I am living the American dream between the siren howls of the mind and the ink hitting these pages. I open myself and let out a giant yawn. I sit at a high mahogany desk and copy scroll after scroll of canonical text under the watchful eye of a discerning master. I hide myself behind the veil of anonymity with the knowledge that there isn’t much to protect and nary a soul who cares to give it a second of thought. I don’t mean to entertain. I was born with the American desire to be seen, to be heard, to be present. I arrive at this moment in time as a rest stop on an anodyne stretch of highway offering the thinnest autobiography I can muster.
I was born to immigrant parents in the shadow of Philadelphia. I ate weird foods and maintained strange rituals. I had cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents who shared a second, secret language. I was embarrassed to be different. I played sports and video games with the neighborhood kids. I fell off my bicycle and got back up again. I got grass stains on my pants that eventually turned into holes. They were always replaced by a new pair of hand-me-downs. I caught fireflies under the cover of starlight. I ran like the wind over square suburban blocks playing tag or jailbreak. I felt the purest forms of freedom. I never saw my parents share a tender moment. I went on road trips and experienced the American highway system. I played I Spy in the backseat while my parents took breaks from yelling at each other by sitting in pained silence. I saw my mother struggle to make ends meet in happier times. I felt love and pride hidden behind a facade of steady determination. I lived in idyllic small town America and yearned for something, anything more.
I’ve seen and experienced everything the world has to offer from the comforts of my family living room. I dared to pray and dream at the altar of cultural hegemony. I was there when the Berlin Wall came down. I saw petty scandals unfold. I felt the shock of selective war. I saw the sad faces of the people I was supposed to hate but didn’t understand why. I learned that there is more to consume than I’ll ever know. I was taught to want what I could never have. I learned the mysteries of American life through endless episodes of early reality television. I saw the OJ Simpson trial verdict live in my school classroom. I saw what cool people looked like. I felt the urge to be like them.
I watched movies with religious fervor. I glued my face to the screen. I saw the same movies over and over and over again. I saw the language of the future buried in the medium. I inhaled the French New Wave, Italian neorealism, German expressionism, Cinema Novo, poetic realism, avant-garde abstraction, and dreamed of exhaling my cynical and personal form of American post-modernism back into the world. I have a camera. I have an eye. I have a voice. Glaz started as a character on the script page.
I went to college. I have stayed awake all night drinking and smoking. I sat around arguing and contemplating the world in my books and on my screen. I procrastinated often. I debated forcefully. I had no specific job in my mind at the end of the educational rainbow. I felt stimulated. I found my tribe of close friends by chance. I felt the purest forms of freedom. I started to learn the world I imagined through my small town television was different from any possible personal reality.
I found a job and climbed the corporate ladder. I’ve seen petty grievances. I’ve overheard whispered conversations in the corners of rooms. I’ve seen shamelessness and slick sales pitches marketed as verbal acuity. I’ve watched unearned confidence steamroll everything in its path. I’ve been in conversations where everyone takes turns talking about themselves. I’ve met impressive people. I’ve shared moments of kinship with people I would never know in other circumstances. I’ve been content to get along, be a striver, an idea man. I’ve been everyone who is trying to get the most of life. I’ve been everyone who is looking for that bit of happiness that makes a smile worth savoring. I’ve taken my work home with me. I’ve started the day with grudging acceptance.
Philadelphia is my home. I’ve been here long enough to have seen neighborhoods up and coming and whatever it is when that process is complete. I’ve been in the artistic underbelly at dawn and the gilded lookouts at dusk. I’ve felt the earth shake on grimy dance floors. I’ve lost myself to the sway of crowds and blare of music. I’ve walked the vacant streets at night. I’ve passed the places I use to go and felt the pangs of nostalgia. I’ve crossed the street to avoid old acquaintances. I’ve felt remorse for acting too busy. I’ve enjoyed fine meals. I’ve been in love, out of love, and back in love many times. I smile to myself in observing the multitudes that surround me. I celebrate the quiet yearning of a city needing validation. I like being in on the secret of this place.
I have suffered bouts of anxiety. I am an artist of various mediums. I have felt the purest forms of freedom in fleeting moments. I have written it all down for you. I have told you about the good, the bad. I have left out what I didn’t want to tell. This is the autobiography of an American pseudonym. There are pieces of this story you may recognize in your own life.
