Mr. G's Christmas

Even on his worst days, his demeanor doesn't change.  How can I complain about anything when I know he will not?

Mr. G needs help getting into and out of bed each and everyday.  He can't even bathe himself or relieve himself alone.  Mr. G isn't as vibrant as he once was; six months ago.  He looks one hundred.  Six months ago, he looked his age; ninety two.  They said he wouldn't make it.  Funeral plans were drawn up in July.  His children, his grandchildren, his few remaining living friends; they all came to his side to say goodbye.

I was there.  Not that it matters.  But there is something poignant maybe tragic when one of the remaining faces of a generation is about to pass. 

He's not supposed to be here this Christmas.  Yet, here is.   Full of cheer.  Goodwill.  Life.

Mr. G is full of life. 

Last night, he was humming along to Silent Night.  It's his favorite Christmas carol, he says.  My wife, God bless her soul, she made me listen to these hymns 12 hours a day each day of every December until her last breath.  Sleep in heavenly peace, dear. 

He does this thing where he starts speaking about her and mid-sentence, he starts speaking to her as if she is standing in the room with us.  His eyes glisten from the newly formed tears and as one softly rolls down his cheek, he stops his story and just smiles.  

Mr. G is excited about seeing her again. 

He loves Christmas.  He has 92 stories he loves to share but his favorites are the 45 he spent with her.  Mrs. G, God bless her soul.

It takes him five minutes to get up from his favorite chair in his living room and walk into his kitchen.  He refuses help.  Then, he pours himself a tall glass of cold milk.   This is all I'm allowed to drink during Christmas season.  Mrs. G hated eggnog.  You can't love Christmas unless you've felt the love of a woman.  Sleep in heavenly peace, dear.  We just let him talk.  Each and every word that comes from his mouth is captivating.  I wish he could talk forever, I think silently.

He's not supposed to be here.  July was his expiration date.  I even had my suit picked out for the burial. 

Before putting his carton of milk back into the refrigerator, he laughs.  Look at this goddamned date on this box.  Predicting death.  Telling me to hurry before this milk is no good.  Who decides what date to stick on here anyway?  Seems rather arbitrary.  It's December 18th and this goddamned thing says Good til December 14th.  Shows what they know.

We laugh at the irony.  There's wisdom behind his short lived obscenity laced rant.  He made his point.


Mr. G is vibrant these days.  It's Christmas.  His favorite time of year.  He's not alone.  His children, his grandchildren, and his very few remaining living friends visit him daily.  He is soaking it all in.  The warmth, the good cheer, the good will, the love.  And Life.

This is probably his last Christmas.

Probably.

Sleep in heavenly peace, Sir.  Whenever it's time. 

Statue

Sooner or later, we're strangers again.  No lie is greater than I'll always be your friend.  And I don't know what we are.  I only know what we were.  Discretion is the better part of valor.  Famous last words of an everyday martyr. 

And here I am; staring at the clock.  Ticktock, two a.m.  A stranger again. 

I'd rather be a painting on a wall than a statue in the park.  Look at my colors.  Light and dark.  Interpret me, majestically.  I'm someone's creation; someone's art.  I've become a stranger to you.  A statue in a park.

Sooner or later, these things occur.  Sitting on the porch discussing how things were.  Old war stories.  Those past glories.  And we stare at the clock.  Ticktock, another passerby.   She's so beautiful.  There she goes.  Sigh.  Maybe, I'll catch her around the block.  If I'm not too late.  I probably am.  Years as a stranger.  Famous last words of just a friend. 

All the pigeons are out of bread as they commence at my feet.  Who notices a man made of concrete?  I used to hang so proudly on your wall.  Like that crucifix around your neck.  Patience is a virtue.  Famous last words of a lonely heretic. 

And here I am; staring at the broken clock. Ticktock, two a.m. A stranger again.

Sooner or later, this comes to pass.  Out with the old, in with the new.  One woman's treasure is another woman's trash.  Famous last words of the forgotten statue. 

Blur

Drunken haze, don't fail me now.  I would rather forget this in the morning.  Disclaimers should be allowed.  Or at least, some type of warning.  Here we are; not where we were.  Hello love, I'm just a blur.


Busy bee, pollinate.  Forgive me while I pontificate.  All these broken flowers are in bloom.  Wash away the stench of our perfume.  Busy bee, I'm right where I've always been.  In front of you, in bloom.  Busy bee, I'm sure you would concur.  You fly too fast, I'm just a blur.  Busy bee, pollinate.  Forgive me as I commemorate.

We're all bigger than life after death.  A rewritten history is all we have left.  Or at least, all we can hope for.   You, on the other side.  You're just a blur.  But I'm alive.  I'm right here.  Busy bee, in her beehive. 

Drug of choice, show your face.  Contaminate my time.  Drug of choice, don't let me down.   Domesticate my overactive mind.   Here we are; not where we were.  Hello love, I'm just a blur.

The Perfect Loneliness

That pedestal I put you on was nothing more than a novelty; a twisted, well intended form of idolatry.  Perfection is a possibility; even in this case of loneliness.  You want equality.  I want harmony.  And they cannot co-exist. 

I resist your independence.  You disregard my sentiment; redefine it as arrogant.  Back and forth, the staring game.  I would blink first, your holiness.  I'm just aiming for the perfect loneliness.


Have I reached the point of indifference?  Maybe yes.  Maybe no.  Turn up that sad song on the radio.  Let me drown out my own feelings as you sing where art thou, my Romeo.



Those butterflies; they flutter still.  No one speaks of the elephant.  Dead horse twitches against my will.  My thoughts and feelings; never relevant.  And that's alright, I'm stuck in a spider's web.  Chasing you with a butterflies net.   Back and forth, the staring game.  I would blink first, my Juliet.  I'm just aiming for the perfect loneliness.

Neurotic weather up ahead.  Days of summer no longer a novelty.   All these things I dare to dread; just a self fulfilled prophecy.  I'm alone and that's alright.  Loneliness; no one's monopoly.  You're alone and that's alright.  We've got each other in perfect autonomy.

I think we've found that perfect loneliness. 

The Whole World

It's easy to part with someone forever.  I know this because I've done it and because I've been shoved out of lives before.  I'm not unique to this.  Nor are you.  These normal life circumstances arise like growing older or moving on or just a simple case of new people.  It happens.

The whole world thinks they're unique to suffering or hurt.  You tell me a story of loss and naturally, I will tell you a story of my own loss.  I will one up you, so to speak.  But I will do so under the guise of trying to relate to you or comfort you.  I'm selfish.  So are you.

The easiest thing, we as people can do, is love.  It takes no effort.  Not only do we want to be loved, we want to love.  In fact, we have to love.  Something.  Someone.  Anyone.


I had this old job that required me to collect money for the newspaper.  One day, as I was looking at address numbers on a sidewalk in an unfamiliar neighborhood, I watched a car pull to the side of the road.  This woman opened her car door and pushed her dog out of it.  Then she drove off.  The immediate reaction of that dog was to chase her now former owner's car.   The dog just kept running and running towards the woman who rejected him.  I slowly drove behind the dog to see if maybe this was all a mistake; thinking the woman either accidentally let him out and would realize it or it was intentional and her conscience would get the best of her and she'd come back.

Neither happened. 

The dog stopped running once that car was no longer in his sight.  He stopped in the middle of the road; looked around at his unfamiliar surroundings and just laid down.  Right there, in the middle of the road, he just laid down.  It was as if he just gave up.  On everything. Everyone.

These two children came out of nowhere and approached this medium sized brown short haired dog.  Quickly, they had earned his trust.  As they turned to walk away, that dog followed them.  They took him home.

I sat behind my wheel and just thought to myself at what point do we become disposable to others?


I have loved three women in my life.  I mean, deeply loved.  I won't distinguish between a school boy crush and some mature grown up love because there is no fucking difference.  Two of those women have moved on.  Time, circumstances, fate, whatever; they've moved on.... One to fill her family albums with someone not me and the other, had an early expiration date.  Either way, both have moved on.  It hasn't diminished their meaning in my life.  I haven't stopped loving them.  Who could?

Love is so illogical.  There is no rationality behind who we fall for and why sometimes it just doesn't end as expected or even why two mismatched people work well together.  The whole world may roll their eyes or call us crazy for our choices but none of that matters.  If we take the whole world's advice and strive to fit their standards, that wouldn't be love.  That would be something else.  Something disposable.


It's so easy to give up or look to upgrade.  I know this because I've done it.  I've quit people before ever even giving them a chance.  I've quit people because I thought the whole world knew what was best for me and I based my standards and my integrity on their whispers.  And it's not right.


My unborn son will probably never get this speech.  Chances are, he won't even ever exist to learn what really matters versus what the whole world says matters.  And I'm okay with that.  I have to be.  Because I love him and the possibilities that exist within potential life. 

We have to love.  Something.  Someone.  Anyone.  Be it, real or hypothetical.  Love is limitless and illogical.  Not disposable.  Or even reasonable. 

The whole world wants the same damn things but they hold each of us to different standards than their own. 


A few months later, I returned to that neighborhood where that disposable dog was last seen.  And there he was... laying in the front yard grass where I last saw him with those two same kids by his side.  I'm certain that rejection he faced months earlier was long forgotten.  I'm certain that dog, those two kids; that new family couldn't have been more happy than they were at that moment.

The whole world loves happy endings but defines everything as tragedy or heartbreak with some misdiagnosed negative connotation attached to it.  

Nothing ends perfectly.  But everything ends. 

I suppose that is all I would ever need to tell my unborn son if he existed.

 

The Greatest Lie

The greatest lie I ever told was I don't care.

It was December if I remember.  Around Christmas.  The greatest gift a man can get is forgiveness.  As the cold turned to warmth and the season began to change, spring brought forth indifference.  Stoic me, barely noticed.  I just don't care, I said.

Who's the anchor?  Who's the ship?  We were both in love.  We were both seasick.  I threw all my worries overboard; ready for this lifelong trip.  With you.  And only you.  Oblivious me, with my smug smile and ever so deluded view never imagined my world without you.  But you could.  You did.  I just don't care, I said.

Like an astronaut floating in space; you were, you are my gravity.  And I float and float further away from you as you replace my oxygen with apathy.  They say, when love evaporates, the first to go is your sanity.  And I swear I just don't care anymore. 

As the silence turns to days, here comes back all my insecurities.  Those warm hellos and I love yous; no longer priorities.  If I'll fade into obscurity, only time will tell.  Have we really reached the point of text messaged apologies? L O L.  I speak to you in acronyms and you speak unaffectionately.  O M G.  I just don't care, I said.

It was December if I remember.  Around Christmas.  The greatest mistake a man can make is to bear false witness.  And I just don't care, I said. 

A man and his dog

It was a look of compassion from his eyes towards me.  The harshness of the moment was handled delicately.  I like to believe if he could speak, he would have forgave me. 

A lick to my hand as he lifted his paw.  It was a handshake of sorts from an old friend  This is the moment every man dreads, of course, I thought.

It was the end of a man and his dog.

Fell in love with this girl long ago.   She had eyes of blue.  Little do you know, she would have loved you. 
Found a little acceptance in the oddest of places.  Those blank faces; if only they knew, all the reasons I always come home to you.  That girl with those eyes of blue; she knew. 

Those little conversations came to a halt.  And they're only understood by a man with a dog.

I was looking for quiet.  And I found it.  There's no way around it; now, I can't shut up.   It's easier to talk when everyone wants to interrupt.  I was speaking at them.  Over them.  Around them.  Never to them.  And they were doing the same.  Are we even friends, I thought?

It's the question asked by every man with a dog.

Because dogs listen.  Even if its not by their own volition.

They never knew of the girl with eyes of blue.  And her demise.  Or mine.  I'll talk about her another time.
Maybe, when the storm cloud passes.  If it ever does.  I'm over it, well I was.  And that's the thing, we never are.  Or will be.  Over anything.

Nothing is ever meant to be forgot.  There's no shame for those things that make us distraught.
Ask any man with a dog.

I was looking for comfort.  So I grabbed a drink and drowned in it.  For years.  Those tears; they weren't even mine.  That comfort; it appears I had already found it.  It was right here this whole time.  And it can never be understood unless you're a man with a dog.

It's hard to feel alone with a face staring out the window as you pull up to your driveway.  And when it's time to go, that same face, with a pleading glow, reminds you there is always a reason to come home.  I swear, he was always there.  Through the joy and through the despair.

I guess, I should confess, I did not realize the magnitude of what we shared. 

That handshake of sorts from an old friend wasn't goodbye.  It was thank you.  And I have to believe, if he could speak, he would have said you're welcome.

I turned around back to where we came from.  Empty leash in hand. 
He really loved me, I thought.

No one can really understand. 

It's between a man and his dog.

The Fallout

There are so many things I cannot bear the thought of.  Like her being touched by another man.  Like how he felt those last few years.  Like how she copes being unloved.  Or like how he was feeling all those years before he met her.  Or like how my dreams feel so real and then I wake up; only to be disappointed they weren't.

Guys have this strange way of showing each other affection.  It's usually with a punch to the arm or something not associated with affection.  When he walked away that last time, visions of some heroic cowboy fading into the sunset never crossed my mind.  I just wanted him to turn around and punch me.  Or kick me.  Anything but what happened would have made every day since that night more bearable.  I wish I would have screamed DON'T DO IT or DON'T GO. 

Years before in the pouring rain with sobriety hours away and an unknown irony flowing through my alcohol flooded blood stream, she told me of a girl's suicide.  Not just any girl.  A relative of the one I loved.  That phone call might as well have been made in the future warning me that a new suicide was just around the corner.  A longer one.  A decades long one in the making. 

I thought about that now gone girl and the one I loved who was left to cope and question why.  I spent a lot of time in her skin and in her corpse; trying to piece together everything.  I contemplated destiny.  Was she destined to leave at fifteen?  Was the one I love predetermined or chosen to be strong enough to handle this?  And I came to some conclusion that only made sense years later.

All these years later, I still don't know who I am or my place in this world.  I can't even really honestly say that I am loved by anyone.  I'm not ashamed to admit that.  Maybe, it's because all those years between that phone call on a pay phone on a drunken rainy Friday night until now has taught me one thing:  And that's just be true to yourself.  Sure, it's a cliche.  I think we have become so self-absorbed where we simply worry how we are perceived, we end up losing sight on who we really are.

We are all the same.  We all want the same things.  We are all motivated by the same wants and same needs.   

He was too proud to hug me or anyone but never too proud to punch us all.  And he was too preoccupied with misery and self-hatred to just demand that he be loved.  And he was loved.  So much.  I don't even think any of us realized it until it was far too late. 

I laid in my own bed for what seemed weeks.  My trusty old dog, with his head on my chest and an occasional lick to my hand as if he was just checking my pulse, was my confidant.  It was never about losing the will to live or some ill placed self pity.  It wasn't even about him.  It was this whole question of why am I here.  That's it. 

I went back in time, like we always do, and thought about her.  I wondered how the years have treated her since that phone call.  And then I remembered, she left me, too.  So, I went back even further in time, like we always do, and I remembered being a child.  I was so full of love, of hope and unbridled joy.  I kissed and hugged everyone, strangers, because everyone was good and could never do me any harm.  I started wondering when did that joy become replaced with cynicism.

Maybe, it was that phone call from that pay phone on a rainy drunken Friday night.  When I hung up, innocence was left holding on the other line.  And I never went back to say goodbye.  So, when all these unexpected twists and turns that life inevitably throws us all, I was unprepared. 

Maybe, that's what destiny is.  It's not about the outcome or our demise or our blessings or unfortunate circumstances.  It's just about those twists and turns and how we handle them.  People always claim that the proverbial fork in the road is some obstacle to our destination.  Maybe, that fork in the road is the destination; our destiny.  And whatever happens after that is just a bonus.  Good or bad. 

He left us all. Were we shocked?  Not really.  It was a slow death.  Subconsciously, we probably had written him off years before.  And I hate to admit that.  I suppose he encountered so many forks in the road and chose poorly so many times, he was bound to leave us all too soon. 

I can't help but think that right now, there is a woman out there, he was destined to be with.  And she is with someone else.  And she's almost happy.  Just a little bit short.  I blame him for that.  The fallout of all of our decisions are immeasurable and all scenarios become hypothetical. 

I spent what seemed like weeks; laying in my bed, with my trusty old dog by my side with his head on my chest licking my hand as if he was checking for my pulse, contemplating all of this.  The fallout.  The hypothetical.  Destiny.

And because we are all so self-absorbed, I can't help but think of my place in all of this; this world, his life, her life, our lives.  I would endure years of writers block to have him back and her, as well.  And I suppose, these words wouldn't even need to be written or my heart exposed to anyone who might casually care if things were different. 

And I suppose, everything always turns out exactly how they are supposed to.  And we always almost feel better in the end.

Almost.

dear God

well hello there, dear God
got my head in the clouds, an angel for a dream
she hates my pretty words.  she thinks they're quite absurd.  she knows not what they mean.
she knows not what these mean
time is winding down.  soon to not be found.
thank God

man to man, can i bear my soul? 
she loves my pretty songs.  she even sings along.  she knows not what they mean. 
she knows not what these mean.
man to God, feel free to sing along with the angel in my dream.
she's too proud to wear my crown
i'd like to beat this dead high horse, if it's allowed down here of course.  |
dear God

she says she loves me like no other. well, she used to.
dear God, i tried to introduce you.   she knows not who you are
she knows not who you are
the dealer goes absolved as the loser blames the cards
thank God

so be it, if this is your plan
the erosion of a novelty.  dear God, is it me or is it you
the anomaly
what once was ineffable has become expressible
i can finally admit i am skeptical
thank God

she hates manipulation.  she knows not my true intentions.
she knows not my true intentions.
like you, dear God

im nothing without you.  its true, dear God

amen

how dare you

I tied my shoes like rabbits ears.  It was the best a mother could do. 
I learned to swim by learning not to drown.  With fledgling arms and an abnormal sense of self, I found myself in thought of you.  Where did you go?  What did I do wrong?  I kicked and scratched the messenger.  How dare you, mom. 

Fast forward because you were forgotten as I had been by you.  Page 43, February, your name resurfaces in an obituary, whats your son to do?  Dead, a heartless man.  The empathetic son says, how dare you.


And mom, puts on this gentle face; one I've never seen her wear.  With clenched fists, the tears stream down, fighters aren't supposed to care.  Slam my door, tune out the noise, so this misplaced sorrow is never heard.  Back I go into my own thoughts, so I'm not disturbed.  Did you hate me while I loved you?  All these questions pouring through.  I forgive you this one time as God knows, that bitterness is never an alibi.  Never mind, I cannot lie.  how dare you.


All grown up, nowhere to go; a new family moves me in.  Cocaine dreams up in smoke, laughing with my friends.  This won't end well, it never does.  What am I to do?  Brother takes one drink; it all begins.  This complicated comradeship ends with you.  With lifeless limbs and a bleeding tongue, the end of an era sets in.  Gone is my family; the only one I knew.  As the choir sings, I sing how dare you.

All is well I tell myself before these lights go out.  Grab a pen, pen my thoughts, and think of what went wrong.  Father is now just a shell as he mumbles how dare you, son. 

With fledgling arms and an abnormal sense of self, I'm learning to swim again. 


Fast forward because it's easy to, I'll make the time to rewind at a later date.  Slam my door, tune out the noise.  Into my own thoughts, escape.  Did I not do enough?  Was my silence the final nail?  With sturdy arms and a steady pulse, I flail.  And wait for this dead horse to exhale.


How dare you leave us like this.  No words. No reason exists. 


Fast forward to the day we finally meet again.  Something tells me, you'll explain yourself but I'll no longer care.  The other side is so much brighter, I will understand why in haste you left for there.  You'll look at me like you used to always do and say how dare you.


Now, I'm left to wonder other things.  Like who is left to love me.  With vulnerability fully exposed, how dare you to stop thinking of me.  I doubt she will ever know that I am trudging slowly towards her. 

I learned to swim by learning not to drown.  With fledgling arms and an abnormal sense of self, I find myself searching for her.  What am I to do?  Every story has a perfect ending....

how dare you.

The Death of Wonder

We used to look up and wonder.  Now, we know all the answers.  

We would dream of the moon and beyond.  Now, we argue over dinosaurs.  And these old bones would marvel in the miracle we call life.  I suppose somewhere between the dinosaurs and the heavens, arrogance sits on some throne as we look to crown ourselves rulers of each others lives.  Because the self absorbed cannot govern.  They exist to merely be anointed.   Once upon a time, no one wanted to be king.

We used to pray before our meals and before sleep would settle in.  Now, we talk to ourselves as if strangers are in our clothes.  And the emperor remains naked yet no one dares to tell him so.  I suppose somewhere between the vanity lies a creature cloaked in self loathing. 

Once upon a time, we would lend the shirt off our back to the man standing in the cold.  Now, that shirt has a price tag and in red ink it's marked our soul.

We used to look straight ahead and wonder.  Now, we are frozen in our fear.
We would dream about tomorrow.  Now, we argue how we got here. 

And these old bones are shaking... at the thought I missed the train.  And that woman who once loved me bought a ticket away from here.  I suppose the blind are leading the myopic while all the phony superlatives have become hypnotic.  And I wait in the pouring rain for another train to deliver her back to me.  But I know, tomorrow will leave me wondering where exactly could she be.

We used to talk about the weather as a form of courtesy.  Now, we awkwardly stare in silence as we drown in our own thoughts.  Ideas have been replaced by theories from the lost.  And these old bones are wandering in a desert of self doubt.  Because famine to the unloved is merely writers block.  I suppose this world is all a stage for the actors to meander about.  Somewhere behind the applause is an audience thirsty from this drought.  Because all original thought has been cannibalized in a mutiny so to speak.  Gone is all our wonder.  Gone is all the mystique.

And these old bones are tired; these old bones are weak.

We used to wonder about those stars and our place in the universe.   Now, we're staring down at dirt; dwelling on all that hurts.  I suppose we don't know all the answers and dinosaurs aren't extinct.  Not until, someone tells us exactly what to think.

And these old bones are shaking... at the thought she missed the train.  I will keep on waiting for her to return back to me. 

The end of all that's good is always preceded by the death of curiosity.

Happy Birthday to a Ghost

Have you ever said happy birthday to a ghost?

Memory Lane has a hit a road block.  Let's call it time.  Today was your day, now it's mine.  I used to talk to you.  Now, I talk at you.  Conversations with a mime.

Wake up, guilt sets in.  It's not because of what happened.  Or didn't happen.  I'm merely sorry for all those things I am forgetting.  Like those road trips.  Our little talks.  Sobriety.  Conversations during future walks.  I suppose, you're still an uncle.  And still my friend.  I suppose, one year from now, I'll be back here again.  Without a cake.  Without your stories.  Of all your hopes drowning in your past glories.  Despite the irony, here's a toast.  Happy Birthday to a ghost.

I can forgive cancer.  I can forgive God.  I can't forgive you.

Let it go, they said.  Try walking with this supposition.  Oh, I know.  I'm the one talking at an apparition.  I'm alright.  All is good.  Nothing could be better nor more misunderstood.  A dose of venom in my blasphemy, never mind.  Sooner or later, we're all out of time.  Speaking metaphorically, here's a toast.  Happy Birthday to a ghost. 

Do you really believe in the other side?  Is it possible it's something we created as a coping mechanism?  Like some self serving dose of optimism. 

Conversations with a ghost always lead to skepticism. 

But yes, I do believe.

I can forgive unintended consequences and all our failed interventions.  But I can't forgive you.

Not today. 

Despite my righteous indignation, here's a toast.
Happy Birthday to a ghost.

The Problem

The problem with logic is that it's limited. 

Those words you speak, I deflect with clarity as I reflect on the ones you once spoke with regularity.  Maybe, I became more unlovable or just maybe, I was your charity.

The problem with love is that it should be uninhibited.


Such a shame, the road we chose.  It was bound to happen, I suppose.  Wrap your arms around my chest and dig your nails into my back.  Leave your mark before you go.  We'll take turns shooting the elephant. 

The problem with truth is it never seems to be relevant.

I'm in love with a shark, said the swimmer at sea as he found himself out of his element.  Drop your anchor and drown this elephant, said the shark cautiously.  Such a shame, this predicament.  Both of them wishing it was all different.

The problem with pride is it becomes belligerent. 


Say it, I told you so.  Disappointment cloaked in benevolence.  Sweet sweet you, choking on your perseverance.  Wrap your hands around my neck.  Shake loose the screws of my intellect.  Say it, you're skeptical.

The problem with hope is it's hypothetical.

Such a shame, this spectacle. 

Round and round, we go.  You love me, you told me so.  Should I cling to those words from long ago? 

I'm in love with a woman, said the man on a cross.  Her indifference is his albatross.  Wrap you arms around that man.  Dig your nails into his back.  Leave your mark before you go and crucify that elephant. 

The problem with indifference is it becomes self-evident.

Such a shame, that all is good; eventually becomes corrupt as all those riches leave us bankrupt.

The problem with love is it is never convenient. 

Mister G

They call him Mr. G. 

He's got one of those name spelled one way but pronounced another.

Mr. G fought in World War II.  He's from the generation that understands sacrifice, hard work, integrity, loyalty, and goodness.  Unlike mine.



I went to a funeral many years ago of a former co-worker.  I knew very little about this man but his kind eyes and gentle disposition were enough to cause a few of us to fit his farewell into our busy schedule.  I don't cry at funerals.  I cry at TV shows.   I cried at his; more or less, a stranger to me.

I learned more about him during the thirty minutes of his burial than I had the two years I worked with him.  Maybe, my generation has a problem with paying attention to people.

Like Mr. G, this man was a World War II veteran.  The 21 gun salute and the playing of Taps was an honor befitting of an obvious once great man.  His best friend stood at the podium and spoke of his sobriety.   He stated with a trembling voice, "Mr. B was a recovering alcoholic.  When he chose sobriety 30 years ago, he became my sponsor.  Regardless the time of day or in the middle of the night, I could count on him to talk me down from the ledge.  I owe my life, my family, my kids.... I owe everything to Mr. B".

And then he sat down.  Silence filled the air.  Well, excluding, this gasp of air I lunged for in between trying not to sob. 




Mr. G has lived alone for the last two decades.  His wife, a distant memory as her urn sits on a mantle in a makeshift den.  He refers to her as Precious.  Mrs. P, I suppose.  His one and only daughter with her children visit him often.  Mr. G loves those days.

He's a simple man.  He loves jello and noodles.  He still drinks tap water and scoffs at the notion people buy water in bottles.  He has a landline telephone and thinks smart phones are stupid.  He has 5 channels to choose from on his television and thinks 4 of them are unnecessary.  Mr. G has a VCR.  It was a gift from an old friend.  He loves watching Singing in the Rain.  He has a laptop.  His screen saver is a picture of Mrs. P.  Her giant face engulfs the whole 14 inch screen.  It's the only reason he bothers turning it on.  He can stare at her for hours and reminisce. 

"Mrs. P used to love taking walks.  The Arizona sunset is a glimpse into heaven", he says as his voice cracks.  Mr. G doesn't talk about the old war or how things used to be.  He doesn't mention what is wrong with my generation or the world today.  Mr. G only likes to talk baseball and Mrs. P.




As I was exiting the funeral for Mr. B, I felt compelled to walk up to his best friend and simply shake his hand.  Thank you, I said.  I wish I knew Mr. B.  This generous stranger with the firm handshake, looked me dead in the eyes and said, "If you're lucky enough to meet one great man in life, make it your mission to breathe him in.  Listen, observe and follow his example.  If you never meet greatness, become it."

Easier said than done.




A few days ago, Mr G fell down.  Those legs, his joints, his bones; these body parts that held him together during the world's greatest war, finally succumbed to age.   Upon his fall, his daughter was called and he was rushed to the emergency room.  Surgery is usually the last resort for men in their nineties.   But it had to be done.  And he pulled through.

Mr. G has now been admitted to a nursing home.  His final days or months or years are now in the hands of others.  A man that once fought for our freedom has now lost his. 

A visitor inquired about his new home as she paid him a visit.  Next to his bed is a bottle of Aqua Fina water.  Mr G says, "it tastes like shit".  And she laughed. 

He's not going to make it, the doctor says. 

He doesn't want to is more like it.

Mr. G wants to see Precious again. 

Everyone is going to miss him.  Well, those of us lucky enough to have spent any time with him.  For now, we will just breathe him in.

And hope we can exhale some of that air of greatness onto others when he's gone.

For him. 

Mister G. 

Busy People

I can't watch television without being on the computer.  I can't eat without being online.  I can't write without music in the background.  I can't drive without the radio.  I can't sleep without noise.  I can't focus without distraction.  I can't think without preconceived notions to challenge my critical thinking skills. 

And I can't love without hope.

And I can't believe without love.

I used to wonder how people fall out of love.  Everything from they became too busy and simply grew apart to they weren't busy enough and some idiomatic indictment about idle hands being the devil's workshop would follow.  I'd hear these claims of one smothering the other; one of the two being too needy.  Then, I would hear some metaphorical mantra of that which is not nurtured cannot grow. 


I can say with such clarity that every woman I have ever loved, I still love them today.  From when 15 year old me loved that big bangs and denim skirt wearing 15 year old girl to the woman I love today.  All of them are still loved by me.  And I can't imagine a day when I'll stop.


I used to come home from work only to be greeted by the best dog a man could own.  That excitement, maybe, it was passion... whatever, it was; nothing was better than being wanted to be seen by him.  On occasions, during the day as I worked, he would chew up furniture, get into the trash and make a mess out of my house.  I just figured it was a typical case of canine separation anxiety or simply, boredom.

One day, it all stopped.  I came home from work and he was nowhere to be seen.  No greeting.  No mess.  I searched for him and eventually, found him in my bathtub; all stretched out asleep.

His comfort suddenly outweighed his enthusiasm for me.  It became a reversal of roles immediately.  It was me jumping on him and trying to lick his face.  It was me showing my excitement to be home to greet him.

I began to miss his neediness.  He certainly didn't love me less but he found something that was keeping him busy. And that was... sleeping in a bathtub.


As Buddy got older, less agile and his cancer was draining all his strength; his enthusiasm for me never waned.  I would come home from work and there he was; laying right by the door for me.  His bathtub phase was a thing of the past.  Sure, he couldn't jump like his younger self but those loud thuds of his tail were all I needed to hear to know how he still felt about me.

I would unlock my front door and carefully open it.  If he was laying too close to the door, I would squeeze through the tiny crack so not to hurt him.  I would put my keys into my pocket, bend down and spend a few minutes with him.  He would look up at me with these kind eyes; listening intently as his tail kept hitting the floor.    And then before I could move on through the rest of the house, he would lick my hand.

This was our routine the last couple months of his life.

It's an amazing feeling to know unconditional love be it from a significant other, a family member or simply, a pet. 

I don't think we are really ever prepared for all this constant change throughout life.  One minute, we are madly in love with someone.  The next minute, that once fiery flame is a flickering low lit candle.  And some people give up despite a flame still existing.

I suppose where a light still flickers, hope still exists. 

I prefer the simpler days before technology took us over.  Those days we had to earn affection.  Maybe, at the time, I didn't appreciate the effort involved in finding a pay phone to call that person whose voice I wanted to hear.  I certainly, as a young kid, hated having to fight with my mom for use of our one and only rotary phone.  This was long before call waiting and cordless phones, pacing back and forth waiting for her to finish her call and leave our living room so I could have a few minutes to hear that someone's voice.

I prefer the days where text messaging seemed impossible.  I don't like that my attention span is shot and that multi-tasking has become an euphemism for time management. 

I hate the excuse of being busy.  And it is an excuse.  If we are too busy to spend time with our loved ones or making an effort for real communication, it's merely a choice of priorities.


My fondest memories of my dog, Buddy, were his final days.  To watch a dying best friend find the strength and deep seeded love for me to make an effort to greet me each evening is something I will never forget. 

I suppose dogs recognize time better than we do.  Maybe, they know they have a decade or so to live and then its all over.  They certainly do not know the word regret.

And they are definitely not familiar with the term busy.

Say Yes

remember what i put you through
and remember that i remember, too

say yes

like romeo and juliet
staring up at the moon's silhouette
they both knew it wasn't over yet

say yes

i'm selling the dream
to bankrupt eyes
painting a picture of things unseen
may seem unwise

say yes for those
who never walked in our shoes
say yes for those
who always lose

like the omnipotent cannibal and His only son
don't think too much
enjoy this communion

this is my body, this is my bread
the living flesh will never taste better dead

say yes

for the sun and the moon
who were once in love
now, they're billions of miles apart

you and i
we deserve a better fate
say yes from the heart

like romeo and juliet
caught between a spider's web
and a butterfly net
they both knew it wasn't over yet

say yes
love me more never love me less

remember what i put you through
and remember that i remember, too
then remember that i did confess

how i won't put myself through that again

say yes 

 

Iconic Image of Irony

I can't
Not anymore

Tell the pigeons I'm out of bread
Tell the man on the corner I am out of change
Tell the voices in my head
I can't
Not anymore

I'm standing on the moon
I'm wearing Saturn's ring around my finger

And I can't
Not anymore
Be your universe

Tell the pigeons I'm out of bread
Tell the disciples I have no wisdom to disperse

It's friday o'clock a half past noon
My lunar cycle is raging
And time is standing still
And the silence is exhilirating

But I can't
Not anymore

Tell Cupid he can have his arrow back
Tell Mother Nature I am off to bed
Tell Father Time I've been a good son
Tell the voices in my head

I can't
Not anymore

I'm surrendering to the French
I'm addicted to the irony

And I won't
Not anymore
Be your whipping boy

Tell the pigeons I am out of bread
Tell the gods I have spent their joy

And I can't
Not anymore
Be

the iconic image
of irony

Feeling Sunny

When I am feeling down, I find myself looking for a reason to go to my bank.

The branch for my local bank is located in a tiny suite in a large Business Center.  They have the same two tellers always working.  Both of whom, I swear have a crush on me.

Now, in reality, I realize they don’t have a crush on me but because I am a man and men tend to think every woman that smiles at them has a crush on them, I will just stick to my theory that they both want me.

But, I will pretend for now that their job is simply to be appear overly excited to see me and that I am their favorite customer.  But I know better.  They want me.  In fact, all women who smile at me are simply smiling at me because I turn them on.  And if a woman is rude to me or not smiling, she is obviously a lesbian.

Ironically, the woman who opened my account at my bank and is the teller I ALWAYS go to, is named Sunny.   It fits her perfectly.  Not only is she very attractive but this woman is always so happy; happy to see me.  As soon as I walk into this tiny branch, no matter if there is a line or not, Sunny always loudly says, “hi <First Name>, It’s great to see you.”

She knows my name.  Sunny knows my name.

She makes me feel important.  Significant.  She makes me feel good.

Whatever it is she has; it is contagious.  I walk into that bank feeling a little down and I walk out; feeling better.  Temporarily.

I suppose her parents knew something the day she was born.  Either Sunny had to live up to that name and she succeeded or she came out of the vagina laughing and smiling and her parents said, “let’s call her Sunny.”  Either way, Sunny does her name justice.

But I wonder about Sunny.  I wonder about a lot of people I know or meet.  Does Sunny turn off this happy disposition at 5:00 when she goes home?  Is she just doing her job and being overly friendly or is she like this at all times?

When we talk, I always look her straight into the eyes; looking for just a tiny glimpse of sadness or hurt.  I look for something that tells me that Sunny isn’t as sunny as she appears to be.  I have yet to crack the code.

I could never work at her bank.  I wear my emotions on my sleeve.  If I am angry, you know it.  If I think you are a giant douche, you know it.  If I am feeling down, it will be written on my face.  I can’t fake happy.

Maybe Sunny is exactly who she appears to be.  Maybe, she has an Arizona disposition while I have a Seattle one.  Maybe, she is one of those rare and genuine half glass full people; not the ones who fake it here on Facebook or those who walk around in the real world giving motivational speeches about how grand life is all the while, when they are home alone, they think of all the ways to off themselves.

Maybe, Sunny is genuinely excited about everything.  Especially me.

Either way, I find a temporary  ray of hope and sunlight when I walk into that bank.  That ray is named Sunny.

Maybe, all parents should name their child Sunny or Sonny, if it’s a boy.   We could all aim for a self-fulfilled prophecy.

Personally, I couldn’t handle too many Sunny’s in my life.  I have a need to fix people.  Obviously, I fail at it; but I have a need to be needed.  I suppose if I am needed by someone then I feel wanted.  And If I feel wanted, then I feel loved.

Need= Want= Love.

It’s a flawed equation.  But it’s an equation many of us believe.  But only some of us realize this.

I realize that love is not equal to being wanted or needed but I still strive to be needed and wanted in hopes that my reward is being loved. 

I can name every woman I have ever loved and tell you where I went wrong.  I could tell you how I have tried to fix many people and have failed every time.  But I never tried to fix them for them; I did it for me.  My self-worth.  Selfishness disguised as charity.

Over the last few years, I have learned how to love; how to give love without caring if I am rewarded.  I am trying to put aside expectations; trying to love first and let go of everything else.

Love= want= need

Life is one battle after another.  Too many of us try to do things alone.  Some of us try to fix everyone hoping to attain love.  Everything is backwards.

Every time I go to the bank, Sunny says, “Come back soon.”

I swear that woman loves me.

It helps me sleep better at night believing that.

Speak of the devil

Speak of the devil, here I am.  A state of contrition is where I've been.  You love me, you hate me.  Here, we go, again.  Robotic responses never seem genuine.  I'd rather you kill me than ignore me.  It seems silly; our story.  I'd rather die of this cancer than live with this medicine.  Speak of the devil, I'm not your friend.

Your god does not exist but mine does.  We both can speculate on who's wrong as we discuss what once was.  How we got here used to be unimaginable.  Can we remain amicable?  I'll even settle for civility.  Oh the humanity, speak of the devil. 

Give me a minute to play devil's advocate.  Your water to wine miracle is your apathy from passionate.  Even on this cross, I still feel inadequate.  And if you're expecting some second coming, I won't be around for it.  Speak of the devil, I'm just some televangelist.  I could cure you of this and cure you of that.  Like all those disciples, you're just a sycophant.  The end of our world is imminent.

Not once did I ever question your devotion.  Not until you began to go through the motions.  You speak of the devil as if you're some theologian.  When you and I both know that faith only belongs in the hands of the hopeful.  Maybe in the middle, there is some common ground.  Speak of the devil, I'm sorry to let you down.

God Beauty.  God Money.  God Celebrity.
Speak of the devil, I'm laughing hysterically.

Give me a minute to play devil's advocate and offer you some sympathy. 

Sorry to interrupt as you drink from the devil's cup.  The optimist says, it's half empty.  And no matter how much you drink, it will never be enough.

Your god does not exist but mine does.
He's the same as he ever was. 
And just to make myself clear
Speak of the devil and he will appear.

Losers

The loser in you speaks so eloquently.  What is deemed pathetic is only synthetic to the naked eye.  How could I and the loser in me argue with you so desperately?  I've got my hands in my pockets. You've got one chance to succeed before I rip out your heart just to watch you bleed.  What is deemed poetic is merely prophetic to the deaf ear.  The loser in you does not belong here.

Running scared.  Standing still.  It's the same destination.  We're all hostages to this cosmic free will.  What the universe won't tell you while God is on vacation is we've got to surrender without hesitation.  But the loser in you succumbs to the bastardization of some unspoken prayer.  And the loser in you is now a disciple of temptation while the loser in me is bound by limitation.  And I don't belong there.

When I debate with the loser in me, all truth is lost in its ambiguity.  The loser in you is welcome to enter the fray.  You're welcome anywhere as long as you stay.  No matter how pungent, the truth is always a bouquet. 

I think I'm ugly and verifiably weak, the loser in you dares not to speak.   I'll trade you my ego for your mystique.  What the universe won't tell you is this karmic curse is just a loser's winning streak. 

The loser in you is in love with the loser in me.  That loser will lose her eventually.  And we can exchange pleasantries and affectionate words but at the end of the day, we are merely left with the verbs.  


And I would think by now, we would know better.  But the losers in us will always stick together.

You speak so eloquently.  What is deemed pathetic is truly aesthetic.  Your words are music to me. 

Memoirss: Perspective

It was in the waiting area of one of those really cheap hair cutting places when I started to listen.  And I mean, really listen..

I was thumbing through a copy of Seventeen magazine; learning about periods and proms.  I said, This 13 year old girl wants to know if you can pregnant while having sex during menstruation.  Really, it wasn't that fascinating.  Meanwhile, he was talking about getting better.  How determined he was.  He mentioned death.  I talked about periods.  At some point, he asked, What do you want most from this life?
And I replied, I want you to stay.

At that exact moment, another patron walked through the salon door and the wind from outside blew the magazine out of my hands.  And the lady donning a beehive haircut called his name.

He chose to have his head completely shaved which I found wise; considering we were in a place where mediocrity is always the final result.  Maybe, he considered that a fresh start.

I picked up the Seventeen magazine and started reading about peer pressure.  Some predictable article; most likely written by some middle aged woman, lecturing kids about the dangers of allowing others to dictate your decisions.  I was killing time.

I was reading a letter to the editor regarding the suicide of some unnamed girl's 15 year old friend.  About three paragraphs were dedicated to the memory of this lost soul.  I could feel her anguish in every poorly constructed sentence.  And I admit, my eyes filled up. 

His haircut was done in about five minutes.  He walked to the waiting area, looked at me and questioned why a 30 year old man was reading something called Seventeen.  Dead man talking.  That is the best way I can describe that moment.

Stories are always better told backwards from the last page to the first.  If you want a guaranteed happy ending. 

I always feel a little guilty when I talk about him over and over and over and over and over again.  It doesn't even hurt anymore.  Well, I suppose it does a little.  It's just these random memories come flooding back to me; no matter how hard I've tried to build a dam to stop those waves from dragging me under.  

I never wanted anything from him.  I had no expectations or demands.  I didn't even care if he changed or evolved or grew up.  Really, I just wanted him to stay.


Now, that I'm older and considerable time has passed, I find blessings in things I once lamented.  For example, my father.  It's a good thing I never met him.  Kids really only have one expectation of their parents and it revolves around that word stay.   And that expectation goes on past our childhood.  My own mother still cries about her father who died at the age of 91. 


We are always given happy beginnings, happy middles but then the end, suddenly, our perspective changes.  Our dog dies.  A parent leaves us.  Our soul mate departs.  A friend exits life too early.   And we mourn for those losses.  And suddenly, the tone of our stories change

It's like we forget every moment that led us to the final page.  As if all the chapters before the last one meant nothing.   That's the paradox life presents.  We can't ache or mourn unless we've loved. 


I find myself staring at a blank screen so I clear my head.  I shut off the world and I let those inner voices or angels or demons of that moment guide my words as I type.  And I do this until I come to some conclusion or some type of momentary closure.  And more often than not, I find myself talking to the dead more so than I do to the living.  And sometimes, I am ashamed I share the final product with anyone.  And then I conclude that when my time is up; these words, these stories will be what remains of me. 

His last words were to me were I'll see you soon.

I hope he's right.

Monsters

I had just awoken from one of those deep sleeps; those types of sleep where you have three dreams, one right after the other.  Completely exhausted, I sat at the edge of my bed recalling each and every detail of those dreams. 

I have this weird feeling she doesn't love me anymore.

I laid my head back down onto the pillow; hoping to catch a wave to another dream; a better one.  Futility sinks in and I come to the realization it's time to get up.

Still without my equilibrium, I stumble into the kitchen.  I open the refrigerator door and just stare into its belly.  Nothing comforting stares back at me. 

I have this sick gnawing feeling that she doesn't love me anymore.

I drag my bare feet across the hall and wander into the bathroom.  I bend down, turn the shower on.  Hot.  Cold.  I can't find any middle ground this lonely September morning.  But it's okay.  I disrobe.  One foot after the other steps into the cold shower and I rush to finish.

It's going to be one of those days, I tell myself as I stare at the blank face in my mirror.  I'm not good at detaching myself from those I love. 

I find myself laughing aloud when I realize I am wandering around the house with nothing on.  I am not even sure what I am looking for but I just keep walking from one room to the next. 

I have this weird feeling that all this time, I was really alone.  Despite any words that have ever been said, no matter the degree of affection on a given day, it's become all too clear.  Maybe, I have this bad habit of making myself out to be a martyr.  It's easy to believe accusations thrown your way from someone who claims to know you. 

She doesn't know me.   I have this burning instinctive voice that tells me she never tried.

I find something practical to wear.  No need to look good for myself today.  I'm not going anywhere.

I've got some friends behind this 14 inch screen and I suppose today is the perfect day to hang out with them.  I am a god of this virtual world.  Well, we all are, I suppose. 

With a click of a button, another reality awaits.  It's this land of friendly faces and self-absorbed monsters.  I doubt these monsters exist in the real world.  Something about phony praise and extreme superlatives turn regular almost abnormal people into these over exaggerated versions of themselves.  Self esteem and self worth ride on a few disingenuous typed words. 

And I've witnessed it all in this surreal place.  Talent, creativity, beautiful, funny... these words have all been redefined.  And it makes me want to stay because the real world is a little more cruel.  Well, both worlds are cruel if I really think about it.

I have this weird feeling that she would love me again if she stepped foot into this other world.  I'm much more tolerable there.  And funnier.  And smarter.  Because they told me so.

Every monster has an ego.  The smaller the ego, the larger the monster.  Socially awkward introverts run from plain to plain waving their arms in the air and the rest of us, for some damned reason, keep feeding them.  And I suppose we, the judgmental ones, attempt a little balance.

Being a god in a virtual world is empowering.  I can silence anyone with the off button.  I can kill without committing a crime.  I can comfort with mere words without wasting an ounce of energy.  I can pick and choose which prayers to answer.  I can be worshiped by some and hated by others. 

Indifference is left on the outside by those who claim to love us.

And I have this sick gnawing feeling, I have become an after thought.  So, I thank the real God for this other world because it's there and only there, where I can make myself heard.  And felt.  And sympathized with.  And martyred.

I'll take a nap at some point today.  I have a few dreams I have yet to finish.

And I have this weird feeling that she loves me much more than she cares to admit.






 

The Procrastinator

I took some time to grow up, to move ahead, to become who I was meant to be.  I don't mean to be so abrupt but this cannot go unsaid; you are much more beautiful without me. 

I look at him.  I look at you.  I look at them.  What am I supposed to do? 

I took some time to make mistakes, to make new friends and to pave some lonely road for no one to travel on.  At no point, did I foresee this day or regret that one but I would be wrong if I said I thought nothing of it.  I suppose I could follow each commandment but do not expect me to never covet.  Truth be told, you are so much more beautiful without me.


Pay phone, pouring rain.  You know the story. 

A hypothetical if
A theoretical thought
You are much more beautiful without me.


You took some time to find yourself, to identify your wants and to become who you were meant to be.  I suppose if I was anyone else, you'd look much more beautiful with me.  I tell myself when I look at you that God did you a favor.  Silly me, the procrastinator, said let's discuss us later.

And there you are.  Exactly how I remember you.
But so much better.

You took some time to perfect that smile, that charm, that inherent goodness only some possess.  I look backward as I move forward and I digress.

Silly me, the procrastinator, has found the time to now confess.

But you are much more beautiful without me.


Rinse, wash, repeat.
A hypothetical if.  Bittersweet.

Pay phone, pouring rain.  You know the story.
Silly me, the procrastinator, will call you later.

You are so much more beautiful without me.

How to train your Robot

We can agree to disagree that some things cannot be broken.  Straight from the box to those little talks, I was nothing but soft spoken.  It's what I thought you wanted from me. 

Never say forever once your robot is pieced together.  Let him only breathe your air.  Never say you care.  There's leverage in everything. 
Break his heart before he grows one.  Take his emotions before he shows some.
Don't let your robot become embarrassing.

What is not nurtured cannot grow.  What is tortured will not go.  There should be no conditions when kindness is involved.  One of many things your robot should never know.  Who needs love from a pretty fuck machine?  What is disarmed cannot avenge the unforeseen.

Before I go, before you leave, accept my sincerest apologies.  From all those spoken and broken dreams to my misguided everything; forgive all my unmentioned atrocities.  We can agree to disagree that some things cannot be rewritten.  Straight from the box to our little talks, immediately I was smitten.  It's what I thought I believed.

Never leave your robot alone in thought.  He may come to terms with his humanity.  If he comes close to your tender spot, crush his curiosity.  Never let him know you hurt.  Never become more human than you can bear.  Most of all, never let your robot know you care.

What is invisible to the eye can be heard if we truly listen.  What is miserable cannot be disguised.  Never tell your robot you ever miss them.  Some words will never leave their system.  Do not disturb the serene by falling in love with your pretty fuck machine.  What is disarmed cannot avenge the unforeseen.

Never say forever once your robot is pieced together,

Never remember he's a man and not a machine. 

We can agree to disagree that it's time to disassemble your robot.  Straight from the box to our little talks, you were and are all I could ever want.

One of Us

In a matter of minutes, Facebook was flooded with commentaries and condolences for Robin Williams.  Within that span of time, I received a couple of text messages with the news; including one from a friend who hasn't texted me in over a year.  And of course, I followed suit and sent out a text of my own to someone else.

Everyone wants to be Paul Revere.

It's become some sort of a ritual in this age of instant communication and viral news:  A celebrity dies and within minutes, everyone knows.  Then, those with limited vocabularies break out words like devastated and crushed.

But this was different.  This was one of those rare moments when someone famous dies and it feels personal. 

I'll be honest and admit I was never a big fan of his comedic work.  He was the original Jim Carey; loud, obnoxious and a little overwhelming for my taste BUT he had me, he lured me into his brilliant and versatile talents with his serious roles.

There are only two movies with one scene in each that have ever given me chills:  The latter being when we realize Bruce Willis is dead in The Sixth Sense and first and foremost, the infamous Oh Captain My Captain scene in Dead Poets Society.

I suppose the reason most celebrity deaths hit us hard is we have attached certain figures to certain memories.  As soon as I heard the Robin Williams news today, I immediately was transported back to my senior year of high school in 1989.  I relived that moment of sitting in a theater with some friends trying to appear unaffected by this poignant and emotional movie called Dead Poets Society.  Poetry is so gay, I whispered to a friend.  He said nothing back.  And I felt foolish trying to prove to a friend that I was a tough guy.


I suppose the reason Robin William's death feels so different that any other recent celebrity death is because he was one of us.  Most celebrities seem unapproachable; living these perfect lives.  This man was flawed.  He was human.  His demons didn't lurk in the dark.  He exposed them to the light of his audience.  Us. And he never apologized.

It isn't unique that a comedian would kill himself or suffer from drug addiction.   Drugs and suicide are the occupational hazards of being a comedian.  And there's this ominous paradox where most comedians tend to be introverted but crave the spotlight while using humor as nothing more than a defense mechanism to mask their own darkness.  And on some level but to a lesser degree, that is something I can personally relate with.

I was introduced to Robin Williams during his ill placed cameo on Happy Days.  At the time, as a young boy, it didn't really occur to me how ridiculous some alien showing up at Arnolds and freezing the whole Happy Days gang really was but maybe it was simply because I was distracted by the fact that his alien powers were no match for the Fonz.  Those powerfully cool trademarked thumbs up sign by the Fonz were simply unfreeze-able. 

And looking back now, maybe that whole Happy Days scene between the Fonz and Mork was a perfect illustration of who Robin Williams was... just a flawed human being who seemed larger than life but in reality, he was just one of us.

Better Place

I thought about those two words for the longest time.  Honestly, I still do.   I see them everywhere.  Every time, someone leaves us, those two words force their way out of everyone's mouth.  Every time, goodbye is inevitable, there they are again. 

I thought it might be easy for them atheist folks until I heard them speak.  Well, until, I listened as they spoke.  Such anger, with such religious fervor, those non believers regurgitate the hymns of fear.  That's the thing about anger, it's just a secondary emotion and it's always a result of fear.

When you're on your death bed and the end is inevitably near, perspective changes.  Logic and truth finally divorce each other from the arrogant vows they made long before.  Really, it comes down to those two words.


Everyone thinks they're interesting.  Everyone is always telling the storyteller next to them they should write a book.  I suppose, we are more ordinary than we believe.  I suppose, we are also more unique than we realize.  But we're all the same.


I was 12 years old and mom was leaving town for the weekend.  Her only instructions to me were a demand that I go to church on Sunday.  No other rules.  No curfew.  No expectations.  Just make it to church on Sunday.

Sunday arrived.  It was pouring rain.  Football was on. I had a major dilemma.   So, I jumped on my bicycle, rode 2 miles in the downpour, got to church.  Ran inside the foyer, grabbed the Sunday bulletin and rode my bike back home.

Problem solved.  Now, I had proof I went to church.  Mom never mentioned anything about staying for the sermon. 

Loopholes are always sought by the young.  

As I placed that now soaked church bulletin on our kitchen table, those two words were staring right at me as I glanced over the weekly church members obituary section.  They resonated with me.


Years, okay, two decades later, I heard them again echo throughout a crowded sanctuary.  I was sitting alone in a sea of friends, acquaintances and former party colleagues.  It was a matter of pride and a more comfortable way of grieving. 

How did we get here?  How did we let this happen?  Those were my thoughts.

He could have written a book if he ever finished writing his story.  But like all ordinary men, they die early.  And tragically.  It's easy to fail. 

I like the idea of those of us left behind getting to finish his book simply so his story was not unfinished in vain.   

He's in a better place filled with unaccomplished authors.  A place where talent is over rated and potential is a dirty word.

If this life is all there is, we should make the most of it.  And if this life is merely a speck in a time and nothing really matters in the grand scheme of everything, we should still make the most of it.  No one really dies.  I don't believe that.  I think a true reflection of one's life comes after we are gone as people recollect their moments with us; as memories are retold over and over again; as our names are mentioned and others are flooded with emotion be it anger or hate or love or admiration.

I think there is a better place for us when we die.  Maybe, it's not heaven.  Maybe, it's just simply the fact, we will always be remembered for something.  To truly die, one has to be forgotten.  No one ever is.

When I sat in that crowded sanctuary as we all said our final goodbyes to that unaccomplished author and beautiful friend, I did not relive his moments of weakness or count any of his self-perceived flaws.  I thought of every moment where he was the good friend and man he was.  I thought of his uniqueness and not of the ordinary way he left us.

He is in a better place. 

At least, with me, he is.

Stop

I draw strength from you,  Inspiration, too.  Let's talk about how we once were instead of what became of you.  I'll count backwards starting at thirty two.

Thirty one, face down like a martyr with a thorny crown.  What if I had told you that everything always gets better even when it gets worse?  Look around, every damn thing hurts. Thirty, my angels versus your demons.  Twenty nine, we stop.  Things should not look better in reverse.


I draw hope from you.  Love and faith, too.  Let's talk about how we once were instead of what we are now.  I said, I loved you before I knew you.  You questioned how.  What if I had told you then that a day would come where you'd be slightly disengaged?  That day is now. 

Your face, you hide it well.  Behind some well manicured veil.  Hey, I never cared about those types of things.  Beauty is immeasurable like forgiveness.  I confess as I dangle on unattached strings.  You've got your busy life, I've got my mood swings.  I sway in the nothingness between us.  Stop, notice me before I drop.  Never mind, I'll just wander in the desert of once was.


I draw anger from you.  Hate, too.   Everyone drowns on a sinking ship.  But hey, it's the price we pay for a twenty year trip.  But hey, those battle scars are reminders of certain things; things I will never talk about.  Stop, I remind myself, with all this rage and doubt.  You dug your own grave.  I was merely a passerby.  And I float in the nothingness of how it once was.  And I go to the place of I told you so but you can't hear me.  I'm angry and I'm weary.  I draw strength from the negativity.  And I stop at the door of peace but I never knock.

Your walk was years ahead of your own feet.  Look at them; inconsolable and incomplete.  You did that.  We start out as friends and stop at sycophant.  And I contemplate what we really had.

I draw hope from your indifference.  It's a defense mechanism, I suppose.  Deluded dreams and polluted streams suck the marrow out of the nothingness in me.  It's apropos that we've become typical and ordinary.  Let's stop and return to the place we used to be.
or just stop and notice me.