REMember way back in spring when I wrote DESign II would be the theme of the Summer issue? I lied. Truth is, it’s been a very short summer packed with work, vacations, food and libations… lots of libations. When presented with the options of relaxing with a drink at hand or pounding out a free publication, I’m choosing the former every time. DELve ELIte is a way of fulfilling my promise of a Summer issue. The DELve editorial staff (me) chose some of our (my) favorite articles over the past year. This issue should more accurately be called DELve ELIte the PRN issue because all of the contributors are my former co-workers at PRNewswire (and only now my magazine’s title design becomes clear to me). While the cover phto is by me, the main photo was an outake from the previous issue and is by Eric Papa (DESigning Eyes, Issue 5). You will also find poetry by Meriel Martinez (WELcome/NEW, Issue 1), an article on surfing by Brian Tunick (LIGht and Dark Blue, Issue 2) and a look at the body by David Dowling (MINd, Body and Soul, Issue 4). Not to be left out, I am including an article about my trip to Cape Cod (FRIends, Issue 3). Note, I originally made up the name “Roger” for my friend Ed Lanoue to protect his privacy, due to the sensitive elements of the story. Not long before its initial appearance, Ed said he didn’t mind me using his name. Since the piece was already written, I said I would keep the pseudonym. He understood but had a major concern: “Did you at least give me a cool name?” Despite numerous objections, he relented and let me keep “Roger.”
Also included in this issue are some the staff’s (again, my) picks of Cool A.F.’s (C.A.F.!), truly deserving of being repeated.
As the summer draws to its inevitable conclusion, sit back and enjoy the crème de la crème of DELve’s past. DELve will be back in the fall, when DESign II drops (I am so hip). Until then: be about purpose, be about passion, be about love.
Love and Peace Always,
This Is Us
To the non-watcher, This Is Us sounds just too hokey to be any good. The show, which teleports from past to present, tells the story of a typical family of a father, mother and their triplets (one of which is Black – so maybe not triplets, but the children were all born on the same day). The writers are the stars here, each week they come up with compelling stories and deliver complex characters which makes you want to come back for more. I so didn’t want to buy into it. Damn them, they sold me.
Former New York Times film critic Elvis Mitchell has been on the job for over 30 years. While film criticism has become somewhat of a dinosaur, Mitchell has been able to avoid obsolescence and remain fresh with each passing year. Case-in-point, The Treatment, his weekly podcast (which he has been doing for 20 years) in which he interviews filmmakers, pop-culture historians, musicians, authors and the like. Each program is an interview devoted to one topic (an idea we at DELve can support) featuring the artists behind the project. You come away from each podcast enlightened and wanting to know more. The shows aren’t just about film and music. On recent shows Mitchell’s guests included the multi hyphenated Sacha Jenkins discussing his Fresh Dressed documentary, GQ Editor-in-Chief Jim Nelson discussing the magazine’s evolution, Mitchell’s Canadian counterpart, Cameron Bailey discussing his role as artistic director of the Toronto International Film Festival and the festival’s history and Power creator Courtney Kemp Agboh, discussing its Shakespearean influences.
Flying under the radar for over two decades, Meshell Ndegeochello is not a musician, she is an artist. Her bourbon-rich vocals (along with soulful bass playing) gives color to the canvas which are her lyrics. Ndegeocello’s debut album, Plantation Lullabies with its ballsy single If That’s Your Boyfriend (He Wasn’t Last Night)… which title needs no explanation, was one of the best albums of the 90s. Her follow-up album Peace Beyond Passion was almost as brilliant and contains not only a cover of Bill Wither’s Who Is He And What Is He To You but also the controversial Leviticus: Faggot. You’re not a true artist if you don’t cause a stir.
Jeans today can set you back several hundred dollars a pair with styles changing every season (we’re looking at you True Religion!). Levi’s are the complete opposite of the last statement. Levi Strauss & Co. has been making jeans for 163 years and deserve the title of “Classic”. Levi’s are comfortable, affordable and with so many styles to choose from, pleasing to just about everyone. Besides, nothing says “grown up” more than the ability to pull off being well dressed in jeans no matter whether you’re rocking them with a tee shirt or tie. You can wear these blue jeans almost anywhere.
The following is from the book God and Mambo: Truth, Rhythm and Verse/Ritmo, Verdad y Verso and is available through Amazon.
Piles of snow swallow the ground
Winds punish worn trees and old limbs
A swelling, familiar, possesses the clouds
Ice pellets choose targets at whim
With shovel in tow
I push through again
A dull, stunted spirit
Soul aching for spring
Take rest for a moment
Look up and I see
My vibrant sunflowers
Smile sweetly at me
In that honest moment
The cold disappears
No heartache, no worries, no sorrow, no fears
For bright-colored flowers
With eyes vivid brown
Shine sunlight eternal
Line silver the clouds
Blankets of snow still pile on the ground
Winds sting as they steadily climb
But I’m warm and I’m light and I simply don’t mind
‘cause my springtime is waiting inside.
It’s already there when you wake
This deep warmth, this heat, pouring from your breast
A force you can’t disguise, control or contain
It heaves, your chest, as you picture him
His luscious skin, like chocolate
Sculptured to edible perfection
Or maybe caramel, drizzling where it will
It waters, your mouth, as you drown in him
Strong arms that take you in, captive
Collapsing under his imposing will
You willed it to be so
You delight in this ardent pleasure
His want, pulsating through your every inch
A force only he can ignite, extinguish and start
M.M.: Of Puerto Rican descent, Meriel Martínez was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey. She currently resides in Florida with her husband and two daughters.
Soul surfin’ in pretty blue waters, waitin’ for the day that I could just call her.
— Soul Surfin’, Kottonmouth Kings
By Brian Tunick
The ice-cold water burns my face. Frigid saltwater flushes down the back of my suit, directly across my spine as a large wave twists my frame and holds me under. The human body doesn’t deal well with freezing or drowning, and I have chosen the verge of both.
Stretching the damp and cold suit over my body doesn’t feel good, but it’s pretty benign compared to what’s to come. A quick glance at the dimly lit room shows the vague outline of three dogs cuddled up with my wife in a warm bed. Very little motion. This is what people do on the dawn of a 19-degree day with at least 6” of snow in the forecast. Not me though. By now, my body heat has activated the insulation and I’m sweating in the suit. When the garage door opens, the cold air hits my face and my body only needs the sensors that detect very hot and very cold. There are no in-between temperatures. I prefer in-between temperatures. I affix the board to my bike and begin the 5-minute journey. I know I can only ride the bike a short distance until the threat of slipping on ice forces me to walk. Suits and boards are easily destroyed. Still, even a little bit of distance on the bike means a little less walking on the frozen ground. Seven millimeters of rubber seems like a lot until it becomes the only thing between you and a fresh layer of ice. A distant thundering sound is offset by the sound of a neighbor slipping while attempting to scrape ice from his windshield.
By the time I get to the water there is enough light to see the vast blue. Choppy. Strong drift. Waves that would be a little above my own six-foot body if I was standing perfectly straight. Snow and ice line the boardwalk, the stairs, and the few hundred yards of sand that lead to the water. The heat inside my hood causes itching, but the gloves prevent me from a proper scratching. I quickly spot a rip current and decide that will be my entrance. Rip currents are usually considered dangerous because they can easily pull an unsuspecting swimmer out to sea. To surfers, they are an ally, a passage, a conveyor belt that will allow for easier access to an intended destination. I make my way towards the violent ocean, and as the slope of the ground becomes more pronounced, my walking becomes more of a controlled slipping motion. A distinct feeling of dread grows in the pit of my stomach. The feeling of dread always comes first.
My booties protect me from the initial shock of cold water and I get a good minute or so of uninterrupted paddling out, with the assistance of the rip. As if on cue, a large set (several large waves) makes its way in and it’s time to speed up paddling, in hopes of avoiding the hopeless battle against crashing waves. Surfboards are extremely buoyant, and a breaking or broken wave can only be dealt with by pushing the board underwater and then diving down with it. You may be able to go under, but you can’t possibly go over. The movement includes the lifting of one’s leg and looks much like the way a duck would go under, hence the term ‘duck dive’. Duck diving is much easier on a smaller board, but in order to fight the strong current, I brought a bigger one (bigger board=more surface area=better paddling). The first wave goes well, but I feel the water seeping in through my suit. The second wave causes my suit to flush (cold water rushes in, down the back, along the spine). I don’t really have the time to lament this because the third wave is about to drill me. I feel my body thrown like a rag doll by elemental forces stronger than anything a human could possibly resist. My open mouth is filled with icy salty water and my teeth immediately begin to hurt in a way most people can only identify with slushy drinks. The cold in my suit does nothing to balance things out. I scurry to get back on the board and paddle out past the last breaking wave.
Sitting in the calm zone past the breaking waves, I take a moment to catch my breath. I can immediately feel the cold on the fingers of my right hand. A minor annoyance for now, but I know it won’t be long until it becomes a brittle cold that radiates in set-waves of pain through my bloodstream. This can’t be avoided, but paddling generates body heat, which can prolong the inevitable. Looking back at the lights of Rockaway Beach, it’s pretty easy to see that the town is either still in bed or just waking up. The thought of just how much I suffer for this obsession is never too far from my mind. I could be in a warm shower or cuddled up with dogs under covers. I could be somewhere with absolutely no chance of being drilled by a wave and drowning. No chance of head injury, being hit with a rogue surfboard, being sliced by the fins of my board, or even the media-induced fear of shark attack. No frozen fingers. ‘Why would I do this?’ quickly morphs into excitement as I see the first in a set of very large waves coming my way. I can’t really judge my positioning, but I am going to turn around and take off on the wave. If all goes well, I’ll catch the wave, stand up and surf. If not, bad stuff happens. Commitment is key: if I pull back at the last second, the drilling becomes exponentially worse, and committing to paddling while falling forward violates a number of human instincts. I’ve been doing this a long time, and it still doesn’t come easily.
The moment goes silent. My ever-present ADHD-ridden inner monologue shuts the fuck up and I take off on a steep, fast, large wave. Standing up, a wall of blue forms in front of me and I am fly-gliding down it at high speed in slow motion. I am in a good position to hopefully outrun the steepest part of the wave before it breaks. It happens, and I feel my stomach quickly move to my mouth. Every pleasure neuron in my body fires at once as the board accelerates. I ride up and down the wave, noticing that it is significantly bigger than the head-high prediction. I hear my voice scream with glee but I don’t remember commanding it to do so. After a few soul-igniting turns, I get a little more aggressive and the world flips. That’s what a high-speed wipeout looks like to a surfer, the brain is more comfortable perceiving changes to its surroundings than it is to accepting its lack of orientation. So my mind is telling me that the world has just inverted, but hey, I’ve been doing this a long time, so I know better. Slightly.
A few more great waves come and go and the hour I had to surf before work is almost up. The wave that I had marked as my last ride in did not go as planned, somehow they never do. Surfers use the phrase ‘just one more wave’ in the same way opiate addicts use the phrase ‘just one more hit’. Most surfers would allow themselves to die of starvation before they would end a session on a bad wave. Ten minutes later, a decent one comes and I ride it in, momentarily feeling like everything is right with the world.
The walk up the beach is slippery and I trip a few times. To an onlooker, it must be pretty funny seeing a guy who can surf gracefully but barely walk a few steps without tripping. The bike ride back isn’t much better, and by now both of my hands and feet are brittle and painfully cold. The warm shower is not as nice as you might imagine – any water even remotely warmer than skin inflicts a severe punishment that is only made worse by the act of removing gear. Twenty minutes later, my skin is red, the pain has seen its crescendo and no matter how badly the rest of my day goes, it’s pretty unlikely anyone will try to drown me or give me hypothermia. No matter how boring my meetings are, I know that I had more excitement today than most people have in a year. Most importantly, I answered a call that if missed would’ve been more annoying than any ‘missed call’ or ‘new voicemail received’ alert could possibly be. The ocean has a grasp on me. Losing myself in the blue is my obligation. Also, I’m stoked to see that there are supposed to be decent waves tomorrow.
I am not alone. Each year, more and more people learn to surf, and the addiction is overpowering. Non-surfers always make the assumption that it is strictly a summer sport, but the summer usually produces the smallest and least-surfable waves. New York is not known for having particularly good waves, even by East Coast standards. To compound the problem, NY is prone to afternoon wind-shifts, making the form of even our best waves suck, so dawn is the best time to go and by far the coldest. Surfers can choose to deal with cold temperatures or do without surfing, and once the addiction takes hold, they rarely choose the latter.
On any given morning when waves are present (maybe 3 days per week if we’re lucky), a handful of surfers can be seen. Surprisingly, they aren’t all good surfers. Beginners can be found making their awkward mistakes, but amateur mistakes (‘Kook moves’ if you want to be a dick about it) are more forgivable in the cold. The dedication to learning is often respected by even the most callous and impatient of experienced surfer. Surfing takes a long time to learn and more than a lifetime to master. I’ve been at it for about 30 years. I can’t do 360 aerial maneuvers. I am not chasing 90-foot waves in Portugal. As a younger and bolder man, I saw Mavericks, California’s legendary big-wave spot in person on a 25-foot day, and my own tears of fear were the closest I got to getting wet. Although I’ve taught quite a few surfers, I’m not always kind to beginners who feel entitled to violate surf etiquette (or those who can’t be bothered to learn what surf etiquette is) . Still, in sub-zero temperatures, I’m more likely to help a beginner than to tell one off. I think it was in Rhode Island where I saw graffiti on a beach wall that said:
If we don’t see you in the winter, we don’t want to see you in the summer
Makes sense to me.
Since this probably sounds like the ramblings of a maladjusted asshole, I’ll mention friends. Surf buddies. When you spend hours waiting for waves together, you really get to know the people around you. You come to trust some of these people with your lives. I have a few very good friends that I try to surf with as often as possible, but also many more buddies and well-wishers. Surfers can be aggressive, but we also make friends pretty quickly and although we can be clique-y, most of us would help another surfer in danger regardless of personal affinity. Conversation usually flows pretty freely, and it’s common to hear about the deepest and most embarrassing problems of a stranger, either directly or over a shoulder.
Discussions with passersby on the way to the beach are pretty common. Somewhere along the way, the non-surfing public was told that mimicking a Hollywood take on a surfers accent (this is NY for fuck’s sake, we don’t talk like that) is highly regarded. It isn’t. Still, others ask why I do what I do. My mood and their posture determine the level of snark in my answer. My common replies are:
‘Because the other option is not surfing’
‘The fun I have doing this is worth it.’
‘That guy on Craigslist swore it was a water-snowboard. I knew that sounded wrong…’
I am usually quick to assure people that the act isn’t quite as physically taxing as it looks. My more cutting answers are usually reserved for those who feel the need to remind me that what I’m doing is stupid. I’m the one with the frostbitten toes, I’m well aware, thanks.
The type of people who surf in NY are not easily marginalized. My own group of friends come in all shapes, sizes, colors, ages and sexual orientations. Actually, not all shapes. Surfers are almost always in good shape. Most are in their late 20’s to mid 30’s. All are well-educated, intelligent and self-sufficient. All are well-travelled; for some reason, the wandering spirit tends to go pretty well with waves. Most of us live in Rockaway Beach, a Queens town that has an easily accessible ocean and often produces a decent wave. Even before the Ramones it was known as a surf town, but lately it has seen a growing population of surfers. None of us are from here. The town itself is very small (especially by NYC standards), and has a cross-section of surfing experience and ability. Most of the older surfers are white men; it is pretty easy to see how much more diverse surfers have become in the last 10 years or so.
As seasons change, so does the gear. In early summer, a thin suit with bare hands and feet is fine. As temperatures drop, suits thicken and gloves, boots and hoods become necessary. Getting in and out of a wetsuit in public without getting frostbite or an indecent exposure ticket is also an acquired skill. The thicker the gear, the harder that is to do. Also, pee breaks are not a thing, so surfers eventually just learn to use the suit (there is an upside to that water rushing in). Surfer problems may be trite, but they are very real. No discussion of surfer problems would be complete without mention of the nasal waterspout. Water often accumulates in the nasal cavity (way more than you would expect). This comes out when it wants to, and that usually happens later in the day and rarely when you would want it to.
People are usually surprised to see people carrying surfboards in New York City, and more so when temperatures drop below 80. When snow is on the ground, most people I’ve spoken with assume that I am outright insane. In reality, every surfer has a reason to do what he or she does, and there really are no bad ones. It’s great exercise and loads of fun. It soothes the soul. It’s more therapeutic than the entire pharmacy. Surfers tend to be outdoorsy, humorous, adventurous, loyal and well-cultured. Groups of surf friends are often close in ways that only 80’s sitcom families could ever match. Mind you, surfing is an addiction that can easily take over a life and at least one room of a home for surfboard storage (which I still insist is perfectly reasonable). It would be nice to say that the only person whose winter plunge into the blue I could justify is my own, but in all honesty, I’m not even sure I can do that. What I do know is that as long as the ocean keeps producing waves, and my body keeps working, I’ll be returning to that water. I’d rather that it be during a freak swell in July when the ocean is warm enough to surf in boardshorts, but the fact is, this is still New York and the best waves don’t want to make my life that easy.
Brian Tunick, MHA, RRT-NPS is an Administrator at a New York City hospital and a Professor of Cardiopulmonary Diagnostics. He lives in Rockaway Beach, NY with his wife and three dogs. When there aren’t good waves, he works, teaches, bikes, skates, snowboards and races motorcycles. When there are good waves, he will be in the water, regardless of pending obligation.
by David Dowling
The body is a source of sheer delight and immense disappointment. It is unique to each of us. It can be sculpted and it can change its shape without warning. We are its master and its victim.
Elle Macpherson was known as “The Body” after hers graced the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue again and again, meanwhile Jesse “The Body” Ventura used his on the battlefield, the wrestling ring, and the political arena.
The body of a newborn and its journey to the body of an octogenarian. The intricate systems of the body that keep it moving from start to finish, through shrieks of agony and pulsating electricity at the embrace of a lover.
It’s in scripture and strip malls. It’s in work. It is the one thing you know best and hardly at all. We stare at it in the mirror and we stare at others on the beach or in the gym. We covet it like a jewel.
Artists opine about the beauty of a body in masculine and feminine form. Scientists dissect it. Athletes push it to the limits. You and I touch it and sometimes invite others to do so as well. A pat on the back, a handshake, a different kind of shake, an embrace, a violent push. We adorn armor to protect it. We chose clothes that flatter its shape and keep it warm and safe from the elements. We shield it from the sun and bask in its rays. We manufacture a prosthetic to replace a piece that was once there or perhaps never at all.
The body is a tool to lay, move, gather, cook, hold, hit, drive, jump, stand, run…
The body is sexy. The curves of a woman in clothes that cling. The broad shoulders of a man drawing to a tapered waist. The body seeks other bodies and reproduces more bodies.
For those whose body has been dormant, push it. For those whose body has been sore, rest it. For those whose body draws attention, flaunt it. For those whose body is healthy, appreciate it. For those whose body won’t agree, convince it. For those whose body is laid to rest, may it rest in peace.
by Stephen Holmes
Talk to me, old pal of mine, if you feel you can’t go on. Don’t you sweat, it ain’t over yet this bond we share is strong. Your welfare is my concern, you weigh less than you think.
— Friendship, Pops Staples
I can’t remember why Roger, a college friend then living on Cape Cod, called that particular day. I remember the perfunctory greetings and inquiries about family and life. I know we talked about politics and our society, because we always talked about those things. I even remember we agreed on some point and this was major because we never agreed on anything. The conversation went on for well over an hour before it began petering out. I could hear Roger inhale and letting out a “Well,” signifying the end of everything he had to say and an end to the call. I can’t swear what was said next, but I remember saying, “Roger, I can’t get myself together. I feel,” searching for a word, I settled on “lost.” The phone went silent, while Roger figured out what to say. He knew the basics, which we had covered earlier in the phone call; my dad’s death, dealing with his finances and bills from the nursing home, dealing with my finances, stress over trying to sell his house. We covered it all, but I tried to keep it normal and everyday. “It is, what it is.” “I’ll figure it out.”
“What’s going on?” Roger finally said. I told him everything we had already discussed but this time I confessed I didn’t see an out. I admitted to crying nightly. A guy never wants to admit to crying and he really doesn’t want to admit crying, to another guy. Everything I said, gave life to what I was feeling. Roger took it all in, he let me go on about everything. When he finally spoke, his words said what I was denying.
“Stephen, I get what you’re going through, I’m having problems too.” I was thinking he was going to give me the litany of back pains and car troubles and not enough times in the day, which people tend to dole out in an effort to help you “feel better” about your situation. I was fast-tracking Roger’s next words in my mind, “all you need to do is work with your hands… build something,” he’s that type of “I’m building a deck by myself” kinda guy. “I’m dealing with depression and I’m seeing a therapist. Maybe that’s what you need to do too.” Confused, I asked, “Who’s seeing a therapist?” I thought I missed him saying that one of his siblings or a cousin or a neighbor was seeing one, it never crossed my mind he was talking about himself. He laid it all out for me, what he had been feeling, all the things he was going through, all the doubts. The things Roger was going through was different from what I was experiencing, but we shared the same feelings. But a therapist, really? I had seen a therapist about a decade earlier concerning family issues. But it was for just a couple of visits and I never went back. Being honest, I chalked it up as being something for white people.
Roger and I talked for a couple more hours that night. I was still uneasy, after we had hung up. The tears still came, but so did the morning and I started my routine over again. Summer is not a good time for a teacher trying to keep himself from spiraling. Realizing that sleep was not going to happen anytime soon, I washed the white tear streaks from my face and went to the gym as soon as it opened. I still wasn’t tired when I came back home two hours later. Roger called to check on me before he had to go to work. He checked in on me every day for a week and each time he asked if I wanted to come up and stay with him, his wife and their kid. “You can stay as long as you need to.” The week following our conversation offered little change other than I began to sleep a lot less. I was getting maybe three hours of sleep spread out through the day. My doctor gave me a prescription for something that would help me to both sleep and be less anxious. It didn’t help. I was still not sleeping well and I was still dealing with the anxiety. I began to feel more desperate, maybe I should hang with Roger and family. I told him I would drive up the next day. In the hours that followed, I began to panic. The thought of spending all that time alone with just my thoughts scared me. Driving over bridges caused me to worry under normal circumstances, in my state of mind at that time, I would have lost it.
Roger and my political viewpoints have diverged drastically since we met in college. Not saying that we were on the same page back then but it was a time when we could afford to be more accepting of one another’s differences. Had we met today, both of us changed by the world, we probably would not have become friends. We might have been acquaintances, but not friends. College was a time for “change the world” type thinking. Today, the two of us debate passionately about our beliefs. He’s always wrong, but I let him have his say.
There are many reasons friendships end. We can never be sure what it will be, what line in the sand, that will cause an un-mendable break between friends. I can, however, pinpoint when Roger became something more than a friend. With six words, he became my “brother from another mother.”
“I can’t come. I can’t drive all that way alone,” I told him as I tried to control the panic. I imagined all sorts of wild scenarios of the trip. I imagined my car (followed by me) breaking down, having another panic attack while driving over a bridge… losing control of my emotions and then the car. Most of all, I was afraid of thinking and driving. My fears made me willing to maintain the status quo.
“I’ll be there in three hours,” there it was, six words… ”I’ll be there in three hours.” He didn’t even allow me say, “but.”
The ride to the Cape was filled with idle talk which dovetailed nicely with the silent moments when I thought I was rying to find my words. In reality, I was trying to avoid words. City and waterscapes scattered behind us. One of the silent moments was broken by Roger’s observation about some actress who was popular at the time. Some things are so offensive they shouldn’t and won’t ever be repeated. Therapy, for me, started right then.
The Cape offered me opportunities to breathe, to take long walks, to break free from the grip of desperation. I drew and colored with Roger’s daughter. Mrs. Roger and I talked about our adventures with our students over the past year. Since my visit coincided with John McCain’s announcement that Sarah Palin would be his running mate, there were some intense political debates between Roger and myself. All of these activities came with a price, I was able to sleep for the first time in weeks.
Roger and I found ourselves on our own and he told me more about his struggles to be happy. How what was wrong wasn’t his marriage or home life and it wasn’t, necessarily his job. He knew what it wasn’t, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. I understood. There we were, two men having a serious conversation the way men do, full of stops and starts and you know’s and Idunno’s. Neither of us completely sure how this brand of intimacy works. How do men verbalize feelings of inadequacy when we are raised to “eat” our feelings? He told me about his therapy sessions and he wanted me to meet with her while I was there. It all sounded right, just not for me.
My issues were kept at bay during my visit, but it was just a visit and my time was coming to an end. Roger and his family helped me focus. I keep hearing people question motives and how others are just out for themselves. How friends are as disposable as a razor. Roger showed true friendship and love and I will forever be grateful. But there is a truth I can’t ignore, I know that if I had opened up to any of my friends, they would have moved heaven and earth to see me through. I know some pretty good people.
Feeling like I could travel alone again, Roger and family loaded me on a train back to New Jersey. Magazines and packed snacks, courtesy of Mrs. Roger, entertained me for most of the train ride home. The closer my journey came to my starting point, the more the panic returned. In spite of all of Roger’s confessed advances through therapy, I wasn’t yet convinced. It would be another month of steady decline from the euphoria of Cape Cod. It would be another month before my second panic attack.
SH: Editor-in-Chief of DELve Mag. He is a writer, educator and all around swell guy.