When I tried to live with my dad the summer after my Freshman year of high school, my stepmother chased me around the house, screaming insults and verbal abuse like a demon. She only did it when my dad wasn't around. She was a master of gaslighting. My dad has always maintained that since he wasn't around, there was no way to corroborate my story, or any story. If he knew that the devil owns the fence, he might be less inclined to build his house on it. But that's not why I'm writing.

In 1989 or 90, when I was 16 or 17, we all went down to Mexico. We were standing in line at customs, when my stepmother pulled a narcissistic power move, threw a tantrum, and demanded we cancel the trip and go back to the US immediately.

I looked at Mexico through the glass at the airport, and realized I wasn't going anywhere. Mexico, maybe, but nowhere with these people. Unless they want to join me.

I told them to have a nice trip, and said goodbye. They could see I meant it. I was going to Mexico, as an unaccompanied minor, with no money, no plan, and no interest whatsoever in the outcome of the trip. I had taken the point, and knew who I was dealing with. If you are a parent, be very careful. You will answer to God for everything.

For better or worse, I saved the trip. No one has ever acknowledged it. But that's not why I'm telling the story

I'm telling the story because I'm looking at the border again, and it occurs to me to finish the job I started in high school. I have some great friends, but with no place to go and no way to get there, what difference does it make. I am staring through the glass into the graveyard, and am considering walking through the door. Not as a suicidal act, but as an act of mutual indifference toward the world. You will say it sounds dramatic, because you would care if you came back.

I don't. I never have.

The world invalidated me at an early age. The word "in-valid" has multiple meanings. I have written all about it; the songs are not hiding from anyone. My friend in Fort Worth offered to pay me to write a song. Unsurprisingly, it worked. The donation isn't huge, and has yet to clear, but it's helpful. It was fun to get back into that mode. I never thought I would ever go there again.

I am staring at the border over a dusty, abandoned sunset. I realize there's no rush. I can walk through that door anytime. At least it isn't cold. And Heaven will be warm. My mother is there, waiting. At least I had a great mom. Not everyone can say that. God knows my half-sister can't. She has the worst mother in the world.

My buddy wanted a Christmas song, or something uplifting about my faith. He was trying to be encouraging, as though the prospect of getting paid wasn't encouraging enough. But, for me, my songs are life preservers, thrown to drowning victims at the bottom of the sea. "Here, grab this," says the song, and hopefully the person survives, or even finds solace in knowing they're not alone.

At least, that's what it is for me.

If you've never been there, good for you. If you have, maybe you won't hate the song. I don't care if you like it or not. I don't even care if I like it. It just has to be true. And the uplifting tune I started with became hollow before long. It was fake, you could tell. It's not that I don't forgive those people, "family" or whatever you call it, it's that their rejection is ongoing, and it's painful. "Surely oppression drives a wise man mad," it says somewhere in the Bible. It also says not to sing songs to a heavy heart. You're doing more harm than good.

Because you live in a fishbowl, you will say that the sky is a thing of joy, and that people are good. You will say I'm feeling sorry for myself. 

I'm happy for you, on paper, but don't patronize, judge, or dismiss me. I know it's a revolutionary concept, but it's possible you have no idea what you're talking about.

Thanks for listening.

Zelle: [email protected]

The Sky Is Obviously Mad

The sky is obviously mad
fill the empty shadows in the sand
start a fire in your hand
singing fireflies will land
on the ground whereupon you stand
so tie the laces on your street
pick up the wounded needles at your feet

Take off your heavy coat
target practice with the golden goat
is that a halo or a moat?
A castle or a crown?
I fell face-down
into the sky
it’s way too drown
to dry
will these stolen wings let me fly?

We will go marching through the trees
like an army, on our knees
like a boat in the breeze
a paper airplane on the seven seas
a raincloud full of cars
a bottle full of iron bars
an angel in a jar
it was theirs, but now it’s ours
there is gold in them there stars

I went flying like a knife
from the junkyard of life
I stole my final breath
from the garden of death
I made off with it
like a stolen jewel
I reveled like a fool
in a pool of jeweled
blood
my judgment hit me like a flood
if I could take it back I would

The sky is obviously mad
I was once blind, but now I’m sad
I don’t mind,
in fact I’m glad
I go through more traditions in a week
more anomalies
contingent on the freak
more secrets than I will ever speak;
is it because I am a tree?
I once was dumb,
but now I’m free
your disapproval don’t mean anything
to me

© Nathan Payne
12/20/25