Midnight Palace
Vendor
- Messages
- 640
- Location
- Hollywood, CA
For the greater part of my life, I've realized that past experiences, good or bad, never really leave. Sometimes, they just take a vacation. Like all things that disappear temporarily, they always return. They seldom ask if you're ready to meet again, but rather show up at inopportune moments. There's always the possibility that it could be a blessing in disguise. There's also the possibility that they wear masks to hide from onlookers who can spot secrets from miles away.
Fleeting visuals from years ago have somehow burned into my subconscious. It may only have been a quick glance or something noticed in passing, but it was enough to grip me. It must have been relevant because I still remember. Some people say that your senses are like filing cabinets. Those things that you see, hear, smell, touch and even taste have been stored in a limitless box. Your conscious mind is equipped with tools to break the box apart. The problem is…your conscious mind can often act without asking permission. It creates the kind of mental response that leads to consequences you must suffer physically. When you recall certain memories, they're of your mind, but the resulting stress wears on your body. It's like a complete take down of one as a person in every capacity.
I used to visit my grandfather's basement frequently. It was typical…that musty smell enveloping stored items that each screamed for the caller's attention. They were probably dropped into place and forgotten despite their initial usefulness. I never walked around the compact underground bunker for a particular reason. I only liked the atmosphere, as unpleasant as it may have been by other people's standards. Those people were outsiders as far as I was concerned. And, even if they could face me and disapprove, the basement was one place where it wouldn't affect me. I needed a place like that…hidden in plain view and non-judgmental. It rested underneath the fidgety movements overhead. What a difference a floor makes…or was it a level? If it was a level, it was the lowest by standard definition. But, I never really cared for the standard. To me, it was another way to say average, acceptable, unchallenged, or better yet, the prime example of what mediocrity has to offer. The people in that category were not the type I was eager to impress. So, down in the basement I went whenever the mood struck, and I was happy there by myself.
The basement engraved itself into my life story. The smell and the compartments represent a time and a place. Sometimes, without warning, I'll smell the same stale aroma, but mentally. I don't necessarily find the scent in my physical surroundings, I just find it…and I'm 9 years old again. That can be hard to explain to people. I look distracted, I seem distanced, and I'm usually quiet. The only thing my immediate circle can establish is that I'm angry about something, even though I rarely exhibit any kind of outward signs. They know me as a much more upbeat personality…so when anything waivers, fireworks go off over my head…or maybe they're distress flares. Either way, it's noticeable, and I feel pressed to explain the change in my behavior. I'm being called out of the basement from upstairs. The other residents demand to know why I would regress if I supposedly have control over my conscious mind. I'm not sure if it's regression as much as it's taking a vacation from a place that has given me very little substance. I seem to have lived more life between the walls that I built to keep people away. I didn't want to keep everyone away naturally, just those who found it hard to comprehend my individuality. There's nothing wrong with people misunderstanding me…because someone who is always easily understood must not be that complex. But, there is something wrong when those people try to mold me into a watered-down version of myself so they can avoid feeling bad about themselves. I've come in contact with a countless number of those people over the years…including my Psychology teacher in college whose ego was bruised when I backed him into a corner with questions about human behavior that he couldn't answer. What he didn't realize is that I wasn't attacking him…I was asking him questions about myself under the guise of classroom discussion. Nevertheless, he wanted to dismiss the issue. I can understand why – a Psychology professor suddenly realizing something about his own behavior while trying to teach others about theirs. I finished the class with no more clarity than the amount I had when it began.
It wasn't always the basement in my grandfather's house that triggered file storage. Sometimes it was the living room. Again, it was typical – a couch, coffee table and a television. The thing I remember was the constant layer of smoke suspended in the air like nicotine clouds. It came from the kitchen/dining room where my grandparents habitually sat. He read the paper and she did crossword puzzles, all the while puffing on their individual cigarettes of choice. The result naturally drifted into other rooms, and in some way, those other rooms wouldn't have been what they were without the smoke. It became like another family member. I knew that when I saw the hanging clouds, I was in the right house. It couldn't have been healthy to be around…but it was comforting. A house with no smoke in the living room meant that something was wrong; something was out of the ordinary. I never wanted to face that. I needed surroundings that weren't chaotic or were undisturbed, so that I could concentrate whole-heartedly on the disturbances I had going on internally. It was very cloak-and-dagger in nature. I was on my own personal mission and no one around me had a clue. It was probably for the best, I wouldn't want anyone trying to convince me that my psychological issues were "all in my head". That would be too ironic.
I was never crazy or malicious; I just had an amount of questions about life that far outweighed the readily available answers. I asked questions that no one else did, because their questions were scraped from the surface and mine were unearthed from miles below where few people bothered to dig. But, those buried facets of existence were the most important to me because I believed that somewhere in the unexplored facets of the universe was the depth I needed. I couldn't accept the fa?ßades as the only solid examples of reality. I knew something greater had to exist‚Ķand I knew that people must have intentionally ignored things greater than them. What they didn't know, or never bothered to acknowledge, could never place responsibility on them. It's like an addict who refuses to admit that he's addicted. As long as he claims to have control, he never has to face the hardship of recovery, and he can continue to spiral in his own private carousel. It's only the non-addicted who recognize the vices of another, the people on the outside of the window. That's always been me‚Ķon the outside of the window watching the rest of world living by remote control. I don't mind it actually‚ĶI'd rather not be blind like so many other people. But, try to explain the world's colors to a blind man and you're constantly on the defensive, maintaining that what you see is real even if no one else can see it.
The greatest test for me is nothing more than everyone else's typical day. The world is operated by a military of people who never look when they walk. They just know that they're moving but never question how. Figuratively, they don't know if their legs are moving their feet, which in turn press against the ground and propel them in a chosen direction – or if they're simply standing still on life's conveyer belt. They just don't know, but what's worse, is that they just don't care. Why ask? Why analyze? Why not just live? Well, living as defined by the people who never question is not the kind of living I'm accustomed to. My living has other meaning…and my living condensed into their living is like my dying. I realize that more and more as I get older…and I'm still looking for a way back to my grandfather's basement.
Fleeting visuals from years ago have somehow burned into my subconscious. It may only have been a quick glance or something noticed in passing, but it was enough to grip me. It must have been relevant because I still remember. Some people say that your senses are like filing cabinets. Those things that you see, hear, smell, touch and even taste have been stored in a limitless box. Your conscious mind is equipped with tools to break the box apart. The problem is…your conscious mind can often act without asking permission. It creates the kind of mental response that leads to consequences you must suffer physically. When you recall certain memories, they're of your mind, but the resulting stress wears on your body. It's like a complete take down of one as a person in every capacity.
I used to visit my grandfather's basement frequently. It was typical…that musty smell enveloping stored items that each screamed for the caller's attention. They were probably dropped into place and forgotten despite their initial usefulness. I never walked around the compact underground bunker for a particular reason. I only liked the atmosphere, as unpleasant as it may have been by other people's standards. Those people were outsiders as far as I was concerned. And, even if they could face me and disapprove, the basement was one place where it wouldn't affect me. I needed a place like that…hidden in plain view and non-judgmental. It rested underneath the fidgety movements overhead. What a difference a floor makes…or was it a level? If it was a level, it was the lowest by standard definition. But, I never really cared for the standard. To me, it was another way to say average, acceptable, unchallenged, or better yet, the prime example of what mediocrity has to offer. The people in that category were not the type I was eager to impress. So, down in the basement I went whenever the mood struck, and I was happy there by myself.
The basement engraved itself into my life story. The smell and the compartments represent a time and a place. Sometimes, without warning, I'll smell the same stale aroma, but mentally. I don't necessarily find the scent in my physical surroundings, I just find it…and I'm 9 years old again. That can be hard to explain to people. I look distracted, I seem distanced, and I'm usually quiet. The only thing my immediate circle can establish is that I'm angry about something, even though I rarely exhibit any kind of outward signs. They know me as a much more upbeat personality…so when anything waivers, fireworks go off over my head…or maybe they're distress flares. Either way, it's noticeable, and I feel pressed to explain the change in my behavior. I'm being called out of the basement from upstairs. The other residents demand to know why I would regress if I supposedly have control over my conscious mind. I'm not sure if it's regression as much as it's taking a vacation from a place that has given me very little substance. I seem to have lived more life between the walls that I built to keep people away. I didn't want to keep everyone away naturally, just those who found it hard to comprehend my individuality. There's nothing wrong with people misunderstanding me…because someone who is always easily understood must not be that complex. But, there is something wrong when those people try to mold me into a watered-down version of myself so they can avoid feeling bad about themselves. I've come in contact with a countless number of those people over the years…including my Psychology teacher in college whose ego was bruised when I backed him into a corner with questions about human behavior that he couldn't answer. What he didn't realize is that I wasn't attacking him…I was asking him questions about myself under the guise of classroom discussion. Nevertheless, he wanted to dismiss the issue. I can understand why – a Psychology professor suddenly realizing something about his own behavior while trying to teach others about theirs. I finished the class with no more clarity than the amount I had when it began.
It wasn't always the basement in my grandfather's house that triggered file storage. Sometimes it was the living room. Again, it was typical – a couch, coffee table and a television. The thing I remember was the constant layer of smoke suspended in the air like nicotine clouds. It came from the kitchen/dining room where my grandparents habitually sat. He read the paper and she did crossword puzzles, all the while puffing on their individual cigarettes of choice. The result naturally drifted into other rooms, and in some way, those other rooms wouldn't have been what they were without the smoke. It became like another family member. I knew that when I saw the hanging clouds, I was in the right house. It couldn't have been healthy to be around…but it was comforting. A house with no smoke in the living room meant that something was wrong; something was out of the ordinary. I never wanted to face that. I needed surroundings that weren't chaotic or were undisturbed, so that I could concentrate whole-heartedly on the disturbances I had going on internally. It was very cloak-and-dagger in nature. I was on my own personal mission and no one around me had a clue. It was probably for the best, I wouldn't want anyone trying to convince me that my psychological issues were "all in my head". That would be too ironic.
I was never crazy or malicious; I just had an amount of questions about life that far outweighed the readily available answers. I asked questions that no one else did, because their questions were scraped from the surface and mine were unearthed from miles below where few people bothered to dig. But, those buried facets of existence were the most important to me because I believed that somewhere in the unexplored facets of the universe was the depth I needed. I couldn't accept the fa?ßades as the only solid examples of reality. I knew something greater had to exist‚Ķand I knew that people must have intentionally ignored things greater than them. What they didn't know, or never bothered to acknowledge, could never place responsibility on them. It's like an addict who refuses to admit that he's addicted. As long as he claims to have control, he never has to face the hardship of recovery, and he can continue to spiral in his own private carousel. It's only the non-addicted who recognize the vices of another, the people on the outside of the window. That's always been me‚Ķon the outside of the window watching the rest of world living by remote control. I don't mind it actually‚ĶI'd rather not be blind like so many other people. But, try to explain the world's colors to a blind man and you're constantly on the defensive, maintaining that what you see is real even if no one else can see it.
The greatest test for me is nothing more than everyone else's typical day. The world is operated by a military of people who never look when they walk. They just know that they're moving but never question how. Figuratively, they don't know if their legs are moving their feet, which in turn press against the ground and propel them in a chosen direction – or if they're simply standing still on life's conveyer belt. They just don't know, but what's worse, is that they just don't care. Why ask? Why analyze? Why not just live? Well, living as defined by the people who never question is not the kind of living I'm accustomed to. My living has other meaning…and my living condensed into their living is like my dying. I realize that more and more as I get older…and I'm still looking for a way back to my grandfather's basement.
