How long has it been since I dove deeper or, should I say, further into my mind? Aside from my expeditions into nature, which has its own psychedelic traits that can be witnessed through the filter of understanding the multi-dimensionality of our existence, it’s been more than 20 years since I peered behind the veil with the help of other complex substances. Sixteen years ago today, I started this blog with the hope of improving my writing skills, and while this entry will exceed the meager nine words I managed to include with a photo of a banana split back on that day, I have no sense of certainty that what I share has any more import or impact regarding what intention I might believe I have to give readers.
The photos that have accompanied these missives offer more than 10,000 glimpses into what our eyes have seen during the intervening years. Impressions of countless experiences had over those 5,844 days are laid out with all of the bias I carry within me to portray the lives of Caroline and myself. Throughout this time and particularly tapping into one specific date, November 19, 1993, there has been one constant in my life, and it has always been featured prominently here on JohnWise.com. Before I get to that, let’s check off the not-so-blunt message of what I hope comes across: love. It feels awkward to write about the generalized idea of love instead of my love for my wife, but that was just what I took from that date I just referenced, and it’s reflected in the allusion to something that has always been on my blog.
Well, that’s a complicated matter to just blurt out here on this page and shouldn’t be reduced to some singular all-important moment. Little did I understand as a child feeling unloved that the experience would put me on a journey looking at every externality for it to be revealed. I couldn’t comprehend as a boy, a teen, or a young adult that my curiosity was a reflection of where love sprang from. I believed it was something offered to you and nurtured by others, such as my mother, father, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. The problem was that they all were in my life just temporarily. In first grade, I was traumatized when I was told I’d never see the nun again who had been my teacher because I was going to live with my father. At this time, I can’t say I had a solid idea of what a family was; as I was shuttled between two sets of grandparents and various aunts and uncles, all I knew was that someone else besides my mother and father would be caring for me and my sister, until that day my mother arranged to have us sent to California where my father was living. Let’s allow that to suffice as enough background info about why I sought love from others; there was never a constant in my life reassuring me of my value.
As I grew older and felt more isolated, I wanted to learn more about what I didn’t yet know. I read, explored, and found myself more and more alone. The more I read, and the further I went from home, I learned that we are cursed to wander alone. Sure, some found God and insisted that this guidance was the panacea of heavenly love that moved their lives out of the tempest, but I found that to be some self-reassuring pap that likely fit a candy-coated perception of what life was supposed to be like. The life I saw on Skid-Row in downtown Los Angeles when I was 13-15 wandering around with my camera was raw, smelled of rot, tended to be crazy, and was visceral. This was a mirror of my life in the suburbs of West Covina, where life was unreal, smelled of coffee and cigarettes, was packed full of lies, and pretended to be normal. J.G. Ballard and William S. Burroughs had greater insights into truths and didn’t lie about the reality of the sad situation we thought was modernity. You gave in to carnal curiosity and masked the pain of individuality with drugs, alcohol, and escapism. That was the truth.
In this dystopian narcissism of negativity, I could validate my own self-loathing as the natural product of a society that preferred conformity at all costs and was ready to hand out meds to deal with the consequences of depression from living lies. Through these troubled years, I never lost my passion for wandering both physically and intellectually. What I didn’t understand was that by maintaining this curiosity, I was nurturing a latent kernel of love that was within me. I could not see anything that resembled passion from within me. The world was dark, tragic, and shitting on itself.
But deep down, I was still pursuing the dreams of discovery and invention I had as a small child while others in their works of literature were sharing their own with me. I was collecting moments through my experiences no matter how tragic and lonely, and I traveled from author to author and from city to city, first on my bicycle, starting when I was about 11, and moving to the bus system when I hit 13 before my first car offered me even more potential. It was right there in my dreams, moments, and travels though I couldn’t find anything other than mounting frustration that life was futile and needed something to blunt the pain. How could I have known that what I was trying to find was love?
Adulthood and the creep of responsibility brought me into the world of bills and a need for a steady income like everyone else. In dead-end jobs for dropouts, there were only more grim, broken souls surviving in anguish, and so I escaped to the worlds of fashion, architecture, and consumption. My low pay allowed me to buy some nice clothes with designer labels, read Architectural Digest, and dream about an extravagant home that might one day be mine. The crap beaters I drove were good enough as a new car felt as far away as owning a house. I still wasn’t happy, I wasn’t loved, nor did I know what I ultimately wanted. So I read and started to create art, except now I was always high or drunk. I felt like a real American.
No, I didn’t. I’ve never felt that other than when I was in 5th grade and dreamt of being famous like Joe Namath of the New York Jets. I felt lost and withdrawn. Something was missing, and that something had to be the love of others. If only I were loved, I’d be complete. What a farce, but how could a young man weened on the banality of the 1970s have an idea of what sense anything made? So I kept on reading. How come I couldn’t see that curiosity was right there at the core of self-love? It was because love had to come from others, not yourself. This, though presented a conundrum because how could I love myself if I was so weird, alien, foreign to my peers? You might rightfully ask, why would you have those ideas? Ask any nerd rejected by schoolmates how this happens, as it is the warlike nature of our culture to reject that which is different.
Okay, time to cut to the chase. On November 19, 1993, after thirty years of chasing my dreams, creating moments, and traveling to explore my world, I encountered an answer to my question of, “What’s this all about?” It’s about love. Everything that arises out of curiosity and exploration is about love. When those things die, we go to war. We go to war against ourselves, and as a society, we go to war against those we want to blame for stealing our potential. On November 20th, 1993, I was no longer at war with myself.
I was certainly in conflict regarding this about-face, as instant enlightenment is never truly instant. First, you must wash away the comfort of sense certainty that narcissism is a great companion. Secondly, you have to learn to live with the ugly contradiction that you were probably wrong about much of what you thought was right. Next, you have to learn that everything leading up to this moment was about satisfying something deep within; it was about loving yourself.
This is where Dreams, Moments, Travels come into the picture. That is precisely the thing that has never changed on this blog. Emblazoned across the top of the home page is just that: Dreams, Moments, Travels. There is a deeper meaning though, that relates to two things: 1. the date from 1993 I referenced at the top of this entry and, 2. and the title itself. Should you realize what I hid in plain sight for the past 16 years, you’ll come to understand what I’ve been trying to convey since then.
So why now? I’m tired of war and hate. We are a miserable wretch of a society that is in dire need of reinventing itself and finding the impulse of what drove our love before we found ourselves rejected for our individuality. We are creators and dreamers who relegated our most precious traits in order to buy popularity in a futile game of fear. It’s time for society to meet the machine elves, trip balls, and explore the far recesses where we might find a hint of what it means to love. Happy New Year.