobs during wartime, and my reckless behaviors in firefights. My buddies in my platoon were scared for me, said it was like “you didn’t care if you died.”
Yes, that’s it.
I spent years, without even realizing it, proving to my father and myself that I wasn’t a coward. For a boy aspiring to grow into a man, was there any fate worse or more degrading than being called a coward?
So are you? Are you a coward? Did you finally prove to yourself that you’ve got the stones? Well, I’m alive aren’t I? I’m a combat veteran aren’t I?
Ya, but what does that really mean? You coulda done the real stuff. Special Forces, SEALs, Delta. Didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to get all the way, Jackie boy? Marines are elite already, I’m honored to have served in the Corps.
Quit fooling yourself, man, didn’t you wanna go Recon? Force Recon? Instead you settled for straight leg infantry. You coulda done so much more. It’s no use thinking about these things now. I’m alive and well, that’s what matters. No use crying over spilt milk.
Ya, that’s it, keep rationalizing Jackie boy, that’s what you do best. Bump into some problems and ya run away. Isn’t that kinda ‘cowardly?’ Fuck.
I’m in stop and go traffic now. Rush hour. Hundreds of cars around me on the freeway with their horns honking here and there. All these city noises and I can’t tune out a stupid inner voice.
As long as you don’t listen to us, you’ll never escape us. Look at ya. What are ya doing with your life? Can’t hold down a job, not doing so hot at school either, your girlfriend cheating on ya. What do you have to live for? Fuck.
Ya need to do something big, man. Go out with a bang. What are you talking about? Oh great, now I’m actually conversing with the voices in my head. If that’s not a sign for therapy, I dunno what is.
Sure, Jackie boy, just write us off as symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Listen to all them other people, saying you can talk about it if you need to. Like they know what it was like. Please. You’ve got nobody, Jackie. Nobody. It’s time you faced up to that.
That’s not true, I’ve always got my family. They love me, no doubt about it. Of course they do, but do they understand you? When they look at ya, what do they see? Heh heh, what kind of person do you think you are in their eyes, Jackie boy? They understand that I’ve been having some trouble, we all have our troubles.
Troubles, right, you’re troubled alright. You’re talking to yourself in middle of rush hour traffic, debating whether or not there’s a point in living any longer. Whoa, this conversation just took a turn for the serious. Who’s talking about suicide here?
We didn’t mention suicide, funny how you jumped to that conclusion. Is there something you’d like to get off your chest? Fuck.
I called my buddy Jared. He’s the smart guy, wise, philosophical. If anyone knows what to do, it’s Jared.
“Ya?” He picked up on the fourth ring.
“Jared, it’s me.”
“Hey, Jackie! Ya cute fuck, haven’t talked to ya in months. How the hell are ya?”
“I’m okay, man,” I replied.
Oh really? Then why are you calling him?
“Really? You sound different. You sure you’re cool, bro?”
“Well, shit, no. I’m not okay man. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, ya know? About things, about things we’ve done, things I’m doing right now. Just things, ya know?”
“No, I don’t know man. You’re not exactly being clear here. What do you mean?”
Go ahead, Jackie, tell him. Tell him you’ve watched Fight Club for the twentieth time this month and just wanna ‘destroy something beautiful.’ Tell him you miss the rush of feeling alive when you’re so close to death. Tell him you think Karyn is messing around on ya, and you’re almost relieved because her snoring is getting on your nerves and you’d use any excuse to end things with her before ya break her neck. Go ahead, tell him that. Tell him you want to kill. He’ll understand.
“I dunno man, things have just been weird,” I mumbled.
Pussy.
“Ya, man. I hear ya. I miss the guys. I miss the platoon.”
“Do you think we might have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Everywhere I go, it’s like the first thing people think of when they find out that I was in the war, is like “oh, are you okay? Do you have PTSD? Do you have nightmares about it?” All that “poor baby, boo hoo” crap.”
“Well, do ya?”
“Do I what?”
You know what.
“Do you think you have it?”
“Do I think I have what?”
“PTSD, ya dumb fuck. What the hell do you think I’m talking about? You’re the one that brought it up.” Jared was getting impatient. As good at giving advices as he was, he wasn’t very patient. I have a short tolerance for long stories, he once declared.
“I dunno. Maybe.”
“What do ya mean maybe? Okay, let’s start over. Do you have nightmares?”
Some, just the standard, nothing like the movies, where I wake up in the middle of the night screaming in cold sweat.
“Haha, ya, me neither. Fucking Hollywood. Okay, anxiety attacks?”
“I thought you said that was bullshit, Jared.”
“It is, I’m just checking.”
I chuckled, that Jared.
“Okay, you’ve been having problems, uh, in the bedroom?”
“What? What the fuck that gotta do with anything?”
“Hey, I’m just asking here. Ya never know, ya know? So, do ya?”
“Naw, man, all the plumbing’s fine.”
“Well, what the hell is wrong then? Let’s do that, it’d be faster.”
Tell him. Teeeeell him…
“Um… voices?” Shit, is he gonna laugh at me?
“Voices” Jared echoed.
“Ya, voices.”
“Well, if that’s true, and I ain’t no doctor Jackie, but ya, I’d say you’re crazy.”
“Thanks man, thanks a ton. I’m glad I called you for support.”
“Just telling it like I see it man. What kinda voices you talking about? Like a God-booming ‘Let my people go’ voice or what?”
“No, man. More like that little voice inside of you. Conscience, ya know, like it whispers to you. Take that and put it on steroids. I can’t get it to shut up, and it ain’t telling me pleasant thoughts. No warm fuzzies or puppy dogs,” I explained to him.
“Uh… does it tell you to do things? Like, hurt people?”
“Dude, this isn’t funny.”
“Hey, I’m being serious, man. You haven’t answered my question.”
“Well, sometimes. It’s not like a clear voice telling me to hurt anyone, more like just a flash of thought that passes through my head, then it’s gone, and I’m left feeling like shit because how can I think about hurting this person? Like I’m scum for even thinking it, ya know?”
“It’s just thoughts, Jack.”
“Ya, but thoughts lead to action.”
“You gotta just tune it out, man. Just chill, ya know?”
“If I could do that, I wouldn’t be calling ya, Jared.” He’s not much help is he? Or maybe he just doesn’t wanna help.
“Okay, fine. I remember something a friend said to me once, about the voices in our heads. Radio noise, white noise, whatever. Just gotta tune it out. He said to me ‘Jared, the secret to success in life is the ability to take action despite the white noises in your head.’ The Chinese called it ‘The Drunken Monkey’ cuz it doesn’t know what it’s talking about, cuz it’s drunk, ya see?”
“Okay, I see what you’re getting at, but then what?”
“Hold on man, I’m not done. Don’t interrupt me again, I don’t wanna lose my train of thought.”
“Fine, shoot.”
“Okay, so we’ve all got this Drunken Monkey in the back of our heads right? You can call it the negativity, bad energy, insecurity, whatever. Just realize that everyone has it okay?
“Go on.”
“So everyone has a Drunk Monkey, whispering things to discourage us, shouting sometimes if it has to. Steven Pressfield, remember the guy who wrote ‘Gates of Fire?’ Well, he called it Resistance in this other books he wrote.”
“Ya, I remember, great book.”
“What? ‘Gates of Fire’ or the other one?”
“ ‘Gates of Fire,’ what’s the title of the other one?”
“It’s the “War of Art.” I’ll write it down for ya later. I must have bought like twelve copies and just given them out to people. It’s no shit, the best book I’ve ever read.”
“Wow, that’s a lot, coming from you.”
“No kidding. Anyways, we got sidetracked again, what was I talking about?”
“Resistance,” I reminded him.
“Oh ya, so these voice, these Resistance, they’ll do anything to keep you from doing your work. By work I mean, well, actually Steven Pressfield means any kinda activity or things that makes us better than we are right now. That’s the basics of it. So the more Resistance we feel, that more sure we can be that that’s what we gotta do. And Resistance comes in many different forms: fear, procrastination, self-rationalization, and addiction to sex, drugs, alcohol, and nicotine. You name it, man, and Resistance will use it.”
“Okay, but that still don’t help me. I need to know what to do.”
“It’s not that simple, man. You said it before, action comes after thought. So it’s not just a simple matter of telling you what to do. We gotta recalibrate your thinking, your values and priorities. We gotta change your fundamental beliefs.”
“Right, okay. That reminds me of something; ‘Insanity is doing the same thing while expecting different results.’ Who said that?”
“Haha, that was Albert Einstein. Didn’t I tell you that one?”
“Ya, I think you did,” I grinned sheepishly to no one in particular.
“Okay, so remember this: You are not your problems, you are the space in which your problems take place. When you’re in a forest, you can’t see the forest by looking that the trees. The trees are not the forest. The forest is the space between the trees. Music is the pause between the notes, and how hard you play it, and everything else, ya tracking me? You are not the voices in your head. You are the one listening to the voices!”
“Holy shit…” I was dumbfounded.
“Ya, man, that blew my mind the first time I realized that too. People over identify with things. We think we’re our cloths, our jobs, our cars, the voices in our head. If we have a nasty thought, we kick ourselves in the ass for thinking that, cuz we think it’s actually us. So we feel guilty about having the bad thoughts, then that guilt creates stress in our body, which then we feel shame for having stress for having bad thoughts. And so on so forth. It’s a cycle, man.”
“So how do I break this cycle, Jared?”
Ya can’t. We’ll always be with ya.
Funny how I haven’t heard them for a while, now they suddenly pop back up again. Feeling threatened?
“You break the cycle by focusing on the Now. Focusing on your breathing. Breathe in your belly, let it be full, then let it out. Just think about your breathing and nothing else. It’ll be hard at first, you’ll hear the chatters, but it’ll fade with time. Just keep breathing, brother. Just breathe, and let the thoughts and emotions wash over you. It’s like a tide, go under and let it pass without getting swept up. Don’t let the waves of emotion and thoughts control what you do. It’s not you that’s thinking those thoughts; you’re the one listening to the Drunken Monkey. Just remember that.”
“I knew you were good for something, Jared.”
“Haha, just glad to help man.”
“I’m glad to have you as a friend.”
“Stop it, I’m getting misty. You gonna be in town anytime soon?”
“I dunno, maybe around spring break. Why don’t you ride your bike up here when you get a chance? I’ll buy you a pint of Guiness.”
“My man, you know just what to say. I’ll call you about it later.”
“Alright man, thanks again. And Jared?”
“Ya, ya, ya, I love you too man.”
I chuckle. That Jared.