Into the void

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

November 5, 1992… The weather sucks and I’m going under…

Fuck everybody. If I don’t get through this, I don’t care. My entire life
to date has been one bullshit problem after another. One idiot after
another. One hard fall after another. Losers that think they can look down
on me. Chicks with their heads terminally shoved up their asses. Fuck them
all.

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

“What’s wrong with this world” really isn’t a good question to ask myself
right now. I’m about to go under the knife and this time the knife is
playing for keeps. “Who am I” is a better question. It’s not much of a
question to ask at 17 but it’s possible that this will be my last chance to
ask myself about it.

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

I am a powerful mind in a powerless body. A talented hacker. An
exceptional software pirate. A high ranking local pirate. Software pirate?
What the fuck is that? 99% of society and 100% of the government doesn’t
even know or hasn’t decided if that’s a crime or not. I have really terrific
friends that would move mountains for me if I asked. I feel old. Not just
beyond my years but beyond humanity itself. Like I’ve done all kinds of
things before I got here and leaving, or dying rather, isn’t the end of
anything for me. I feel angry. Beyond all comprehension. My soul holds a
raging inferno that needs to be controlled. Not subdued, definitely not
extinguished. Just redirected, disciplined, focused. Destruction is easy.
Creation is the real challenge. I know that programming has a role here. The
inferno itself isn’t good or evil. The morality of my fire is defined by
where and how I direct the power generated by it.

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

From as far as I can tell, I beat all my friends in the race to get laid. I
just haven’t done as well since. Stupid back is so humped out, I’m scaring
everyone away like Quasimoto. Quasimoto…literally, “almost perfect”. I’m in
better shape than Quasimoto. Not the least of which is that Quasimoto holed
himself up in a fucking belltower and made friends with his candle or
something. Quasimoto had no friends. I command a small army of mercenaries.
Quasimoto had no courage. I taunt enemies to the point of daring them to
knock me out of my chair. My appeal to Quasimoto ends at the name.

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

I feel closer to Cyrano de Bergerac. A swashbuckler, artist, writer, poet
and confident—to the point of arrogant—son of a bitch. His whole game
short-circuited around women. Not collapsed, just short circuited. He
believed his big nose condemned him to a life of loneliness so he defers to
a younger, “better looking” friend because he thinks it would make the girl
he loves, Roxanne, happy. The “better” man, Christian, is completely bereft
of wit, humor, charm, charisma and intellect so Cyrano coaches Christian on
how to be something besides an idiot. Cyrano never tells Roxanne how he
feels until she’s a widow and he’s an old man. He dies under her tree
reciting the love poems he ghostwrote for Christian.

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

Cyrano de Bergerac scares the shit out of me. It’s too easy to fall into
that kind of mess. No matter how high a girl’s eyebrows go, I have to keep
saying what’s on my mind. Fuck me if I end up collapsed under a tree,
vomiting my emotions at the point of death. That’s not the way I want to
die.

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

Speaking of death, I’m pretty close to it Why am I wasting my, potentially,
last seconds of thought on friggin bullshit like the theory of women? Maybe
I should say a prayer. Last chance, right?

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

YOU, the motherfucker that made me. The prick that created the heavens and
the earth. You’d better be sweating right now because, if I die here, I’m
coming to break you in pieces. If I don’t die here and things don’t start
going my way, it will merely delay your impending cosmic ass whoopin. I’ve
had enough of your games, your tests, your stupidity. There’s nothing you
can throw at me that I can’t handle so I’d appreciate it if you either just
kill me and be done with your nonsense or back off and let me start living
this life.

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

I want a job, a car and money. I want to walk again—even if it’s just in a
controlled setting like physical therapy. I want to get a degree in
political science or journalism and I want it from a real university—not the
neo-Orwellian, bullshit public works projects that litter this worthless
state. UM or UF would suffice. So you probably think I’m asking you to help
me with these desires. The answer to that is NO. Not only NO but HELL NO.
Provided that I get through surgery, everything on this list is easy enough
with a straight back.

Light, panel, panel, panel, panel, panel, light.

The only way that you can get on my good side is to do good things for the
people I care about. Find a better group of friends for my sister, make sure
that my brother grows up straight and strong, give my mother her hearing
back…that’s a major injustice…If you gave me info that said that I’m some
kind of intergalactic criminal serving time as a human, I might believe you.
However, my mom never did an evil thing in her life and bears an
unconsciousable burden of having lost her hearing while raising me. It just
lends more evidence to my theory that you are a sadistic asshole.

“Are you ok, man?”, asked the orderly pushing the hospital gurney.

“Yeah,”, I responded, “just thinking about life.”

“You were looking intense for little while there.”

“Lots to cover before I go under the knife.”

“What are you going in for?”

“Spinal reconstructive surgery.”

“Well,” he said absently, “it’s nasty out there so you won’t be missing
anything for awhile.”

“It certainly is nasty out there.”, I agreed. “The weather is pretty bad
also.”

The IV fluids were beginning to hit when the gurney turned into the OR. The
walls were a shade of snot green. Several machines looked anxious to hook up
to me. Interesting silverware rested on a small cart a few feet away from
me.

“Good morning, Christopher.”, came a cheery greeting from woman in a
surgurical smock.

“Good…”, I momentarily zoned out. “Good…uh…good morning.”

“Getting sleepy?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”, she said. “The doctors are coming now.”

Three doctors came in and introduced themselves. My thoughts became
increasingly incoherent.

“Doc?”, I called.

“What’s up, Chris?”

“Like I told you a couple days ago…”, I paused. Fighting the urge to sleep
was getting harder. “The hump is on the right lumbar, not the left…my
muscles are very flexible compared to typical scoliosis cases…derotate as
much as you can.”

“Will do, kid.”

“It’s in your hands now.”

I closed my eyes.

Ok, I have roughly three seconds before I go totally unconscious. What is my
last thought?…Caveat…Caveat motherfucker.

On November 5, 1992, I woke up from spinal reconstructive surgery. For
weeks, I could not lift a spoon to my mouth. I could not lift my hand to my
head.

11 months later, I got a job with Egghead Software.

18 months after that, I learned how to walk again.

A year after that, I became editor of the community college paper.

Six months after that, I earned the privilege to drive.

Nine months after that, I was the top computer salesman in the entire
country for the nation’s largest electronics store.

Three months after that, I left home for college.

In the following three years, I saw rampant stupidity, fear and insecurity
from completely well assembled specimens of humanity. I wrote for the
nation’s largest collegiate daily without any real competition for the
available five slots per week. I met people that had strong opinions but
were mentally crippled from taking the next step–telling the world about
it.

To sum it up, I got my degree in August of 2000. The University did not
have all the knowledge I sought and going back to West Palm was like going
to Thunder Dome. I had gone beyond every single thing that anyone could
possibly expect in light of the physical circumstances I was given. I beat
the game on the victory condition of obtaining a college degree.

The prize was life imprisonment on a backwater, third spiral, Galactic
cesspool called Earth. That’s what the plan was all along. I just didn’t
realize it until my degree was hanging on the wall and no obvious challenges
stood before me.

So what is the challenge and why should I meet it?

The challenge is spreading the ideas of peace, pleasure and love. Such ideas cannot be spread by those who have never experienced turmoil, pain or hate but they can be received by such persons. The challenge must be met because, for all my visible pain, I know exactly what my problems are. The real tragedies of this world are the people that can’t figure out what’s important and probably never will. The real tragedies of this world are the people that would fall helplessly to the ground if their minds took bodily form. The real tragedies are all around us. Maybe they also know their problems but they probably don’t. Denial and ignorance are soft, comfortable and warm like old leather.

Reality is an acquired taste.

There’s quite a bit more detail after this fateful day and 17 years before it. This column and my spare time cannot do justice to my life but both can manage a small memorial to the day that sent my life on a radically different trajectory.

Besides, I’m still in the middle of it doing just what I like to do and the best is still ahead.