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.


 

Tomorrow

I want to love you until you hate me, I said.

Self-fulfilled prophecies drip from the tips of bloody fingers. 

I wrote her a letter.  And I mean, wrote it with my bare hands.  Pen, paper and a stamp.  And I questioned my own sanity.

I found her sitting on the curb in front of a convenience store.  Head, between her legs.  Softly, I asked her what she needed. 

Change, she replied. 
And you, she added.

She used to talk about her father in Jesus like terms.  I could not relate.

Well, honey, let's do it.  Let's talk about tomorrow.  And we debated over its existence. 

I walked two miles to the post office.  Just to mail her that letter.  I believed it would get there much faster as opposed to leaving it in my own mailbox.

I questioned my logic.

Tomorrow is an awkward subject.  On one hand, it does not exist.  On another, it's an illusion when it gets here.  We are always chasing tomorrow even when it's today. 

She thinks I think too much.

I wish you would hate me, I said.  So, I sought uncommon ground.  Like God.  Politics.  Babies.  Anything we disagreed on.

And it worked.

Sure, I came to regret my own act of sabotage.  Who wouldn't?  Look at her.  She's right there.  She's everywhere. 

My fingers are bleeding.  And there's a lump in my throat. 

And I couldn't be more happy.

She got my letter.  Just in time.

The next day, in fact.

Let's call it tomorrow.


And when they say, she's in a better place, I sure as hell believe it. And when I blame myself, I pray to God for a distraction.  And when someone dares to say angels, heaven, God; that none of them exist, I know better. 

And when tomorrow comes up, I always smile.