Hours of Daylight – 9:47

I need anger management. No, really i do. It can’t be healthy for me to be rehashing painful, anger-inducing moments that occured so far in the past they might as well happened to somebody else.

I tell myself to let it all fall away, to forget. But that doesn’t happen.

Many, many years ago, I went to Ohio State University. I was accepted to the Masters program in photography… i had this weird idea that one could become an artist by attending classes. To add some context i should point out that i was in, what i now know to be, a terribly dark period of my life. I was young, confused, insecure, and constantly afraid of “failing” in this, my first venture beyond college.

I admit it, i was – and probably remain – a wimpy “mama’s boy.” I was out on my own… and i was constantly terrified. I realize now what i was looking for was a leader, a role model, a person i could latch onto and who would make the fear go away.

Mostly for money reasons Annette and i decided to take on a roommate. He was a film student… a born critic with a razor sharp wit. He was extremely well read and forcefully opinionated. His observations were more often than not right on the ball and, again more often than not, something that had not even remotely occured to me. His father was a professor of political science who had taught where Annette and I had gone to college, so we had “connections” on at least one level.

Frequently I felt stupid in conversations with him, but i was determined to make the most of our relationship and learn all that i could. He had few friends, but the ones he had were close. He was not a joiner, he never asked to be admitted to any clubs. Maybe he was a bit of a father figure to me. Maybe it was simply a kind of envy. He wasn’t afraid, mostly he seemed bored.

Then one day i found a purple spiral notebook sitting out. It had no identifying marks on the outside. On one level i knew it was his, but it might have been Annette’s too. I opened the book. The first sentence, up along the top of the first page read: “why jeremy is not a cool person.” The book was filled with hand written text supporting that opening thesis.

I won’t bother to rehash his valid reasons for having the book, or the 20 or so years that have passed since that day. The sting i felt, standing there like a moron, reading his well-written evidence against me has largely faded. In fact, up until recently, we’ve kept in touch. However i managed to put an end to our “friendship” not too long ago when, during a phone call i stepped over a line. I knew i was crossing the line… but i didn’t stop. I heard his voice change as he began to reply.

See, one day, during another phone call, the issue of “who is responsible for the mess our society is sinking into” came up. He matter-of-factly announced that he is “not responsible.” I let that pass and babbled on about my latest social observations.

But, i have come to believe that he is entirely wrong. He, and all those like him, which is to say nearly everybody, are the ones responsible. See, from where i sit, he’s amounted to, in the larger sense, nothing. Rather than becoming a writer, a social critic, a person who might help make sense, he’s become just another suburban father in a mindless job whose contribution to society is paying taxes and consuming stuff.

They lived in San Diego for a while, but moved back to Arizona because, as stated to me, the schools in SD all suck. But the great tragedy is that if all the smart, erudite, involved parent’s take their kids and run for “safety” or “quality” what does that leave behind? What is his legacy other than more decline and decay and consumption?

He and all those like him are responsible. And the sting i felt all those years ago, when i read what this person i admired and respected actually felt about me, seems all the worse when i realize he has amounted to something i feel nothing for but contempt.

Like i said, i need anger management. Or maybe i should have a kid… and i too will come to see “Pampers” not as the digusting primary resident of our landfills, but as miracle conveniences that make lives better.

Or, maybe, everything he wrote about me in that book was right.