By mid-August, I was approximately halfway through a series on Instagram I’d dubbed #Summer97: several 200+ word essays I wrote once a day. As I concentrated on the music that inspired my current worldview, I’d hit a creative zone. I was approximately two weeks away from celebrating the five year anniversary of this very blog and felt great. One day, it all came to a screeching halt.
It was a rainy afternoon in Lower Manhattan. I stood outside of my 9-5 on my lunch break and began my then-daily ritual of planning my #Summer97 post. I looked up from my phone and noticed a man that made direct eye contact with me. Without breaking connection, the man walked over and said “You’re a lucky man. You always find yourself in a lucky position and things work out for you.”
I replied with a customary thank you. The man then iterated “But your luck will soon run out.”
A little confused, I gave the guy a look as if he needed to repeat himself; he did. The second time, he explained that while I am a lucky man, things are about to change.
The New Yorker in me almost told son to his face a mantra I live by: I create my own luck, b. I decided not to pull a Chad and run my mouth. I thought before I spoke and realized this man looked as if he had been outside all afternoon; but he was bone dry and wasn’t carrying an umbrella. He must have been a Yogi or Shaman or some shit; he definitely had a spiritual aura. In retrospect, I should have known that. However, I didn’t want to stereotype him by his attire.
I am a firm believer in a spiritual realm in which people have been blessed with gifts; apparently the dry Shaman in the rain’s was to see spirits and their potential trajectory. We conversed for about five minutes. He even told me what I should do to change what seemed to have been a change in my luck.
Boy was that guy right. However, all of the squeezing lemon juice around my neck, doing the hokey pokey, and turning myself around that Dry In the Rain Man suggested to change things around would not have altered what would happen next.
A few weeks after this encounter, life got very intense. My workload increased drastically, my uncle died unexpectedly, familial issues on steriods, school started for Cydney, and of course girl problems were in there, too. At some point, I can and maybe will go into detail about some of all that went on. It became difficult to channel this negative energy into my creativity. Before I knew it, all of my artistic innovation momentum ceased.
There was another way to look at all of what happened. I have believed for some time I created my own luck. Rarely-if ever-have I prayed for anything twice. I felt as if doing so is a lack of trust in the God I serve; a lack of faith, so to speak. My mantra for life is “Everything will work out because I’m me.”
I could have continued to push through, write, and do all of the above simultaneously. My imaginative impetus would have continued and the work could have been great. But it wouldn’t have had direction or that umph behind it that would have been the difference between entertainment and something meaningful.
For the past five months, I have been asked several times by readers, followers, fans, friends, and family when I would write again. I’d reply with some variation of “soon.” I meant to and meant well but life just kept happening. In some capacity or another, I have written close to 1,000,000 words. On average, I penned approximately 2,000 a day and other times I’d binge out 30,000 in a week. I grew tired of my focus being on the same things, over and over again.
In spite of no published material, there has been plenty to catch you all up with. The dust has begun to settle. Somewhere between faith and practicing what I preached, it was time to begin telling the tales again.