ABOUT THE GREAY

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I created this blog primarily to make the task of transcribing my collection of writing material from the last 30+ years a little less daunting. The inked pages of countless journals and paper scraps filled with poetry, lyrics, and anecdotal scribbles lay dormant in a locked case collecting dust under my bed. The thing I am most proud of, my writing, was serving me only through some sort of osmosis and I began to wonder if it might be the right time to share it. It might even be of some benefit to others coping with an overwhelming sensitivity to this mad world.

It’s probably a good idea to explain the meaning of “The Greay” before I lose you to this longwinded preamble. Greay is simply ”grey” and “gray” combined and refers to the grey matter and gray area from/of which this blog investigates. The word gray has always been problematic for me with its multiple spellings. Americans use “gray” while the rest of the world uses “grey” which I assume is attributed to British colonialism. Maybe America broke away etymologically on accident. Or maybe as an act of rebellion. I will certainly need to explore this more at a later date however, needless to say, I find the gre/ay areas in life intriguing. 

The concept of a blog seemed pretentious and narcissistic to me at its inception, which I remember clearly. My formative years were in the pre-internet 80s and early 90s. Before media was a (total) crapshoot. Back when published works defined a writer’s worth. I'm not suggesting that you need a Pulitzer to have something of value to say, but a blog just seemed more akin to a soapbox so I avoided it completely. I was perfectly happy writing cathartically. So for many years, it was just me and my pen privately dissecting the world. 

Since the day I could hold a lead laden No.2 pencil, I had mushrooming ideas spilling over into the margins of homework assignments and later onto the pages of journals I kept next to my bed. They were mostly doodles and cryptic idea clusters that would later inspire my poetry once I had grasped the concept. A few awards in my early years of school (including a poetry contest win in 4th grade), participation in an unaffiliated junior high poetry club (snap snap), and numerous counts of being called out as the “example” in my high school English classes gave me confidence in my abilities as a writer. But although writing seemed to be something I was pretty good at, it was also the thing I guarded the most. It was my therapy. I couldn’t fathom, nor was I interested in, writing for anyone else. 

When my dad died unexpectedly in 2016, I was devastated and found myself in a very dark place. I was not processing the pain as I typically would in times of adversity, with my trustee pen, coffee, and furrowed brow. I was drinking instead which I had learned how to do rather well by that point in my life as a coping mechanism for anxiety and depression. From my barstool pulpit, I sharpened my tongue on anyone who dared look at me sideways or who made the mistake of saying something unsavory. It felt therapeutic to lash out since the grief had to find a way out somehow. It was especially satisfying for someone like me who avoids confrontation in "real life". Unsurprisingly, I had found solace in witty banter and wordplay - but it wasn't all that playful, or welcomed for that matter.  Perhaps a story about “misunderstandings” later. 

My dad was an incredible and accomplished man who came from humble beginnings in East Oakland as the son of a factory worker. He was the first in his family to go to college and landed a job at NASA immediately upon graduation. He died at his desk after contributing 50 years to space science research and his death marked the beginning of my obsession with the concept of “legacy”. He had left the world with so many gifts through his lifelong research and collaborations (I’ll talk more about my dad and my social activist mom later on. Maybe. Probably.) I began wondering what my own legacy would look like. I have a pretty stellar resume but my legacy to date is rather unimpressive, save a few entrepreneurial artistic endeavors that may have inspired a few folks. There’s not much that I can really feel good about leaving to this world. Not that that’s the point, but it would be nice.

It was only recently that I began writing again and I came to the realization that it just might be the one thing I posses of any altruistic value. And even if it is a bit presumptuous to qualify it legacy-worthy, surely some piece of my documented life experience and tales of "what NOT to do" could be useful. I don’t write when I am feeling joyful. I write furiously to the monkey on my back - as honestly and ugly as it may be - until I can come to some sort of peace of mind. In the process, l find myself again in small revelations. Like I said, catharsis. Finding the hopeful notes in an increasingly hopeless (seeming) world has been my recipe for spiraling back up from dark places.

The best I could hope for with this blog is that the act of surfacing some selected works from my lifelong research and obsession with the human condition offers something insightful or relatable to someone somewhere. Maybe even you.