ABOUT Levin

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Even If The Low Is Much Too Low

When he was younger, maybe 10, his youngest sister Audrey became incredibly ill. Though she had never been the healthiest, her decline meant Levin spent more time rebelliously wandering the streets than inside of a classroom. Sure Cynder was closer to her and by far a better sibling than Levin would ever be to any of his family, but Levin didn't really know how to deal with negative emotions. He had a bad habit of masking what he really felt with anger, but it was hard to kick and punch an illness away; hard to scream the dead back to life. The way she was able to laugh more than any sick person could drove nails into his chest. How could she be so jovial? Didn't she know that she was dying? Levin's tempestuous personality kept his family at arm's length. It wasn't that they didn't love him, he knew they did. His family wanted Levin to find his own path in his own way. Objectively, he knew it was what they thought would make him the happiest. He just wished they had seen how it made him seem as forgettable as a whisper on the wind. [break][break]

When he was 17, Audrey passed away in her sleep. He never told anybody about how he was there to see it. Not even Cynder, irrefutably Audrey's closest sibling, knows that Levin's overactive mind had kept him up that night, that as if on instinct he silently walked in, sat, and kept a private vigil by her bedside because something in the air told him to count her breaths. Levin never told anybody how, at her visitation, if he stared at her hands folded on her chest for too long he could almost convince himself he was just stuck in that same second that lasted an eternity, the one he fell into two-hundred-and two times that night, and her lungs would inflate again for 203...They would inflate...They would inflate....

Even If The High Is High Oh!

Before the first hint of grass sprouted on Audrey's grave, Levin left the Okaryn household. From Michigan, he hopscotched his way west. In Colorado, he apprenticed under a botanist and took up horticulture. He found he enjoyed the challenge of reviving temperamental plants. For a while, he made a small enterprise out of rescuing carnivorous and other rejected plants big department stores had left for dead and sold them when they were healthy enough. His next stop found him in New Orleans where he drank too much for someone still underage, but the Big Easy put music in his soul. He started a band called "Drunk Flies in Sticky Pitchers" that he wrote four songs for by their second big gig. He wasn't sure if it was his quick pen or his darting, twitching movements they referenced, but his drummer nicknamed him Lightning and it quickly picked up as his stage alias. The band changed their name to "The Electric Hurricane" before breaking up 4 months later.[break][break]

Itching to move again after the catty musician drama, Levin landed in Portland on his 20th birthday. The long trek to the coast had filled his mind with potential plans and ideas that were equally hopeful and pessimistic. As he discovered his ability to analyze, edit, and curate creative content he had launched a private PR consulting start-up he anticipated would do well in the youthful city, and the west coast was sure to have a burgeoning music scene. His overactive imagination, however, was is less than kind to his mental state. [break][break]

Don't Jump I'll Drown

"--they would inflate, but they never did~". Levin's lyrics echoed into the recondite crowd; if the smattering of patrons at the tavern for the open-mic night could be considered such a thing. The blond remained precariously perched on his stool for two and a half heartbeats before he flitted to his guitar case, packed his instrument, and was out of the hazy red "spotlight" before he could count to ten. He half-slid, half-fell into an unoccupied booth with a cracked leather seat. Without thinking, he shoveled an absurdly large slice of pizza into his mouth with one hand and picked out ancient smoke-stained stuffing with his other as the next artist set up his keyboard. Some days, when he wants to hate himself less, he pretends he didn't immediately notice the sultry vixen pour herself into the seat opposite him, but of course, those days he is lying to himself. [break][break]

Evelyn brought out the worst in Levin, the darkness and the anger. She pushed Levin to the ends of his physical restraint and all the control he had ever worked to muster over his wild emotions evaporated like fog at dawn. His knuckles painted white sheet rock grey as he slammed them through the walls of their apartment. The sting of it grounded him to a world he only felt like he was orbiting; like he was haunting it with the husk that was himself. [break][break]

"You are a spineless coward!" She would scream, and scream, and scream... "You have no right to your anger. Your pain is fake. Your lyrics are hyperbolic poetry and your life has no purpose." But she came back in the mornings and woke him with the warmth of her skin. Even though he was so worthless, so immaterial. Wasn't that enough reason to exist? Levin is too afraid of himself to pursue anything else.

Jump! I'll Drown

It has been 203 days since Levin stared into the deep, not-quite-black water under Hawthorne Bridge with a longing to feel the wind rush through his fingers and satiate the scratching, eating, consuming desire he had to dive after oblivion. It has been 202 since he took his last breath of Evelyn's poison. He's picked up smoking, but at least cancer will kill him slower than she would have, and it helps his shot nerves anyhow. Slowly, he is tamping his anger back. Slowly, he is trying to return to a life of normalcy, of music, and writing, and non-scathing interactions with people who keep walking the seemingly fruitless paths of life simply because they are able. Perhaps it is enough.

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call me

Astor

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