14 posts tagged “no good”
with today.
i find myself and others talking more about his death than his life. it's a tendency that we have to dwell on the most tragic nuances. as though his death wasn't, in fact, part of his life.
he was a good man, or rather he tried very hard to be to me. it wasn't truly in his nature to be one of those men who opened doors for you or who took you out to a nice restaurant for valentine's day. we shared packs of cigarettes and snuck into indie films up the street. that was just our way. i never cared for the romance that others packaged and sold. i just wanted to have a bit of fun with my best friend. after all, that's what he was first and foremost. he was my best friend. he was the best at being my friend, my companion, my storyteller, and my bean.
in the same manner that he tried to be a traditional boyfriend to me, i tried very hard to be enough for him. that was all i ever wanted was to be enough for him. eventually, it would be ok that he needed all of life and worldly worlds to satisfy him. we eventually would laugh at his hunger.
i've filed away so many of those moments ... those choice words. i fear i'd need to be hypnotized to bring his smile back now, but it's for the better. i don't know that my heart could handle the weight of his face, the sound of his breath, or the turn of his glare ever again. it's only a false promise. it's only me missing my friend.
that's how i describe it now. i turn to my husband, and whispering over our newborn's head in the dark of night, three in the morning, five or one, i simply say, "honey, i miss my friend." he slips his hand into mine, and he says, "i know."
it can't get any worse you see than how we miss him. my husband, he misses him for me. our family, we miss him for each other and for the people that never knew his heated words, his serrated laugh.
five years ago, i could have told you that i would love again, i would marry, i would have this babe who sleeps so well against my heart. but five years ago, i could have never told you that the pain was just as fierce, that nothing would have truly changed, and that it still seems like yesterday that i said goodbye.
we talk about his death as an event all on its own when truly it is part of his life. it is the part in which he fought his fight and won in the only way he knew how, by saying, "fuck it, i'm having a smoke."
people who cannot create or muster any joy for another's life event ...
well, they need to be dealt with.
if only i weren't so tired.
it was a beautiful morning with the sun out and a cool breeze.
i was on my way to work, and while driving past city park, i had to brake slightly to let a young squirrel run across the road. i felt good about that, about seeing a little squirrel diving through the city to reach its destination.
i looked in my rearview mirror to only see a black truck purposely run over the squirrel. without sensitivity or a smile for spring, these two men in their black truck roared past me and were laughing. my hand instantly went up to my mouth, and i audibly gasped.
it just seems like the type of thing that you don't do, ya know? you don't purposefully hit animals that are running through traffic, and you don't laugh about it. i really thought people were smarter, brighter, happier with themselves. it makes me sad to know that i live in a city where people like that live.
thanksgiving brought my parents back and family home. it was good.
strange again to be in the middle of november and happy.
we're all trying to figure out something more or less to make it more fulfilling and more laughable and more redeeming. but we all sleep the same at night with different actions on our shoulders.
and my dad said, "i'm just trying to be a better person."
and that's admirable because at least he's fuckin' trying.
where are our poets and our indecents? where are the people that make you scream and mean it? where is our storyteller? where are our heroes?
we're flying home without lifting a finger.
none of us know what it means to live today.
people who take themselves so goddamn seriously that they're impossible to have a conversation with without trying not to send them to a work camp in your head.
people who take themselves too seriously should be sent to volunteer in a cancer ward. they should not be allowed to adhere to any fashion craze/scene/trend that may inhibit their punishment/redemption/heart growth of spending time with people who are allowed to take themselves so seriously but by virtue of the fact that they're awesome... don't.
end scene.
it attacked me in the shower. a normal morning, otherwise, it prevented me from breathing or whimpering in any delicate way, or any way at all. i only had to stand there with my hand on the tile, my other palm on my foreheade, all of me breathing deeply until it stopped.
it beat the air from my lungs and turned my face into an unbelievable mess. i didn't have time to recuperate, move my neck, or brace myself. i didn't see it coming, on this day, for no palpable reason. my memory just kicked my fucking ass.
it's hard when i can only remember that there was a time in my life when i knew a boy who i loved very deeply as my best friend and my inspiration. i can't remember the things i said in conversation or what we talked about, but that we had fun and smart witticisms to cover the long days. i don't remember the t-shirts i wore to mardi gras or the bracelets i took off every night, but i remember i was a punker and i had this punk rock boy. i don't remember his jokes, but i remember how he looked when he smiled.
so have i suffered some great injustice, or have i made out like a bandit?
either way, today, at this time, four years ago, he left our world in pursuit of a new one. and he can't be defined or held down, but damn if he doesn't reek havoc with my memory.
i hope you're somewhere warm, bean.
the days are short, and time is abundant. i never pictured myself as the kind of chick to long for the nine to five, but you just get burned out. you get to feeling like you want to know what to expect.
the big surprises in your life, they hop on you from behind the half-closed doors and give you a fuckin' heart attack. you can't breathe. you stop short in some crooked, question mark pose while your heart skips a beat. eventually, your heart yearns for that even pace.
i used to write. really write.
but it was all when i had so much in my head and so many people to be angry with ... and then there was THEM. the expense on my system was beyond taxing; it was exhausting. i was a shell.
i don't have as much to say anymore, and maybe it's because that passion to fight has left my system; like all good grown-ups, i've learned it just doesn't help. but what i do say, i want it to really rock you. i want you to appreciate the letters within the words and savor every moment of time i spend writing this. i want to be appreciated and loved for the words that come out of my mouth. i want to be published from the mountain tops. i want to be translated into 43 different languages. i want libraries to tick 'yes' in the box next to my name. i want it all, for no fee whatsoever.
is it sad that i think i deserve it?
four years go by, and does anyone remember? has anyone followed me from here to now?
letting the bottom rot through, it eats your brain. when your feet are in the rising water, you just gotta cry out.
