The Devils In Your Details
INTRODUCTION
The most noteworthy thing
about this book ought to be the unexceptional status of its author. Unlike many
authors who publish self-aggrandizing verbiage on life and all its wonder and
meaning, I don’t hold any degrees in psychology or philosophy. I’m not a rock
star whose very celebrity justifies the existence of my writing. I fully expect
the collection of dead, tattooed trees you’re currently reading to be
self-published, none too popular, and selling copies that don’t exceed the
single digits. Oh, and that one positive review on Amazon you’ll probably see? It's
likely that one of my friends wrote it. Wait…who am I kidding? My friends don’t
read! Must be one of those Red Hot Chili Peppers fans trolling me again. (And I’ll
explain that one in a later chapter.)
But there’s a simple aphorism that underscores this book’s
existence: Writers write. In fact, I can assure you that when they don’t
write, they get up to all sorts of self-destructive distractions, ranging from
having a finger in every pie (think of the calories!) to full-blown depression.
In both cases, been there done that. The simple fact of the matter is that I
really wanted to put down my thoughts and feelings in written form. If I could
do that, the next step would be to get a few people to read them.
I wanted to condense those thoughts and feelings down to something
comprehensive; something centered around my outlook and personal philosophy,
yet with enough objectivity to balance the anecdotal and the tangential with
the rational and relatable. I wanted to write a book that might provide someone
reading it with an actionable understanding of the world and society, albeit
filtered through my own lens of moderate life experience and background.
I firmly believe that there are two ways in which we process the
passage of time in relation to our own wellbeing: we either strive continuously
to better ourselves and our lives, or we go passively through the motions, only
ever engaging in what’s fleeting, easy, and instantly gratifying. I’d like to
embody the first example – and sometimes I do – but I fall victim to the habits
I mentioned in the second all too often. We all do. Because those two ways of
being do not represent a dichotomy; they are never mutually exclusive, and we
play on either side of the spectrum at various moments in our lives. But damn
it, we would like to do the striving more than the going through the motions,
wouldn’t we? Actually, you’d be surprised at how many people would answer that
question with a resounding “No.” Though perhaps even more would respond with a “Yes,”
and it would be a lie.
We live in a time where people generally want what’s easy and temporary,
rather than what’s difficult and lasting. That alone is the fiercest argument
my personal muse need make as to why I should go ahead and write this book. I
want to properly elucidate how and why striving for a better life and a better
self is so very important, and I’m asking you to take that journey through the
pages with me and humor my self-indulgence. You might be surprised by how I
temper it with moments of humility, humor, and insight that can be of benefit
to myself as much as anyone else.
From Carl Jung to comic books, Satanism to ‘Seitanism,’ and moral
relativism to mimosas, this book could be seen as a back-alley, discount
version of your favorite self-help New York Times bestseller, or as a
veritable bible for the alternative, marginalized, countercultural layman –
that all comes down to what my words mean to you. I know what they mean to me…or
at least, I think I do. Somehow, I often seem to find that when I put my
views down on paper, I discover things about myself to which I was previously
ignorant. And that’s a large part of what this book is about: taking full
accountability of oneself. Personal identity is a numbers game, and any slight
miscalculation can wreak havoc on our lives.
Bear in mind, of course, that I never set out to write something
bogged down by lecturing, riddled with personal agendas, or defined by
self-righteous finger wagging. I want the views and ideas that follow to be challenged
by careful reflection and consideration, counterbalanced by the personal
experiences and understandings of each individual reader, and concluding with
the affirmation that I’m not perfect and I don’t have all the answers. Like all
of us, I’m just muddling through. That in no way weakens or invalidates
anything I have to say. On the contrary, it lends to it a greater sense of
frankness and meaning than anything written by someone sheltered in an ivory tower,
looking down to dictate to the masses.
I don’t intend to sell you my version of life, nor would I want to
encourage anyone to emulate my views or behavior just for the hell of it. Align
yourself with what you read here only if it feels right for you, and just as
importantly, continue to press on even when some of my statements or opinions
raise your hackles or set you on the backs of your heels. Question and examine
that resistance – there may be important lessons behind that feeling!
And yet, even as I write this, I have to address the possibility
that, rather than be caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, you may
still be wondering why you should feel or contemplate anything in regard to what
I have to say. Bereft of college degrees, lofty titles, or endorsement quotes
on this book’s back cover, it’s easy to dismiss any words I put forward here,
and seeing as how I’d have the same reservations, I can’t really blame you if
you do. We’ve been trained to believe that celebrity, academia, and politics
are the primary parameters within which knowledge and wisdom ought to be
espoused in written form. Yet many members of each of those categories may be
cloistered by their own bubbles, unable to see beyond the blinders of their own
cliques and echo chambers.
Let’s not forget that for every Keith Richards, Richard Branson,
Richard Dawkins, Obama, or Oprah, there’s someone out there with a name and
face you don’t know who’s got a story to tell. It might be the homeless veteran
on the street corner asking for change, or the man quietly birdwatching in the
park. It could be the captain on your flight to New York or the stewardess
handing you your complimentary snack. Hell, it could be the person you see
looking back at you in the mirror, and that’s probably the best place to start.
Everyone has a backstory, but few have the ability to tell it to a broad
audience. Well, I’m no entrepreneur or television personality. I’ve been a
passerby. A pedestrian. A peasant with an empty wallet, a sense of style, and
strength of character, and I also just happen to be a writer. So I’m going to
tell my story. If there’s some rule barring autobiographers who don’t fit a
certain economic bracket, I’m breaking it. If my Instagram follower count doesn’t
justify my self-importance in the eyes of petty people who count such things on
an imaginary abacus and sit in judgment, tough shit.
As I swivel about in my office chair, looking down at my cat for
moral support and up at my favorite posters of Lemmy Kilmister and Cristina
Scabbia for inspiration, I find myself recalling a moment that takes the point
I was just trying to make and ties it all up into a nice, neat little bow.
It happened back in 2007. I remember the year, because I saw Dark
Funeral perform in Poughkeepsie, New York, at a show where I damaged my ribs in
a mosh pit, trying to be the tough guy in foolish contradiction to my bony,
90-pound body. But this happened before that, and is entirely unrelated. I was
waiting for a bus on Union Valley Road, in the town of West Milford, New
Jersey. The bus shelter I sat in was small and innocuous as you’d expect, and
it was a Saturday, so one could expect it to be frequented by bored teenagers en
route to the local mall, and older New York transplants ready to begin their commute
to work. It was rainy and rather late in the day, so it was occupied by
neither. (I myself was on my way to visit some friends back in my hometown.)
Within minutes, however, a highly eccentric looking old man
approached, having exited the nearby Dunkin Donuts with his coffee in one hand.
In his other was one of the most fascinating canes I’d ever seen. Its handle
was shaped and painted to look like the head of some kind of bird of prey,
perhaps a hawk or an eagle, and there was some kind of floral print on its staff
– they might have been roses, I honestly can’t remember, but they were mixed in
with a black, vine-like pattern. The whole thing was colored an unforgettable
cherry mahogany. The man wasn’t so much leaning on it for support as he was
letting the beak of its bird head rest on his wrist, so that it swung
pendulously as he made his way to the bus shelter to sit down.
Of the man’s physical appearance I don’t remember much, other than
mid-length white hair and a bedraggled beard, and clothing that seemed new and
well cared for. He also wore glasses with thick rims and yellow-tinted lenses;
they sort of reminded me of something Jeff Goldblum would have rocked back in
the 90s. You can imagine how unexpected all this might seem in the tiny ‘downtown’
area of a middle-class New Jersey exurb at one o’clock in the afternoon, especially
when he looked nothing like the average person you’d see in such a place at any
time of day.
I do vividly recall that he wore a backpack adorned with sundry
stickers and patches that seemed to represent a collection of travel souvenirs,
bearing the names of different cities, states, and countries. I remember seeing
Georgia, Montana, Niagara Falls, some kind of national park that seemed to be
in a country below the equator (Los something or other), York Minster, and some
other place that I knew at the time was in the UK but which I now no longer
remember. After a few sips of his coffee, he set the backpack on the ground at
his feet, pulled from its main compartment a book whose name eludes me (though the
hardcover tome was old, thick, and weatherworn), and began reading, sparing not
so much as the briefest of glances in the direction of the eighteen year-old
goth/metalhead staring at him with total bemusement.
Eventually, the NJ Transit 197 arrived and I boarded, and as I
took my seat and glanced out the window, I came to a surprising realization:
the old man hadn’t gotten on the bus. And that was the last I saw of him,
continuing to read his book and sip his coffee as the only bus in town took off
to its next destination. Somehow, that made him even more mysterious and
fascinating in my mind. Why would such a man, clearly an out-of-towner with no
car, enter a bus shelter with no intent of going anywhere? Especially someone
as clearly well-traveled as his backpack indicated? Perhaps he was merely
looking for someplace to sit and read, and the bus shelter proved the only
reprieve from the spritzing rain. That seems the most likely explanation, yet
as I sat aboard the 197 on the way to the next town, I don’t think I considered
it. I was too ensorcelled by how starkly different that man had seemed,
and through the onset of gathering clouds and the beating of raindrops against
the bus window, one thing pierced the overcast backdrop to my journey and became
abundantly clear: that man had stories to tell.
As do I.
I want this to be more than the culmination of my travels and
experiences, however. I want this to provide the impetus for more of your own
journeys. I want to set you on a path where you feel glory, not shame, in
looking into a mirror and spending a few moments admiring the contours of your
face. Where you cast aside your machismo in the face of an unpleasant situation
and summon up the courage to tell a person they hurt your feelings. Where you
stand with a collective while knowing why and for what purpose, rather than
because you’re told it’s “correct” or that everyone else is doing it.
A path where you use one hand to welcome and embrace someone who
treats you with love and encouragement, and raise your other in firm opposition
to people who seek to compound your own insecurities with admonishments or
backhanded compliments. Where picking yourself up when you fall is a frequent
and welcomed responsibility, not a desperate last resort associated with being
at rock bottom. Where you replace poor self-esteem with unconditional
self-worship, not thinly veiled narcissism.
Yeah. The prose can get a bit grandiose like that at times. Never
fear, because I err on the side of relatability, not pretentiousness. I won’t
make the case for any self or life improvement “just because.” I’ll provide
real stories, examples, and – I hope – fair and balanced rationales as to why
it’s so important. This book isn’t intented to be dogmatic, but rather, pragmatic.
The idea that life is something one can immediately and extraordinarily rewrite
and reshape is one rooted in romanticization and hubris. The idea that one can take
steps to make substantial and valuable differences in one’s life, however, is
practical.
I can assure you that I hold myself to my own set of high
standards, and I believe any personal advice that follows will reflect those
values. This also means that I’ll be dispensing with any impropriety when it
comes to my personal stories and accounts. So while everything I have to say
here will be as honest and committed to memory as I can make it, many names of
people I mention will be changed in order to protect their privacy. As
reassurance for anyone with doubts, I’ll detail my encounters and interactions
with such people in a way that aims to communicate life lessons and nuggets of
wisdom, not to tarnish reputations, drag folks from my past through the mud, or
resurrect petty adolescent vendettas that were put to bed long ago. It is my intent
that any stories I share in this book prove truthful and constructive, not
malicious or libelous, and it’s my sincerest hope that any shades of subjectivity
that color such anecdotes are seen for what they are, and not cast in a
negative light by anyone reading this who might take umbrage with certain
portrayals or characterizations.
Is that a disclaimer of sorts? I suppose that it is, with the
caveat that I’m not shirking any personal responsibility in the writing that
follows, I’m only relinquishing any accountability for the actions of others
whom I might mention in the pages to come. For too long I’ve tricked myself
into carrying the burdens of those who readily place them upon my back, so that
they might fly light as a feather, circling like vultures and anticipating that
I’ll crumble under the pressure and collapse on the side of the road like so
much carrion. No longer will I accept the stone thrown at me from someone else’s
glass house, only for me to roll it up a hill in Hades in futile perpetuity.
And the rejection of others’ dead weight is part and parcel of the
self-empowerment message at the core of this book, so read on for further
elaboration.
Just know that in the context of this introduction, I’m making
such declarations in order to highlight the harsh truths that I intend to
include in my personal encounters with toxic people, many of which I’ll share
in upcoming chapters for important and illuminating reasons. And the misdeeds,
misdemeanors, and simple mistakes that lay therein will be apportioned
precisely to the culprits responsible for them, not to the victims who took
those hits, wore them like armor, and later transmutated them into powerful
life experiences. If it’s true what they say, and there really is no rest for
the wicked, then surely there can be no place for authors in the halls of
slumber either, because there must always be someone with pen in hand to tally
and transcribe those transgressions. In short, it’s time to write
some wrongs.
Of course, not all of my personal chronicles will be summaries of
bad circumstances, bad people, or bad things. Quite the opposite, there will be
a great deal of space given over to positive and life-building experiences, and
to tie it all together, a conclusion reached as to why the good, bad, and
morally gray all play a part in shaping and informing who we are, and how
coming to terms with all these things can send us on a destiny run toward who
we have the potential to be.
You may know about the Chinese military treatise titled The Art
of War. Well, unlike Sun Tzu, I’m only a writer and not a fighter, but I’m
here to tell you that self-betterment is an art of its very own, much as is
writing itself. Artists bear the exhilarating burden of being both Dr.
Frankenstein and the Monster. We create and recreate new versions of ourselves
each time we take steps to grow and evolve, but we often grapple with the very
personal demons that we ourselves have contrived. The best part is that we can
have total control over the versions of ourselves we create. We can revel in the
extraordinary beast we unleash from within, or we can retreat into Mont Blanc
out of shame and fear, unwilling to accept our true selves. Both the power and
the burden lie simultaneously within us.
I’ll wrap up this longwinded intro by stating that it’s my purest
and paramount hope that people read this book, despite the obscurity of its
central character. It’s my understanding that life is meant to be lived, and
that its value not be expressed in quantities of money, popularity, or influence,
but rather, fundamental understanding, knowledge, wisdom, feeling, and being.
Life ought to be talked about and analyzed by someone doing the living, not the
spending, acting, or virtue signaling. The real, on the ground,
honest to goodness living. The steps to strength and success are built
neither in lofty towers of wealth and greed, nor in bitter basements where visions are never shared, feelings are never expressed, and ideals are never
strived for.
Ultimately, you have to ask yourself if you prefer the illusion of
power, or the true power that dwells in the self, waiting to be stirred up in a
hurricane-like fury and brought to the surface, made manifest in all its
fearsome glory. If you’re searching for the former, please set this book aside
and resume your addiction to the fickle, inconsequential chump change offered
by social media. If you seek out the latter, keep on reading.
To borrow and utterly alter a quote from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein: We
ought to seek happiness in tranquility, but never, ever avoid ambition.
