and it ends

i could make another long-winded post about how fantastic wednesday night's reading was, but at this point, i don't think i'd be able to do the emotions justice. still, it was another special moment in all of those that have happened here at chester.


i would, however, like to take a minute to congratulate troy edward robbins. if you had been at the reading, you've already heard how much this gentlemen has touched my heart. if you haven't, you missed a powerful moment (and i don't mean my introduction. i mean his graphic novel. it was spectacular). for two years, i've shared a bond with troy that has just come natural. i think we've both tried as hard as we possibly could to be there for each other when it was needed.

i also think we've shared the same struggles with self-confidence. the first thing i ever heard troy say about his stories were that they were either fantastic ideas that could never reach fruition, or a fantastically narrated piece of shit. to make a long story short, none of this is true. troy has come up with some of the most innovative ideas that would be unbelievable if it wasn't for his brilliant understanding of human emotion. i was never bored with one of his stories; not once.

and for all the other junk; no one i know has endured so much hardship. i've seen him battle temporary bouts of insanity, only to emerge with a sense of strength i could only gasp at. like alot of us, the future might look terribly cloudy and unpredictable. but, i've seen him fight through this hard time, and if he could do it now, i know he can accomplish anything. i hope there's one he never forgets about me:

cap and gown.

sean cashman and w.t. abernathy also did fantastic jobs, respectively. i don't think i'd be able to say one bad thing about sean if i wanted to, and todd has always been someone who i've looked up to. i drew alot of inspiration from both, and i congratulate them.


so much can be said, not only about tuesday and wednesday night, but about my last two years here at chester. i've said a lot already. i could probably say a lot more.

i'm no longer emotional, though. that time has passed. i can't keep crying and patting myself on the back every time i feel accomplished. it's about time for me to use this energy and focus it on something more positive, to keep my feet grinding and to keep striving for something a bit better than what i've made for myself.

so, for the last time, thank you. to my seven fellow seniors who've done nothing but promise me i'm better than what i think of myself. and especially to david crouse, jenn monroe, michael deragon, monica o'brien, liz buckley, ed staple, and the rest of the faculty who've made chester into such a pleasant and positive learning experience for me. this has been the best two years of my life, and i have all of you to thank for it. i wouldn't know who mark cugini was if you wouldn't have inspired me to figure it out.







thank you, thank you, thank you. i'll never want this to end.

it should never end...

i'm afraid to sleep. i'm afraid that i'll wake up and this euphoria will float away with my exhaustion. i'm afraid the power will go out while i doze, and the 56 songs give my life meaning, the ones that my jukebox has been looping for the last 32 hours, will stop playing.

it's one of those 24-hour spans that leech themselves to the depths of your mind and suck negative influence and digest them, never to return again.

i'd love to avoid the schematics, to leave you feeling airy and weightless, but i guess they're too wonderful to ignore.

as told, i read tonight. excuse me, we read. tonight was not about me. on the debut of what will (hopefully) be an annual event, we shared a podium and culminated our college careers as best as we could. this place is special. if it wasn't, applications wouldn't be steadily rising, and the administration wouldn't be struggling to find seats for the some 250 students who attend classes here.

if this place wasn't special, i wouldn't have spent the entire night choking on my tears (i do so even now).

i feel as if the four of us are the last of a dying breed at our school, aside from the work we've done. i do feel as if the three people i read with tonight are extremely talented, but that's not the avenue i'm venturing. besides our literary accomplishments, each person i read with possesses a quality unique to themselves. i love and respect these men for these characteristics.

on my first visit to chester college, brandon gretter was my tour guide. he was my mother's favorite part of the school. this was immediately made apparent when her first response, everytime, to the question "how was that college mark visited in new hampshire?" was a description of brandon's tie-dyed dreadlocks and burly facial hair. a life-long new yorker, this, apparently was not the sort of diversity she was used to.

brandon impressed me. you wouldn't think it, but he's the same person i am. opinionated. shameless. outspoken. out of everyone i've ever met in my lifetime, he is probably the most confident. he's the only i know that is completely unafraid to be himself. not only that, butno one at this place understands what literature is better than him. even as a student, i imagine everyone whose had an oportunity to know him has learned something from him. even teachers.

it's safe to say that if it wasn't for brandon gretter, i wouldn't be at this college. his criticism is nothing but constructive (and correct; he's not wrong very often), his energy is contagious, and his company is nothing but pleasant. to me, he's everything a writer should be.

randy tompkins used to scare the ever-loving shit out of me. i don't think i've ever told him that, and he might not believe me. my first semester here, i took two workshop classes: advanced fiction and introduction to poetry. when he spoke, i would shake my head and think i will never know as much as this kid knows. i'm not the kind of person who goes out of his way to try to impress someone, but i wanted to win randy's approval. i didn't want to change a thing about myself; i wanted him to approve of the person i was, the opinions i had (different they were from his own), and the work i did.

this was all because of what randy stood for. the first time we read a shit poem in workshop, he waited his turn as everyone in the class blew smoke up the authors ass, then looked her in the eye and told her that she wrote a shit poem. he criticized her diction, subject matter, word choices, title and punctuation. what made is worse is that he's probably the best-spoken twenty-two year old since creation. he's like a phonics notebook. it's mind-boggling.

randy possesses a sense of honesty that i don't think he can control. i like to think that if randy tried to turn a negative into a positive, he'd combust in a burst of chocolate syrup. my favorite chester pastime occurs when randy compliments the work of someone he admittingly loathes. i watched it happen twice a week in consecutive classes a year ago. it was hysterically glorious.

all that aside; never in my entire life did i think we'd be as close as we are, but i know how blessed i am to be able to call him a friend. i'm not saying that because today was an emotional day. i've known this for a while now. we've had our disagreements, but like a marriage, they've only helped us grow as friends. the last two years have spoiled me. i know we've built the kind of relationship that would allow us to go 50 years without seeing each other, and when we'd meet again, overweight and drinking the beers he's taught me to appreciate, it'd be exactly the same as things are now. but i don't want that to happen. i can't imagine having him around any less than i do now, and i don't want to. i want to go lawnmower shopping with him, i want our kids to call each other cousins, and i want to have him around when i'm 40 so when i'm 40 i'm not the 40 year-old husband who has no idea how to fix a leaky faucet. if randy's not around when i'm forty, that faucet will leak 'til i'm dead.

i call randy tompkins "brother." he's the only one i have.

(i know i said i wasn't going to talk about our work, but i feel as if it's my duty to make this available to you. "things to tell my daughter" was read last night, and make me shake my head in amazement. this is the best work i've seen in my years as a writing student. i've read it three times since tonight, and probably will once more, so i can sleep tonight.)



there's been much debate between chris sumner and myself about the conversation i'm about to reference, and when he begins telling his version, i usually ignore him. to me, it doesn't matter how it happened. it's how it affected me that's important.

i had sat through three workshops making an attempt to comprehend the fiction of ten students who had spent two years of craftmanship together. they wrote of subject matters that were foreign to me, and they dominated their critiques of each other's work. i fought to get words in, and when i spoke, the looked at me cautiously, nodding their heads slowly as they tried their hardest to understand my points of view, ones i barely understood myself. i didn't know what they thought of me, but i didn't care. i was excited, to be around intelligent people who shared the same devotion for their craft that i did.

i was outside smoking a cigarette during a break when chris sumner stepped out to make a phone call. He left a voicemail for someone, and i watched out the corner of my eye as he walked past me and then turned back and faced me. we made small talk; where i was from, how i was liking the school. i forget his exact words, but chris told me that it was nice to see a transfer student trying to partake in conversations instead of sitting with their head down.

chris sumner was the first person in the department, student or faculty, that made me feel welcome.

that semester, i watched chris begin to develop into his own voice. i read as he relentlessly blew past boundaries and found his own particular niche. he was at a point i was envious of, and one that i hoped i could one day achieve myself.

chris sumner is a dreamer. he doesn't see things for face value, but for their potential. that applies to every aspect of his life. he speaks with a passion makes him hard to dislike. it was chris who told me "we can," when we were both at a point in our lives when the only thing i could think was "i can't." his faith in himself inspired me to find that same faith for myself.

i know things haven't been easy for chris, but through all his ups and downs, i've never once worried about him. whether by himself, with my help or the help of others, i know chris sumner will be okay, because he's chris sumner. no one i've ever met has shown such optimism in times when others would begin to feel sorry for themselves.

i call chris sumner "brother," as well. he's the only other one i have.

a few voices not to forget.
(from left: brandon gretter, mark cugini, randy tompkins, chris sumner)

i could spend the rest of my life trying to find the words, but they'll never be enough space or time to recover all the adjectives and nouns to give these men proper due. without them, i'd be lost, i'd be nothing, and i'd be struggling. i have drawn so much inspiration from them that i'd never be able to pay them proper tribute. it's going to be incredibly tough to watch them graduate as i wait another year to receive my own diploma. not because i'm disappointed to be spending another semester here, but because i can't imagine these three not being by my side when it happens. they've all been such a major influence on both my writing and my life that i doubt they'll ever understand how much thanks i owe them.

now for the hard part:


myself.

as i already said, tonight was not about me, and, although i've worked terribly hard on it, it was not about the excerpts from my senior project. still, tonight was the best night of my life. i have no questions about that.

one of my favorite songs has a lyric in it, one that barely seems as important as the rest. it's one of those lyrics that you don't even need to hear to understand its concept. it's not even a full sentence.

"still twenty-two days left 'til the end of the world."

when i sing the song (which i do often, at the top of my lungs), i change that lyric to something that's a bit more personal.

"twenty-two years left after the end of the world."

it's a slight modification that makes the song complete for me.

i thank whatever being it was that saved my life. i've been blessed. not only was i given a chance to live, but i was placed in an environment that was both loving and supportive. my family has been nothing short of amazing to me for as long as i can remember.

however, (and this might be the toughest thing i've ever admitted to) a mother is not something you can erase from your being, even if your physical connection is minute. when someone who should be so close to you exists in nothing but worn pieces of loose-lead, it takes a toll on you. i don't think i've ever had a clear sense of self.

i thank my birth mother for giving me a chance at life. i did nothing to deserve it. after being so close to death, i owe her. since i was old enough to understand what happen, i've promised myself to prove to her she made the right decision.

it may seem awkward to be bringing this up right now, but it all relates. this is where all these strong emotions come from. i feel that everything i do now is either a step towards or away from achieving this goal.

life has been quite the roller coaster. in grade school, i was studious, ambitious, and focused. an alter boy. my mother would glow when she looked at me, my side-parted hair a sign of a white-color, well-paying future. then look at me in high school. watch my grades fall, listen to my father yell in disbelieve, taste my moms tears on the edge of her pillow every night. go to parent-teacher night, and listen to every one of them say the "potential" a minimum of eight times. see me struggle to graduate high school and barely get accepted to the worst colleges in staten island. my future is inevitable: two, maybe three, semesters before i drop out and get a job slicing deli meat that i'll have 'til i'm 73.

i challenge you to find someone from my graduating class. tell them mark cugini isn't at the college of staten island. tell them four schools offered him scholarships, and he ended up at a better program. see if they don't walk away from you.

better yet, go back in time, around 2002, and find 17 year-old mark cugini and just try to convince him he's going to graduate college one day. actually, the first cugini to ever graduate from college. listen to how loud his laugh gets.

It's not about a reading.

i don't think any writer could go his or her entire career without questioning themselves, and if they do, i question their awareness to the craft. this is not the kind of field that guarantees job security and a 401k. any one who decides to do this for a living is taking a risk, banking that their talent is substantial enough to secure themselves some sort of satisfaction.

i believe alot of people have different goals when the declare creative writing as their major. unlike other fields, success cannot be taught from a text book. much of has to do with instinct and ability, and your willingness to trust both of these.

if i said that i found myself confident in my abilities and satisfied by my achievements, i would be lying out my teeth. more often then not, i find myself questioning my decision-making, whether it be in a story or in everyday life. considering this is my last year of college, i don't think a day has gone by where i wasn't scared shitless.

most of this has to do with my goals. i don't think i'd be satisfied with a career that was anything short of life-altering. people write for different reasons. some do it to further explore nonexistant fantasy worlds. some do it for shock value, to provoke controversy.

my time at chester helped me realize why this is what i want to do for a living. i don't want to be a writer who tells an entertaining story. i want to touch people, to move them, be it through laughter or dire heartbreak. i want someone to read something i wrote and think, this has changed my life.
as every day passes, i find myself striving to do this to more and more people. i think of the books i've read that made me feign for something more than i have, and i think about writing something that made a million people feel the same way.

every morning i wake up, i get at myself for my inability to change the world. i wonder, if no one thinks anything of me here, at a small art school, how can i expect to generate a larger reaction from the rest of human existence.

when i think of what my legacy will be when i leave chester (if i even have one), i always drew a blank. i know what i think of my peers, but i wonder if i'll ever be anything besides a occasional punchline.

those who've read my work and have spoken to me about it know how seriously i take it, though. i didn't come to college to write because i couldn't think of anything else to major in. i want to work in this field until i can no longer see what i'm writing. i came here to learn how to control and manipulate language to its fullest strength.

from the feeling everyone gave me tonight, especially my introduction, it felt like i was doing something right. i feel like i carry my devotion to the craft on my shoulders, exposing my flaws so i can learn.

everything culminated tonight. everything just fit.

(ps- i know whose handwriting that is, and i plan on giving them an even bigger hug tomorrow than i did tonight.)
i could have dealt "a kind" instead of "unforgettables." but to be put in such a category might have been the tip of the iceberg. if i really have made such a lasting impression on people, i'm going to jump for joy.

it's not about me. it's not about the senior project. it's not about the last 17 days i'll be able to spend with the truest friends i've ever had.

it's about that day i'm handed that piece of paper in bounded leather, and the clouds that are filling my body and the tears running down my cheek as i sit here, typing this and just thinking about it. it's about the friends that have passed, the high school nights spent drinking like a sailor, the report cards for the third semester that always came around valentine's day. it's about my deseased grandmother maybe, just maybe, getting a chance to see me succeed again. it's about proving my biggest doubter that i can do anything, that if i keep my act together, i will make another night.

it's about proving to myself that i would not have been better-off aborted. it's about loving every mistake i've ever made, because it's put me in a position to be so ridiculously proud of myself and emotional. it's about all my friends having so much faith in me.

it's about proving myself wrong.

what makes this even heavier is i'm in such a transitional stage; leaving both staten island and the campus. to each and every person whose taken the time out to get to know me, and to everyone whose been comfortable in letting me get to know them, and even those who just occasionally found a way to inspire me. i thank you, and i hope you like what you see. i understand i could come off as arrogant, sheltered, and unappreciative sometimes, but if tonight wasn't the ultimate slap in the face, than i don't know what is. a lot of people have a whole bunch of appreciation headed their way, and there's a few people i'd like to get to know a bit better. i'll work on that.

lastly, i would like to give a special thank you to david crouse. last night, it finally sunk in that you'll never teach in that room again. but you were there last night. sitting at the table we workshopped around, sitting in the second row laughing at charles, and mainly in our line edits. (god, am i funny). it caught me so off-guard that you were leaving that i didn't even have time to process it.

more than anything, though, i owe you thanks that no one else deserves. solely speaking on creative writing, you've taught us all a lot, but when it comes down to it, i think you influenced me more than you taught me. not only that, you were a great father-figure when i needed one.

this place has a huge gap to fill with your absence. i wonder if anyone could do 1/3 of the stuff you've done. it's so different with you gone. we all miss you.


i'm not going to sleep tonight. i'm going to try to run off of this euphoria until tomorrow's reading is over.

if you actually read this whole thing, you're incredible.

Not for another night, but this night...

(i feel terrible. i thought april was going to be the month to turn this blog around. damn spring. it's okay, though: i'll get back on track. a post for every day of the rest of the month, i swear it.)

i've spent the last week dreading and preparing for today, and now that it's here, i don't think it's possible to be more excited than i am. i didn't even sleep much last night.

i don't know your plans for the evening, but whatever they are, you need to cancel them. tonight's the big night; the first night of chester college's first-ever senior reading. and we're doing it big tonight. the four readers tonight are not just incredible writers (yayselfconfidence!)-- they're fantastic friends (yayselffriendship!).

featuring:
mark cugini
brandon "our hero" gretter
randy tompkins
chris sumner

place: chester college of new hampshire, powers building
time: 6:30 P.M.

i really think you should come. not for my sake; for your own. i really don't think i need the support, nor do my fellow readers. but it's just one of those things you don't want to miss out on, trust me. the four of us could probably change the world one day, and this will probably the last time we'll all be in a room together with our work. it's going to be the event of a lifetime, i swear it.

if you decide you want to come, and need better directions or a ride (BRIE!) or anything, just give me a call (can't believe i'm doing this): 646-201-0891. i'll be happy to help you out. and hey, if you can't make it just then, we're gonna be doing something afterwards to celebrate (probably burgandy's so the underage folk can show up if they'd like). call me after 8:30 and i'll let you know our plans.

i'm telling you, i can't wait. i'm going to have butterflies even when i'm done reading.

This is one voice not to forget;

(i could tell you about my weekend, but what's the point? it's all filler, even when it feels like something else.)

i'd love to pretend like i've been an against me! fan since day one. but if i said i was, it'd be a ruse. i still feel like i've been there throughout the long haul, since i really only listen to the first lp, is reinventing axl rose. sometimes you find an album that's just too solid to even bother expanding on. everyone tells me the other ones are nothing like this, but still great. i don't want to set myself up for disappointment, though.

it's not that i'm closed-minded. i'm not. thing is, these are probably the best eleven songs i've heard in my entire life, when played together. not many bands understand the beauty of an album anymore, but they should-- there's something mind-shattering about it when it's done right. my favorite bands are the ones that have the ability to pull forty-minutes to an hour's worth of music together and turn it into heaven.

is reinventing axl rose opens and closes (i stop listening at track ten) with two of the best scream-along-when-your-shitfaced songs ever made. but there's something incredible about "walking is still honest." my life has been filled with numerous ups-and-downs, and it's fascinating that i've made it this far. this song reminds me of all the good times, all the terrible ones, and, most importantly, all the ones when i've felt like the world has knocked me out; when it laughs at me and tells me to give up.

"but not today."

this reminds me that i've picked myself the fuck up and thrown another punch, not for anyone but myself. it reminds me to prove everyone who doubts me wrong, and that the few people who are still behind me are holding me up.

i drove 267 miles sunday night, and blasted this at full volume and screamed it as tears flew down my cheeks for probably 80 of those miles.




there's a few lines you should probably scream yourself.

This is one voice not to forget;
"Fight every fight like you can win;
An iron fisted champion,
An iron willed fuck up."

Can anybody tell me why God won't speak to me?
Why Jesus never called on me to part the fucking seas?
Why death is easier than living?
You can be almost anything
When you're on your fucking knees.
Not today,
Not my son,
Not my family,
Not while walking is still honest,
And you haven't given up on me.

do it while i spend more time trying to figure out how to do something right.
<3

We were going to play some ball, but

this happened.

only in goddamn new hampshire could i wear shorts for three straight days, only to watch my friggin' world come crumbling down over a botany paper and 4-6 cumulative inches over the next 4-6 hours. probably could happen in maine, too. point: this is frickin' lame.
tomorrow might be a bit of a hectic day for me; i have some school work to do and a flight to new york at 10:00 p.m. don't expect many posts, if any. friday night is the big vinyl reunion event, and i'm pumped. i'll also be bringing ilaria on the trip, just to show her where daddy's from. she's pumped, as well.

happy ghost-jesus day. i love you again.

How we do.

The Real Live Monastery Artists Art Show

we showed up a bit late to the monastery, but the place was still bumpin'. the dip was fantastic, the ambient noise was delicious, and the electro was damn funky (oh, and the DJ was female, and my future wife). the tandem was up to no good, as usual. here's a few pictures.

the most thought-provoking piece i've seen in some time.

employees of the month, March '07.

more thought-provoking things coming your way ASAP.