The Power to Be Afraid

This is a line from The Smashing Pumpkins’ song Porcelina of the Vast Oceans. A huge favorite of mine as a teenager and as a young adult, I don’t think I ever got over how sad the undoing of the band was, and how badly Mr. Corgan tarnished his own career in the midst of all that undoing.

This has been quite a year for me. Thinking back to when I was about to post my very first story, it now feels surreal remembering how scared I was. Scared of sucking ass unbeknownst to myself, scared of the suckiness being addressed in the comments section in the most vicious and malevolent tones imaginable. Scared of attracting a bunch of trolls on my tails who would have surely made me stop dead in my tracks back then. Scared of people reading my stuff. Scared that no one would read anything. Scared shitless.

I, like my pal Mr. King, am afraid of everything. I used to think it was a major hindrance, for most of my life, until, after posting my very first story and surviving it, I managed to turn the fear around and make it a strength. My man used to say that nothing in this life frightened him anymore since having to witness a loved one perish at a young age. That he was done being scared. I thought that was one of the saddest declarations I had ever heard. Fear can stop you from doing what you love, fear can be a hindrance. But without fear, the victory would never seem so sweet and lovely. And not just that, but love itself. A bit of fear means not taking anything in life for granted.

As December is slowly beginning to embrace us with her jingle bells and suicide rates and stress factors and natural or forced holiday cheer, I would like to examine my own fears a little. Let’s call it the

Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness Tribute List

One: Fear of the dark. I’m thinking all writers of suspense suffer from it. Darkness is where our basest, most disgusting subconscious desires and fears lay. Dark is for the demons, the vampires, the ghouls, the forces and creatures of darkness. I’m thinking everyone with imagination suffers from it, and that all writers in general should suffer from it. What a marvelous fear!

Two: Fear of spiders. I am capable, today, of killing them with a napkin and flushing them down the toilet. That is a very big whoop, considering I used to be like Annie Hall, summoning Alvy from across town to come kill the spider in the bathroom for her. But catching them alive and rehabilitating them into nature? Still working on it.

Three: Fear of dying before I manage to read all the books I own. A very common fear among readers, I hear.

Fear of my loved ones dying.

Fear of winding up alone in life.

Fear of commitment.

Fear of not getting my message through. Also, fear of not getting the message.

Fear of water. This includes subcategories, such as fear of drowning, fear of sharks, fear of my plane crashing into a desert island where the only means of escape will be by swimming, fear of the unknown, fear of squids, fear of crabs, fear of underwater creatures in general, fear of water plants, fear of rafts, fear of the short story The Raft, by Mr. King.

Fear of chopsticks. I never learned to work them. Every time I went to an Asian restaurant I would try and figure out how to use them. Now I don’t even try anymore, for fear that I will look like an idiot. I don’t know. Perhaps it has to do with me being a leftie, the same reason why it took me so long to learn how to knit. Or perhaps this is the extent of my brains, where my genius ends.

Fear of closed spaces, or, claustrophobia.

Fear of losing my hearing. Subcategories: fear of losing sight, fear of losing mobility. Fear of losing sound? Not as much as hearing, sight, or not being able to hike. If I was never able to speak again, perhaps someone somewhere would only be thankful. Just kidding.

Fear of losing my mind. Subcategories include fear of developing Alzheimer’s or dementia, fear of becoming a pain and a nuisance for my carers, fear of not having any carers at all, but slowly dying, ancient and crazy and without memory, alone in my dirty apartment, fear of going mad on account of sleep deprivation, fear of never being able to go to sleep again without hysterical fear that tonight, tonight will yet again be one of those sleepless nights, fear of extensive medication that goes on for years, fear of side-effects, fear of going crazy unaware.

Fear of losing perspective.

Fear of making a bad call. An interesting fear, after already having made so many of those. Maybe that is why it is frightening for me, now. Having paid the fiddler already, no one wants to spend their entire life paying.

Fear of screwing up with finances. On second thought, this ship has probably already sailed.

Fear of never getting recognition as a writer. I guess everyone wants to be recognized, simple as that.

Fear of being considered a bad writer. Why this should matter at all is a mystery. Perhaps it has to do with the fear of failure. As opposed to fear of even trying.

Fear of having regrets later on. The motivational posters say we regret the most the things we never did, and not our mistakes. What those unseized days, or chances untaken, are, perhaps will be revealed to us only when we are dying. Will the regret, for me, be the not applying to film school after high school, for fear that I would look like a fool? The quitting college without a degree because one of my professors sneered at me, saying that the university did not produce writers, but academics? Both are things I have come to terms with and never regret when I now think back on my decisions. Will it be the not living the family life with marriage and children? Never living abroad like I always fantasized? Well, let’s not be hasty, this is but a pit-stop, at least I would like to think I still have a little time to consider just a few more things before I kick. Who’s to say what is to come in ten years? Perhaps it is impossible to play it safe, deathbed regret-wise.

Fear of becoming a victim of my own perfectionism, of the control freak inside.

Fear of not becoming who I was supposed to be.

Fear of letting my parents, and my grandfather, down.

Fear of succumbing to day-to-day prosaic numbness, the mundane, of accepting myself as mediocre, fear of giving in to boredom and despair. During our brief time together, I think I have managed to pump some fear back into my nary-fearing man. I hope. Fear means living. The point being not being paralyzed by it, of course, but the feeling of cold sweat, of palms sweating, that means things mean something to you. Otherwise, what’s the point? I think, for me, if nothing scares me, if there is no mountain to climb, then I’m not driven to do anything, to master any of my fears. I have no idea whether this was the case for him, or if not being afraid meant something else for him entirely. Still, nowadays, he sometimes uses the word, after having so determinately forgone the whole concept earlier. I kind of like that. I think it means something positive, for him and for us.

Fear of never achieving my best self.

Fear of letting go. Fear of losing the memories and the significance of something I once held dear.

I understand that Billy Corgan came to regret dissolving The Smashing Pumpkins, and tried to resuscitate it with new band members, since D’Arcy and James Iha would not even consider it. I do understand why not. And it was a disaster, was it not? But good for Mr. Corgan, for that one healthy regret. Humility is also one of life’s great lessons. They were once gods. Once they ruled the world. I will always remember what it was like to see them live on the Mellon Collie tour. I bought the Zero shirt and wore it. But you can not bring back the past. Even Jay Gatsby came to understand this in the end.

Fear of never learning to let go. The few times I have posted stories or studies on this site I have not polished for hours, or sometimes days, even, I have feared losing those who bother to read my stories. But doing it like that sometimes, letting go of the text, knowing it is a little rugged and sketchy, just letting it go, is one of the most therapeutic things I know. Also, it keeps things in perspective. My man tells me the story of someone he used to know, who had an entire novel they were working on for years, always polishing, reconstructing, rewriting, polishing, polishing, never thinking it was good enough, never being able to bring themselves to let it go, never letting it into the world. What became of the novel, I don’t know. But he always tells me the story whenever I declare I can’t do it, it is too scary, writing sucks, I am not good enough, the story is not ready, the best place for my stories is firmly in my desk drawer.

Of course, the point is not to have this blog as my personal confession stand, or therapy center. It never was. It was always supposed to be art, man, or if not that, at least a collection of amusing little stories and anecdotes. But all I am saying is sometimes it pays to break some of our own rules. Not everything is always a diamond. But pebbles can make for very interesting stories, too.

In the end, I do not want to be one of those people who never even tried. And now, I ain’t one of’em. Here’s to a pretty good year!

Inspired by The Smashing Pumpkins. Hats off to Gish; Siamese Dream, possibly one of the most perfect records ever made; Pisces Iscariot; Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness; Adore. As mentioned earlier, once they were gods.

I dedicate this story to the Old Lady. It has been real.