All posts by blairpatrickschuyler

Writer, Editor, Proofreader, Memoirist, Actor, Poet

Lost in Loss

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Watching my former city get decimated by unabating, indiscriminate flames as I sat in relative safety over 2,500 miles away summoned a kind of disconnected helplessness I hadn’t felt in a long time. 

The warning whistles were deafening. We all knew and accepted that we hadn’t moved to the most stable place on the planet. But even during my last few years in LA, I was shaken to see such a radical increase in wildfire activity, air quality warnings, and a general sense that the precarious balance of life in a desert masquerading as a metropolis was inching toward unsustainable…or, at the very least, unwise.

However, I never dreamed that this degree of destruction was conceivable, let alone possible. It was a perfect storm of bone-dry vegetation, those brutal Santa Ana winds, and multiple, concurrent blazes straining an already-stretched and exhausted collection of firefighters and first responders who didn’t sleep or stop for days. 

The results have been catastrophic. Lives and memories snuffed out in a matter of hours. Homes built on the backs of decades of tireless work and savings reduced to unrecognizable rubble and ash. People fleeing in a panic, grabbing the three or four items that registered as “irreplaceable” in the mere minutes they had to make those decisions.

I can’t comprehend the level of utter hysteria and helplessness they had to endure.

Where do you start when everything is gone? What’s the first step toward some semblance of normalcy when nothing but roadblocks and barricades are littering the path? It’s an unimaginable, Herculean climb back to ordinary. 

The “thoughts and prayers” will be sent. Donations will come flooding into the organizations doing their best to stop the bleeding. Unscrupulous real estate sharks will steal the scorched land for pennies on the dollar. The houses will be rebuilt. The neighborhoods will return.

Everything will burn again.

This is not simply another wildfire affecting the region in a history of wildfires. It was Mother Gaia’s siren song. Stop this behavior and your blatant disregard for the perilous disruption of Earth’s delicate harmony or you will continue to suffer under the weight of her wrathful hand.

My heart breaks for the city. The friends, colleagues, and people I met along the way are understandably scared and gutted right now. But there has to be a line drawn at some point. As the climate continues to rage, some incredibly tough decisions need to be made.

Rebuilding the same kinds of houses in the exact same place and simply hoping it might be better next time should not be one of them.

Adolescence Interrupted

Lots of Rabbits, Lots of Holes

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As another year arrives on our doorstep, it’s time to predict the size and shape of the upcoming ride. Many like to entertain the possibilities of fresh starts, clean slates, or open roads. Others mark falling calendar pages as nothing more than the routine business of spinning clock hands. I sit somewhere outside both of those conceptualizations.

When daily existence is locked on a curve, turning endlessly around a fixed circle, it’s impossible to see what’s ahead. The looping, habitual mundanity of making only left turns doesn’t offer the freedom to target the horizon or look beyond the here and now. One foot in front of the other. Spin. Spin. Spin. Repeat.

But I am supremely grateful that the alignment of contemporary society and its increasingly isolated construction followed the trajectory of my unbalanced concoction of brain chemicals. The opposite would have been a living nightmare, and I can’t imagine what those who deeply crave human interaction and attachment are feeling right now.

When I was the happy-go-lucky party guy—ready for adventures and experiences, thrilled to be part of a bonded collective, and watched the world through optimistic eyes—the only way to achieve connection was through proximity and physical touch. Screens didn’t steal eye contact. Plans weren’t canceled or postponed with a last-minute text. We all seemed to stand on similar pages. Now we’re simply hidden away in covert caves, writing separate stories.

So, is this merely a chicken or egg scenario? Does the perpetual retreat of mankind into solitary silos cause our chemicals to shift at a biological level, or do we just adapt to whatever technological environment is presented to us? It’s a question that may not get answered until a few more generations have run the gauntlet.

But one thing is certain: If I still had the neurobiological makeup and sociable motor of my “former self” and was forced to navigate this modern minefield of dwindling attention spans, evasive maneuvering, and social media manipulation, I would have lost my mind even earlier.

Good luck to us all as we continue to jump, dodge, bob, and weave.

We’re going to need it.

Adolescence Interrupted

Aural Nostalgia

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Memories are a funny business. Part time machine and part flashback, these little mental home movies can nimbly provide instant transportation to an altered, familiar feeling. 

This might be a welcome return to better days or a visit to some unfortunate moment better left forgotten. Either way, the right catalyst can be like jet fuel to the hippocampus.

Smells are a powerful trigger, and I’ve certainly fallen victim to their wily manipulation. But for me, it’s always been sound. Music is immediate and often overwhelming. Sometimes even one note is enough to catapult me back.

So when a treasure trove of chemical-inducing nostalgia arrived in my podcast feed, it’s safe to say I was a little curious.

But after devoting nearly 200 listening hours to this endeavor, I’m clearly past the point of inquisitiveness.

Rob Harvilla is a storyteller of the highest order. Mixing fanboy sentimentalism with a depth of music knowledge that could put veteran Rolling Stone staff writers to shame, Harvilla finds the warm center inside his selections each week. The often circuitous route he takes to arrive at the podcast’s featured artist is probably the best part.

Weaving references from wholly unrelated genres, decades, or musical styles to find common ground with a familiar hit from our (my) teenage years is shockingly clever. He can spend a quarter of the pod deep-diving into banned or controversial songs during the hip-hop “Parental Advisory” CD sticker era and ultimately land on Rage Against the Machine, or start with a “Shaun of the Dead” reference and a discussion about vinyl collections before unveiling his pick of the week as The Verve. It’s incredible how effortlessly and seamlessly he’s able to bring disparate pieces together to paint a complete picture.

But the real magic is what happens when the clips start playing. Even in 10-second increments, I’m abruptly slingshotting between my formative years and the present day. There’s almost a little twinge of sadness every time the short section of the song stops playing because reality returns.

I am no stranger to the pastime of living in past times. My life was full and fun and wide open with hope and possibility. I spent my days in a perpetual state of bliss and enthusiasm for whatever adventure waited for me around the next turn. I knew what kind of asphalt and concrete made the road that stretched out before me and I walked it without worry, hesitation, projection, or dread. It was the polar opposite of how my legs move today.

So drifting back, even momentarily, to a time when the world felt like a never-ending row of wide-open doors and limitless green traffic lights isn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon.

Thanks, Rob.

Adolescence Interrupted

Staunchly Pro-life…of the Animals

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My eyes have been opened. I can finally see why these insanely devout fundamental Christians never stop blabbering and proselytizing about the evils of abortion, preserving the sanctity of life, and allowing “god’s will” to reign supreme. When you spend your waking hours obsessed with the notion that mass murders are happening around the clock and no one seems interested in stopping the massacre or slowing the slaughter, there is a specific variety of mental infestation that starts to gum up the gears. I have fallen victim to these wily worms and my sanity is paying a heavy price.

I could never fathom why anyone was so concerned about the elimination of a handful of cells that would most likely turn into unwanted, unwelcome humans thrust into an overpopulated planet with little to no chance of survival. Best case, this person overcomes impossible odds to be just another average oxygen-sucking, over-consuming, and endlessly polluting Joe Schmoe. Worst case, we’ve got a dejected, rejected mentally unstable rage junkie looking to enact revenge and retribution on a world that turned its back.

But having been on a vegan journey of evolution over the last 20 years, I think I can “almost” understand that degree of unbridled passion and the level of frustration felt when it seems like no one else can match a certain kind of fanaticism that feels like common sense.

Now, it’s no secret that I’m far from a fan of the human species or its perpetuation on this planet. I’ve made no bones about the fact that the world would be exponentially improved with our complete and total annihilation. So, when faced with any abortion vs animal rights/welfare issue, it’s pretty easy to predict where I land on the line.

I think the utter lack of volition, swiftly stolen from these innocent, sentient beings, is probably the hardest pill to swallow. They are here to simply live. They are not selfish, destructive, manipulative, heedless, opportunistic, malicious, corrupt, or dishonest. They are not humans. They are not food.

Dumping fuel on the blaze, not only do we senselessly butcher these terrified, nervous, and heartbroken creatures, but we also ensure that their final days, weeks, and months are filled with unspeakable cruelty and physical torture. In what reality does this feel justified?

Newsflash: Humans are not carnivores, there’s absolutely no nutritional value or need for cow’s milk (because you’re not a baby calf), and there are immensely cleaner and more potent sources of protein derived from plants.

So what’s the excuse? Tradition? Habits? Taste? Please! That’s pathetic.

Anyone who can continue to subsidize an industry profiting by producing unsustainable, environmentally devastating poison needs to seriously rethink some life choices.

Stop the cycle of senseless violence and torment, simply to fill your gullet with someone else’s suffering.

As David Hume identified with the is-ought fallacy, just because a thing is, doesn’t mean it ought to be.

Adolescence Interrupted

When Is It Time to Leave the Party?

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“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”  —Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar)

Freedom. Free will. Agency over our own journey. Personal preference. Knowing when to say when. 

Why are the fundamental, core decisions about how and when we choose to exit our experience on this planet restricted by laws, moral codes, religious beliefs, or societal pressure?

We never seem to shut up about liberty, independence, and the right to live as we choose. Yet, when the topic of dictating how and when we finally raise that white flag and throw our towel into the center of the ring arises, we are met with nothing but restrictions, moral shaming, and attempts at obstruction. Where’s the autonomy?

It doesn’t feel very tolerant or compassionate to prevent someone in pain from trying to end their agony. 

Medical vs mental. Is one more precious or protected? I have suffered debilitating effects from both sides of that coin. But differentiating physical torture endured during sleepless days and nights (feeling like your head will literally explode, locked in the vice-like grip of unabating pressure) from the runaway, insomniac thoughts leading you down abandoned psychological train tracks into some nightmarish wasteland of fabricated conjecture and endlessly cycling projection is nearly impossible when you’re in the grips of either scenario…and your body and mind can’t distinguish between the two varieties of distress.

Dr. Kevorkian was a goddamn saint…and even he faced unceasing ire and interminable scrutiny from a population (and legal system) unwilling to accept that sometimes people are at the very end of their frayed rope. They should not be forced to tolerate unyielding torment simply because archaic laws are chaining them to the walls of their pain. 

So what does that say about psychological or emotional duress? Since the misery we can clearly see is met with scrutiny and a reluctance to permit any justifiable attempts at cessation, there is an exponential level of resistance to suicide and someone’s personal choice to dismount the merry-go-round of heartache and trauma. For some reason, the deterioration of the body does not hold the same weight or importance as the degeneration of the mind.

So, when do we leave the party? If we want to close the chapter on our own terms, we need to be okay with the roadblocks, objections, and disapproval. This world doesn’t want to end our pain. It wants to control our actions. If there is no fear of what’s waiting on the other side, then there is no reason not to proceed.

When that pot of hurt finally boils over, and there’s no way to clean the mess, an Irish goodbye doesn’t seem like the worst exit strategy.

Adolescence Interrupted

Keep It Real

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As we hurtle toward an uncertain future, soaked in deepfakes, cheap fakes, AI trickery, and all the modern technological manipulation you can eat, I wonder if there will be a renewed thirst for some sense of grounded authenticity.

If we are inundated with artificiality at every turn, will we grow weary of having to constantly decipher fact from fiction? Always wondering if someone was real or created. Never being entirely sure about who or what to trust. The tedium of that task would be torturous.

A grand puppeteer pulling the strings of the global perception of reality, making merry mischief with his marionette. 

It’s the stuff of sci-fi nightmares…and yet it is already so much closer and worse than we’d like to admit. 

The sad truth is that once the general public is first made aware of anything, that invention, innovation, or discovery is generally pretty far down the path. So any sense that AI is a “new” thing is somewhat laughable. If we know even basic, surface details about something, its development is already light years ahead of any bare-bones prototype currently making the beta rounds.

Once that horse has left the barn, it’s not circling back for another round of currying.

So, do we desperately try to pump the brakes on the inevitable digital transformation, or do we collectively decide that stripping everything down to its essential qualities and reclaiming the concept of humanity will yield a healthier and more manageable harvest?

It may not even be a choice we have much longer to make. But there is always strength in numbers…and the will of the group is a tough will to break.

Adolescence Interrupted

Wearing Broken Shackles

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In 11 days, I will plant a stone marking 20 years since I last rolled under the blinding white lights and into the chilled, antiseptic air of an operating room. Two decades without a daily reminder of what’s always waiting in the shadows, ready to strike. 240 months spent tetherless and free. 7,300 mornings not wondering if I’d end the day how I started it.

Sometimes it gets harder to remember…really remember. I suppose I should be thankful for that visceral absence, but the persistent big-picture long-term impact of wirewalking above a sea of hungry sharks never sits far from the surface, and the shrapnel left in the wake of a detonation is almost impossible to completely clean.

Still, I wander through middle age as curious and confused as ever, albeit without the nasty neurosurgical albatross adding even more unmanageable weight to an already struggling neck.

The monster may not be lurking in plain sight, but he’s always under the bed, plotting and planning.

Real repair has proven to be an elusive, moving target. An endeavor filled with far more hope than tangible solutions. One step forward, a thousand steps back.

An unambiguous, inconvenient conundrum stubbornly stands in my path as a wedge to sustained emotional health. How do you rewire all the fried circuitry without losing the solid soldering?

This has always been the question…and the problem. 

I am beyond grateful for the privilege of no longer spending countless nights cursing my station and desperately sprinting down blackened tunnels in search of a distant glimmer.

But with that freed hard drive space comes a bevy of compulsions, neuroses, and the itchy sensation that there’s never a big enough broom to gather the broken shards. Still, I sweep…and sweep…and sweep.

Twenty years is a long time. But those falling calendar pages have also accompanied far too many internal deep dives into the dark. 

I’m immensely proud of the courage (and maybe recklessness) it took to roll the dice on a procedure that had the potential to stop all others, even when the prior swing at the same pitch resulted in a mega miss. I was ready to risk losing all my chips at the table if it meant I could have my life back.

My surgeons, nurses, therapists, and support circles were beyond belief. So many pieces had to fall perfectly into place, and that took a tremendous amount of planning, strategy, and preparation. It’s still surreal to think about the number of spinning plates sitting at the top of some very lofty sticks.

Modern medical miracles of science met human aptitude and artistry. 

Regardless of all the rough edges still in desperate need of smoothing, it was a feat of unimaginable skill, capability, and compassion. 

I was a lost soul without any hope of being found. At least I now have the time and opportunity to continue the search.

Adolescence Interrupted

Self-Actualized or Dead Inside?

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“When people appear to be something other than good and decent, it is only because they are reacting to stress, pain, or the deprivation of basic human needs such as security, love, and self-esteem.”  —Abraham Maslow

Is walking through this world entirely untroubled by the perspective or judgment of any other human being indicative of some Buddhist-like sense of self-assurance, or is it simply born from a perpetually hollow, empty core that sits like a dry well, incapable of registering the emotional message being delivered by my fellow carbon-based cronies?

Lately, I’ve been pondering this odd dissonance and trying to arrive at some definitive conclusions.

I am not unaware of criticisms. I am simply unaffected by them.

I value opinions and suggestions from those I admire and respect, but I am not easily swayed to re-examine my stance, reconsider my position, or reverse course without a period of prolonged, thoughtful scrutiny. Generally, my initial view remains intact, with some slight, subtle alterations to the foundation. 

I welcome feedback but am not impacted by negative reviews, harsh critiques, or unfavorable assessments. Like a stream of words in water, passing by on their way to another destination, I see the shapes and textures but never get wet.

I rarely experience hurt feelings, jealousy, envy, or desire of any kind. 

I celebrate the success of others as opposed to resenting it, but I never want to trade lives or circumstances with someone else.

The monotony of this hamster wheel hell called human existence never compels me to cheat, steal, or manipulate my way to a higher status or social position. Who has the most toys, followers, or fans is entirely irrelevant. Material possessions and ego-driven adoration are nothing but anvils affixed to our necks.

As elusive as the pursuit often feels, I strive to find balance and equity in all things, and I reject the notion that people in power positions have the right to discard or diminish the efforts of those so easily and thoughtlessly sequestered and banished to some concocted concept of a lower group, caste, or class.

I routinely rage at my own blinding inability to maintain full control in an increasingly uncontrollable world, and I’m baffled by the discordant mindsets of those who are perfectly comfortable following the false god of public opinion while swallowing endless twisted stats and facts like kids overdosing on Halloween candy.

Hmm. Guess I can scratch self-actualized off the list.

Adolescence Interrupted

Expect Better

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Shoot for the stars. Aim for the moon. Reach for the sky.

We rarely hear advice urging people to “play it safe,” “blend into the crowd,” or “be like everyone else.”

This is not a society or culture that celebrates mediocrity, and the sameness wrapped inside of an unexceptional existence is rarely admired, praised, or even recognized. Your ordinary, humdrum life is nothing more than white noise blending into the background of much more vibrant, sonorous, and engaging surrounding soundtracks.

Occupying a secure backseat, far away from the hustle, bustle, and hullabaloo, all but guarantees you maintain your safety and sanity. But it also promises a forgettable, monotonous, and mind-numbing humdrum journey on this galactic, ever-spinning space ride.

We all have our personal patterns, ruts, routines, and comfort zones. I am certainly no stranger to extended and often unhealthy periods of isolation and introspection. But we will do nothing but continue to gradually, steadily disappear until we pull our racing thoughts out of the shadows and take those first steps into the sunlight.

Be bold and brave and brash. Express your mind and throw away the filters. Swing at pitches well outside of your strike zone. Kick conciliation to the curb. Make a splash. Make a difference. Choose dazzle over razzle. Find the fuse and light it. Be first in line to face fear. Speak up and speak out. Don’t look or walk backward. Proudly postulate. Set an example instead of following it. Commend and befriend the smart kid in class. Volunteer to go first. Refuse any free counsel offered with a side of ulterior motives. Break stride in a single file line.

Leave your mark…and be sure it’s permanent.

Adolescence Interrupted

Like Spinning Tops

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“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

“The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky

“Human beings are so destructive. I sometimes think we’re a kind of plague, that will scrub the earth clean. We destroy things so well that I sometimes think, maybe that’s our function. Maybe every few eons, some animal comes along that kills off the rest of the world, clears the decks, and lets evolution proceed to its next phase.” —Michael Crichton

To say we tend to be in general disagreement about the purpose and meaning of life and the overarching point of human existence is a wild, laughable understatement. From the moment Homo sapiens had the cognizant ability to register self-awareness, we questioned the very foundation of our biological creation…and why we sprouted from the evolutionary centrifuge like a random Yahtzee toss to haphazardly land on this giant spinning blue ball in space.

Religious scholars looked to celestial evidence that blatantly contradicted the work of their existentialist philosophical counterparts, and the biologists posited theories born from the base building blocks of our DNA—which sent some anthropologists reeling. 

Our purpose, our motivation, and our utility have been debated for thousands of years. But we never seem to arrive at definitive resolutions or settle on any hypotheses that help quell the incessant, nervous race against the clock to make our mark before our bones turn to dust and history forgets we ever occupied a short-term rental on this rocket ride to nowhere.

So, do we suppress our thoughts and simply make peace with the undivulged mysteries of the world? Do we try to peel off the blindfolds and seek answers in the vast, unknown expanse of space? Should we look to the ancient past to find answers in the present?

Or do we continue to spin like tops, unaware of any grand design or decipherable blueprint that might provide a road map pointing to some attainable objective for this seemingly meaningless, ceaselessly repetitive dance into interminable monotony?

Adolescence Interrupted