To my faithful readers!

I've been writing elsewhere!  If your e-mail address still get these updates, check it out:
http://whatsgoingoninbuffalo.com/author/erikwollschlager/

PS - Look in the Artvoice set to come out 10/03/2014...

Now I'm bored and old.

It was 1991. I was 12 and into pop music, because that is what the girls liked and I liked girls. The release of Nevermind didn’t change my life immediately; I’d love to say that I was the first on my block to own the album and I was instantly promoted to cultural icon within the teeny town that I lived, but it just wasn’t true. In all fact, by the time we got cable in 1992, Nirvana and Smells Like Teen Spirit, were just another MTV snack – something to munch on for two and a half minutes. As it was served to me, wrapped in ‘Nuthin’ but a G Thang’ and ‘Jump Around,’ there was something discernibly different about the song, but my 12 year old mind didn’t grasp it. I had no idea what Kurt was singing, for the most part, but what I did understand was “With the lights out, it’s less dangerous.” What it was that was less dangerous, I did not know, but I really wanted to know. If it had anything to do with the shucking and jiving cheerleaders adorned with scarlet letters (naïve, sure, but I was a 12 year old in a rural town, pre-internet. My worldview may have been diminished slightly.) then I was in. It didn’t stop with Nirvana, though, Pearl Jam came out with ‘Ten’ and there was Alice in Chains’ ‘Man in the Box.’ It followed as such - MTV took a turn back toward rock and featured what came to be known as ‘grunge.’ I swallowed each of the pills, STP’s ‘Core,’ Soundgarden’s ‘Bad Motorfinger,’ and especially ‘Superunknown.’ It seemed like forever by the time Nirvana released In Utero, and the girl across the street got the CD. I IMMEDIATELY made her tape it for me (I just confessed to piracy. Sorry Kurt, Chris, Dave and DGC.) It was amazing. It blew me away. “Teenage angst has paid off well. Now I’m bored and old.” Or “I tried hard to have a father, but instead I had a dad.” Or countless other lines that Kurt threw together at the last minute before recording his vocals. His last minute musings somehow struck me in a way that no one had been able to at this point. I felt very understood, at a time when NO ONE understood. I felt very connected in a place where I didn’t connect. My love for In Utero made me go back to the previous Nirvana recordings, and I fell in love with those, too. Bleach and Incesticide were just as incredible as the others, I can’t express how many batteries I killed in walkmans listening to these recordings. Beyond all of these, though, Unplugged in New York remains my favorite album of all time. There is a chilling moment at the end of ‘Where Did You Sleep Last Night,’ right before Kurt sings the last phrase, he croaks “I’ll shivaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…the whole,” and then he sighs. How much weight is in that sigh? How much fatigue? How much of a sense of failure, even as the most successful musician of his time? “Niiiiiiiiiiiiight throooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh.” Kills me. Breaks my heart every time.

Kurt was so much beyond the music. He taught me that my effeminate tendencies were ok. He taught me not to discern race, gender, or sexual preference. These are the lessons that stuck with me. There weren’t a lot of chances for me to fight in high school, I was barely 5 feet and 100 lbs. Even when I was done, I was 5”4’ and 150 – no one really gave me too much trouble. I did get punched, once, and I didn’t hit him back. Kurt was a pacifist, and therefore, so was I. I learned that cardigans were awesome, and I learned the hard way that my hair did not look good when it was long and 6 shades of brown and black (thanks, Clairol.) I learned how to play bass guitar, thanks to Nirvana and bass tabs. Though many of the bands I love came a few years later, I owe Kurt and Nirvana everything. Without them, Punk Rock would likely never have become mainstream. I would not have enjoyed 5 years in a kick-ass punk band, nor would I have met a lot of the people that still mean the world to me today.

I hope someone finds this and it inspires them to grab a Nirvana CD. Kurt would probably have hated how dumbfoundingly popular they are now, and that their t-shirts are available at the mall, but it is my desperate hope that some 14 year old kid sees the t-shirt, likes the design, and downloads a song or two. I hope that they find the feeling of connection that I did. I hope they find the feeling of being understood that I did. I hope it opens them up the way that it opened me up, and I hope the world is a better place for it. It is exactly the kind of universal love that humanity really needs right now.

I hope Kurt is resting, whereever he is. I hope he's obtained the peace he deserves. I hope he no longer sighs with the weight of the world, but with the inner tranquility that he was searching for all those years.

Are you there, _______? It’s me, Erik.

I’m having some difficulty with the idea that perception is reality; a strange overstatement. Reality is what is actually happening. Perception seems to be delusion; perception is a subjective assessment of an objective situation. Reality isn’t really open to interpretation- it is, by root of the word, what is real. You can perceive it myriad number of ways, but the truth is that your perception doesn’t affect what is.

I am frustrated with my seeming inability to be objective, no matter how hard I try. I feel as though I make every attempt to step back and assess a situation, but it seems that when I make some sort of irrational decision, I just rationalize my reasons in order to qualify them as objective. This failure to view reality as it is has become the root of my suffering. It sounds melodramatic, but I think it’s pretty accurate. It consumes my thoughts for too much of the day and it makes me uneasy. It affects my mood, it affects my sleep. It makes me question everything; I can’t just accept occurrences, I have to tear them apart until I make some illogical and devastating conclusion.

12 step programs say that recognizing you’ve got a problem is the first step. I recognize this is a problem. I recognize that no one stands between myself and happiness other than my mind. I’ve even taken the next step and attempted a higher power. Maybe it wasn’t the intended higher power, but it was a higher power nonetheless. It didn’t change much. I don’t know. I give up? I say that a lot. The problem is that I don’t give up; I’m all talk. I will keep plugging away, because I can and will make this work. Good morning, heartache. You’re like and old friend come to see me again.

2010: A Year in F.U.

I’m calling it. 2010 has officially come to an end, as far as I’m concerned. I had a good weekend last weekend, and I anticipate a great final weekend of the year as I head into a fine 3-day mini-vacation. This was a fairly uncommon theme given how my year started out, and I’m not sure if it got better or worse as the year progressed, but here I am, so it is what it is.

2010 was a year of metamorphosis. Not the peaceful caterpillar to butterfly kind; there was no kind shelter of a cocoon, no emergence into the light as a beautiful sight to behold. This was more like emerging from a bunker after the passage of a nuclear winter; taking that first breath of toxic air and gasping my way through a bone crushing, flesh searing, brain emulsifying mutation.

Youth is a funny thing. There is a sense of entitlement that may be almost unavoidable; not necessarily that one has a right to have everything they desire, but that one has all of the knowledge and experience that one will require, without putting forth the effort of actually learning these life lesson-not living long enough to have experienced the experiences. It is very easy to convince oneself that each decision is made with the greatest of care, and no matter what anyone says, one will not be swayed. I can’t say that this delusion comes crashing down on everyone; certainly there are those who go through life without ever recognizing that they may be wrong. This year, I think it is safe to say that my delusion of youthful wisdom came crashing. I never considered myself foolish, I never considered myself to be impulsive. It certainly was foolish to think that at 19, I had finished growing. I had learned all of my lessons, and the rest was just cake. I finally came to terms with this mistake, only it wasn’t one that could be brushed off and moved on from. Picking myself up off of the mat from this crushing blow wasn’t as easy as shaking my head, sponging away the sweat, knocking my gloves together and coming back out swinging. It was more like listening to the ref count me out. On 1, I was ok being down. It was nice and quiet in my concussed darkness. At 2, I realized how lonely this darkness was. 3, I tried to open my eyes, but the light was so bright, everything out of focus. The count of 4 and I started to force things back together. 5 and the pain was all too real. At 6, I realized I could be finished, and I was not ok with that. On 7, I realized exactly how much will it would take, and on 8, I took a deep breath and got to my knees, half expecting to fall back down. 9 and I’m standing, wobbly; my legs like jell-o, my arms on fire, my head feeling 3 times its size. I won’t go down that easily.

Each of the lessons of this year were an exercise in punch drunkness; none had the kind whisper of the chalk on the blackboard. Instead, they were delivered with the blunt impact of a ball peen hammer. There were lessons in trust. Lessons in love. Lessons in expectation. Lessons in independence. Lessons in dependence. Lessons in anger. Lessons in hate. Lessons in faith. Each passed and as I recovered from their force, another blow would follow-a sharp reminder that 2010 had it out for me.

If I could offer one sentiment to 2010, it would be a giant F.U. Slag off, 2010. You took too many, gave too few. You stole from me a part of my innocence that I will never have back-whether it was delusion or not, it was comfort. You stole my vegetable garden. You gave me a bottle to turn to, whether filled with liquor or medication, the fact is that you took my ability to cope. You gave me emptiness. You gave me turmoil at a time when I was most seeking peace.
To end, I’d like to thank everyone who reads my rantings. I love you all, you mean the world to me. Each one of you played a part in my getting off of the mat, I know you were all in my corner and I will never forget it. Here’s to 2011. May each one of you experience comfort and peace, strength and hope.

Self Destruction, Erik be thy name.

When thinking of self destruction, there’s the obvious extreme case that comes to mind; that of some poor soul lost to substance abuse. Drugs or alcohol have taken such possession of this victim that their families can no longer afford the mental, physical and financial anguish that accompany such a tragic set of circumstances. Their bodies reject normal living, ill at all times save the times they are under the influence of their chosen poison, or perhaps better stated as the poison that chooses them.

Have you ever seen Requiem for a Dream? It’s a terrible movie. I don’t need an hour and a half visual lecture that we are all victims of our own addictions. And Jennifer Connelly really should’ve shaved. Just saying.

But more to my original point: my own self destruction. It’s a destructive path of near moderation, the greatest irony in my life, most likely. I recently have come to the conclusion that I really only have the ability to exert my will on one thing at a time. I believe my will is strong, my focus is great; perhaps too much so, as it is seldom that I am able to really focus on several tasks. For example, right now, my focus is school. Everything else falls to the wayside; physical activity, proper dietary habits, family and friends. There was a year where it was all about the gym; I spent 10-15 hours a week there - it was awesome. There are times where I can go without coffee, there are times where I can go without drinking, but these times never coincide.

This leads me to wonder what it is in my wiring that doesn’t allow me to make the right decisions. ‘Right’ obviously doesn’t mean good vs evil in this instance, but in a mind/body kind of way; I can properly exercise my mind right now, so why is it that I can’t exercise my body? Why is it that I can’t exercise my will when it comes to food? Or beer? It’s 8:30, I’ll be going to bed in 3 hours. What I should drink is water. What I do drink is beer. I can totally recognize that I’m making the wrong decision, why can’t I just take that next step and make the right one? I’m back to drinking diet soda in the afternoon for caffeine. It’s awful, I am fully aware that it is just 20oz of disgusting, cancer causing chemicals. Doesn’t matter. And this morning, I forgot my oatmeal. Did I stop at Wilson Farms for a banana and orange juice? Nope. Straight to Burger King, donating a few dozen grams to my ever-growing mid section.

What’s the moral of the story? There should be an extra 6 hours in a day. I think with 30 hours to work with, I could get through work, even if I had to do overtime, I could pack in the necessary homework and still have time to go to the gym. And walk the dog. And clean the apartment. And cook dinner. And visit family.

Maybe an extra 10 hours…

An argument for destiny.

The cyclical nature of life has me questioning my lifelong habit of questioning. I've spent a lifetime insisting that I was in control, that the future was not decided, that what I do does matter — my decisions do make a difference.

I woke up this morning not so sure. It seemed very familiar; and familiarity does indeed breed contempt. One has an expectation that things will progress — people will grow up; they will identify their weaknesses and they will do their best to strengthen them. One has an ideal that they have the ability to change things about themselves, to view themselves objectively and take steps to alter their course if they feel they are meandering. Suddenly, I feel that I've realized that it is just not the case.

I feel as though I have worked very hard in the last year to break the cycle of life that I'd been in since I became an adult. I judge, I internalize, I never ask for help. I try to rationalize behaviors. I often feel stagnant. I overthink. I allow things to get to me that I fully recognize that I have no control over. So I read books on compassion, and try to practice it in everyday life. That's not really working; I have no better tolerance for stupidity than I have ever had. I try to express myself more openly, but people just end up offended, and so I realized that I should just keep things to myself. I identify opportunities to have other people help me; they generally express their confidence that I can handle it on my own. I still rationalize my behaviors, whether or not I can recognize that it's not really the right thing to do. I started school, and I love it, but it's just SO intense, SO encompassing. I still overthink EVERYTHING. Everything. I took a meditation class hoping to learn to separate myself from my thoughts. I overthink my meditation class. This probably doesn't shock most of you, but it kinda disappoints me. I tried medication, but I'm not sure it's changed anything. It's still cyclical: I think I can/will. I know I can/will. Why can't you support me while I try/do? What the fuck is wrong with you? It's not you, it's obviously me. This is too damned hard. Drink. Drink. Drink. I can't do this. I think I can/will...

It's not just my life that is cyclical, my experiences just don't seem to change, no matter how much I want them to. I really identify with the whole 'you can't change the way other people are, you can only change how you react' thing. It's definitely true. But how do you react to the friend who blames everyone else for his embarrassing, idiotic behavior? How do you react to the selfish nature of those who are so close to you? I honestly don't have the ability to tolerate it any longer. I have too much going on the worry that everything you do is my fault, or everything I do that does not involve you is a personal attack. To quote The Ramones, I want to live my life. I also want to surround myself with people who are happy that I want to live my life; not condemning everything on the basis of pure selfishness.

Thirty-one

The first song I heard as a 31 year old: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qn5IHOi-vII

Appropriate, I suppose. It's not a song I'm very familiar with, but listening a little more intently while I write this, it's relatable.

I kind of wish I had written this a few days ago. I was looking forward to 31, I really felt like it was a refreshing number. 30 held the end of so many things; it was a year of moving on. 31 appeared to be promising, I feel as though I've done a lot of changing in the last year. I'm proud to say I feel like me again. I've rediscovered my creative side, for real. I'm exploring things I never thought I would. I've become more content with my best effort, more accepting of imperfect results. I've found a sense of deep pride from the things I've created, regardless of how they are regarded by others. I've found a self confidence I always pretended to have but never did. At 30, I was defeated. At 31, I've learned how not to fight. At 30, I was stagnant, at 31, I'm flourishing. At 30, I was uncomfortable, at 31, I'm finding a familiarity with myself.

I want to thank the powers that be for this week's reminders that there is no time other than now. I didn't know Jessica well, but I can easily recognize the depth of the tragedy. Her poor daughter, losing innocence at 2. She'll never get that back. This girl's family will bury one of their youngest members. None of us expect to outlive our siblings; I know I don't. I knew Mr. Nuthall. When I moved to West Valley, I made the choice to take British Literature over American Literature, Am Lit is so stuffy and British literature is so...fun! Chaucer? Shakespeare? Yes, please! My class was myself and 3 other guys, 16 or 17 and Mr. Nuthall was our Robin Williams in Dead Poet Society. I had a difficult time relating to the males available to me at the time; we did not see the world the same way, and so we didn't really discuss the kind of things that needed to be discussed at that time. In short, I lacked a mentor. The members of the English department at WV were exactly that. Mr. Nuthall and Mr. Sortore were some of the most inspirational people I've known, without even trying. They were true leaders of men; patient, malleable, wise, intelligent. They had a way of expressing how they viewed the world that was captivating, but at the same time, they had such a thirst to understand how we viewed the world.

The loss of these two people, Jessica and Mr. Nuthall is very striking. The frailty of life is terrifying. The difference between life and death, what is and what was, is nothing more than a moment. As each moment passes, we come closer to that defining moment. I don't know how many moments I have left, but I truly want to make sure I take full advantage of them. 30 dwelled on what was. 31 will be spent on what is, and what could be.