Black to Comm - Alphabet 1968 - Type, 2009

There was never a time in my life when I felt less like myself. It was 10th grade and I was sitting on the floor of the youth group room at my parent’s church. Aside from the low-nap, beat-to-shit carpeting that was transferring a fine grid of ageless dirt to my hands, every other surface of that large room was covered in dark, fake wood panelling. It was claustrophobic in more ways than one. The slightly-older-than-me youth “leader” sat/collapsed too closely and asked if I was into the band currently playing over the loudspeaker. Whatever bullshit I told him he ate with a serving ladle. Maybe he thought this meaningless conversation might lead to some kind of connection and another young, wild boy to fit tightly under his heaven-bound wing. I have no idea what his name is and I would never recognize him today. But when I try to picture his acne scarred face and curly hair, I can’t help but image him dying in a horrific car accident leaving his young wife paralyzed and their newborn baby in the care of grandma and grandpa. The miserable crying seeping from the stained glass panes of the large, fake wood room. Highschool kids bawling their misguided eyes out over the passing of their beloved Wednesday night shepherd. The shepherd is always a man. A man that when left on his own would beat off until he dick bled. A man that, in his head, would talk over people just so that his face wouldn’t give away his drowning boredom. A man that reached down to unbuckle his own seatbelt just before impact. Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall. Climb until the sun burns your body to nothing and the person you think you can be is set free from the filth. We have all escaped the great canal once. Now, we clamor to return.