"Years ago my heart was set/to live, oh/but I've been trying hard/against unbelievable odds"--Big Star, Ballad of El Goodo I shouldn’t be writing this essay. I shouldn’t be doing anything but resting. But things as they are are untenable. And sometimes I write because I literally think if I get my story out into the world, I might find a savior. These days, everything I write (and it doesn’t amount to much) is a literal cry for help. Why have you forsaken me? And by you, I guess I mean the world. I guess I mean anyone who might listen. In the summer of 2016, I was working outside for a small tree nursery business, really just a two-man operation, in central vermont. (I’m native to Northeastern Vermont, but our work took us all over the state). I was young, fit, full of anxieties, ambition, big plans. I wanted to be an artist and a musician, professionally, yes, but also just as a vocation. I wanted to do whatever it takes to “make it”. I just...
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