As I sit at my desk to begin, I am finding it rather difficult to place my thoughts in order. I am inwardly seeking direction for this short piece, while also trying to avoid coming off as a sympathy seeker or an exploitative tool. I guess I'll just have to begin by telling it straight and hopefully, I can find a destination at the end of this dirt road. Here goes...
About five years ago, I decided that I was going to self-publish some of my work. I have always been a slacker (hence the few postings here on the blog), but I decided that I was going to do whatever it took to put my head down, write like a madman, and get it out there. This included long nights of swallowing my weight in whiskey, listening to music that reminded me of my days on Long Island, and solo drunken crying sessions in the backyard. My wife hated me (as well she should have) and probably (definitely) thought about leaving. Looking back at it now, if she had actually decided to go, her justifications for doing so would have been beyond reproach. I had, in many ways, already begun to leave myself behind. Drowning with the demons, happily tying stones to my ankles.
I found that the majority of the poetry that I had doused with bad scotch was absolute shit. Surprised? Neither am I. There are some pieces that were written in a half-blind stupor that managed to hold their own, despite the saturation level. I managed to find many sober moments to sit with myself and put to paper some pieces that I am quite proud of and the book was published in March of 2011.
A sort of panic set in when I realized that it was all coming to fruition. I suddenly was panicked by the notion of people reading the work. Family and friends would tell me they liked it, whether they did so or not. I was publishing a book of poetry. There would be at least a modicum of snickering and jokes at my expense behind my back. All of a sudden, I wasn't ready for anyone to read the book. It was too late, it had gone to print. Fuck it.
The reactions to the publishing had gone just as expected. People around me told me they genuinely enjoyed it. I, in turn, genuinely believed some of them. My anxiety and depression began to fluctuate on a daily basis. I was attempting to alter the debilitating patterns formed by my vices, all while poorly pimping out myself and my book, wondering why I could not even seem to sell a hundred copies. It was around the fall of 2011, that I received a message on Facebook that would lead me to writing this here today, nearly 4 years later.
The name on the message was Tom Raymond. He and I had a couple of mutual "friends" on Facebook, including my father Jim, and my uncle Mike. He was an interesting looking character, with curly salt and pepper hair, with a sensitive angst in his eyes. He looked like an aging hippie; slightly burnt but teeming with life lessons.
"Are you Jim's son or his brother?" he asked.
I explained that I was his son, but that the beard and the build had gotten me the same question in the past. Tom explained that he had gone to William Floyd High School (like myself, my parents, as well as my uncle Mike). He also said that he had heard that I was a writer and that he himself, was also. Tom went on to explain that he had written some lyrics that my father and uncle set to music and recorded.
"Are you Jim's son or his brother?" he asked me again.
I could not tell if he was joking around, fucking with me, or if he genuinely did not remember asking me the question already.
Tom either asked me where he could order my book, or he had told me that he already ordered a copy- I can't recall at the moment. Nevertheless, Tom told me he had ordered my book and that he was looking forward to looking it over. I'm not going to lie, I was a little dismissive of the man. I had no clue who he was- just another friend of one of my middle-aged relatives looking to be "in the know" by having a Facebook page and young "friends". Little did I know, I was dead wrong.
Tom began to send me pieces of poetry that he had written and asked what I thought. Before opening the first one, I probably rolled my eyes and wondered how bad/weird this was going to be. About three lines in, my jaw slowly drooped open. His work was good....really good. I was completely blown away and instantaneously kicked myself mentally for judging him. Tom was a book with a rough and worn, slightly wrinkled cover, and there I sat, judging like a douche.
We traded many messages back and forth over the next few years. I began to learn a bit more about Tom as a person and I found his story quite intriguing. He explained that several years back he had injured himself at work and was on and off disability. We also got into a familiar enough place with one another to where he explained to me his love/hate relationship with prescription narcotics, stemming from his injury. It is sad to say, but Tom was not unique in this regard.
The more I discovered about the man, he simultaneously grew more mysterious. Tom told me that he and his wife were opening a café in York, England and that things were starting to look up. But I would often get jumbled messages at weird hours of the day and night (even with time zones factored in). His messages were manic diatribes about anything from Orwellian conspiracies to the miseries of marriage and the dangers of homesickness. He quoted Dylan often and sent me links to his latest poem submissions. Tom was most definitely an odd bird- but then again, this a classic "pot and kettle" situation, if I've ever seen one. I took me some time to realize, but I had found a kindred spirit in this madcap unknown author across the water.
Tom would often tell me how much he enjoyed my book and encouraged me to keep writing. The words were very encouraging during times when I really needed to hear them and I didn't really believe them coming from most anyone else. Tom would often ask me to look over his writing. It was quite flattering to be asked to do so by an author who had skills far superior to your own, but often daunting. He pushed me to publish more work through the inter-webs, though I never really took heed. Tom always showed himself, to me at least, to be a caring human being- inspiration mired in madness.
Over the last several months, things seemed to be running off the rails a bit for Tom. I can't really say that I know for sure because I have never truly met the man. But Tom wore his heart on his sleeve and from everything posted online seemed to point in a fairly dark direction. His marriage was in trouble, he was headed back to the States. I figured that it would not be long before Tom and I actually met face to face, most likely in New York at some point. Before I knew it, Tom was posting on Facebook, back in England, and bluntly saying that he was going to off himself. The only thing I could think to say to his post was, "Don't."
Many people responded to his posts, pleading for him to call them, urging him to reconsider. He would reappear digitally the next day and would apologize to the world, saying that he was okay. My fears then waned into a small fit of anger. I was perturbed that it had seemed that he used such a heavy threat to grab the attention of the world. I didn't reach out to him about it because frankly, I was not a fan of his "stunt".
This last Saturday night, I read an ominous Facebook post from my father. He was wishing "fare the well" to someone that was a troubled poet. There were no names, no direct indication as to whom he was speaking, but I knew. Tom was gone. My innards sank down deep. My mind spun gyroscopically. What the fuck happened? I knew that it didn't really matter... my longtime pen pal was dead.
All of the details are still coming to light at this time. All that I have really been told is that on Friday, Tom was found at the bottom of a set of stairs. I hope in some way that what went down on Friday was something beyond his control- a freak accident surround by the sheer coincidence of what he was laying on the world in the past few weeks. But then again, I really don't know...
My deepest condolences go out to everyone that actually knew the man and knew him well. His wife, his mother, his sister, and all of his friends must be in a place right now that I would never want to be. I am so sorry that they are dealing with this loss right now. I wish I could have known the man better. I wish that I took the time to know the man better. Hug each other, people. You really never know anything about anything.
I guess all I really wanted to say here was, Rest in Peace, Tom. Thank you for being supportive at a time when I truly needed it. I hope they're treating you well on the other side...
Here is one of Tom's pieces that he wrote and published on forwardpoetry.co.uk
In The Scene
In the scene,
It was a rock
In the dream,
It was to roll,
How many mornings or laces
You tightened up
In Divine graces,
Every next door,
Was leaving traces,
Of Amour’
I awoke and the
Music was far off in the hills,
In the layers of mist’s
And haven taking my pills,
I was off again-
To sing and dance (write a poem)
And then turn it ‘round
Full circle in the hast of
Our wet mouths,
And blankets on the floor’.
Captured what was once free
I brought your shoe filled up
With me, and the Constellations
From which we navigated
And all could dream, of her beauty
Like Donna Summer, Johnny Winter
It’s a hard cold world of Blue’s
Sometimes sister,
You wonder who could have,
made these rules my head
is humming from the sweetness
you exude,
And I found the answer deep
Inside of you~
And in side of me,
You were there with your magical,
Mystical hypnotic stare,
All things come full circle
And land within
You,
A pyramid sister,
And yet sinister
And I’m just an old
Love Song Juke Box Whiskey man
Cigarette, In my hand~
Welcome to this NewLand, sister.
@T.Raymond 08/06/2014
xo
ReplyDelete