PERFECT BREAKOUT

five personal essays on life in the city

inspired by lyrics from Kendrick Lamar’s ‘Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers’

#1 | ‘Hello, new world, all the boys and girls / I got some true stories to tell’

– N95

My honesty unlocked me. Fiction unlocked my honesty. Workshop unlocked my fiction. My mantra: ‘get mashed up on Saturday, write about it on Sunday’, spurred me on through uncertain times, and spat me out into Monday morning armed with nothing but a printout and an Icarus complex. My mission: to fly too close to the sun and find out what it feels like to plummet into the Aegean Sea, so that I can write about it later. My mother keeps telling me there is a big market for historical fiction.

Looking back is for the past, though. Been there, done that, got the undergraduate degree. Now my dream is to make my own history, to forge ahead with pure ambition and mediocre work ethic, powered by the sheer belief that if I journey west through the desert, I will find the Siwa Oasis. And at the temple of Amon, I will discover refuge and acceptance, and maybe, just maybe, the oracle will crown me the Son of God,

From the very first night, something was brewing. Beyond the coastline, off in the horizon, the storm was always out there, biding its time. Waiting for the moment when my actions would summon up gales, tear through dead streets, and cast away the detritus I once called my safe haven. Just like Arturo Bandini, environmental hazards answered to me. The weather patterns rose and fell at my command, and when I sinned once too often, the city had to pay for it. From the very first night, that was obvious, but I can’t look back now.

I came into this thing with big dreams and starry eyes. I got everything I could have ever wanted, but it all came with a price I had no intention of ever paying. The storm took hold and down came the plaster walls around me. Down came the Bolivian soldiers in the back of my throat. Down came my bravado in the last hour of the party. Bit by fangs that moored me to my bedpost, blinded by golden light, I was exiled, JMW Turner style, with nothing but the howling winds and my overflowing mind for company.

Before the boy from space blasts off back home, this is his report from the frontline of debauchery addicts, boys, girls, lovers, sinners, and broken little things. This is his truth.

Please, take all the time in the world. Read these essays closely, and you will come to understand that my goals are all lies, and my honesty only comes from my grief.

#2 | ‘I got some regrets / But my past won’t keep me from my best / Subtle mistakes feel like life or death’

– Die Hard

On that first night, you said there was something amazing coming, and I knew, I was so sure, more sure than I had ever been before, that you were right. From that very first night, I knew you were right.

I regret stealing a worksheet out of JA’s bag when I was ten. He was a sporty kid, I was a swot. It was fine if he forgot things for class. He was supposed to get in trouble. Not me. So, I stole the piece of paper that morning, right out of his bag, and will remember the look on his face when he couldn’t find it for the rest of my life.

Over those exhilarating nights, our leaders and followers fell away to reveal one single truth – that your place is elsewhere, in an adapted world. You made it happen. You just kept shapeshifting until you felt alright. And I held fast to my belief. From that very first night, I thought you were right.

I regret throwing a television remote at my brother when he was thirteen and I was eleven. We were arguing about something pointless, stupid, probably something to do with The Simpsons. He pissed me off, so I threw the nearest thing to hand in his direction. It cut him right below his eye. His face puffed up, a disgusting cocktail of purple and red. He beat me up, and rightfully so, but he never dobbed me in to our parents. He fell over on the walk home. They just hadn’t noticed when we came in. My brother has always been a better man than me.

We ran through those golden nights, making this city brighter than Vegas with the sparks between us. I understood you implicitly. A partner in crime – I’d never had one of those before. You were alive with the biggest dreams, and I felt it, like I feel everything. From that very first night, I thought we were alright.

I regret holding WG’s hand when I was eighteen, in a club that has since shut down and been renamed twice over. I should never have made her believe that I was someone to follow, someone who could help her in her time of need, someone who she could trust. Not when I wasn’t all in. Not when we wanted very different things out of our young lives. But in my naive excitement, I rushed into becoming her boyfriend, and closed off a thousand doors that could have opened to me if I had never jumped into that booth with her on that cold Halloween night. I stopped talking to the girl downstairs, the girl I truly connected with. Seven years later, I’m looking at her wedding photos on facebook, and those thousand doors are booming shut down my synapses.

Even after everything that happened, you were still the only reason to get out of bed. There was still a part of me, the boyish idealist, that believed we could return to that moment, up on the hill, looking down on the city, and it could all be perfect. That something amazing could have arrived in space between us. From that very first night, we could have had it all.

I regret failing to find the words to describe how I felt to DB when I was twenty-two. Back then, healing wasn’t in my vocabulary. I was trying to learn, but too late. I wish I could have communicated everything with her, as I wish she could have found the patience to speak with me, properly, with no spite or cruelty, just love and kindness between us. We could have found it, I think, after a lot of pain and grieving. Taking the road less travelled was no bad thing, but I will always regret being unable to access my honesty. It’s a long time ago now.

This very last night, I miss you, and it hurts. I’m doubting what I took as pure, snow white truth. I’ve had to swallow that harsh dose of reality. But this very last night, before my life changes forever, all I can do is my best. I will get up on that stage, stand under that spotlight, and I will do it for myself. I don’t need you anymore. This very last night, I know I’m right.

#3 | ‘My life is a plot, twisted from directions I can’t see’

– Father Time

In the middle of March, after the storm finally subsided, Mariposa raised her concerns about narrativising my life in this way.

‘It’s autofiction.’ I said. ‘Autofiction’s cool. It gets published. It’s cool.’

Mariposa questioned whether my writing practice was healthy. In turn, I told her about how I was responsible for the storm.

‘You never read Ask the Dust?’ I said to her.

‘You are literally such a cliche.’ Mariposa said, before suggesting I read even a single novel written by a woman. I never got round to finishing the one she gave me.

That’s my one indulgence in this essay series – a bit of autofiction about autofiction. How meta. How clever. But it’s time to get on with what I really want to say. Let me wipe away a tear and hug the loser. L the losers in her wake, I the income she will make…

The first idiom I ever understood was ‘you have to laugh, or you’ll cry’. I figured out what it meant after watching ‘A Streetcar Named Marge’, the third episode of the fourth season of The Simpsons, which meant it was on the first DVD I ever owned – disc one of the season four boxset. I watched the videos of Simpsons episodes we had recorded from BBC Two with great fervour, but the boxsets ushered me into another world, featuring every single episode from the golden era, plus commentary from the writers and voice actors, equal parts hilarious and insightful as they explained to me how they made this incredible object of worship. The show became my third parent. The only thing that truly made sense in my world. My sanctuary at seven years old.

‘Streetcar’ illustrates the extent to which Marge has been hamstrung by her love for Homer, when he fails to support her rediscovered pursuit of artistic performance while playing Blanche DuBois in the local production of ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’. This incident is nothing new for the Simpson couple – it’s the foundation of their relationship. In high school, Marge was the quintessential overachiever – engaged in the debating society, an artist, part of the athletics team, a staunch feminist, and of course, alongside King Artie Ziff, Prom Queen. Homer, meanwhile, was a go-nowhere idiot with a pure desire for the only girl who had ever given him the time of day. His sheer persistence and innocence won Marge over, when she compared him to the arrogance and ‘busy hands’ of Ziff. Marge was a young woman with big dreams, pulled in a different direction by the belief that pure love can conquer anything.

Two young hearts set out into life and found a lot to be thankful for. But for Homer, Marge is his wildest fantasy come true. Marge is the one and only. She just is. For Marge, however, she has to actively believe Homer is really the only man for her, because for him not to be would mean she made the wrong decision on the ’74 Yellow Brick Road. She made the biggest decision of her life at eighteen years old, and she can’t look back now.

You have to laugh, or you’ll cry.

Marge’s portrayal of Blanche’s mental destruction at the hands of Stanley (portrayed by a supremely hench Ned Flanders) reveals to Homer the error of his ways. He apologises to Marge for not supporting her, and reaffirms his simple, eternal adoration for her. But has Homer fixed the essential problem of their relationship, or merely papered over the cracks with a carbon fibre stucco lathe equivalent?

‘Lisa the Beauty Queen’, also to be found on that first disc of the fourth season that I replayed across endless summers, may answer the question. In this episode, Homer’s pure love means he refuses to accept a world that could make his daughter feel bad about herself. After Lisa is made to feel self-conscious about her looks, Homer trades his dream ride on the Duff Blimp for the money to enter her into the Little Miss Springfield pageant. Lisa is reluctant to enter at first, but Homer’s asserts to Marge that ‘Nobody’s prettier than my little girl… if I could gouge out somebody else’s eyes and shove them into my sockets, I would, but to me she’s beautiful’. This inspires Marge to tell Lisa what Homer gave up in his attempt to give her self-confidence, which in turn encourages Lisa to enter the contest. Homer’s single-minded love for his family reverses what could have been a long-term preoccupation for Lisa. Instead, she learns so much about herself and her place in the world as she embarks on her journey as Little Miss Springfield. T is for her tooth-filled mouth, T is for her tooth-filled mouth…

Homer is an obstinate fool who terraforms reality to his whims, and this simultaneously ruins and enriches the lives of those around him. His life is perhaps too miserable to ever look at directly, so instead we laugh at the incredible existence of a mediocre simpleton, and understand that we’re really laughing at ourselves.

You have to laugh, or you’ll cry.

So, in the same way, I make reality what it needs to be for it to make any sense whatsoever. Throughout my childhood, The Simpsons was the only thing that made sense. At school and at home, punishment was never far away, and invariably took physical form. If I acted out, screamed, or shouted, made any attempt to understand my place in the world with my limited perspective, I was smacked, held down, shoved into stinging nettles, shoved into a brick wall, happy slapped, punched in the arm, punched in the face, kicked in the dick. Whatever. It didn’t matter who administered it, all that mattered was the physical consequence of stepping out of line, of breaking away from the expectations of normality, of attempting to conjure my true voice against the path of boy-to-geek-to-drone. If you didn’t get up straight away, or fight back, they only hit more, and hit harder, because clearly, the violence was working.

You have to laugh, or you’ll cry.

Writing about our lives allows us to deconstruct the narratives imposed upon us. Finding joy in the horror allows me to save the boy from space who couldn’t save himself. It allows me to reach out to him, bridge the distance between us, and heal his bruises.

I recognise that I have issues, major and minor, but they’re all to be resolved. I get attached to people way too fast. I quote the Simpsons way too much. I valorise the past and get hung up on things I can’t change. I can’t be arsed to sit through films, not even Spinal Tap. I chat shit without thinking about other people’s feelings. And I write autofiction.

Call it BPD. Call it EUPD if that’s more your cup of tea.

The consequences are still revealing themselves.

Because they were distant, do I know how to process love?
Because they smacked me, did I learn how to conquer fear?
Because they pushed me, can I only ever disappear?
Because they broke me, I couldn’t read Mariposa’s tears.

#4 | ‘I’m sensitive, I feel everything, I feel everybody’

– Mother I Sober

To come up with material, you have to reach deep within yourself. You have to have a clear intention to communicate something. You have to have a desire to talk to the audience and get something off your chest.

You have to be honest with yourself. You have to exercise strict quality control. You have to think about how you’re presenting yourself. You have to consider if what you’re putting in is really the best material you can write. If you want to create something special, you can’t make any excuses.

If you have something to say about the world, if you really have a point of view that no-one else can speak about, then let it out. Ventilate. Don’t shy away from the pain. Let your honesty shape your words. Deal with it by turning it into a joke, you silly little jester boy. Hit that set-up, punchline, over and over, and keep writing. Never stop writing. The more you write, the better your hit rate will be. Up the hit rate, and the material will come. As my teacher told me, ‘it’s all boilerplate’.

The only way to keep writing is to keep living. Get out into the streets and see what’s happening. Go down to the beach and speak to ghosts at midnight. Go up to the Chattri and sit with a melancholic peace. Get out to Rottingdean and touch the wishing stone imp. Visit your brother and feel loved and lonely at the same time. Read on the back patio, turn the house into your home. Meet your community, play drums with them, teach them how to write stories even if you’re barely qualified. Gather with your tribe in a booth at Deadwax for six hours, forge your bonds with burnt pizza, and give a round of applause for everyone as they leave.

It’s only three minutes of your life, but each and every second has been crafted by all your demons, all your strange little distractions, all your hopes, doubts, and fears. As you straddle the end of young adulthood and the start of plain old adulthood, as you work out who your co-conspirators are, as you find your way with aging parents, distant family, and the knowledge that nothing can last forever, as you become a man, remember that your voice is distinct. You have an experience that is all your own, and this is your chance to communicate what that means for you.

You just need to remember to say ‘I’.

I’ve been searching for something to believe in for seven years. The Cat’s gone. Little Nell, too. Caligari’s sitting on a beach on the other side of the world. Yurikov is the king of his world, Princess became the queen of hers. Chaos Theory killed Mariposa. Dr Bywater never wanted to help me. The Hesperides were never really there.

I’ve been attaching meaning to the people in my life, believing that they could fix me. But the women couldn’t give me superpowers. The men couldn’t give me belonging. I masked my insecurities under a Roman à clef. The pressure built until we crumbled down into an irreversible darkness. Until I summoned a storm to wash them all away.

Now, I release the boy from the anguish of his family’s embrace.

I release the boy who’s bruised and blast him back to the stars in space.

I release my parents’ sadness and the house that cannot freeze in time.

I release the memories of Nell, I wish her well on her climb.

I release the pair of cat’s eyes cutting through me like a knife.

I release the wings of Mariposa, you breathed into me new life.

I release my teacher’s scolding, bullying was institutional.

I release my thoughtless words tossed out, I know I was delusional.

I release the sensitivities we bottle up unfeeling.

I release this city’s pain and set about our path to healing.

#5 | ‘Lately I redirected my point of view / You won’t grow waiting on me’

– Mirror

It took me twenty years to finally embrace my truth.

I was never much like the other kids, and it killed me. My old school friends now drive electric cars, go on holiday to Thailand, and get married to the love of their life. I just got fired from what I hesitate to call my job because I have an existential crisis whenever I have to send an email. I’m taking a series of classes called ‘Managing Unhelpful Emotions’. Every Monday morning, I sit in front of a grave plot dedicated to a ‘Neil License’ and tell a woman how I’m feeling. I don’t know if Mr License ever felt inferior to those around him, but I hope he can at least lend me some sympathy.

I tried to find solace in others. I grabbed onto people in the hopes they could grant me salvation. If I said the right words, wore the right clothes, drank the right alcohol, then maybe they would accept me. Maybe they would love me.

Who could possibly love someone who doesn’t love themselves?

This year was always supposed to be about learning. The biggest lesson I’ve learned from my first eight months in this city is that you either admit you have problems, or you are the problem. Societal ills keep piling up. I see people trashing their own streets, destroying their neighbours’ property, the possessions they depend upon every day. I see people repeat a cycle of self-criticism, piling pressure on themselves and their loved ones, until they are crushed by a delusion. I see people lean on their dependencies, the vices that have consumed them, searching for answers in a sea of broken promises.

When I summoned the storm, these were dead, dark streets to me. Bitter cold, intransigent greyness, compounding my deepest fears. The fears I had conjured into reality. There was no real life. The world became one room, one colour, and a fierce, incessant howl. All lines of escape had been cut. There would be no salvation. I had to come face-to-face with my demons. There was only one way to survive.

I chose me.

I accepted that I can’t do what other people can. I accepted that, for the most part, I can’t fit in. I accepted that it has always been this way, from the very first night, and years before that.

I accepted that I can do what other people can’t. I accepted that I have abilities that I can and should be proud of. I accepted that there are people in this world, in this city, who can accept that.

It’s what they always tell you, in the event of a sudden loss of altitude – fix your own mask to your face before helping the person next to you. Even if you love that person more than life itself. We each need to look after ourselves first, otherwise we’ll just damage ourselves and our loved ones, too. Emerging from the storm that nearly destroyed us, we each need to grow, to play our part in healing this place. For me, this involved forgiveness, acceptance, but above all, honesty.

To become the man I need to be, I can’t afford to censor my own feelings. That path is red, raw, and dangerous. I will share my feelings, share the words, share all I know, because that’s my job now. I stave off the storms, the destruction, the apocalypse approaching us all. That’s what I can do for people. For the city.

And if I lose my bearings, I will return to the final words I’ve written in my notebook. The notebook I bought before that very first night, now completely filled. Atop the final page, I have written my truth:

‘My desire is to make the unsaid said.’

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‘Does it feel better to get that out in the open?’

‘Do you think that’s why I did any of this?’

‘There’s still a lot more in there. Come on, cuddle up closer. There’s so much more.’

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