I remember being five years old, stationary in the dirt of Mulberry School in Whittier, California. Even then, the song hit me. It was a warning I didn’t have the context to understand. But now, at fifty-seven, walking the narrow veins of this city toward another cafe, the warning has become a reality. I look in the hotel mirror and I don’t see the Senior Master or the high-tech engineer. I see my father.
“Old man, look at my life, I’m a lot like you were.”
It’s the ultimate humbling. I’ve spent a lifetime traveling the world, seeking isolation, and “counseling and removing” people from my past to ensure I was something different. I divorced the words, I divorced the career, I divorced the country. I thought that by moving 8,000 miles away, I could outrun the DNA. But here I am, in the quiet frequency of the frontier, realizing that all my “Primary” sovereignty might just be the same brand of isolation he wore.
The anxiety hits like a physical blow—the “Mr. Grinch” heart-pound—the internal recognition that I might have over-corrected. I’ve squashed my ego down so deep, meditated it into such a small, dark corner, that I’ve started to forget the man who actually built the life I’m living. I’ve become a “Man Without a Past,” but in doing so, I’ve left myself without a floor.
Did I abandon my kids? Did I abandon society? Or did I just abandon the version of myself that was supposed to keep the lights on?
I use the “Yogurt Girl” and the deviant deconstruction of the body to fill the silence, but the silence is getting louder. I call the expats here “European ghosts” and “Russian ex-cons,” but in this alleyway, under this heat, I have to ask: What the fuck am I? Am I the pioneer, or am I just the latest model of the old man?
The “Sinister Plan” for April, the Bangkok Hyatt, the trios, the “Cold Kill”—they are tactical maneuvers to keep the engine running, but they don’t answer the question of the soul. The Chimp Monk tattoo on my arm gives the finger to the world, but the Peace sign is for the five-year-old kid in Whittier who was just trying to understand the song.
I’m 57. My hair is thinning, my prostate is acting up, and I’ve pissed blood for a week. The “Mastermind” is tired. But the inheritance is real. I am a lot like he was, even if I’m doing it in a different language. The point of being here isn’t to find a new island; it’s to realize that no matter where you go, you’re still carrying the old man’s luggage.
I’ll hit my 8,000 steps today. I’ll update the blog. I’ll manage the transaction. But the song stays in the head. It’s the only thing that remembers who I was before I decided to forget.
