Albert Flynn DeSilver - Beamish Boy (I Am Not My Story): A Memoir of Recovery & Awakening

(I Am Not My Story):

A Memoir of Recovery & Awakening

Albert Flynn DeSilver

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012/2013 Albert Flynn DeSilver

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for yourpersonal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or givenaway to other people. If you would like to share this ebook withanother person, please purchase an additional copy for each personyou share it with. If youre reading this book and did not purchaseit, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you shouldreturn to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you forrespecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 9781452446110

Grateful Dead lyrics by John Barlow Copyright1974, Ice Nine Publishing and Grateful Dead Productions.

T.S. Eliot Poem from The Four Quartets,Harcourt, Copyright 1943 by T.S. Eliot, and 1971 by Esme ValerieEliot.

Jack Spicer quotes from One Night Stand &Other Poems, Copyright 1980 Grey Fox Press.

http://www.albertflynndesilver.com

ALSO BY ALBERT FLYNN DESILVER

Poetry

A Field Guide to the Emotions

Letters to Early Street

Walking Tooth & Cloud

Some Nature

A Pond

Foam Poems

The Book of Not

This book is true to the letter of my heart, atrue account, as in true as truth can be given the vagaries of themind (especially one at times severely under the influence) andthe beclouded nature of memory drunk on time. Names have beenchanged to protect privacy, and one person (character) is anamalgam of two from real life. This was intended to cut down onconfusion and enhance the clarity of the story without compromisingits overall integrity.

for Magpie and Serena

And, has thou slain theJabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

He chortled in his joy.

Lewis Carroll,

from Jabberwocky

I cannot tell what I am, because words candescribe only what I am not.

Nisargadatta Maharaj

I

II

III

Sunday Bloody Sunday

The air is heavy and wet, the cicadas grating,the trees drooping with the burst of fresh leaves; a new moon atdusk is spilling forth its shadow like a sea of lost ink. A densehaze is smudging out a shy glint of stars. Inside, Sunday BloodySunday is cranked on the stereo. It is, in fact, a Sunday night,and there I am at nineteen in 1987, just back from my first year ofcollege, looking out the open window from the crowded kitchen of aparty at my friend Patricks house in Connecticut. Old friends frommiddle and high school are milling about smoking, talking loudly.Everyone is coupled or grouped up. Allison and Ryan, so skinny andbeautiful, are leaning against the stove, pressed together likesheets of seaweed. Theyre making me jealous, and I feel a gnawinglonging for Amy. A blurry crew is seated at the kitchen tableplaying quarters and laughing. Ive got both hands wrappedtightly around my red plastic cup of beermy seventh or eighth ofthe night. Its the way I would have wrapped my hands around Amyswaist. Possessive and clingy.

I am standing alone again. Eyes darting around,fingering the rim of my cup, feeling the absence of Amy, trying notto hear her resistant voice ringing in my head as echo. Youregoing to Colorado next year, and Ill be back in Ohio, and I justdont see how this can work. I know, I know I had an amazing timetoo. Im confused. Love is a big word. I need time to figure thingsout.

So I make myself fake-occupied staring at agrease-splattered photo to the right of the stove. Its of Pat andhis family at the Grand Canyon, and I am struck by their matchingpostures when standing in profile, looking like an innocent familyof seahorses. They seem to all fit in snugly together. Whilelooking at this picture, I cant help but wonder: Where is thestrict and violent German governess? The schizophrenic aunts anduncles? What about the fleeting mom who tells outrageously dirtyjokes at fabulous parties, with a perpetual Benson & Hedgeshanging out of her mouth? Did Mr. Daley truly have just one wife,perfect little Mrs. Daley? She looks a little like Amy, albeit anolder version, with her straight blond hair, athletic build, andsmall sage-light eyes.

A pang of longing ripples through my belly. Iturn away and find myself standing uncomfortably still alone,swaying. I shuffle over to Mike Castleton, interrupting himmid-sentence with whats-his-name. Mikes the biggest guy here: sixfeet tall, sandy blond hair, muscular, practically a full beardshadowing his face. Im feeling bold and edgy. I need a ruckus, anaudience, something to take me out of this longing and missingthats chewing at my heart. I take a giant pull from my beer, thenpivot and swerve in an instant into Mikes personal space, mouthgood and full. I spit it right into the breast pocket of his blueand white striped oxford shirt. Foam spills drowsily out of hispocket and down his shirt.

What the fuck... you idiot asshole, he sayswith a solid punch in the arm and a swift kick in the ass, whichsends me flailing out the door, onto the deck. My ass is throbbing,but there is laughter, and I assume its for me. I amyearning for it to be for me.

The deck is a dark boatblackness washing upagainst the gunwales, leaking in among the gaping spaces around myfeet and legs. The planks are creaking. Voices. Are they talkingshit about me? Time folds in on itself, fades in and out, inspiresanother beer from the keg. My tenth, twelfth? Things are gettingunmanageably hazy. I weave inside and out among the chatteringmasses. A person appears before me swathed in a black trench coat,hands me a shot of something liquid and golden. I knock it back anddrop the glass at my feet, my hand having gone limp at the wrist.Trench coat says things, mumbly underwater things, then vanisheslike vulture shadow. A yellow room appears with dizzying stripesand red angry flowers, tilts uncomfortably on its side, inspiresanother visit to my dark boat for air. But the darkness is risingup to my chest, threatens to drown me out. At some point, I findmyself stumbling off the deck, drawn to voices out in the driveway.The asphalt rears up at me like a shadowy horse; the trees above mespin.

I approach the circle of people, drawn as if toa white life preserver thrown out in a sea of choppy dark. I jointhem, swaying, noticing a triangular flood of light between thegarage doors. Someones head is backlit, the outline of it glowingas if they are about to get sucked into the light. I wish that wasme, getting sucked into a vast yellow brightness of warmth, ofacceptance. Im trying to think of a joke, or even a quick anecdoteabout how friggin cute Sarah Brenner looks in her tight orangetube top. Something, anything, to announce my presence.Nothing.

My brain is numb. My mind gone blank. Though Imstanding in this circle of friends, no one seems to notice thatIm there. The circle of people begins spinning, like anImpressionist painting of a merry-go-round, colorful shirtsblurring, pulsating, bloating into strange shapes. I feel as if Imgoing blind and turning invisible simultaneously. With the nextwave of dizziness, I am about to fall when I right myself byreaching for my zipper. Its a gesture of epiphany. This will be myannouncement that Im here, my golden greeting, if you will. Thegroups eyes widen as I pull out my penis and proceed to pee rightthen and there on the forest of feet and legs before me, twirlingmy dick so its golden stream blooms in lasso-like circles.

Hey, fucking DeSilver, put that thing away.Yo, scumbag. What the fuck, you loser. Holy shit, thats sogross. Who is that sick fuck?

In that moment, my vision goes from doubleblurred to a pixilated hall of mirrors. Shame and embarrassmentswoop in and envelop me, seep into my skin like a cold dew, as thecrowd scatters and I stumble off into the bushes to throw up. Imbeing poked and scratched and rejected by the bushes. I need out.Out of this skin, this body. I find myself crawling, seeking cover,a kind of embrace toward a stable surface that can orient me inspace. There is the faint scent of oil and tar. The skin of mycheek is smushed into the pavement, pebbles imprinting on it. Thewarmth from the days sun is almost soothing, yet not at all like awomans face, rather a thousand times harder and a thousand milesfarther away. Im drifting into a nauseating void. And then I blackout.