Menace 2 Sobriety

This menacing feeling that you hate me
It's been gnawing away at me lately
Been trying so long to escape me
now that youre there, did you get where you wanted to go safely?
And I guess deep down inside, I knew we were crazy
I had hoped on all levels, we would end humanely
Stuck in my head is what could have been so strangely
Now that I'm here, it's clear why you stopped communicating
And I guess over time, the resentment kept accumulating
I'm entrenched in a moment of deliberating
Yet, I can't shake this menacing feeling you're celebrating
I never became complacent or lazy
Just wanted reassurance I wasn't being hasty
Your silence was louder than bombs but less ambiguous
Cover my face with these sweaty palms as I consider the possibility you hate me

This menacing feeling that you'll never miss me
It's feasting on me as I try to keep busy
Been trying so long to get you to notice me
that I've been chasing my tail  and now I am dizzy
This menacing feeling resurfaces of your apathy
As the ice queen smiles so callously
It's gnawing away at me mercilessly
and I quietly come to grips you'll never miss me

This menacing feeling there is nobody
For me is deafening

This menacing feeling is overwhelmingly

unsettling.

Best Laid Plans

The best laid plans of mice and men. 
Where I'm going is where I've been. 
Take my time to deliberate.  We're belligerent, once again.
Somewhere between bitterness and sadness
lies the void of emptiness and its vastness. 

Took my time waiting for a sign.  Anything from you.  Now, we stand at an impasse. 
Rest in peace, you and I. 
Our epitaph. 

It would have been nice to be seen as an equal. 
The first time is always better than the sequel. 
Best laid plans, the pipe dreams of people.
It would have been nice to be of some importance. 
The maladies, migraines and misfortunes.
Proudly, they could have been my crown of thorns. 
Best laid plans often need perfect storms.

Someone new is still not you. 
Something beautiful should not grow stale. 
If the destination is futile, we should not set sail.
All parts being equal.  The first voyage is always better than the sequel.
Best laid plans are for drowning people.

A spoonful of hope and a dash of empathy.  Out of kindness.  Not necessity.
Love is simple.  Not a recipe.
One man's envy is another man's cancer.
Neither come with a remedy.

And here I go, once again.
Missing you and what could have been.
Best laid plans of mice and men.

Anne

It was only a fall.

As we become older, everything becomes magnified.  Light noise sounds like thunder.  Music playing next door sounds like a Metallica concert.  A bruise becomes a hemorrhage.  Mere stiffness of our joints become so debilitating that walking is an arduous chore.  And a simple fall turns into a catalclysmic collapse.

The aging process is not kind.

There's a reason doctors hestitate to perform surgery on the elderly.  Probably the same reason we don't take newborns skiing. 

I envy those who know or knew their grandparents.  The opportunity to absorb the wisdom of past generations is something I seek.  To revel in the quiet knowledge of a future us is a glimpse we should all pursue. 

I live vicariously through those who tell wonderful stories of their grandparents and I soak in every second I can when I meet someone in that age group because my own grandparents did not find me worthy of meeting them or wanting to know me.


We're always looking up.  As elementary students, we idolize the high school kids.  In high school, we look for validation from those in college.  In college, we thirst for adulthood and the pitfalls and blessings that come with it:  bills, our own family, responsibility.   Then, when we reach that level of "success" or satsifaction, we look to the elderly for wisdom and guidance. 

Once we reach that elderly stage of life, I suppose we simply rewind and bathe in memories as the tepid waters of loneliness engulf us.


Every Saturday for the last three years, mom has worked for Anne.  She cleans her house, gives her showers, and goes to Perkins with her for lunch.

"I'll have the BLT', Anne routinely tells the waitress.

Mom finds that funny.  Menus were never invented for the old. 

Anne is eighty eight years old.  She uses a walker to get around.  If you stare at her long enough, you see the beautiful twenty three year old woman she once was.  If you stare even longer, you see the beautiful eighty eight woman she now is.

Every Saturday night, my mom returns to her own home full of joy.  Probably the only day of the week, she is.  "God, I love Anne.  Something about her is infectious.  That woman, I can't explain it", mom stops mid-thought.... "Anne is something else". 

I don't have many conversations with my mom.  Never have.  The dynamics of our relationship are unusual.  Bring up Anne and mom makes up for all the years of idle talk.  Something about Anne illuminates my mom. 


Five days ago, Anne had plans to spend the day with her daughter and grandkids.  It was a rare Saturday where my mom was not needed.

Early that morning, Anne steps outside, without her walker or cane, to water her modest flower bed.  She finds a certain tranquility in that simple event. 

A slight twist of her ankle and she crumbled to the ground.  Fortunately, a neighbor happened to see her out of the corner of his window and called 911. 

Anne was rushed to the E.R.   "Broken hip and internal bleeding", the doctor tells her daughter.  "Surgery is necessary but risky".  Anne's only daughter implores the doctor to save her.

Five days later.... today... mom receives the phone call she knows all too well.  In typical cyclical fashion, I receive the phone call from her that I know all too well.

"Complications from surgery", mom says as her voice cracks.

"It was just a fall". 

"Anne always spoke kindly about me to others.  Not only did she recommend me to her friends and fellow church members for work but she spoke kindly about me.  Anne always told me I was a good person.  The only person who has ever consistently complimented me or told me I was worth something and that includes my parents.... your grandparents", mom added in a hushed voice.

Then she sighed.


Look, I can be moved over trivial things like TV shows or movies or those emotionally manipulative late night infomercials from St. Jude's Hospital... but when it comes to those rare moments when my own mother breaks her stoic almost robotic disposition and cries, it's profoundly different.  Heartbreaking, really.

Maybe, when we are older and life has slowed down.... When we have stopped looking ahead and up.... Maybe, that is when we recognize the good in others.  Maybe, that is when we say those things we forgot to say prior. 

I don't know why we wait so long. 


Anne will be missed. 

I wish I had known her. 

A Noble Lie

It's been two years since you loved me
Half smiled and said, you know I always will
One year since you picked up your phone
Three months without your period
Wistfully smiling, suspicion and an overactive imagination cross paths
That choice would be so smart
Just like you
beautiful, too
Yesterday, you were so busy
and it'll be another day before I stop waiting
Maybe more

It's been thirteen years since you promised
Lowered your eyes to the ground and said, I am not leaving
Ten days before your birthday since you laughed at me from beyond and said,
By the way, I am a goddamned liar
Yesterday, I forgave you
and it'll be another day before I really mean it.
Maybe more.

It's been one year when you locked your affection in a safe
Shrugged your shoulders and said, Self preservation, I am sorry
Three months, cancer free
And thirty two years since my eyes were opened
Yesterday, I prayed for you
and it'll be another day before those prayers will be answered
Maybe more

It's been too long since I left this place
Thirteen years to be exact
Twelve hours from midnight to noon
When the ghosts come out to play
Cocked my head with curiosity and said, I am angry
Yesterday, I stopped believing in things I cannot see
and it'll be another day before I ask to be forgiven
Maybe more.

Untold Stories: Short List

I am wondering right now how you will feel the very second you see the title of this....

Are you excited knowing you're about to read something intended for you?  Are you nervous?  Or will you simply just shrug your shoulders and prepare yourself to tell me in the most humblest of ways, that you're simply ordinary?

It is now two years later since the first time I wrote an Untold Story for you.  Truth be told, it has just been ME talking about ME, as WE all do, in hopes YOU know that once upon a time, YOU impacted ME more than YOU ever knew. 


Every one of us has a short list of people who have impacted us more than anyone else we've encountered between the day we were born until our final breath.  For some, that list will include an old school teacher or a pastor or a neighbor or just a friend.  That short list will always include at least one person who came into our lives at the perfect moment and then in a blink of an eye, was gone.

Life is lightening quick.  If we leave this planet and find ourselves on just one person's short list, that is a life well lived.  You are on my short list and that is why these Untold Stories began two years ago. 

We rarely get an opportunity to rewind the clock and tell those who disappeared from our lives as quickly as they entered it, what they meant to us then.  I was afforded this moment when I found you in this new world we call the internet.


Last time I ever heard your voice, I was laying on a stranger's bed with a cordless phone to my ear.  I was a little drunk but it was necessary to calm those butterflies I had when you spoke.  Funny thing is I am still nervous to talk to you even though, we just infrequently send messages to each other on Facebook and my feelings for you have long dissipated.  I suppose when anybody is elevated to our personal short list, it's expected that a sense of awe will overcome us.  That short list will never include somebody ordinary.

And ordinary, you are not nor ever were.

I still remember your phone number including the area code. Impressive, maybe but that's a reflection of you and not my long term memory skills.

When we hung up, I had a feeling that was it... you were now gone from my life for good.  I figured I would spend the coming years or decades longing for you and wondering what if... I suppose on a few drunken nights, I did just that.  But truth be told, it was rare.

I will tell you what I wondered all those years after our last phone call... I wondered if you were happy.  I hoped you had found a good man.  Started a family of your own.  I hoped you escaped wasting years as I did just having "fun".  I wondered if you had a dog.  I thought of your sister and parents.  I was curious what movies you liked, what music you listened to.  I often prayed that loneliness would never catch you in her desperate grasp.  I thought of you with nothing but pure hopes and dreams for you. 

The burden of being on one's short list is we never disappoint as if it's possible.  That short list contains names that are forever protected by a wall of absolution. 

We all have a short list but as we grow older, we rarely get to revisit those names without mentioning them in past tense.  I am one of the fortunate ones who is afforded this platform and your ears to remind you of your significance in my life even though, that significance was cemented decades ago.

I still think of you with big bangs and a denim skirt but now surrounded by a loving family with all the blessings you have always deserved. 

Being on my short list and being able to tell you this now is my blessing.


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

Bowie

Where were you when you heard David Bowie died?
On Facebook, I'll say.  Reading the news.

My heart dropped.  This rarely happens.  I can only name three of his songs.  One probably doesn't count since its a Christmas song with Bing Crosby.   
Zero impact on my life.  Zero memories can be traced to him.  Still, my heart dropped.  This rarely happens when it involves someone from his world.

I've got a sick feeling in my stomach over this.  Dark clouds forming.  Sadness, I can't pinpoint.  And I become fascinated by this.  Jesus, I hope he found You.  There are no atheists in foxholes.  I didn't even know his belief system.  It's just what went through my mind.

Bowie had a birthday on Friday.  Same day, released a new album and a music video.  Some weird shit, I am guessing.  Two days later, gone.   And my heart sank.

Maybe, I was projecting.  A realization I am older.  Mom is his age. One month apart, to be exact.  Still, I am affected.  Can't put my finger on why.

People are crying.  LOL.  Just like they do when anyone famous dies.  Obscure or Iconic.  There's always someone crying.  This time, I listen.  Why are they crying for him?  What makes him different?  Meanwhile, my heart feels heavier than normal.

To get over someone, turn them into literature.  It's my best advice for anyone grieving.  So, I take my own advice and attempt to write about someone I know very little about or ever really cared much for.  I'd say indifferent, really. 

I'm getting nowhere. 

Still, my heart is heavier than normal. 

So, I push myself to find the source of this sadness.  I watch his last music video; one, intentionally released to coincide with his death.  A gift to his fans, his publicist states.

And I am haunted by what I see and hear   It is now forever cemented into my psyche.  And my heart sinks a little lower. 

Didn't know he had cancer.  Seems no one did.  And I find humility in that revelation.  In a world of self-importance where narcissism is the norm, he resisted what most could not but what was well deserved.  No farewell tour.  No adulating fans soaking him in sympathy.  And I find that to be graceful.


And I just stop writing. 

The Price

Hangover.  Not sober.  Pray to God for a do over.
The price we pay to make memories.

Passed on down through the centuries, the same old regrets and miseries.  God forbid, we forget our histories.  Forgive me as I ad lib my liberties.  But there she is, slightly out of reach.  My soulmate beneath a broken heart and nosebleeds.  God knows my intentions before they become apologies.
The price I pay to avoid memories.

Somebody's mother, down on her knees.  Clutching for a straw as she drowns in tragedy.  GOD, GIVE ME MY CHILD BACK, she pleads.  Stuck between faith and futility.  Take my rose colored glasses and sympathies.  Jump rope, pig tails, sugar and spice. 
The price she paid to make memories.

Sociopathic tendencies disguised as neurotic jealousies.  I reserve the right to vocalize my inadequacies.  And there she is, slightly out of reach.  Should have been me during her pregnancies.  Wasting time and energies focusing on lost destinies.
The price we pay to make memories.

Somebody's legacy drowns in sobriety.  A best friend, a source of guilt and anxiety.  There he is, slightly out of reach.  One day here, then gone so quietly.  God knows we tried so valiantly.  And we tell ourselves, it wasn't done in vain.  In the process of trying to save others, we lose our identities.
It's the price we pay to make memories.

There is no hurt without remedies.  No music without melodies.  No heaven without hell, metaphorically.
And here I am, slightly out of reach.  Hungover.  Sober, perpetually.  From now until eternity.

The price we pay to make memories.