“Remember this time, before you have to work, before you have any real responsibilities. Before you grow up.” — Howard Rice
27 revolutions around the sun. 27 years of perpetual bewilderment, beautiful chaos, agonizing heartbreak, and paralyzing fear. 27 fresh starts. 27 false starts. 27 lives. 27 chances.
I always assumed I would die at 27. I idolized Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix — the 27 Club. I agreed with Peter Townshend’s sentiment in The Who’s “My Generation,” bounced my head mindlessly when Roger Daltry sang “I hope I die before I get old.” I viewed 27 as old — the point of no return. I wanted to die in a blaze of glory; drugged up, burned out, at the peak of my glory as a famous rock star/actor/writer/etc.
Today is my 27th birthday. A silver sliver sticks out in my hair. I still listen to The Who. I still bounce my head mindlessly while I listen. Yet, horrifically, I feel a strange urge to live.
How ashamed my younger self would be at this cowardly surrender, this openness, this willingness to confront my insecurities and fears head-on instead of dousing myself in spirited elixirs in an attempt to drown them out. That young man who was so terrified of love, who felt entirely unworthy of receiving it. To him, I offer only the following:
“A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.” — Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
I am writing this on the morning of February 14th, 2024 — Valentine’s Day. I haven’t written a solitary thing since October when I wrote a piece called “Dehumanization”. It was a piece on Palestine, without directly being a piece on Palestine. In the wake of Hamas’ attack on Israel, and Israel’s response to it, I bore witness to the truly horrific side of humanity that arises in response to fear, anger, and hatred. 4 months later, the reported death toll of Palestinians has reached 28,000 — a 600% increase from when I first wrote about it in October.
What truly gnaws at my soul and makes it hard to speak on almost anything is our species’ ability to deny the humanity of others when we find it necessary to justify their deaths. Be it the Hamas militant who views the killing of Jews as their life’s mission, or the Israeli soldier who can march over the corpse of a Palestinian child without even a hint of remorse.
When we can convince ourselves that one life is more valuable than another, we have denied ourselves that crucial gift that elevates us above common animals — empathy.
Fear and anger are cancers, tearing at the very seams of society and enabling our worst instincts. Hate is an addiction, and it currently defines us. It makes us malleable, susceptible to the influence of malicious powers who want to convince the pawn that the king has their best interests at heart. It poisons us, saps the joy out of our lives. Rots at the core of life. Helps maintain the cycles of misery that will keep us from ever truly achieving a safe and just world.
My only birthday wish this year is for all of us to reconsider our relationship with hate. To remember that those numbers in the headline all had dreams, hobbies, passions, loves, laughter, faith, pains, thoughts, fears, and hate, all the same.
To remember that there is only one true point of no return.
Last year was the first time in my life I stayed at a hospital overnight. As if that milestone itself wasn’t enough, I did it two more times. In total, I spent about two weeks in the hospital.
Pancreatitis. It is truly an unforgettable experience to feel as though someone is trying to cut themselves out of your stomach with a freshly sharpened knife. The third attack, the one that ultimately led to the removal of my gallbladder, saw me wrapped around my roommate’s doorframe and screaming in agony as each approaching ambulance turned out to be assisting some other poor fool. It took 30 minutes for an ambulance to finally arrive. By the time the medics reached me, the pain had already subsided.
It came in waves. That was the worst part about it. It provided an uneasy sense of peace — the hovering of a bully’s fist positioned at your arm. After my visitors left that night, I was left by my lonesome and placed in a brightly-lit room, awaiting further information from the staff of New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Suddenly, the pain began creeping back. Slowly, building in intensity. Muted groans turned into grunts. Grunts turned into moans and tear-drenched cheeks.
“Jesus! Jesus! Oh fuck! Oh God! Please help me!” I screamed.
No one responded. A nurse, likely a student, stood at the monitor atop the reception desk and dutifully entered whatever information she needed to at that moment. I continued pleading for mercy, begged for morphine. Vocalized my agony, tried to sound reasonable as that knife carved its way further and further out of me.
No one answered for 10 minutes. Maybe they assumed I was just another junkie, taking up space in the ER due to personal failings and an inherent incompatibility with our capitalistic, God-fearing society. A louse, draining valuable resources from our nation’s medical care system. A dog on a leash, barking at the passersby out on their daily stroll.
I recalled seeing my grandfather in his hospital bed at the VA hospital on Long Island. The last time I would see him alive.
A nurse finally heeded my call, brought the dog a bowl in the form of a syringe. The morphine did its job, I drifted off to sleep.
I had made my peace when I was wrapped around the door frame. I accepted that I hadn’t finished editing my book. I accepted that I would never get a chance to correct a recent heartbreak. I accepted that my friends would mourn my untimely passing, shocked that the bottle wasn’t the thing that did me in. I accepted that my family would make sure the suit I wore in my casket fit just right, and that the bottom button would remain unbuttoned.
I accepted that I very much wanted to live, regardless if that meant getting old.
And I lived. And I live.
I have no idea if my writing is worth anyone’s time. I have made a promise to myself to finish editing my damn book within this short, dreadful, cold month. It has existed in some form or another since 2015. The first words were written in my freshman dorm at SUNY Purchase, my one-semester alma mater.
If I could tell the Dylan of 2015 that this book would still be torturing him 9 years later, I’m sure he would have scrapped the document right then and there. Yet, in the lead-up to the 2020 election, I felt compelled more than ever to finish it. Chapter after chapter poured out, an uninhibited stream of consciousness that lasted hours and hours at some points. 3 parts comprised of 20 chapters each, 60 chapters total. Utos: Or, a Rebuttal to Sir Thomas More & J. Robert Oppenheimer. If only I had finished my editing last year, I could have capitalized on the Barbenheimer phenomenon.
It is currently a bit messy, but I am confident there is something in there that makes this seemingly endless struggle with myself worth it. Friends who have read it have provided absolutely crucial feedback and notes and I thank them from the bottom of my heart for helping me shape this mound of clay into a half-way decent vase.
I find writing to be the easiest way to express myself and my thoughts on life in all its beautiful chaos. I thank you for reading this and whatever else I write that happens to catch your attention. We all only have so much time here, it is a lot to ask of someone to spend even a fraction of it on your own work.
Come hell or high water, this book will be finished by February 29th. Thank God for leap years — more days to procrastinate.
I intend to get back into writing more frequently. I’ve been struggling with writer’s block but, thankfully, the tide appears to be turning. The main life update I wish to provide on this sunny St. Valentine’s Day relates to Eros himself. I had my heartbroken, and I thank her dearly for it.
I went on a date with a truly lovely person. It was one of the greatest dates I’ve ever been on — honestly. We talked for hours; laughed, smiled, kissed, and parted. She got sick, our second date was delayed. I got sick, landed in the hospital.
What was mutual enthusiasm slowly shifted to waiting for her response for consecutively longer periods of time. I was worried that my enthusiasm might have come off as disingenous or simply gave the impression that I was going to bust out a ring on the second date. In truth, I was just smitten in a way I’ve never been before.
I’ve always questioned if I was capable of monogamy. The day after our date, I saw an attractive woman walking towards me on the sidewalk in Midtown. For the first time in my life, I said the following to myself: “She’s very cute, but she’s not her.”
We talked over the phone while I was in the hospital, my second visit. A lot was said, but perhaps the main point she wanted to make was that her dream of acting was paramount currently, meaning a serious relationship simply wasn’t on the table at the time. I pled my case, stated that I understood, and asked if we could just grab a drink once I was out and discuss it more in-depth. She agreed.
I texted her when I got out. No response. Texted again the next day. No response. Waited a few days, wished her safe travels on her trip to Chicago. No respone.
I can’t lie — I felt a pain rivaling what landed me in the hospital. I have been rejected in the past, ghosted as often as anyone else. I have done the same in turn, though I try to avoid the latter unless it’s genuinely deserved. This hurt more than anything in the past, it still hurts as I write this.
It hurts mainly because I don’t know if I did something wrong. Was I too enthusiastic? Did I say something wrong? Endless questions with no answers — life in a nutshell. It doesn’t matter as she doesn’t owe me any answers. It was one date at the end of the day. As I’ve discussed with my therapist ad nauseum, timing is sometimes the only factor that matters.
She is doing well, currently performing out of state. I wish her nothing but success. And, in full honesty, I hope she texts me back at some point. But, until then, I won’t let it keep me frozen in place, waiting for an answer to what will most likely be an unanswered question for the rest of my life.
I thank her for breaking my heart because it confirmed that the damn thing actually works. It reminded me that the risk of putting myself out there is worth it, regardless of the potential pain that may come as a result.
It’s worth it because I’m finally learning to accept that I am worthy of love. It remains difficult to truly accept it, and I still struggle with feelings that threaten the progress I have made so far. But, I am learning how to fight back against those feelings of helplessness, self-loathing, and despair.
I’m learning to find the beauty in pain — the cost of holding a rose. It is the only way we can grow.
I still have a full life to live. I have reached that age that was purely mystical to my youger self and realized that there is no grand revelation waiting for me. No sudden epiphany. No answers to the litany of questions we all share. It is simply another year on this little rock of ours, surrounded by the friends and family that I love dearly and make it all worth it.
I still have a novel to edit, short stories to write, concerts to see, vacations to take, kisses to steal, hearts to break, laughs to share, and an ever-growing list of books to get through.
There is so much to live for. So many more silver slivers to welcome.
Sincerely,
Dylan Gerard Rice.
