Collin Salajka McCormick
Bio
Stories (10/0)
The Motor & The Lantern
“Why a motor?” “You ask from the assumption I should appear with a hollow rib cage. Instead I’m obnoxiously loud with my chest’s sputtering smoke and shine impossible to ignore… I need no reason to stalk in shadow, for it is only you who perceive me.”
By Collin Salajka McCormick11 months ago in Humans
Hayashi
Daydreaming and seeing in illusion has always been my reality. I’m an easy target for conspiracy theories and unconventional wisdom. So naturally, in college I took a course on “Spirituality and Empowerment”. I wasn’t a stranger to meditation and certainly not the cartoon labyrinth of my own mind. All of my adventures inward had been psychedelic catapults or solo attempts at reaching enlightenment, I can only compare to an insect trying to build Apollo. Professor Hayashi was the teacher I’d been searching for. On Tuesdays and Thursdays about 20 college students would show up to the 23rd floor of some building on Michigan Ave at 10 AM. Most of us stoned and too many wired on prescription speed. We’d do a short meditation and spend the rest of class talking on spiritual theory and different approaches laid by various ancient masters. I ate up every second of it, but even the cynical kids who didn’t want to appear too eager, started chiming in. Attendance wasn’t strictly enforced, but everyone kept showing up. I recall early in the semester lying on the floor as Professor Hayashi led us through a meditation. I felt ignited with the present moment as I flooded my body with breath until my peer parallel began snoring, ripping me back to reality. The downside of 10AM for college students. In an effort to become more present individuals, Professor Hayashi had us keep journals entries of conscious moments. By week 4, he could no longer grade them on the content because we all got in the habit of well exceeding the word count. As someone who was already sold before I entered the door, it was exciting to watch those initially apprehensive become more vulnerable in the process. Deeper in the semester we set out for our most ambitious meditation yet, we would meet some sort of “spirit guide” if I recall the proper term. Instead of sitting close to each-other, we all took our own space and began the journey. I went into the meditation with no skepticism and when the time was appropriate I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I turned around I found myself in the photography dark room of my old High School. The man there was an idol of mine whom I’d never met before his passing. We sat there and talked for a while and now, I do genuinely believe it was his spirit I communicated with. When we returned to the moment and shifted our awareness back to the room there was a tranquility. Upon opening my eyes I struggled at first to understand if what I had experienced was actual. Across from me was the girl most cynical at the start, crying in amazement. The rest of the hour we spent with the lights low sharing our experience. Students talked with grandparents, friends who’d passed on, and even younger versions of themselves. When I shared my story not one person snickered or made me to feel it was “fake”. We progressed to a point further than just classmates. When I would see my peers of Hayashi around Chicago, we would greet each other like old friends, a connection I failed to reach in my “Accounting & Accountability” class. We would share what we experienced since our last meet and what we could do better the coming week. I laughed more in that room than any classroom before. I wondered if Professor Hayashi’s other students had fallen in this well or if we were some isolated incident of cinematic camaraderie. A few weeks after the spirit guide meditation Professor Hayashi cancelled class, and then another week, and then an e-mail. Professor Steve would be taking over the course starting the following Tuesday. Steve was an incredible teacher and a great man, but knowing Professor Hayashi was ill and wouldn’t return was a blow we couldn’t come back from. Some stopped coming to class and when they did Steve taught about the theory behind spirituality instead of the experience. When the semester ended none of us stayed in touch but I think about them and Professor Hayashi all time. He was just a professor, so I suppose we didn’t deserve any sort of follow up on his health, but I wish we’d gotten one. I was never going to be hard to teach and am no partiuclar story of interest. It’s the cynics that were able to put down their walls and share in a strange fantastic journey that prove to me what happened was real and impactful. A half-baked “easy-a” choice undoubtedly changed lives forever. Professor Hayashi’s influence beyond the 23rd floor will forever be immeasurable.
By Collin Salajka McCormick12 months ago in Beat
Fair In Fist Fights
We were hauling slabs of stone into the van it seemed like the way the pyramids were supposedly built as told by my fifth-grade teacher. However, these ancient materials were in fact made of metal and wood and other such materials. I just write the songs and words and know little to nothing about the rest of the processes. Unfamiliar of the way to properly handle the equipment that doesn’t revolve around an amplifier, pedals, a guitar, and six strings, I tend to handle with care. It’s freezing tonight as we make an eternal effort from the venue to the van to the venue to the van and so on until everything is accounted for except for one little piece you always leave behind as is accidental tradition. “Careful not to slip out there the ice is stealthy!” The venue owner shouts half wanting us to fall while in the throes of an all too cliché and cartoony cigar. Chicago’s many metal bands often treated us as if we were dirt in designer jeans when playing venues like this. The reality of the matter is these tight pants I wear were only thrifted and not picked out by the hands of Zeus to be worn with honor by his mighty hero Hercules. Instead, they were half-stoned chosen by a boy who thought they might give the impression his emotion drenched 4-minute confessions may be worth giving at least half an ear to. “Well?” I hear in a perhaps condescending tone as I’m broken out of a hollowed brooding artist like trance. “Oh, umm I’m sorry I was…Not really listening” I confessed shallow to my bandmate Dave Rice. “I said is that all? I mean I know I got all of my stuff and I think that’s all of yours and Micky says he’s got all of his shit, but I double checked cuz ya know Micky Moments but yeah I think we got everything but it always seems like we forget like at least ONE thing so I just wanted to make sure that you got everything you need, I have mine all accounted for and I think yours is too but I’m tryna make sure.”
By Collin Salajka McCormick2 years ago in Beat
You Never Know
Perhaps the strangest thing about a cigarette is the fact that nobody accidentally becomes a smoker. We all understand the ramifications of ingesting poisonous smoke and the first drag taste likes brimstone and a punishing buzz. Yet I took another and continued to bum them until I asked our senior friend to buy me my first pack. In retrospect I ask myself why? I love my idols and don’t want to explicitly blame the likes of Kurt Cobain an otherwise inspirational person for igniting the idea of a cig hung from my mouth, in fact Kurt was quite adamant about cigarettes not being cool. Still, I read through the lines of his Camel Light breath. My first Camel Crush was like a tar covered door handle to a room filled with other buzzes, highs, and chemical crimes my 7th grade self would have tattled on my parents to.
By Collin Salajka McCormick2 years ago in Beat
Mr. Delaney's Diaries
Before he even got to me, Mr. Delaney had greeted each and every person in the restaurant with a childlike smile being held tight by an old man’s tired face. Despite the clear elderly appearance, the entire population 400 town we lived in would agree he was the most childlike of anyone. Always wearing a yellow suit that was only a drop away from a star and always moving with a sort of flow like he was the president or at the very least the mayor. While talking to anyone in his path, more often than not Mr. Delaney would pull from his blazer a small black Moleskin journal. Occasionally the corners would still be stiff, strong, and full of youth. Enough to where one could almost smell the freshness of the pages, as if he’d come to see you straight from whatever shop he replaces filled ones with. Most of the times you’d see the journal it was beaten and worn from excessive use. It was sort of an honor for Mr. Delaney to stop the conversation dead just to whip out his diary. Ever the gentleman he would always pose
By Collin Salajka McCormick3 years ago in Families