Lunch Ticket
  • Current Issue
  • Archive
    • Issues Archive
      • Issue 27: Summer/Fall 2025
      • Issue 26: Winter/Spring 2025
      • Issue 25: Summer/Fall 2024
      • Issue 24: Winter/Spring 2024
      • Issue 23: Summer/Fall 2023
      • Issue 22: Winter/Spring 2023
      • Issue 21: Summer/Fall 2022
      • Issue 20: Winter/Spring 2022
      • Issue 19: Summer/Fall 2021
      • Issue 18: Winter/Spring 2021
      • Issue 17: Summer/Fall 2020
      • Issue 16: Winter/Spring 2020
      • Issue 15: Summer/Fall 2019
      • Issue 14: Winter/Spring 2019
      • Issue 13: Summer/Fall 2018
      • Issue 12: Winter/Spring 2018
      • Issue 11: Summer/Fall 2017
      • Issue 10: Winter/Spring 2017
      • Issue 9: Summer/Fall 2016
      • Issue 8: Winter/Spring 2016
      • Issue 7: Summer/Fall 2015
      • Issue 6: Winter/Spring 2015
      • Issue 5: Summer/Fall 2014
      • Issue 4: Winter/Spring 2014
      • Issue 3: Summer/Fall 2013
      • Issue 2: Winter/Spring 2013
      • Issue 1: Spring 2012
    • Genre Archive
      • Creative Nonfiction
      • Essays
      • Fiction
      • Flash Prose
      • Interviews
      • Lunch Specials
      • Poetry
      • Translation
      • Visual Art
      • Young Adult
  • About
    • Mission Statement
    • Lunch Ticket Staff
      • Issue 27: Summer/Fall 2025
      • Issue 26: Winter/Spring 2025
      • Issue 25: Summer/Fall 2024
      • Issue 24: Winter/Spring 2024
      • Issue 23: Summer/Fall 2023
      • Issue 22: Winter/Spring 2023
      • Issue 21: Summer/Fall 2022
      • Issue 20: Winter/Spring 2022
      • Issue 19: Summer/Fall 2021
      • Issue 18: Winter/Spring 2021
      • Issue 17: Summer/Fall 2020
      • Issue 16: Winter/Spring 2020
      • Issue 15: Summer/Fall 2019
      • Issue 14: Winter/Spring 2019
      • Issue 13: Summer/Fall 2018
      • Issue 12: Winter/Spring 2018
      • Issue 11: Summer/Fall 2017
      • Issue 10: Winter/Spring 2017
      • Issue 9: Summer/Fall 2016
      • Issue 8: Winter/Spring 2016
      • Issue 7: Summer/Fall 2015
      • Issue 6: Winter/Spring 2015
      • Issue 5: Summer/Fall 2014
      • Issue 4: Winter/Spring 2014
      • Issue 3: Summer/Fall 2013
      • Issue 2: Winter/Spring 2013
      • Issue 1: Spring 2012
    • Achievements
    • Community
    • Contact
  • Weekly Content
    • Friday Lunch Blog
    • Midnight Snack
    • Amuse-Bouche
    • School Lunch
  • Contests
    • Diana Woods Award in CNF
      • Issue 27: Summer/Fall 2025
      • Issue 26: Winter/Spring 2025
      • Issue 25: Summer/Fall 2024
      • Issue 24: Winter/Spring 2024
      • Issue 23: Summer/Fall 2023
      • Issue 22: Winter/Spring 2023
      • Issue 21: Summer/Fall 2022
      • Issue 20: Winter/Spring 2022
      • Issue 19: Summer/Fall 2021
      • Issue 18: Winter/Spring 2021
      • Issue 17: Summer/Fall 2020
      • Issue 16: Winter/Spring 2020
      • Issue 15: Summer/Fall 2019
      • Issue 14: Winter/Spring 2019
      • Issue 13: Summer/Fall 2018
      • Issue 12: Winter/Spring 2018
      • Issue 11: Summer/Fall 2017
      • Issue 10: Winter/Spring 2017
      • Issue 9: Summer/Fall 2016
      • Issue 8: Winter/Spring 2016
      • Issue 7: Summer/Fall 2015
      • Issue 6: Winter/Spring 2015
      • Issue 5: Summer/Fall 2014
      • Issue 4: Winter/Spring 2014
      • Issue 3: Summer/Fall 2013
    • Gabo Prize in Translation
      • Issue 27: Summer/Fall 2025
      • Issue 26: Winter/Spring 2025
      • Issue 25: Summer/Fall 2024
      • Issue 24: Winter/Spring 2024
      • Issue 23: Summer/Fall 2023
      • Issue 22: Winter/Spring 2023
      • Issue 21: Summer/Fall 2022
      • Issue 20: Winter/Spring 2022
      • Issue 19: Summer/Fall 2021
      • Issue 18: Winter/Spring 2021
      • Issue 17: Summer/Fall 2020
      • Issue 16: Winter/Spring 2020
      • Issue 15: Summer/Fall 2019
      • Issue 14: Winter/Spring 2019
      • Issue 13: Summer/Fall 2018
      • Issue 12: Winter/Spring 2018
      • Issue 11: Summer/Fall 2017
      • Issue 10: Winter/Spring 2017
      • Issue 9: Summer/Fall 2016
      • Issue 8: Winter/Spring 2016
      • Issue 7: Summer/Fall 2015
      • Issue 6: Winter/Spring 2015
    • Twitter Poetry Contest
      • 2021 Winners
      • 2020 Winners
      • 2019 Winners
  • Submissions
  • Click to open the search input field Click to open the search input field Search
  • Menu Menu
  • Link to Facebook
  • Link to Instagram
  • Link to X

Diagonal Exile

September 1, 2017/in Blog / John Fitzsimmons

A Glimpse of the Sound, from The New York Public Library

As I approach seventeen years since I moved to Seattle from my home state of New York, as more and more of my memories melt down or vaporize, and as the world becomes a more and more streamlined doomsday machine, it feels like a ripe time to pause for some inventory. The century is a teenager and will technically become an adult on New Years Day. I, born on the second day of 1979, will be thirty-nine the following day, old enough to be its parent. Throughout this summer I have been peppered with requests from former high school classmates for information regarding our twentieth reunion. With half-feigned irritability I reminded each one of them that, although I spearheaded the campaign (“Simple mind, complicated shoes”), I had only been the class Vice President. I was simply the one they remembered from all the outlandish speeches. A jerky deflection probably stemming from an irrational fear of not having lived up to my classmates’ perceived expectations.

It’s been ten years since my final record with my music project of yesteryear and ten years since I moved into this big old house notched into the steep cobblestone streets of Northeast Capitol Hill. The neighborhood and community I have actively contributed to for almost two decades, anymore, often feels like a cheap oversized synthetic substitute of the place I have loved and to which I have given all of my adult years. Lately I am pulled in directions I can’t seem to keep up with, any more than I can keep up with an America whose vilest characteristics are being daily projected back on us all.

I always thought this was the age where most people raised Irish Catholic, like I was, began to develop cohesive conspiracy theories about the JFK assassination. I’m not there yet, but at birth I was named with the former president in mind. My mother, projecting grand, magnificent, prestigious things for her firstborn son, assigned to me her maiden name (Conole) as my middle name, like Kennedy’s mother (née Rose Fitzgerald) had. My mother’s running joke while I was growing up: “This way, if he becomes President of the United States, my family name will be in there too!” Among the first of many internalized pressures. My sincerest apologies, Conoles, I know how much you worshiped the Kennedys—but I’m afraid I’m not your golden boy candidate. Blessed brains on a pink skirt suit, why did Jack Ruby leave his favorite dog in the backseat of his car when he went in to shoot Lee Harvey Oswald? Poor pup.

*     *     *

My grandfather Conole (known by family as Baba) was my closest human connection until he left his body when I was a sophomore in high school. I’d been his primary caretaker during his last summer. Helping him dress in the morning, getting him to the bathroom multiple times per night, reading aloud the daily news, and most memorably, listening to (and often recording on my red Fisher Price tape recorder) his vast repository of stories. All of this taught me how to truly care for another. When he was gone, I found I couldn’t scrabble the emotional wherewithal to properly care for myself. Rather than dealing with the grief in constructive ways, my OCD became wildly exacerbated, and I slid into a tarry depression that has lasted ever since, to varying degrees of debilitation. Now, in this present world of funhouse mirrors, if you aren’t depressed, you may want to see a doctor.

*     *     *

After a one-year hiatus from graduate school in 2016, I am taking another stab at my fear of academics. But before I began this penultimate semester, I’d been on the verge of a dropout boogie, and my daily morning hippie speed balls (joint + coffee) weren’t exactly aiding my progress. I wanted to repair to somewhere distant, and contemplate my next life chapter(s). I was long overdue for a visit to my parents’ fourteenth floor condominium home in the small resort village of Estero, on the southwest coast of Florida. I, their middle, remotest child, was the only of their three offspring whom hadn’t been to visit since they retired there about five years ago, after selling our family home in Vestal, NY. I was fortunate enough to sublet my living space in Seattle to a trusted friend, and make a one-way reservation for early April, intending to stay in Estero for the Spring until my MFA program’s June residency in Los Angeles. Also itinerated was a trip up to Raleigh, NC to spend time with my brother—who’d had a recent health scare—and his family.

Setting for the Koreshan play “The Yellow Peril” in Estero, FL, CreativeCommons

I expected Florida to be a culture and climate shock, and it was. I felt prepared for any come-to-Jesus, what-are-you-doing-with-your-life? moments that might arise with my parents. A few days before my flight they informed me that, based on a strong referral from a friend, they had scheduled an appointment with a family psychologist for the morning after my arrival. I took mild offense to not having been consulted about this, though I knew they were well-intended. Then, when I got there, it became an appointment just for me.

“I just thought you might want to try this guy,” my dad reasoned over the phone. “You don’t have to, but he came highly recommended. I thought maybe you could get an assessment and we could get to the bottom of what’s been plaguing you all these years.”

With a combination of curiosity, obligation and anticipated ennui, I decided I would go. There was a woo-woo loop of ambient spiritual easy listening playing in the office anteroom as I waited for the doctor. After seeing his previous client out, he greeted me and apologized in his heavy Polish accent for the wait. I detected a certain strain of sanctimonious self-satisfaction that felt familiar to me. This began to make sense once I learned about his background. He had left Catholic seminary to pursue a career in psychology. There was something unsettling behind his priestly solicitude. But, I ended up feeling okay enough about our first meeting—during which we managed to locate the launching point of a crucial false narrative I’d been adhering to for far too long—to agree to return twice a week.

At the end of the session, he surprised me by noticeably adjusting his posture and proclaiming, “Just give me three weeks. Three weeks, and if you don’t feel better after three weeks, I want you to fire me.”

I laughed this off.

I didn’t quite return twice per week, but I did give the doctor more than six sessions. He gave me personality tests, diagnosed me with dysthymia or persistent depressive disorder, and PTSD. He prescribed to me daily morning cardiovascular exercise, and the book The Art of Happiness by His Holiness the Dalai Llama. I mostly stuck to the exercise, but fell asleep each time I tried the book. Many times during my appointments with the doctor, I felt as though he should be paying me, and on more than a few occasions he gave me the creeps, asking questions that were unnecessary and unprofessional. I have always been the absolute worst at breaking up with people, but by the eighth or ninth session, I still wasn’t feeling a clear direction with this guy. I thanked him for our time together, and announced this would be our last session.

“Ha ha hah!” he burst out. “You have got to be kidding me.” I watched as his face filled with blood.

“No sir. I truly appreciate what we’ve covered, but I need to move on, and my June residency is just a couple of weeks away.”

Realizing I was serious, his truer colors emerged. “I can’t believe what I am hearing. John, you are a broken man. You need to stay here and give this process at least another month. I’ve worked with people who’ve been far more broken than you are, and turned them around completely. It’s like night and day! Listen, John, I enjoy working with you because you’re smart… Now, I like cars, so I’m going to use a car analogy here: You’re like a Ferrari, John. And you’ve spun yourself around, flipped yourself over, banged up against all the limits. But all you need is some body work, a new paint job. You’re still a Ferrari.”

“I don’t want to be a Ferrari.”

*     *     *

Portrait of the author by his young nephew

Since returning to Seattle, I have finally found a therapist with whom I feel comfortable, even excited, to work with. It only took twenty or so years, but I feel for the first time like I am making strides toward clearing all this heavy mud off my lens as I seek to clarify the world. What do I want to be? A Continental? A Lamborghini? Forklift or other conveyance?

I think I’ll forget the car metaphors, start with the conveyance that is my body. From there, I want to be: A teacher. A writer. A lover. A private investigator. A public investigator. A bass clarinetist. A fighter for human rights and social justice, at all costs. An enemy of the state. A menace to supremacy. Someone always in the process of waking up, who refuses to use community allyship as a balm for guilt or a prop for validation. An exemplary uncle, brother, son, friend. An enthusiast for the contradictions in the human soul. Concerned citizen of a world on fire, while also under water. Someone trying to remember how important it is to value your own ideas, even the ones that seem silly.

Self-expression is a form of self-respect.

 

John C. Fitzsimmons was born on the second day of 1979 and grew up in south central New York state. He attended Ithaca College before relocating to Seattle, WA in 2000. He has contributed to The Free Witch Quarterly, From Whatnot to Where I Belong, Picaroon Poetry, and Neither Here Nor There, a book about the band The Melvins. He is an MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles, and has served on four issues of Lunch Ticket.

https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/FullSizeRender-1.jpg 745 750 John Fitzsimmons https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png John Fitzsimmons2017-09-01 11:58:342022-02-09 13:24:29Diagonal Exile

Friday Lunch Archive

  • 2025
  • 2024
  • 2023
  • 2022
  • 2021
  • 2020
  • 2019
  • 2018
  • 2017
  • 2016
  • 2015
  • 2014

Midnight Snack

Take a bite out of these late night obsessions.

Tonight’s bites:

Dig Into Genre

May 23, 2025/in Midnight Snack / Michelle Hampton
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/05/Lauren-Howard-credit-Terril-Neely-scaled-773x1030-1.jpg 1030 773 Michelle Hampton https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Michelle Hampton2025-05-23 23:59:492025-06-17 18:29:02Dig Into Genre

The dreams in which I’m (not) dying

April 25, 2025/in Midnight Snack / Michelle Hampton
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/paparouna-photo.jpeg 960 720 Michelle Hampton https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Michelle Hampton2025-04-25 23:55:312025-04-24 15:06:46The dreams in which I’m (not) dying

On The Map

March 28, 2025/in Midnight Snack / Michelle Hampton
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/20220807-ariadnesaxt-MurielReid-01.jpg 1123 2000 Michelle Hampton https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Michelle Hampton2025-03-28 23:55:152025-03-31 11:49:32On The Map

More Midnight Snacks »

Amuse-Bouche

Little bites every third Friday to whet your appetite!

Today’s plate:

Tale of the resistant apple tree

June 6, 2025/in Amuse-Bouche / paparouna
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/TaharBekri.jpg 512 340 paparouna https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png paparouna2025-06-06 11:00:072025-06-17 18:56:48Tale of the resistant apple tree

Talyshi Wall Graffiti and other poems

May 30, 2025/in Amuse-Bouche / Michelle Hampton
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/05/Ghazal-headshot.jpg 867 590 Michelle Hampton https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Michelle Hampton2025-05-30 11:00:492025-06-17 18:59:20Talyshi Wall Graffiti and other poems

we don’t spend our lives in the belly of the fish

May 16, 2025/in Amuse-Bouche / Michelle Hampton
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/05/headshot-translator-Gabriella-Bedetti.jpg 400 400 Michelle Hampton https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Michelle Hampton2025-05-16 11:00:362025-06-17 19:02:56we don’t spend our lives in the belly of the fish

More Amuse-Bouche »

School Lunch

An occasional Wednesday series dishing up today’s best youth writers.

Today’s slice:

I’ve Stayed in the Front Yard

May 12, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Lizzy Young
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/05/SL-Insta-Brendan-Nurczyk-2.png 1500 1500 Lizzy Young https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Lizzy Young2021-05-12 10:18:392022-02-01 13:24:05I’ve Stayed in the Front Yard

A Communal Announcement

April 28, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Lizzy Young
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/SL-FB-Isabella-Dail.png 788 940 Lizzy Young https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Lizzy Young2021-04-28 11:34:132021-04-28 11:34:13A Communal Announcement

Seventeen

April 14, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Caroline Shannon Karasik
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/SL-Insta-Abigail-E.-Calimaran.png 1080 1080 Caroline Shannon Karasik https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Caroline Shannon Karasik2021-04-14 11:22:062021-04-14 11:22:06Seventeen

More School Lunch »

Word From the Editor

The state of the world breaks my heart every day. Broken hearted, I stay online. I can’t log off. Because my career and schooling are all done remotely, I tend to struggle with boundaries regarding screen time, with knowing when to break away.

Like many of you, I have been spilling my guts online to the world because the guts of the world keep spilling. None of it is pretty. But it’s one of the things that, having searched for basically my entire life, I found that tempers the chaos that lives rent free inside my head.

More from the current editor »
Current Issue »

Connect With Us

lunchticket on facebooklunchticket on instaX
Submit to Lunch Ticket

A literary and art journal
from the MFA community at
Antioch University Los Angeles.

Get Your Ticket

We’ll keep you fed with great new writing, insightful interviews, and thought-provoking art, and promise with all our hearts never to share your info with anyone else.

Newsletter Signup
Copyright © 2012-2025 LunchTicket.org. All Rights Reserved. Web design and development by GoodWebWorks.
Scroll to top Scroll to top Scroll to top