Ben's (late) short story

April 6, 1994, 5:47am:  I guess I’m surprised, but not confused. I can’t sleep.  All I can do is think, although my thoughts aren’t all that comforting.  I remember being 13 when he declared “I’m going to see where this music takes me, get big, and go out in a blaze of glory.” Jimmy’s tenacity was never questioned. It ends tragically, but no other outcome would have satisfied Jimmy.  Jimmy was never satisfied.  He was world famous, tours sold out, guitars auctioned off, but still, it all fell short. At age 23, he had basically invented a new genre of music, and, at age 27, he was dead. He didn’t really like his own music, thought it was “misinterpreted”. He liked one band, Rebelution, and one song in particular. The chorus of this song goes “Well you can gain the world, but for the price of your soul” This is exactly what he felt he’d done. Despite all that he’d gained, he thought he lost himself along the way.  

7:20 am: This feeling  is not describable. I’ve heard that grief is unparalleled to any emotion. I’m angry, but there’s no one to blame.  Even if there was, I don’t think it would help.  I’m sad, but I can’t cry.  Even if I could, I doubt that’d help either. I guess I’m indecisive.  I browse through some self help books telling me I need to “transcend my ego to move towards enlightenment.” Sounds like bullshit. I never should have stopped these journal entries, they kept me sane when life got insane. Like everything good in my life, I’d abandoned them for something bad.  In this case, I’d stopped writing journal entries in favor of tours and girls and heroin. They had their immediate obvious rewards, made me feel on top of the world. Like Jimmy, I’d gained the world for the price of my soul. So as expected, in the end, I’m blaming myself.  I guess I could blame Jimmy, but I always knew he’d stick to his convictions.  He warned me early on that he’d live, and die, on his own terms, as himself.   Not as “some malleable, publicly conscious douchebag”, which he considered basically all artists and fans of the music business. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, he’d never really changed.

8:57am: A quick escape is sounding more and more alluring.  It’s ironic that I’d introduced Jimmy to heroin all those years ago. I’ve unsuccessfully been avoiding that thought. I’m never really comforted by my thinking.  But that’s all there is to do; think, remember, write think, remember write....My thoughts are clouded, my memory strained, my writing stopped.  Amazing how my life would be if I hadn’t gotten kicked out of art class.  What did I think of him? what was he like? AHA!*

*Gordie suddenly realizes that he can view his work from past diary entries, hoping to find some connection or comfort.
May 25, 1980:  Kicked out of Art and moved into Drama class today. Ms. Wormwood is such a bitch! Dad wanted me to take a ride with him, which I did. As expected, it was a long, tedious lecture. “Gordie this” and “Gordie that”. I didn’t want to hear it. I don’t even remember why he needed to go on this ride in the first place, he wasn’t going to a store or anything. When we returned to my house, he told me to rake the leaves. I sharply refused. He told me “Well, you’d better start practicing; you’re in for a long life of blue-collar manual labor, you stupid fuck! Oh, yes sir, indeed!” The words sank in. They struck a chord. I’m not sure how to cope with this.  Let’s see-I’ve been here before: Screw up, get anxious, react defensively, think. I really need to think before I react, not the other way around. I don’t even really want to write in this journal, it seems pathetic. But I do, and I know I’ll continue to do so. This journal is my one method of stress reduction that’s helpful and practical.  Like having a therapist without all the bullshit and soul searching. Saw that the Melvins are stopping by Seattle on Friday so I’ll probably take the bus.
May 27, 1980: Noticed this kid in Drama class today, probably because he’s trying so hard not to be noticed. I have no clue what he’s doing in Drama class; he seems to despise the class, and acting in particular. But for some reason or another, he caught my eye.  He’s painfully introverted, and always seems to be flexing his jaw.  He has this cynical, detached way about him.  It’s as though he’s telling you “don’t fuck with me, don’t approach me” At the very least, he seems just as pissed off as I am.
May 30, 1980: If only to spite my dad, I stopped attending all classes except for Drama, the one he told me to drop. We had this weird assignment today where we were supposed to personify an emotion or state of mind.  I chose stubbornness, and remained silent. My teacher thought it was funny. Most kids would say something like funny, and fake laugh. When that kid, who’s name is Jimmy, was up, he chose nihilism.  I’d never heard of it, and was intrigued.  He then, suddenly, started yelling and thrashing violently. He screamed “GO FUCK YOURSELVES!!! YOU’RE ALL IGNORANT CLONES!!!” He stormed out.  Even the kids who would normally make fun of him were astonished and speechless.*
*Nihilism (Ni-hil-ism) noun - Total rejection of established laws and institutions.  This is what I wanted.  I fantasized about this but hadn’t completely found it within myself.  Jimmy had it. He had it intrinsically, and it showed. It wasn’t forced, or created out of some idealized version of himself.  it is how he really was. He simply did not see the world the other way that others saw it. He saw others as either normal or misfits, there was no middle ground. (I’d spent countless hours debating where I stood on this spectrum.) As with all great musicians, he molded others to see the world from his perspective, not the other way around.  He made normal people misfits, and gave misfits some consolidation, offering them a clear, rebellious identity.  This is the foundation of his music, and upon completion of showing the world how little of a fuck he gave, he saw no purpose left but to kill himself. He challenged the system, and it came out on top. He truly would leave as he came; “in a blaze of glory”.
October 14, 1982: I returned from Melvins concert late last night with Jimmy.  My dad was standing on the porch.  His face was austere, his eyes fixated and stiff.  He was holding a needle in his left hand.  I can always tell when he is really angry or disappointed. When he’s trying to motivate me he’s just a smartass.  But when truly angry, he gives me the exact look that I received last night and does something drastic. But kicking Jimmy out of the house was too much. His anger was justifiable, but our family was the one dependable source of support for Jimmy, and my father knew that.  Even Jimmy knows that he can’t turn to himself.  That excludes all of Jimmy’s outlets except heroin. His demise is looking inevitable, thanks largely to my father! Oh, how I hate him...*
   In retrospect, I realize that unlike Jimmy, I learned and matured from the experiences around me. My father had my best interest the entire time, something I’m just now realizing.  He’d always warned me about actions and consequence.  Thought without action is pointless, but action without thought is dangerous. Jimmy never learned that.  He was always pushing against, an action.  He pushed against the government, MTV, society, humanity as a whole.  But he never attempted to heal.  That requires thought. I strongly feel like healing, learning and changing from my experiences.  Don’t know where I go from here, maybe I’ll give my dad a call and thank him.