It's Raining In Seattle

Breaking News:  Kurt Cobain has died.

That little weasel Kurt Loder then interrupted whatever music video I was watching at that moment. 

Before facebook, twitter and the internet, celebrity news, deaths, gossip, and scandals were something you'd hear about from MTV.  Then, if you wanted to be some pop culture Paul Revere, you'd have to pick up your telephone to share the news with a friend.

"It's raining in Seattle and thousands of mourners have gathered in the park to honor Kurt".

I leaned over to Buddy, my black lab, and said, "Did you hear that?  It's raining in Seattle.  No shit, Kurt Loder.  It's a Tuesday".

I was moderately indifferent over this devastating news for my generation. 

I was 22 years old.  I wasn't reckless, relatively speaking.  There was really nothing for me to reflect upon after hearing that the lead singer of one of my favorite bands was now gone.  Forever.  No lessons to lean upon, nothing... Really, my only thought was   well, this sucks.  No more Nirvana albums or music.  I guess it's a lifetime of Smells like Teen Spirit now.  I feel stupid and contagious.  Here we are now, entertain us. 
Something about those nonsensical lyrics resonated with a generation.  Or maybe, it was just the rage behind Kurt's vocals.

The MTV cameras then panned to the faces of hundreds of crying faces huddled together in this Seattle park.  Kids.  High Schoolers.  Whatever.

Look, Buddy.  Everyone is crying.  Let's watch something else.

Just about every channel, at that moment, was reporting on Cobain's suicide.  It was heavy, man.

I threw on my favorite green flannel shirt unaffected by the mere irony of my chosen wardrobe and met up with some friends.  Cobain was barely a topic of conversation.   

A few beers later...  Okay, at 22, surrounded by friends, we think it's a circle that will never be broken.  You don't really focus on death or mortality.  That happens around 15 years old.  Stops at 18.   Returns around 40 years old.

I don't remember much else about that day:  Just a few beers.  Cobain is dead.  It's raining in Seattle.  I will live forever.


Last week, I watched I am Chris Farley.  A moving documentary on the late comedian's life.  My attention span is limited so the mere fact, I watched all two hours of this without being distracted says something. 

He would be 51 years old if he was still around.  Out of everything mentioned during this tribute, that meaningless number resonated most with me. 

My circle of friends; long fractured.  Death, love, time.  Whatever.  None of us speak anymore.

Buddy, that great dog, long gone.

Man, Buddy, I am getting old.  Chris Farley would be 51.  Imaginary conversations are a respectable remedy for moments of reflection and loneliness. 

I was fixated on this documentary.  You know why people loved Farley and Cobain?  It was their vulnerability.  Their humanity.   Reflect on those people who impacted you most in life and vulnerability is and will always be a common factor.  Arrogance, being unapproachable, being self-absorbed, narcissism, they are repellants.  They are traits that make us forgettable.

I am indifferent when most celebrities die because I don't see myself in them.  I see caricatures, cut out versions draped in superficiality.  I don't see human beings.  That's my fault.  Empathy has limits.  Mine stops where vulnerabilty ends.

Here I am, early to mid 40's with more regrets than I can possibly count, finding myself missing so many faces, wishing for a simpler time and cringing at the very thought that my 22 year old self would be disappointed in me now.

Scott Weiland was found dead tonight.  Lead singer of Stone Temple Pilots.  A lesser iconic figure than Cobain but equally as talented.  Slightly older than me.  Could be an older brother.  Or an old drinking buddy.   His face is 20 other familiar faces morphed together as one.  His battle with addiction is something I can relate with...

Vulnerability, man.   It makes martyrs out of the self loathing and humans out of celebrities.

Look, Buddy.  Scott Weiland is dead.  One last walk with you would be appreciated.

It's raining in Seattle. 

Somebody

Somebody's daughter waiting for the train.  One way ticket away from the pain.  Who's to know what is not said?  Somebody's daughter, always in our head.

Everyone, be quiet.  The elephant is in the room.  Birth pains never end in the womb.  Somebody's flower no longer in bloom. 

Looking for color when the sky is gray.  Looking for comfort not found in a cliche.  Somebody's mother retracing her steps. Somebody's movie on replay. 

Say, where do the introverts go?  Somebody's mother needs to know. 

She's waiting.  Negotiating.  Bargaining with God. 
Faith is either a source of strength or a fraud.
She's sufficating. I'm pontificating.  As that train won't stop
Futility is asking the weatherman to make the rain not drop.

Silence.  The elephant in the room is about to speak.  Somebody's innocense has lost her mystique.

Somebody's mother tangled in a spider's web saving her daughter strangled by the strings of a butterfly's net. 

Looking for reason and rationality.  This life is just an informality. 
She's negotiating.  Suffocating.
I'm ponitificating.
The elephant in the room fades into immortality

Say, where do the introverts go?  Somebody's mother needs to know.

Somebody's daughter was waiting for the train.  One way ticket away from the pain.  Consequences, the system's disconnect.  Somebody's mother, victim to the trickle down effect.

Suicide.
Why, unindentified.

Somebody's mother waiting for the train.  To hitch a ride to the other side.

Just to say I love you one more time.

Family Portrait

The first thing I noticed my first time in that house on a Friday night in 1988 was the family portrait hanging in the kitchen.

There were six of them in that family picture. 

I suppose I envied that frame. 

I never had a father so naturally, I've always been reserved around other people's fathers.  At that point in my life, I had never eaten a meal at a table with more than one other person.  I never had to learn to share, be it; toys or affection because I had no siblings. 

My comfort level is and has always been limited. 


First time in that house, that family asked me to stay for dinner.  So, I did.  I said nothing during that meal. 

It was an idyllic setting.  Table set, all the basic food groups in separate dishes to be portioned out to each person.  Prayer before the first bite.  And each family member talking with and to each other. 

I think my hands were trembling the whole time. 


Years went by.  At that point, I could walk into that house without knocking at any hour of the day or night.  And so, I did.  I had my own key, in fact. 

Thousands of meals later and my hands still trembled when I ate with them.

I could write out all these tiny details that still stick with me today.  I could talk about the sheer intimidation I felt even when words of kindness or concern were directed at me. 

None of those details matter. 

They don't know this but they were my family.  A lot of who I am now can be traced to them. 


The older brother whom invited me over for the first time, God bless his soul, befriended me quickly during my junior year of high school.  We were inseparable from that friday night until he left us in 2003.  I could mention how complicated he was or his personal struggles.  I could point fingers in many directions and attempt to dissect what happened. 

None of those details matter.

Last time I wandered the halls of that home, that family portrait still hung in the kitchen.  It had been relatively updated with current hair cuts, better clothes and of course, each were a little older than the original family portrait. 


The one and only time I have ever seen a grown man cry was at the funeral.  He was the silent, stoic and unaffectionate type of father.  Known in many affluent circles for his generosity and charity which his career had enabled him to pursue, he was a humble man.  I believe in my twenty plus years of seeing that man on a weekly basis, we rarely spoke.  I was intimidated by his title of father and he probably believed I was a bad influence on his sons.  Or at least, that is what I imagined. 

If you've ever seen a grown man break down; a man you believed was invincible to the worst this life has to offer... If you have witnessed someone so strong become so fragile...

Well, I isolated myself in the foyer of that church after the service.  Off in the distance, he was barely able to stand.  This six foot six giant of a man wept uncontrollably.  My thoughts raced.  My supposition was he was bearing the blame for his son's departure.  As, was I.  As, were many.

He slowly came my way and hugged me.  Twenty plus years of knowing him and he said more to me during that hug than all the years previously. 

His wife, turns out, took on the role of stoic parent.  She greeted everyone and thanked the hundreds of people who were there.  She smiled.  She held back her tears.  She was grace personified.


It's been twenty seven years since the first time I set foot into that home and caught glimpse of that family portrait. So much has changed.


I'm on the phone earlier today with my own mother.  She's doing her usual manipulative song and dance about her struggles.  I sort of just tune her out because she sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher whenever she speaks to me. 

While she was wah wah wahing on the other end of the phone, deja vu or a sense of irony hit me and I laughed.

Those details don't matter.

What matters, I suppose, is family.

I used to envy that frame that held together that 1988 family portrait.

Now, I am starting to appreciate my own.




Today, he would be turning 45 years old.  I could end this with some cliches or usual platitudes that should be self-evident.  But then, I, too, would sound like Charlie Brown's teacher.

Of all the things, my best friend taught me, introduced me to, embraced me with.... Out of every life changing, character buliding lesson learned from his life and passing...

Letting me be a part of his family was his greatest deed.

God bless his soul. 

Goldfish

Lonely goldfish swimming in your bowl.  Safe from the line of a fishing pole.  Who asked you for complete control?  We all want freedom or at least, parole.

It was the end of september if I remember when I told myself... you're finally at peace and released from your cell.  Call it freedom from your living hell.  In the end, all the moves we make are parallel.  

Told myself it was meant to be.  You're lonely with or without my company.  I used to tell myself you're addicted to a certain kind of sadness and addiction brings some kind of balance.  Found myself drowning in denial.   Just like you, off on some tangents.

Lonely goldfish, you seem so carefree.  What are you thinking when you look at me? 

October came and nothing was the same.  Told myself, its best to take the blame.  A visceral reaction seemed so unfitting.  A cerebral infraction of the brain.  Told myself, time will be the healer.  Lonely goldfish has a name.

I used to wonder about the heavens above.  Found myself conflicted about love.  Angels and devils seemed like a myth; something to blame when we go through things like this. Debating what it means to feel whole. I even pondered the notion of a loving God and if we really have a soul.

I found truth when

lonely goldfish was found floating in his bowl.


 

The Shoebox

There are no friendly ghosts.  Just angry ones. 

I ran to the home of the girl who was raped the night before.  This debate of what to say played in my head.  It was last year, let's move on, I thought.  Then I realized, it all occured after midnight.

I could have married her, I sometimes think.
I should have, at the very least, kissed her.

And the image of what she looked like has been erased from my mind.  She was taller than me.  Not in some awkward way but more model-like.  She was beautiful; that I know. 

A few years later, she gave birth to twins and only the twins left that hospital.  I heard it was a brain aneurysm during labor.  They tried to warn her months before.  Then, they tried to save her.  She is probably the best mother I've ever known.  That could be construed as hyperbole.  That's not my intention.

Those twins; they're out of college.  They've got their mother's character and good genes. 

I wouldn't mind a few minutes with them to recollect but I don't remember much; just an unfortunate crime and a shoebox of handwritten letters she mailed to me.  She only lived two miles away. 

And those letters; they seem a lifetime ago written to someone almost like me. 

I read them for the first time in twenty eight years.  I didn't even know I had them.  They just kind of reappeared during a random search for something else.  My first instinct was to hold one of the letters up to my nose as if I would recapture a familiar scent. 

Then I read her affectionate words.

Of course, there was a lump in my throat.  That's natural.  But I couldn't determine if it was because those words came from her or if it was simply nice to be reminded that I am loveable.  Even if it was what seems a lifetime ago. 

I started to ask myself:  why do we seem to always dismiss those younger than us?  Why do we think that being in love is some adult thing and everything before adulthood is just a meaningless crush or phase? 

My younger self would resist this belief that my current self knows better than him.  I may be wiser now but I'm more careful, less carefree, less intense, more guarded, less affectionate, and more cynical.  I think my younger self was more loveable than my current self because I loved with less judgment and more vulnerability.

I look at the first letter on top of several in this dusty old shoebox and it's dated September 14th, 1987. 
Two years before I would last see her.  Three and a half months before that unfortunate crime.  Four years before giving her twins the gift of life.  Four years before she left us. 

And twenty eight years before she would remind me that not all ghosts are angry.






 

Farewell, Mr. G

We can try to prepare ourselves for the inevitable.  We look down upon the faces of the sick, of the dying, of those who are now not even given a puncher's chance to make it and we tell ourselves we will be ready. 

Ask anyone who has lost a parent or a sibling or a partner or a friend in a long drawn out goodbye how they felt when it was all over.  They'll tell you.

Even the least deluded of people cannot fully prepare themselves for the inevitable. 

11:45 yesterday morning, this theory was put to test.

We all knew Mr. G's time was running out.  Hell, he knew it.  Last Christmas, he was full of life and joy as his loved ones spent the holiday with him.  Everyone in that room knew it was his last Christmas.  It's just a matter of time, we said.  Of course, that's true with all of us. 

When I receieved the phone call yesterday, my heart skipped a beat.  There was a lump in my throat.  Really, I couldn't even talk.  It wasn't surprising he finally let go.  Despite failing health and his lack of will to go on, it still smacked all of us like a ton of bricks in the face. 

The inevitable became reality and it felt like it came out of nowhere.

It seems silly to mourn a man in his nineties; a man I barely knew.  A part of me thinks mourining is just a self-serving word for honoring.  Mourning implies how I am affected; how all of us left behind feel.  Honoring makes it about him and the life well lived he led.

So, despite this selfish need to mourn a man I barely knew yet impacted me in ways I can never fully articulate, I just want to honor Mr. G.


The older a man gets, the more he begins to sound like Morgan Freeman reading a mad lib.  He may not be making much sense but damn, is he calming.  Thats how it was during a conversation with Mr. G.

He was a kind man of exceptional character.  He fought in World War II and was married close to sixty years before his wife had to leave.  From the day she left this temporary world, he spoke of her in present tense.  His love for her only grew each day and the mere mention of her name would invigorate him.  He couldn't wait to see her again yet didn't want to give up on living because that would have disappointed her. 

Mr. G would have made her proud despite these last few months.

Last week, I was fortunate enough to see him.  His skin resembled an old elephant; grayish blue and leathery.  His urine was the color of Guiness.  He could barely speak.  He just laid in bed as each body organ, one by one, started to shut down.

The last image of him I will forever hold dear was the moment he feebly reached out his hand to his son whom sat by his side over the last few weeks.  His son grabbed his hand and they prayed together. 

And a single tear rolled down Mr. G's cheek.


When someone leaves us, the last thing we want is to be immersed into a sea of cliches.  He's in a better place.  Maybe.  At least, his suffering is gone.  Obviously.  Now, he can be with his wife for eternity.  Specualtion. 
I'm sorry for your loss.  Our loss.

The world lost a great man.  One of the last from the greatest generation this country has ever known.


It was an honor to know him.


Farewell, Sir.

Monkey See

When a believer in nothing leaves us, does he come face to face with Jesus?  Does extended grace allow one to plead their case or left to chase the one who deceived us? 

Who strips away the arrogance and chips apart the evidence to recognize a creator?  If a believer in nothing could come back, would they become a martry and crusader?

Monkey see, monkey do.  Truth becomes merely taboo. 

Who's the sinner?  Who's the saint?  Same old problem, new complaint.  Without hope, there are no consequences.  There are no good deeds, no offenses. 

Believer in nothing, still holding on.  Barely afloat, his ship is gone. 

Monkey see, monkey do.  You go down with me, I drown with you. 
Believer in nothing will not be rescued.

Believer in nothing has nothing to gain and everything to lose. 


Monkey see, monkey do.  Free wills' residue.

dear atom bomb

fearless fetus waiting in the womb
skull crushing instrument arrives to make room
while all the people argue over right and wrong
i'm going to write a letter to the atom bomb

dear atom bomb,
please come soon
fearless fetus is not safe in the womb

narcissistic emperor sitting on his throne
pugilistic martyr fighting all alone
orwellian nightmare keeps the saints up at night
dear atom bomb
how did wrong become right?

intelligent fool says faith is not enough
what is evident cannot be seen with eyes wide shut
dear atom bomb
wake us before we self destruct

intelligent fool doesn't see the artist
behind a sky painted blue
intelligent fool doesn't recognize the perfect order
encompassing me and you

dear second coming
please be true

Open Door Policy

Rumor has it, they're separated.

I heard it from a mutual friend.  Coincidentally, not ironically, he knew before me.  I suppose there are many reasons for this.  He's done a better job at staying in touch with all those people from what seems a life time ago.  He hasn't done that one thing I am guilty of:   disappearing.

My first reaction incidentally was a quick ego riddled unspoken I told you so.  I saw this coming before they married.  I imagined this day even when I became an ordained minister for the sole purpose of uniting them under God.  But, I also, hoped I would be wrong.

He's fallen off the face of the map, the mutual friend tells me.  No one can find him.  No one will say anything about what happened or his whereabouts. 
The mutual friend adds, Should we be worried?

No, I reply.

I wasn't in the mood to explain how he is to the mutual friend.  No one knows him better than me.  And I don't say that to brag or to remind him all I have been through with this old friend.

I doubt he will ever surface again.  Reconciliation or not.  He's the kindest man I have ever known.  He wears his heart on his sleeve even to his own detriment. 

I think about him all the time.  Our last conversation took place about five years ago and it lasted six hours in the middle of the night as his wife was out of town.   Every conversation I've ever had with him, I've treated it as if it would be our last one.  And it's because; well, it doesn't matter.



Just over a week ago, I was sitting at a three legged desk in a gritty hotel room. taking inventory of my life.  I found out who my real friends are.... 

Nothing replaces old friends.

With old friends, regardless of time in between conversations, the door is always open.


Rumor has it, he's disappeared. 

There is so much I want to say to him.  Probably nothing different than the last time we spoke or all the times before that.

During our last conversation, we were discussing the passing of an old friend.  He couldn't make the funeral so I filled him in on all the details.  More specifically, how the church was overflowing with people.  I mentioned that three school buses showed up with high schoolers whom he coached and taught. They all came to pay their final respect.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. 

I knew he was crying because that's what he always did.  He's always been a big crybaby. 

When he regained his composure, he said, It's just so ironic.

I knew what he meant.


I will never understand why some of us become more introverted as we grow older.  I don't know why some of us isolate ourselves when we need people the most.  It always seems those who are most loved are the same people who remain the most distant.

I wish I knew how to change that.

I love the open door policy afforded to us by old friends. 

It's a shame we rarely use it.

Endless Loop

At some point, everyone got busy. 

And I just watched the world pass me by.

I fell asleep like I often do when things become too heavy.  I had this dream about heaven.  It wasn't an actual place, though.  It was nothing but all of the best memories I have; tied together in an endless loop.  I had this belief that heaven might be overpopulated but I came to realize, it only consists of a handful of people.

And a dog.  One dog.

It was around the three minute mark when I reached the apex of heaven.  It was these countless I love yous coming from only a few mouths.  Despite so few people who have uttered those three words to me over the span of my life, those three words held a deeper significance than I ever realized.  Once upon a time, I could count on hearing that phrase daily.  Then, one day, it stopped.  I thought how did I become so unloveable?  What changed about me?  In heaven, we don't get answers to those questions because self doubt or even, self loathing isn't included in that endless loop. 

I woke up and my heart was indescribably heavy.  I had forgotten so many names and faces.  I suppose I got so busy and the world just passed me by.

I stretched out my arm to reach my phone.  I desperately wanted to call those people I had just visited in that endless loop.  I couldn't.  For so many different reasons. 

At some point, everyone got busy.  Me, included. 

And the world just passed us by.

Untold Stories: Full Circle

You questioned my ability to recollect history; almost to the point where you insinuated I was a revisionist.  I dismissed your claim because I know, you were speaking from a place of humility.

Sure, words can be flattering.  Seeing yourself through the eyes of another can either be enlightening or shocking.  Depends, I suppose on your self perception.


I was missing for about a month.  Not Amber Alert missing or warranting a space on a milk carton.  I simply vacated my typical routine.  Some noticed.  You noticed.  Your simply inquiry on my departure only confirmed what I've been telling you for over a year.  Both publicly and privately.


Let's stick to the theme that this was an adventure; when in reality, it was chaotic, stressful and a huge blow to my pride. 

I sat down at this 3 legged desk in a gritty hotel room.  I wanted to articulate how destructive pride can be.  So, I started writing because that's what I do.  That's when I am at my most vulnerable and honest.  Pride ceases to exist when I begin to write.  I suppose that's why I need this outlet.

I began, Pack your pride.  Let's go for a ride to nowhere. 
Then I stopped.

I like to get all wordy and rhymy because it's the most challenging for me.  But in this specific instance, I simply stopped after these two sentences.  I suppose I had some breakthrough and realized overkill wasn't necessary at this moment.  Those two sentences really said everything I needed to say at that moment. 

I am not good at brevity.  As you know.

During this adventure, I had a lot of time to reflect.  Most of my thoughts centered around the future and where do I go from here but I would be remiss if I didn't mention I thought about you.  No, I did not dwell on those unanswerable questions like what if nor did I feel a need to bask in your empathy and concern. 

I simply thought about your kindness.

I was right about you 25 years ago and I am still right today.

It's taken me over a year, in bits and pieces, to allow you to see yourself through my eyes.  These last three months, we have come full circle which culminated in your kindness that I spoke about in my first piece about you and for you.

I've got so many stories I will never get to share with you and I am sure you've got plenty more than me. 




http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/04/untold-stories.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/05/untold-stories-numerology.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/05/untold-stories-home-sweet-home.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/05/untold-stories-orphan-year.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/05/untold-stories-final-chapter.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/06/untold-stories-secret.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/06/untold-stories-epilogue.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2015/05/untold-stories-adventures-in-chevy-nova.html

Trap

Coy was I the day we met.  Those boyish charms to soon regret.  Needy me clings so close.  Restrain, embrace, abstain, overdose.  And back and forth, we go. 

A million reasons to not be with me.  If patience is a virtue so is insanity.  My favorite thing about you is you never give up on me.  Wait.  You go your way, I'll go mine.  Back and forth, the hands of time.

Self preservation is a trap.  Bend over backwards so you don't snap.  Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold.    Back and forth, the thermostat.

A million reasons to not be with me.  Just choose one but choose wisely.  Hence.  Therefore.  Acquiesce. My favorite thing about you is you never give up on me.

Between the man I was and the man I should be lies a woman waiting patiently.  Here, there, distant, adjacently.  Back and forth, complacency. 

One reason to not be with you.  Me. 

Self deprecation is a trap disguised as humility.

My favorite thing about you is you never give up on me.

Untold Stories: Adventures in a Chevy Nova

Every night that summer was basically the same routine.  Driving around, windows rolled up, smoke choking the air inside his Chevy Nova as Rush's Tom Sawyer repeatedly played.  God, I hated that song.  Funny thing is if I happen to randomly hear it now, I swear I begin to feel slightly stoned.  Maybe, it's sort of like muscle memory. 

If that Chevy Nova could speak, I bet it would have a lot of funny stories to tell.  The three of us could be personified as any of the characters in Dazed & Confused.

This particular night was really no different than any other in my early twenties with the exception of the music being played as we drove around aimlessly stoned.   I suppose, the pilot of the Nova that night wasn't in a Tom Sawyer mood.  More so, he was a little melancholy based on the fact he was skipping around between every monster ballad he could find from Poison to Guns N Roses to that hauntingly beautiful song House of Pain from Faster Pussycat.  Sad song after sad song being played over his stereo system that was worth more than the car itself.

I have to admit the mood created by those songs with the addition of pot and Milwaukee's Best flowing in my blood stream left me thinking about you.  I knew you were gone.  I had no misconceptions that what I once dreamed of with you would ever come to fruition.  If anything, I just missed you.  My recollection of you is hazy and was even so then but what I do know is that if we are lucky, once in a lifetime, we will meet one person who raises our standards and expectations from that moment on.  You were that girl.

I didn't love you because you were beautiful and you were.  I didn't fall for you because of that little beauty mark that I always sensed you were insecure about even though, vulnerability is an aphrodisiac with me.  I didn't lay awake dreaming of you because you let me talk about myself without becoming bored.  I loved you because you were unlike any girl I had ever known.  I can't even give you specifics what it was about you.  I just know that every moment I was in your presence, I didn't want to say goodbye. 

The last time we spoke, I knew it was our goodbye yet I avoided that word.  Maybe, I hoped, someday, down the road, like right now, we could start what never began.  But I also knew that people like you; those rare remarkable human beings where beauty is external and internal, only come around once.

I was in the back seat of that Chevy Nova thinking about you.  I was wondering who you were with because there was no doubt some lucky guy out there knew what I knew about you.  I was certain he would not let you slip out of his grasp as I had.  There wasn't envy in my wonder; in fact, I wanted the best for you.  I suppose, that's how you know it's love.



My life has been chaotic since the moment I was born.  Funny thing is there comes a short period in our lives when chaos is defined as adventure.  Those years with those friends in that Chevy Nova smoking pot was adventurous.  And I loved every moment.



When you slipped out of my life for what I thought was forever, I began to long again for quiet and stability as I had as a child.  I wanted a simple life with a loving woman, 2.5 kids and a white picket fence.  I think it was that night in the Nova when I determined that this adventure was short lived and one day, I would look back upon it all without remorse but with gratitude.

And I do.

I want to tell you about this adventure I am on now but really, its just a euphemism for chaos.  I was built and bred on chaos but I thrive on stability.  We have these small talks on occasion and it's funny; you still make me want to be a better man.  To this day, you raise my standards and expectations not only of what I expect in others but in myself.  I think it's important that you know this.



We drove around for hours that night and ended up in the middle of nowhere.  I swear for 3 hours we listened to nothing but the saddest songs ever played by a hair band.  When we finally stopped in the desert to finish our cases of beer and bag of pot, the three of us spoke about our aspirations.  Let's call it deep talking; that thing friends do when under the influence.  One of the three of us has reached his dreams.  Sadly, the second friend left us too soon and me, well, I am still trying.

We spent the night in that desert and slept through the burning Arizona sun until past noon.  On the ride home, the pilot of that Chevy Nova decided it was time to go back to his routine:  playing Rush's Tom Sawyer on repeat for three damn hours.  God, I hated that song.

I used to hate routine because of that song.  I suppose the mere definition of adventure is breaking routine.  It's also the same definition of chaos. 

I've got so many stories I will never get to share with you and I am sure you've got plenty more than me.

Godspeed, Mr. G

Mrs. C misses her good buddy.

It's a little heartbreaking to hear a frail 93 year old woman as she inches across the shag carpet in her outdated living room with her walker say those words.  Maybe, the saddest part of her admission is that her good buddy is alive and right next door. 

Mr. G won't leave the house.  He won't go out to eat.  He no longer will open the door for the mail man.  He won't even get the newspaper that is carelessly thrown onto his driveway every single morning.  Mr. G keeps his curtains closed.  If not for his son and his occasional caretaker, he wouldn't even open his mouth to speak. 

Mr. G has given up.  His life is about waiting.  He's impatiently waiting to die.

He's in bed by 8:00.  He awakes early in the morning and immediately walks over to his lazy boy chair in his living room.  He reads his newspaper and watches golf all day in between naps.  His son feeds him and then he's back in bed.  It's his routine. 

Mrs. C misses you, Sir.  Would you like to go visit her?  We ask him in earnest. 

NO!  He snaps back succinctly at anyone who dares ask.

It was just months ago on Christmas when Mr. G was full of life.  Moreso, determination.  He's just simply tired; tired from the loss of his independence, tired from 90 years of life, tired of being sick and tired of waking up each day without his wife.

Mr. G is one of the last great ones.  He's from that generation that knows sacrifice and hard work.  He's from the generation where men and women took their wedding vows to heart as witnessed by his 60 years of marriage before his wife had to leave.  He finds joy in simplicity and thinks technology has caused a disconnect between people.  He doesn't understand this generation nor does he want to.

Every few months, they say Mr. G won't make it.  He always proves them wrong.  This time, he won't.  He doesn't want to.

I miss my good buddy, Mrs. C softly says with a crack in her voice. 

We all do, Ma'am, we reply in unison in one of those rare unrehearsed cosmic moments. 

So long, Mr. G.


Godspeed.

Extinction Event

Enlighten me from your ivory tower.  Frighten me with your tawdry power.  Esoteric me clings parasitically.  In spite of me, I would not change retrospectively.  Go ahead, throw those stones from your glass house.  I''ll just float on that log in your eye. Who's the spider?  Who's the butterfly?  I'll serve my purpose and you serve yours.  Love has gone the way of the dinosaurs.

Here's a match.  Ignite my paper heart.  Let that fire lead you from the dark. 
The dead horse is twitching.  Here's a stick.  Better dead than parasitic. 
Every ivory tower presides a critic.  And every glass house resides a hypocrite. 

Speculate with your arrogance.  I'll wait here as you calculate your "evidence".  Stubborn me clings unyieldingly.  In spite of me, I would not change course willingly.  Go ahead, nail me on some cross.  I'll just resurrect my restraint.  Who's the sinner?  Who's the saint?  I'll worship my God and you worship yours.  Faith has gone the way of the dinosaurs.

Here's some logic.  Tie it in knots.  Where will you turn when the rain stops?  We're all fearful farmers when there are no crops.
The dead horse is twitching.  Here's a stick.  Better dead than agnostic.
Every throne presides a lunatic.  And every church resides a hypocrite.

Surround me with the altruistic.  Drown me with the optimistic.  Stoic me clings fanatically.  In spite of me, I would not give in foolishly.  Go ahead, have the last laugh.  I'll just float in a half full glass.  I have my dreams and you have yours.  Hope has gone the way of the dinosaurs.

There's a distinction between us and them.  In the name of progress arises an extinction event. 
Dinosaurs, they came and went. 

3 Hours

Due to some unforeseen circumstances, I was given the opportunity to spend roughly 3 hours with my mom in her car with just her today.  Now, this might not seem like a big deal.  Parents and kids often do things together even once that kid is an adult.

We all know that something happens to women when they have kids... they become crazy.  Then, as each new year turns on the calender, they become worse than the previous year.  So, once a kid like me is in his early 40's, that mother is full blown annoying and crazy.  This is an exact science and millions of middle aged kids throughout time can attest to this fact.

Now, without getting into detail on why part of my day was spent with her and keeping these unforeseen circumstances as vague as possible, I want to garner some sympathy so anyone who happens to read this can feel my pain.

Let's begin with our trip to Bookmans.  This is some creative thrift store that buys and sells books, records, CDs, movies and musical instruments.  This was my first time in this place and I would have been quite impressed if this was 1987.  The reason this was our first place on our big adventure was because mom wanted to sell some old records that have been gathering dust for decades.  She was under the impression there is a big market for John Denver and other mediocre artists records. 

We arrive at Bookmans.  All of her records are in a huge box.  I, being the super strong and caring son, agree to hide my shame and carry it into the store for her.  After catching my breath, I place the box on the counter and then, mom takes over.

"Good afternoon, Sir.  I have some great treasures in this box.  There are records in here that will make you tons of money.  These are collector's items and I want your best price," mom confidently tells the hippie hourly wage worker.

"Go ahead and have a seat, Maam.  It will take us some time to go through each one and see if any of these are worth anything to us", the hippie replies. 

Mom agrees and decides this is a good time to use their bathroom.  Me, on the other hand, looked around to see what was on their shelves and quickly determined that 1987 seems ridiculous considering how technology has evolved since then. 

I, then, sit down in some retro church pew to get on the internet on my phone to kill time.  Before too long, I start feeling like everyone was staring at me.  So, I looked up and noticed a tacky lion statue was right in front of me.

This fucking lion just stared at me and it wouldn't stop.  When you are already annoyed, a staring lion statue doesn't make me less annoyed. 

After deliberating over whether or not, I should smash that lion statue or simply admire its handiwork, I realized I had been sitting there for 45 minutes and mom was still in the bathroom.  She was taking a shit.

Finally, she emerges from the bathroom with a retarded grin on her face and blames stress for her ill placed timing to poop.  She then walks up to the counter to discuss "big business" with the hippie.

"Maam, we went through all your records and there really isn't much here we can turn around and sell.  However, we will give you 50 cents for the Englebert Humperdink record", the hippie bravely tells my over confident mom.

"You've got to be kidding?" she replies with anger and shock.

The next 10 minutes have been erased from my memory but it was basically, mom negotiating over 50 cents.  The final result was she got 50 cents and the hippie agreed to take the rest of her records off her hands and give her $2.00 in store credit. 

In other words, we spent an hour together so she could make 50 cents and take a crap.

Next stop, the gas station.  Long story short, Arco sells gas for $2.54 a gallon.  That wasn't good enough for mom.  Twenty minutes and 6 miles later, she stops at Costco because it's $2.52 per gallon for gas.  The next 30 minutes was nothing but her bragging about how she saved a quarter despite wasting all that time and gas looking to save a quarter. 

Okay, to be fair; she did make a whopping 75 cents between her record she sold and driving around looking for the cheapest gas station. 

Last stop, dinner.  This involved her crack house of choice:  the casino. 

We walk in the door and some indian welcomes her by her first name.  She's the Norm from Cheers of casinos, apparently. 

Because she's a regular patron there, she had $35 comped to her for a free meal.  Our dinner was free, basically.  Mom spent the whole time on the phone discussing her dog with a friend.  The phrase "my little angel" was used repeatedly as she spoke on the phone.  I was done eating before she even began due to her lengthy phone call about her sweet little piece of shit angel dog.


I know that 3 hours in one day with a parent is a luxury for some.  I also know that an annoying mom is better than a dead one.  That said, I wouldn't wish this day on anyone.  And I didn't even mention her non stop talking in the car about God knows what nor did I mention that she just got her car back today after totaling it a month ago and still found a way to swerve onto a sidewalk because she's the worst driver ever. 

Lucky for her, no one was on the sidewalk she found herself driving on.  Unlucky for me, I wasn't. 

Hero-despite

There are certain things I've never wanted to witness. 

I think my reoccurring thought back on a Thursday in September of 2003 was, I just want one more day. 

Maybe it was my God complex where I tend to believe I can fix people or change the course of what's intended to come.  Or maybe, it was just pure unfiltered guilt.  Whatever.   I know my thought process that rainy Thursday afternoon was no different than anyone else in that overcrowded church. 

My last image of him is blurry.  It's because he was walking away from me with slumped shoulders, head down and a slow gait.  I quietly refer to that image as dead man walking.  He was.  Ten days to turning 33.  He was a defeated man.  

I remember thinking, I will never see him again.  I pride myself in being right.  I am not proud that I was right 24 hours before he left this earth.

One thing I have never wanted to witness was someone I love and care about become defeated.  I hoped and still hope, I don't witness that again.  It haunts you at the most random of moments:  an old song, a familiar building, an alcohol induced moment of longing, or just at 2:30 on a Wednesday morning 12 years later for no particular reason. 

Time heals nothing.  Don't kid yourself.  Those images or memories may become blurry as time moves on but that void only deepens.  Because best friends, family, spouses, first loves, whatever... they are all irreplaceable when they or we move on.  

I often write about my old black lab, Buddy.  I had a dog after him.  I don't write about that dog.  He was no Buddy.  I've had best friends since 2003, I don't write about them.  Certain people own a piece of us long after they are gone.  That piece is taken with them wherever we go after this place.  And the piece of them we own, its stuck right here as a lump in our throat and sometimes, it even surfaces as an awkward smile.  I know this because I can get choked up and smile at the exact same moment when I replay that blurry image of my self defeated best friend walking away for the very last time.  Really, that image has evolved over time.  For years, it was just a weak dead man walking.   Now, he's that wounded gun shot cowboy slumped over on his horse fading off into the sunset at the end of an old western.

He's my hero. 

Despite, so much. 


It was just weeks ago, I muttered moms are dropping like flies.  It's as if everyone my age has a lost a parent recently.  My family, my support system consists of one person:   my mother.  We don't have the warmest of relationships.  She's not the most nurturing, either.  I'm probably not the greatest son.  Whatever.  It doesn't matter.


I think I'm going to die. 
That sentence came across my phone today from my mom.  We live in a world where affection, pain, love, intimacy and fear are articulated by human fingers instead of human voices.  My almost natural reaction was to text her back and ask why.  Almost.

I called her.  She was crying.  I mean, sobbing.  It doesn't matter why but I can say that her reasoning for those inconsolable tears were born of self defeat.  She was ready to give up.  Sixty something years of bad luck or poor fortune or whatever has taken its toll on her. 

She's the reason I don't believe in karma.  Bad things always happen to her.  Sometimes, they are consequences of her own actions but nonetheless, she never gets a break from the universe.

One thing, I have never wanted to witness was my mom feeling defeated.  And I did, today.  This little reminder how fragile and vulnerable she really is broke my heart.  I'm powerless.  We all are.  My God complex is futile.  My pure unfiltered guilt is just an unnecessary anchor.  I learned that today as I listened to her choke on her despair. 

One day, she will be gone.  I will be turning to all my friends who have lost their own; hoping for comfort or at least, just to listen to me.  Really, no one can comfort us when we lose certain people.  Our job is simply to listen.  And I know, I will need those caring ears to simply empathize with me as I tell them...

She was my hero. 

Despite, so much. 





  

Window Shopping

Inadequate mannequin posing on display.  An inanimate skeleton with emotions in disarray.  He's barely noticeable except for the occasional sashay.

"Look mommy, he's got daddy's eyes". 
Precocious little girl is in for a big surprise. 

"Honey, he's just a mannequin; not a human in disguise." 

Mommy's little monster thinks mommy is full of lies.

Curiosity grabs him by the tail.  Down he goes, now everybody knows that the mannequin is really frail. 

"Look, mommy, I told you he was real". 
Precocious little girl is a future puppeteer. 

Bloody mannequin, with broken pride, has a superficial headache. Everybody's friend is someone's potential mistake. 

Untalented mannequin ponders his existence.  An inadequate skeleton is at his best when he keeps his distance.  He's barely noticed as the crowd walks on by.  Precocious little girl refuses to objectify.  Thank God for mommy's little monster and her misguided persistence. 

Inadequate mannequin with his daily mundane routine.    An impassioned specimen has become somewhat of a machine.  Precocious little girl stops to make him laugh.  Inadequate mannequin recaptures his self esteem. 

Inadequate mannequin posing on display.  He's not real, just make believe as some will say.  Inanimate skeleton may doubt his worth or ability on any given day. 

Window shopping will always be an exercise in futility except to the mannequin on display. 

 

Writer's Block

I need some inspiration break my heart.  My imagination has gone dark.  I need some motivation break my heart.  My imagination needs a spark.

Mock me, mockingbird.  Stalk me like I'm a celebrity.  I could use your abuse, my beautiful muse.  I can handle the ugly truth.  Sting me, honey bee.  Bring back my creativity.  The liar's liability is plausible deniability.  Ego overfed.  Return my words to my head.  Catch me in a butterfly's net.  Snatch me in a spider's web. 

I'm floating on peaceful waters.  Rescue me, sinking ship.
We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip.
Sabotage the summer with winter's grip.

I need some inspiration tell me you love me.   My imagination has turned ugly.  I need some motivation tell me you love me.  My imagination has lost its beauty.

Save me, beauty queen.  It's always raining.  God's wet dream.  Break the mood  from nothing to something.  I can always find beauty in a sight unseen.  Crush me, elephant in the room.  My identity is my non de plume.  Ego underfed.  Return my words to my head.  Catch me in a moment of weakness.  Exactly with your sweetness.

I'm sinking with the ship.  Rescue me, peaceful sea.
Release my artistry, winter's grip.

Sting me or bring me honey, my busy bee.  Something is better than nothing.
Tick tock, broken clock
Ego overfed
Return my words to my head, writer's block.

Hypothetical Dinner for Two

Hypothetical dinner for two.  I've got a rhetorical question for you.  What if, years ago, I was on this menu?  Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Hypothetical glass of champagne.  To celebrate my impeccable disdain.  Do you ever think about me?  In between your perfect life and the mundane.
I'm only curious, of course.

Hypothetical ring on your finger.  An admission this juxtaposition may linger.  You say I'm just beating a dead horse.  And I am agreeing, of course. 
Hypothetical awkward silence at first.  The best laid plans of men are rarely rehearsed.  I'll lean on a cinematic impulse.  I'm just dreaming, of course. 

Hypothetical misstep.  Let's refer to it as regret.  A rhetorical quip escapes from my lips.  Do you wish we had not met?  Did I waste too much of your youth?  Indifference is hard to translate but easy to interpret.  Ambivalence, my dear, should never be a secret.  I can handle the truth.  I'm just kidding, of course.

The honeymoon is over, hypothetically speaking.   As we grow older, I find us more intriguing.  The further apart, any signs of affection are often misleading.  We can argue about life but only one of us is breathing.  I'm drowning in hyperbole again.  With certainty, it's just a matter of when.  No one has ever been killed by a dead horse.  Hypothetical remorse is just rhetorical, of course,

Hypothetical dinner for two.  I've got an unconventional question for you.

Do you miss me? 

Cold Cold World

How's it going to end?  Everyone wants to know.   Show me all your faces before I let go. 

Come, come, come, fire me.  Being human isn't all its cracked up to be.  Come, come, come, hire me.  I can be the sweetest devil heaven has ever seen.  

It's a cold cold world, throw the saints into the sea.   While you're at it, discard me. 

How's it going  to end?  We all want to know.   Show me all your sins before I let go.  Mr. Brightside can't satisfy you.  (Not like me.)  Mr. Big Shot can't pacify you.  (Not like me.)  Come, come, come, fire me.  Being yours is too lonely.  Come, come, come, hire me.  I can be a part time anything. 

It's a cold cold world.  The butterflies don't have wings.  The bees make honey and love, it stings.  It's a cold cold world, throw the saints into the sea.  Take God out of the children and have them pray for me. 

It's a cold cold world, take me as I am.  Take the children out of God and you just have an angry old man. 

How's it going to end?  We're all dying to know.  Let me swim with the saints before you let me go.  Come, come, come, over and over again.

Thanks for being my Friend

Thanks for being my friend.

It's easy to gloss over that phrase when a friend speaks it.  I never did.  His vulnerability was as rare as his sobriety. 

I've got a lot of respect for the vulnerable.  Well, I do now.  It's almost heroic, certainly courageous, to be vulnerable.  Be it, a writer.  Or an addict.  Or a single mother.  Anyone, really.

In this narcissistic age of selfies, materialism and an obsession with celebrity, vulnerability is a lost art.


Make it rain, she said.  In not so many words.  The irony of that phone call was I standing in pouring rain surrounded by friends led by the man that would years later thank me for being his friend.   The details aren't really that significant now.   All I remember was her vulnerability.  She wanted comfort.  She needed it. 

Years later, he said, make it stop raining.  In not so many words.  The details don't matter now.  All I remember was his vulnerability.  He was drowning.  Literally.  Well, he did drown.  Figuratively.

Because time fucking flies, I reflect on the two most meaningful people and moments of my life and remember their vulnerability above all else.  And I realize just how powerless we are.  We can't make it rain nor can we stop it.


I don't thank those I love enough for being my friend.  I am not sure any of us ever do.  I think we take each other for granted as if we are entitled to friendships.  I can count my friends on one hand.  As a man that once had countless friends, that is hard to admit.  But I have to.  My vulnerability is really all I have to give to anyone. 

Back in 2003, the last words of that friend were I will see you soon.  I knew he was goddamned lying.  As I watched him fade off into the distance into the home he would never leave again, I wanted to thank him for being my friend.  I didn't.  I couldn't.  It's my greatest regret. 

I couldn't save him.  I had nothing to offer of substance, really.  I couldn't stop the rain, so to speak.  But I did have the power to thank him.  And I didn't. 

Thanks for being my friend.

Twenty four hours before his last breath, seated across from me in a small family owned pizza place, those words randomly came out of his mouth mid-conversation.  He didn't pause to wait for a response.  He stated those five words and then finished his story about God knows what.  I can't even tell you what we talked about during those three hours over dinner but I do remember that quick proclamation he made. 

As I stated, his vulnerability was as rare as his sobriety.  As was mine at the time. 

Fast forward now twelve years later and it's really my last memory of him.  Well, it's the only one I choose to remember.  Everything else is inconsequential now. 

I could sum up everything I attempt to write with one sentence: Thanks for being my mom.  Thanks for being that girl I fell in love with at the age of sixteen.  Thanks for being my dog.  Thanks for loving me now.   Thanks for loving me then. Thanks for choosing me when you deserve better.  Thanks for missing me when I'm not around.  Thanks for seeing something in me I don't see in myself.   Thanks for being one of those friends I can count on one hand.  Thanks for being one of those countless friends of long ago.

Everything ever written is either a proclamation of gratitude or a genuinely heartfelt apology. 

Everything written is either a cry for the rain to stop or a veiled supplication for the rain to begin.

Thanks for being my friend should be everyone's last words.  Anything else is meaningless. 

Almost

I met her where the Good Lord put her.  I loved her; never understood her.  I'll forget her later rather than sooner.  We were so close.  Almost. 

Introverted elephants standing in the room.  Misinterpreted arrogance coming into bloom.  He says, she says, we were meant to be.  Herded pachyderms rushing recklessly.  Nobody speaks up until it is too late.  Then it's I told you so, you should have listened to me.   Introverted elephants are always the last to know.  So close.  Almost.  Just not meant to be.

Dead horse twitches, everyone grabs a stick.  Man down, pile on in the name of friendship.  He says, she says, we're not over yet.  Inevitable regret fades into a guilt trip.  He says, she says, we were meant to be.  Force feed the dead horse into eternity.  Almost.  So close.  Still hungry. 

I left her where I met her.  The Good Lord will do the rest.   It began with a handwritten letter and ended in a do over request.  He says, she says, we can do better.  So close.  Almost.  Denial is always suppressed. 

He says, she says, I'm as perfect as I'll ever be.  I'm so close yet so far is the irony.  Wandering in this desert for that oasis is pure insanity.  Because that oasis is just a mirage; an illusion of normality.  He says, she says, we were meant to be.  So close.  Almost.  Still thirsty.

Introverted elephants standing in the room.  Misinterpreted arrogance coming into bloom.  He says, she says, we were meant to be.  Somebody, anybody. stop their inevitable misery.  So close.  Almost.  Still lonely.

Two souls, him and her; never became a we.

Nobody talks about the elephant standing in the room.  Not until it's too late, then it's I told you so, you should have listened to me.  So close.  Almost.  Just not meant to be. 

How to Train Your Human

I met him when I was a little boy.  Because of him, I lived a full life and relatively speaking, lived to an old age. 

Humans have a funny way of not realizing they are human.  Well, not until someone treats them inhumanely or if they happen to lose someone or some tragedy occurs.  Humans are almost too arrogant for their own good.  And I mean, all of them.  Including him.

When I met him, I was introduced to kindness.  As much as I needed him in my life, it did not take long for me to recognize that he needed me more.  I suppose human kindness is thinly veiled selfishness.  And I don't say that to judge him or disparage him on any level.  It's just how humans are wired. 

It didn't take long for me to realize that he was going to be challenging.  Sure, I was just a young boy and he, well, he was much older and wiser.  And as they say, you can't teach an old human a new trick.  But I was willing to try.  He was worth the effort.  Dog knows that humans deserve our patience. 

I like that word deserve.  It's a word humans use to simplify entitlement issues.  Humans believe they deserve good fortune, the best life has to offer, love and empathy.  As soon as something goes wrong, the first thing they say is life is so unfair.  It's how humans insinuate or imply that fairness equates to perpetual comfort.  And they couldn't be more wrong. 

I knew going into this relationship, this would be an uphill battle.  A challenge I was excited to take on.  In reality, I was created for one purpose:  To train a human the intricacies of their own humanity. 

Dog knows being human is much more difficult than I could ever imagine.  And because of this, I had to lead by example.

At first, that early kindness seemed like a distant memory.  I would make mistakes like using the carpet as a toilet or chewing his shoes to pieces when he wasn't looking.  I was just a kid. 

Immediately, I knew this was the first step of training him.  He would yell at me; sometimes, even smack me in the nose with a newspaper.  Rather than snap back or get angry with him, I just tried to understand.  I tried to recognize what he expected from me.  I liked him better when he was happy and talking gently with me.

The first step in training your human is patience and gentleness.  They go hand in hand.  I am only responsible for my own actions so when he reacted at something I did, I reacted as quietly and gently as I could.  This seemed to work.  Before long, his anger turned to guilt.  He would apologize and just plead with me to do better.  Eventually, I did.

Dog knows that pride kills all relationships so I chose to be the one who would always swallow his.  And I was rewarded for it.  He took me to the park as often as he could.  He let me sleep with him.   He reciprocated my kindness with his own.

Everyday, he had this bad habit of leaving me alone for hours on end.  I often wondered where he was going.  Was there someone else better than me he was spending time with?  Each day, he would leave in the morning and come home when the sun was just about to set. 

It made me anxious.  What if he doesn't come home?  My thoughts raced daily.  But I had to trust him.  If I loved him, trust was going to be necessary.  I never questioned where he was.  I simply waited... impatiently yet excitedly.  And that moment, he walked in the door, I would trample him.  He seemed to bask in my joy. 

Humans seem to thrive on feeling needed.  And yes, I needed him.  And yes, I was never afraid to let him know that.  Maybe that's the most important step in training your human. 

As the years went on, my human and I were best friends.  At least, he was my best friend.  I made it a point each day to simply be his friend.  Even those days where he felt distant or indifferent, I chose to make certain he knew I was still here for him. 

Dog knows you can't make someone be your friend but you can be their friend.  That was a lesson I had hoped to teach him.

There was this period in his life where he lost someone close.  He wasn't sleeping or eating.  He just dragged his feet around the house.  I followed him from room to room.  On those rare occasions, he lifted his eyes up to meet mine, I smiled.  Well, I wagged my tail.  That was always my way of smiling. 

His grief was also his secret.  One, I vowed to keep.  As he laid for hours motionless on his bed, I laid with him; with my head gently upon his chest.  I occasionally licked his arm just to feel his pulse.  I suppose he needed mercy during those moments of solitude.  So, I tried to provide him what the universe was not. 

Dog knows when a human is down, a non judgmental friend is needed most. 

The end of my life came as a surprise.  I had developed this softball sized tumor in my neck.  My human seemed more concerned than I was.  I became lethargic.  My appetite was gone.  Rides in the car, trips to the park, begging for table scraps... all that was uninteresting to me.  I just wanted to sleep.  My human seemed desperate to breathe new life into me.

This was when I knew he was ready.  He was ready for his final training lesson.  It was going to be twofold:  gratitude and forgiveness.

He took me to the doctor.  I never really understood the human language but I could read body language and sense emotion.  It was apparent that I had served my friend well and it was my time to go.  I could see it on my human's face. 

As I was set down on this cold steel table, my human cried.  I wanted to tell him how thankful I was.  I desperately wanted him to know that I lived a remarkable life because of him.  So, I did what I always did best... I smiled. 

I wagged my tail and licked his hand before my soft forgiving eyes closed forever.



Dog knows it's not easy to train a human but they are worth it.  I suppose it would be a better world if we were not needed and humans took the lessons we teach, with them to their fellow humans. 

I met my human when I was a little boy.  In my nine short years on earth, I tried to teach him kindness, forgiveness, mercy, patience, gratitude and unconditional love.

God knows I tried my best.

The Day After

The day after always begins with a heavy heart.

Empty side of bed.  Full pillow.  Breakfast for one.  Silent telephone. 
Just pictures.  God forbid, we lose our minds.  We lose our minds, we lose those pictures.  The day after begins a lifetime of looking through old photo albums. 

Mom cried for a worthless man.  And I cried for my own.  Neither of us know why. 

The I love yous stop.  Or the hope the I love yous begin, ends.  The day after makes orphans of us all.  Even bastards like myself.  God forbid, we go first.  I suppose there's comfort knowing everyone has a day after.

The day after is not an event.  Or just a passing moment.  It's a realization.

Who breaks the butterfly on a wheel? 

Birthdays.  Christmas.  Anniversaries.  They come and go.  Empty vessels pass through the night.  We call them dreams.  The day after those dreams have a consistent theme.  With familiar faces.  God forbid, we lose our sleep.  We lose that sleep, we lose those dreams.   The day after begins a lifetime of tossing and turning.

Everything is instantaneously different.  Not worse.  Not better.  Just different.  Summer to autumn.  Autumn to winter.  Winter to spring.  The day after is one long day until we become someone else's day after.

The day after is a crucifixion and a resurrection of hope and hopelessness.  Of what was and what ifs.  Guilt hangs on a cross.  Not for three days.  Memories wander an endless desert.  Not for 40 days and 40 nights.  I suppose there's comfort in knowing life does not last forever.  God forbid, we recognize the mercy when time stops.  We lose that perspective, we lose our grace.

Who breaks the butterfly on a wheel?

The day after begins a retelling of old stories.  Dusted off the mantle in our minds. 

Old sitcoms feel brand new.  Comedies make us laugh harder.  And cry, as well.  God forbid, we shut off this channel that plays over and over in our heads.  We lose those stories, we lose those characters once again.  I suppose there's comfort in reruns.

The day after makes lifetime mourners of us all.  Even fools as myself.  God forbid, we build walls.  We lose those walls, we lose those bridges.  God forbid, we are ever human.

The love yous stop.  Or the hope the I love yous begin, ends.  The I miss yous are whispered in a crowded room.  Ghosts wander across our paths.  And we feel so alone.   God forbid, we admit our loneliness.  God forbid, we speak to ghosts.  I suppose there's comfort in believing in something.

Who breaks the butterfly on a wheel?

The day after never ends.


The day after never ends.

God forbid, it ever does.

Us

We could be contagious.  You and me.
Us.

Egregious me speaks in tongues   Religiously.  Sincere words sometimes spoken facetiously.  Pull me in.  Just to let me go. With all the other fish at sea.  And it seems to me, love should be much more ambitious.  And I am sorry when I lose faith but I never stop believing in us. 

I sat down to write you a sonnet.  It occurred to me you would not want it.  I am suspicious of your silence.  Capricious me could use some guidance.  Pull me in.  Just to let me go.  Maybe it was never love.  Just twisted pseudo science.  I will sleep on it before I break your trust.  Then, I will discard this unwanted sonnet.  But I will still write about us.

Because that is what I do.  And who I am.
Ambiguous you could never understand.

We could have been infectious.  You and me.
Us.

Independence is dangerous.  Synonymous with isolated.  Pull me in.  Just to let me go.  Together but separated.   Even if I could, I would not go back and change us.  In the beginning, we were both incredulous.

And here we are, it seems so cold and callous.  But not born of malice.  People change.  Not to be confused with disingenuous. 
Or treacherous.

But I still believe in us.

And I always will. 

Supposition

I begin with the supposition that it is my job to comfort you.  Even when you prefer silence.  When angry, I aim to placate you.   Even if my mere presence or voice causes that very displeasure.

I admit I speak before I think.  And I think without forethought.

You ask why I haven't returned to that old place.  It's because I never left.  You say you don't understand me.  I propose you never tried.   Or listened.   My supposition is you settled and I reached.  And we are or were unequally yoked.  And I think you can do better.

As, can I.

I am a long way from where I was; a long way from where I need to be.  They say the first time is the hardest.  The most messy and clumsy.   My supposition is it only gets more challenging after that.  Innocence is short lived.  I infer that we become hardened.  Not like criminals.  More like, passive hostages.  There was never a ransom placed on me.  Or you.  There were no ultimatums.  There still aren't.

My supposition is we all self medicate.  We all bury ourselves into something and our identity becomes that very thing that buries us.  I propose we were all born with a void intended to be filled by God and His love.  My supposition is the further we stray from that intended solution, the more empty we feel.  The void deepens.  And we seek to fill it with self destructive means. 

I theorize we make idols out of those we believe are better than us but are those we believe we should be.  My supposition is we don't place people on pedestals.  We attempt to bring God down to our level.  We humanize He which is holy.

It makes blaming the very deity we claim to doubt easier to scrutinize.  A being that uses less that 1% of his brain matter cannot, even in his self righteous indignation, question an omnipotent being unless we place a human face on that being.

My supposition is that you were brought into my life for a reason.  Not to save me or the other way around.  Not even as some time consuming lesson to be learned.  I make no presumptions about us.

I propose that every cliche ever spoken were authored by men who died alone.  Their currency was false praise and ill labeled wisdom. 

My supposition is there is no rhyme or reason to anything.  Destiny or what the ancients called fatum is not some divine plan.  It is merely a collection of choices made my beings with free will. 

I end with the supposition that is my job to love you.  Even when you are unwilling or incapable of returning that very love.  When angry, I aim to placate you.

Even in my silence.