(The following passage is an excerpt from Andy Nowicki's latest book Notes Before Death: Three Essays, now available on Amazon.com in paperback and on Kindle.)
As has been
extensively recorded elsewhere, things turned sour for me at roughly the time
of my initiation into puberty. It was at this juncture that I came to recognize
that my previous impression of being at ease in the world had perhaps always
been mistaken. Indeed, having become self-aware, I now saw that my very
presence, when I dwelt with others, seemed to have the effect of making those
others uncomfortable. Increasingly, in fact, the distressing notion came over
me that people would be much more at ease with one another if I weren’t around
to muck up the works. My existence in itself seemed to be an inconvenience
which caused them irritation and annoyance.
Had things changed, or had I changed? As long as I was ensconced in
the sweet cocoon of childhood, I never reckoned myself an eyesore in the
architecture, as it were. Then again, it never occurred to me to think of myself this way, so perhaps it was merely
that my perceptive abilities had grown more acute. Yet when I peer at a
photograph of myself at age seven, and compare it to one of me at age fourteen,
I am struck by a transformation in countenance, one not attributable to mere natural
changes. Instead, there is an unhappy absence where once there was a presence,
and at the same time, a malignant presence where before had merely been an
absence. In the earlier photograph, my face, while unsmiling, nevertheless
lends an impression of dreamy, distrait bliss; one obtains the sense of a child
who knows that, should he fall, he will nevertheless be saved from harm.
The second photo, in
which the subject betrays a tentative sort of grin, nevertheless evinces a
budding aura of tragic disillusionment, as perceived from the perspective of
one so new to being disillusioned that he does not feel at rest in the grip of
its cold tentacles; instead, one senses that the young boy’s spirit throbs
painfully between resolution and relapse, between the comfort of as-yet unwon despair
and the agony of still-unkilled hope. it was the springtime of his youth, of
course, and as the poet notes, springtime is the cruelest season, as it will
not allow a boy simply to be alone with his newly-discovered grief, won’t allow
his consciousness to die to the world; it must instead torment him mercilessly
with intimations of brazen optimism, whispers of a promised better tomorrow,
considerations that, after all, in the words of the infernal Howard Jones,
“things can only get better.”
I could, however, never square these hopes with the reality
which now pulsed so heavily through my perception. I was told that one day it
would all make sense, that things would come together and reach rich fruition,
that “before I knew it,” it would all coalesce properly, that “in the twinkling
of an eye,” I would find that my overall state had, in fact, improved; I just
needed to see things in the proper light. My temptation to be disillusioned was
itself misinformed (so I was appraised); of course, they allowed, being as
young as I was, it wasn’t surprising that I felt inclined toward such naïve
apprehensions… but then, there really wasn’t any cause for me not to embrace
the changes underway, both within myself and all around me. Change was good, they told me. I would become
convinced of this eventually, in due time; I just needed to get some
perspective on the matter. I’d find out, all right! (Here they would smirk a
little at the racy and ribald implications of their forbidden knowledge, which
they reckoned I’d soon discover, and which would be plenty compelling enough
to get me to see things their way.) Soon enough, I’d uncover the wonderful
truth, and when I did, I would again regain the happiness of my youth, in
spades.
Oh yes, I’d “find out.”
Boy, was I ever in for a delightful
treat, once I finally grew up a bit and learned to accept what was happening to
me, rather than always fighting it! These were the messages I was sent by
my elders. And now, as an “elder” myself, I can testify unabashedly that my
elders were, one and all, a bunch of smarmy fools. Of course most of them were
no doubt quite guileless in spirit, in the main unconscious regarding the
extent of their rhetorical skulduggery. That they didn’t know better, however,
doesn’t necessarily mean that they
shouldn’t have known better. Perhaps
I am being too hard on them, but my severity is borne out of a very pronounced
and definite sense of having been betrayed. After all, I trusted these fools, these speciously-informed, pseudo-wise,
smirking, self-deceived, misinformed, irresponsible Pied Piping simpletons who
fancied themselves counselors and relief-bringers. I trusted them against my
better self-judgment, trusted them in part because I wanted to believe their foolish lies. Yet at the same time, I
somehow always knew the truth, even when I thought I’d convinced myself
otherwise. I knew that things had changed irrevocably, and that change was in
fact NOT good, at least not in this context, at least not as I had ever before
understood the concept of “good.”
To be sure, it may
yet prove to be “good,” in the sense that all things supposedly turn out well,
to those who subscribe to the notion of divine providence, wherein everything,
desirable and undesirable, happens ultimately to benefit the victory of the
Good. But the changes that took place at the time were in fact of no good whatsoever, in any familiar usage
of the term. No… change was plainly bad
in this case. I suspected such at the time, but was implored to believe
otherwise by authoritative forces; thus, out of seemingly called-for deference
to authority, I refrained from mourning what should properly have been mourned,
and instead trusted in my elders, only finding out later what I had truly known
all along: that my elders were either deluded by or compliant in the corruption
I rightly espied lurking behind their smarmy smirks.
Andy Nowicki, assistant editor of Alternative Right, is the author of eight books, including Under the Nihil, The Columbine Pilgrim, Considering Suicide, and Beauty and the Least. He occasionally updates his blog when the spirit moves him to do so. Visit his Soundcloud page.
