Thinking back on my younger years, the world was much bigger than
I realized, but viewing life through a paper towel tube skews one’s perception.
Walls were always closing in as I tried to break free. From whom?
From what? Trapped is an understatement because all at once, perception
shifted, and I was shut out from the crowd.

Don’t get me wrong, I was always a loner, but I knew instinctively how
to fit in…find some common ground. It didn’t come easy because, in later
years, I saw it as an act; my interactions never felt real…authenticity was
strained. Friends were all around…acquaintances, to be honest. Trust was vague, but
I didn’t realize it was a trust issue until I went into counseling later in life.
Then the doctor put a name on it…distance. After all, we can’t solve the problem
unless we can name it, yes? Do you believe this?

I didn’t know what to believe back then…back then. How long has it
been? I can’t talk about myself like this…it’s easier to observe and
speak from there. From that place. You’ll have to bear with me…not exactly
a writer, as much as a rambler. First-person or third? What person or whom?
Telling stories? I’ve always told stories. Everything we know of ourselves is
gathered into pockets when we’re young.

The wealthy know this and teach their kids how to succeed in life, not just
make money. Train the child in the direction you want them to go. So the
The Bible says…and it still is news, just like the song goes. It’s always been that way,
until recently. It worked for Mao and his lost generation. You can do much with a child
before they learn to think…fertile soil for the tree of knowledge. But if you don’t know
this, you are blown by the wind like a feather, as they say. That’s me, most definitely.
Same feather, same breeze. Looking back, the time from eleven to sixteen was a blur.
Sixteen to seventeen was crystal clear, with a vision of purpose, eating all my fears.
I planned my escape with a clarity that I’d never known before.

Take another turn with me, if you will…the effect of music on a young
mind is truly amazing. I gravitated toward words always. As if the artists
were writing for me alone. Pete Townsend was important to me in my teens.
What’s considered classic rock now? Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull, Deep Purple,
The Who, etc. Nothing much has changed now except that the music truly sucks.
But if you had only one version of something with nothing to compare to,
would it have the same effect on teenage angst and rage? The answer is yes…
just different packaging…a different form. My feeling is that all the best music
was written between 1964 and 1984.

Even so, music’s always been important. It is a tool, after all. A perfect way to make an impression on hungry minds? Change the direction of the stream of consciousness to any given year? So why am I explaining this to you? Part of my distance was nurtured
by the imaginary places music would take me…as a vehicle of escape. Each artist had a
message…the better ones took you places with their words, not just their music.

Even buying an album back then was an experience. Going to the record store
or department store was a treat. Looking through the albums, studying the
artwork, and reading the back cover. Then get it home and peel off the plas
tic. If it were a fold-out cover, admiring the inside jacket. Carefully remove
the record and place it on the turntable. The first notes…some of which
were heard on the radio….or something you had never heard before. Baba
O’Riley, the first track on Who’s Next by The Who. It begins…some crazy
sped-up calliope organ and then piano chords and then bass notes and then
crashing guitar chords and drums exploding…finally the words: “Out here in
the fields, I fight for my meals…” What is he saying?
Lying on my bed listening…listening…Behind Blue Eyes…I feel the
words…racing to the final chords of “Won’t get fooled again…” and then
you say to yourself, “What the fuck was that?” blown away, you listened to it
repeatedly. I did, anyway.

Each time it created new images in your brain, stirred new feelings, places to go,
people you didn’t like, girls you wanted, and things you don’t know yet.
Sometimes you’d share your revelations, but more than not, people
would hear what they wanted…some heard just the drums, others just the
music, still others just the words…or some would not get the same impact
you did…they related to some other artist, such as The Beatles or Kinks. That’s
the beautiful thing about music in the mind of a teenager. These artists were
my true friends. My heroes. Rock and roll records with a thousand different names.
The court jesters of my small kingdom.

TM DiSarro
©2025 TM DiSarro / MindScapes Publishing

From: POKING HOLES IN THE DARKNESS