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.

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.