I have to put this back up, because sometimes things just ain't done, even when you thought they were.
It occurred to me tonight that the four or five people in other parts of the country that read this fucking thing might wonder why I have these random posts relating to Johnny Cash, or missing someone, or missing a "certain blonde". I think it's time for me to lay these things on the line for my own peace of mind.
Last year, I had a good thing going for a long time. I was with a good girl for three years, and I thought, "Well, this is it. This is the one. This is the last girl I'm going to sleep with, the last girl I'll ever be with". I was close to settling down and being done. I really did love her, and God bless her for putting up with all my shit over the years, all the drunken mistakes and asshole behavior that I am prone to... but it was not to be.
My life changed one day in early October when, in a writing class of mine, I was forced to do a profile on a subject in the class. I remember the professor sitting at the head of the squared tables, picking who was to interview whom. She said my name first.
"Steve... why don't you interview..." Her eyes searched across the class. "Alexis?" (Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent).
I cringed.
She came to me after class, and we set it up for a Thursday, I think. Oh, how I dreaded this motherfucking interview! It was going to suck, because not only am I terrible at talking to people I don't know, but I'm even worse at talking to girls that I think are attractive and don't know. To compensate, I figured she was a ditz and I would be able to con my way out of it by claiming it was her fault the interview went terribly. I figured the professor would see my point- we were absolutely mismatched. This broad was completely different than me in every way: tall, gorgeous, dressed in expensive clothes, and utterly cheerful in way that normally makes me sick. I remarked to a friend of mine that she was hot, but didn't seem like she was all there, if you know what I mean (It was only later on that I figured out that my professor likely knew how opposite we were, and that's probably why she put us together.)
On that fateful day, I walked up and saw her sitting on a bench by the student center, talking on her cell phone. I passed from a distance, and saw her gaze over at me. She did not look happy about doing this, either. I held my index finger up in the universal sign for, "Gimme a minute" and went down into the building to get myself a drink. I bought a pink lemonade, then went outside and sat down to get this goddamn thing over with.
It started off as any interview with me would likely start- me being difficult. It's a defense mechanism; people have to prove themselves to me before I give them the time of day. Show me you're not an asshole, show me you're not stupid, and then we'll talk. She asked me where I grew up, when my birthday was...standard fair. I gave curt one-word answers. Then, she made the mistake of asking me about my childhood. I did an arrogant half laugh, shook my head... "We're not going to go there." It was at that point that I think she got pissed off, and closed her notebook.
I took over the interviewing, since I was being such a pric and we both knew this would go nowhere if it depended on me. I began asking her questions, and she answered them all with charismatic laughs and giggling answers, frequently flashing a smile that could put any man on his ass. I watched the golden eyeshadow on her eyes as she looked away while talking, flailing her wrists that held a few gold bands... she talked with her hands constantly. Every time she got up to throw something out, I would steal a quick glance at her ass, because... well, that's what I do. She wore a black shirt and silver shoes, and her hair tumbled down her shoulders in a careless way that I knew took hours to achieve.
She was cheery in her answers, and yapped on about anything I would let her. She talked about her family, her father, her friends, her hopes. Begrudgingly, I realized that I couldn't not like her... and I just couldn't be a pric anymore. It was somewhere around then that we began to actually talk. Not interview... just talk. She disarmed me with her prescence, her lack of anxiety or fear. I marveled at her. She was sexy, but classy; she didn't show everything she had, but she still made you want her. She wasn't a girl you just wanted to fuck- she would be far too difficult to deal with for any man just after sex. She was that girl you fell in love with accidentally, the girl that you pined after because she is, unlike so many others, fun. She was the girl that had all the looks but never needed to use them, because she was too busy making you laugh with goofy noises and sound effects for her stories. A glance from her eyes and a smile were enough to make me want to fucking die.
When I asked her what star she thought should play her in a movie, she mentioned Debroah Messing. I had no idea who this was.
"Well, she's on Will and Grace. Have you ever seen that show?"
"Ahh...that's the one with the two queers, right?"
She looked at me in half amazement. "Yea, the two gay guys and the girl..."
"Nah. Never watched it. I'm not much for those shows."
She laughed at my blunt crudeness, and flashed her smile again.
"Well, how about Reese Witherspoon? I've heard people say that about me, too."
She struck a nerve. I was on a Johnny Cash kick at the time because I'd just seen Walk the Line, and I had literally fallen in love with Witherspoon's June Carter.
"Yea... I could see that." She reminded me a lot of her. A tough chick who didn't take any shit, but genuinely could care about people; it was too ironic. She'd never seen it, but she took my word for it.
She had a boyfriend of years. They were set to get married, and she had it in her head that it would be inside of six years; it seemed an odd number to pick, but at least she was aiming for something. I figured that being as she had a boyfriend of that long, she was safe, because I would never get anywhere with her (no matter how hard I tried). She wanted to own a personal relations company one day, but recoiled at the idea of being just a career woman.
"No! I want kids. I want to see something I made grow up... to treat them as well as my parents treated me."
She freely admitted that she was spoiled, and I would later learn of other traits that were not so flattering, such as a tendency to be selfish, or to disregard the feelings of others. Even being aware of this, however, I knew she had a good heart, and good intentions, and was just wary of letting herself get fucked over. The reasoning for this became clear later- her boyfriend had cheated on her once, and it tore her apart. Rarely do I feel sympathy for people, but this time it tore me apart for her, because even though I'd been through all the shit I've been through (that you've read on this here blog), I've never had someone so close to me absolutely betray my trust like that, and I couldn't imagine what it felt like. Count me among the lucky few that have not been cheated on... I hope never to be in that spot, because I would likely react terribly. I could tell she was still bitter about it, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
Much of the interview is a blur now. She poked fun at my tough guy image, my incessant smoking and black Harley t-shirt. "What kind of tough guy drinks pink lemonade?" The thing lasted nearly two hours, and it ended with me telling drinking stories (of course). When we both decided we should go, a strange feeling hit me that hadn't been there in years: I don't want this to end. Alas, it had to. We got up, I lit a cigarette, and we said our goodbyes.
As I walked away from that thing, I was in stunned silence on the way back to my truck at what had just happened. Over the course of two hours, I had fallen completely in love with a girl that I should, by all means, have completely despised. I broke up with my girlfriend soon after.
It was much later that I would tell I was in love with her, when she pushed me to the edge and I feared losing her so much that I was forced to reveal how I really felt. On our coffee dates on the blistering cold days of November, there was a thick tension that one could slice with their hand if they moved too fast. We first kissed in a parking lot at the college, and it was one of those heart-stopping moments that people dream about and writers put into movies while "Boys of Summer" plays in the background. As I held her white soft white hand in my calloused, sun-raked paw, I realized that something inside of me had changed. My heart melted when I looked at her, and there were times that I could not talk for fear of losing my composure. I'm typically a hardened stoic... but around her I was made of clay.
There were many coincidences, things I used to tell her were "signs from God." Both of us were supposed to be graduated already. We both took that class though neither of us required it to graduate, and both of us were in our last semesters of our college careers. We both had other relationships, and seperate lives to deal with. And, of course... we both thought we would hate each other. It was only later on that I would find out that she figured I would hate her, and so she immediately disliked me- she thought I would think of her as a "dumb blonde with small boobs" being as I had once made a remark about Playboy in class. She figured me for a womanizer and an arrogant bastard (she was right on one, at least.)
Before I knew her, I thought she was a ditz, a dumb blonde, a high-maintence, unsatisfiable whiner. What I found was a girl that stole my heart from my chest in the first seconds, and has held it in her grasp since then, holding on firmly despite my half-hearted attempts to take it back.
What has blossomed between us is an intense love that is so fucked up and strange, but so real, that neither of us could explain it hard as we try. Never once in those first minutes did I ever think that I would be looking back on this the way I am now. When I looked in her eyes, never did I think that I would still be with her, around her, eight months later. I never dreamed of the passion and despair that could come with loving such a woman, and I never realized that my emotions for someone could run so deep.
In those eight months, it has been up and down, always incredibly passionate but never anywhere near stable. There have been countless dissapointments, moments of absolute joy, and hours of lust. Through all of this, she remains scared of me, somehow. She fears something that I cannot understand, some type of feeling that she has never had before or does not want to deal with. It is tearing me up because I simply don't get it, and I guess I never will. She still keeps me at arms lenth, never quite letting go of her inhibitions, and we go through frequent trauma that is not helped by her tendency to blow things out of proportion... and then there's always my drinking. We go through long periods of not talking, bare bones contact... only always end up back together, if only for a little while.
During those times of tortured silence, this fucking thing, this blog, is the only way I can really communicate with her, because I know she reads it. So, in essence, when you see Johhny Cash references here, they are messages to her, and her alone. When I say I am missing someone, it means that I am missing her... and her alone. And when I say "I love you" , it means that I am loving her... and her alone.
And no matter how much hell she puts me through.... I don't think that will ever change.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Friday, November 02, 2007
The Greatest of Loves, the Greatest of Heartbreaks.
I remember the first time I was love sick. It seems like so long ago by now, but in my mind's eye it is a fond memory that only barely seems like it ever happened.
I think I was about 11, most likely in third grade, the age where unrequited love abounded. At that age, you don't know what the fuck you're doing, and the whole school is talking about who each other "likes". It's funny shit to look back on, because I hear my little brother saying the same kind of crap when he talks to his friends. Before I dismiss it as "little kid shit", I remember how seriously we took that kind of stuff when I was that age... it was, of course, a life and death matter.
Her name was Chloe, as I recall. She came to my Catholic school in third grade, and I was immediately enamored by her. I was king shit of fuck mountain back in those days, the only little rebel who grew his hair longer just because the people that ran the school said it couldn't go past your collar. So I rocked a kind of mullet like it was no man's business... cause... well, fuck them.
We had hit it off from the start, this witty raven haired beauty and I. To this day I remember how she used to immitate the accents of people from other parts of the country, and how outgoing and friendly she was. The first day I met her was some unassuming September day, and man was I in love. We didn't sit next to each other, because my name ended in a "J" and hers in "T", so I would do my best to talk to her across the multitudes of seats between us. Sometims you'd get lucky and a teacher would do the rows differently, seating people horizontally instead of vertically, and I would catch a break and sit next to her.
Every quarter semester, our seats would be rearranged, and according to who talked to much or too little, we'd get adjusted accordingly. Every time this happened, it was one of those beautiful young things where every time our seats were changed, I would hope and pray that I sat next to her. The few times that it actually happened, I would dread the passing of time, knowing that the liklihood of sitting next to her two times in a row was about the same as the Red Sox winning the World Series (in those days, it was a rare occurrence).
Being so young, I had no idea what was happening to me. I knew that I "liked" this girl, but had never had that odd feeling before, that warmth inside when she talked to me. It caught me quite off guard...I guess why that age right before teenager-dom is so fucking hard for kids.
By fourth grade, I was a complete sucker for this broad, but never had a chance to really talk to her. But, alas, one day, the day before our Halloween break (Catholic school gave us breaks for everything), our desks were rearranged in a big semicircle, and I was lucky enough to sit by her for the party. Because it was so damn long ago, I don't remember what transpired between us or the words that were said, but it sure as hell left me on cloud nine. We got goody bags that day, filled with candy and all kinds of little chocksky bullshit that only a kid could appreciate, such as plastic rings in the form of creepy stuff and other assorted oddities. My ring was some kind of dark blue skull thing, and hers was something like a hand outstretched in horror movie fashion. I wish I could transcribe what we talked about on that day, because I'm sure it'd be funny as hell, but it escapes me now.
My parents and I went out for dinner later that night to some dark restaurant with wooden I-beams holding the ceiling up and yellowed walls. Christ, I wouldn't see her for another four days because of the vacation... four days! How was I to live? How could I endure? That was longer than God had been alive as far as I was concerned. Hell, by the time I came back, it was assured that I wouldn't be sitting next to her, and my golden oppurtunity was gone! (oppurtunity for what I don't know, but fuck man, I was 12). I already figured that that little Indian kid was trying to edge in on her, and with my luck he'd be sitting next to her on the fateful Monday that I returned to school. I should have whacked that kid, and showed him what's what, goddamnit...
I fingered that little plastic ring as it slid on my finger, and all I could think about was that goddamn girl. When the food came out, something in my stomach flopped over, and the last thing I could think about was eating. Food? Are you kidding? I'm in Loooovveeeeeee! How could I eat at such a time? Life and fucking death, and you people want me to eat french fries? Really? That little fucker is going to be sitting next to my girl Monday and you're asking me about ketchup? No. None of that.
"I'm not hungry." That was my first taste of love. Bittersweet till the end.
We finished out that year, and by fifth grade both of us had left the school. We went to our prospective middle schools, and eventually met each other again in High school. By then though, the "magic" was gone. She was one of the popular girls, and I was one of the fuckups, and never the twain met. But I'm sure she remembers those days just as I did. They were good.
I tell this story because for the first time since then, I am longing for a girl like I did so long ago. The times have changed, of course. I am no longer young and innocent. The skin around my eyes is beginning to show signs of the abuse of the last ten years, and I know exactly where my wrinkles will come on my face. My beard and sideburns grow in thick, and my dark eyes have a sadness that they didn't have in those old heady days. Being a smoker and a drinker has made me look like I'm ten years older... too much life, I guess, both in the good and the bad ways.
But in my heart, that warmth is the same. I am 23, and still here I sit, a 12 year old fingering some old plastic ring, thinking of some girl who I am madly in love with. As old as I get, as tired as I am, I am still that same eager kid, hoping against hope and praying on first sighted stars that my love does not go unrequited this time. This one is the only one who has the wit that my first old love had, that has the beauty and... that feeling. You all know what it is, that intangible something that you fall for before you know what's happening.
It is all so innocent, yet all so heartbreaking, all so devious. It appears that I have been a hopeless Romantic since the beginning... and old habits die hard.
I think I was about 11, most likely in third grade, the age where unrequited love abounded. At that age, you don't know what the fuck you're doing, and the whole school is talking about who each other "likes". It's funny shit to look back on, because I hear my little brother saying the same kind of crap when he talks to his friends. Before I dismiss it as "little kid shit", I remember how seriously we took that kind of stuff when I was that age... it was, of course, a life and death matter.
Her name was Chloe, as I recall. She came to my Catholic school in third grade, and I was immediately enamored by her. I was king shit of fuck mountain back in those days, the only little rebel who grew his hair longer just because the people that ran the school said it couldn't go past your collar. So I rocked a kind of mullet like it was no man's business... cause... well, fuck them.
We had hit it off from the start, this witty raven haired beauty and I. To this day I remember how she used to immitate the accents of people from other parts of the country, and how outgoing and friendly she was. The first day I met her was some unassuming September day, and man was I in love. We didn't sit next to each other, because my name ended in a "J" and hers in "T", so I would do my best to talk to her across the multitudes of seats between us. Sometims you'd get lucky and a teacher would do the rows differently, seating people horizontally instead of vertically, and I would catch a break and sit next to her.
Every quarter semester, our seats would be rearranged, and according to who talked to much or too little, we'd get adjusted accordingly. Every time this happened, it was one of those beautiful young things where every time our seats were changed, I would hope and pray that I sat next to her. The few times that it actually happened, I would dread the passing of time, knowing that the liklihood of sitting next to her two times in a row was about the same as the Red Sox winning the World Series (in those days, it was a rare occurrence).
Being so young, I had no idea what was happening to me. I knew that I "liked" this girl, but had never had that odd feeling before, that warmth inside when she talked to me. It caught me quite off guard...I guess why that age right before teenager-dom is so fucking hard for kids.
By fourth grade, I was a complete sucker for this broad, but never had a chance to really talk to her. But, alas, one day, the day before our Halloween break (Catholic school gave us breaks for everything), our desks were rearranged in a big semicircle, and I was lucky enough to sit by her for the party. Because it was so damn long ago, I don't remember what transpired between us or the words that were said, but it sure as hell left me on cloud nine. We got goody bags that day, filled with candy and all kinds of little chocksky bullshit that only a kid could appreciate, such as plastic rings in the form of creepy stuff and other assorted oddities. My ring was some kind of dark blue skull thing, and hers was something like a hand outstretched in horror movie fashion. I wish I could transcribe what we talked about on that day, because I'm sure it'd be funny as hell, but it escapes me now.
My parents and I went out for dinner later that night to some dark restaurant with wooden I-beams holding the ceiling up and yellowed walls. Christ, I wouldn't see her for another four days because of the vacation... four days! How was I to live? How could I endure? That was longer than God had been alive as far as I was concerned. Hell, by the time I came back, it was assured that I wouldn't be sitting next to her, and my golden oppurtunity was gone! (oppurtunity for what I don't know, but fuck man, I was 12). I already figured that that little Indian kid was trying to edge in on her, and with my luck he'd be sitting next to her on the fateful Monday that I returned to school. I should have whacked that kid, and showed him what's what, goddamnit...
I fingered that little plastic ring as it slid on my finger, and all I could think about was that goddamn girl. When the food came out, something in my stomach flopped over, and the last thing I could think about was eating. Food? Are you kidding? I'm in Loooovveeeeeee! How could I eat at such a time? Life and fucking death, and you people want me to eat french fries? Really? That little fucker is going to be sitting next to my girl Monday and you're asking me about ketchup? No. None of that.
"I'm not hungry." That was my first taste of love. Bittersweet till the end.
We finished out that year, and by fifth grade both of us had left the school. We went to our prospective middle schools, and eventually met each other again in High school. By then though, the "magic" was gone. She was one of the popular girls, and I was one of the fuckups, and never the twain met. But I'm sure she remembers those days just as I did. They were good.
I tell this story because for the first time since then, I am longing for a girl like I did so long ago. The times have changed, of course. I am no longer young and innocent. The skin around my eyes is beginning to show signs of the abuse of the last ten years, and I know exactly where my wrinkles will come on my face. My beard and sideburns grow in thick, and my dark eyes have a sadness that they didn't have in those old heady days. Being a smoker and a drinker has made me look like I'm ten years older... too much life, I guess, both in the good and the bad ways.
But in my heart, that warmth is the same. I am 23, and still here I sit, a 12 year old fingering some old plastic ring, thinking of some girl who I am madly in love with. As old as I get, as tired as I am, I am still that same eager kid, hoping against hope and praying on first sighted stars that my love does not go unrequited this time. This one is the only one who has the wit that my first old love had, that has the beauty and... that feeling. You all know what it is, that intangible something that you fall for before you know what's happening.
It is all so innocent, yet all so heartbreaking, all so devious. It appears that I have been a hopeless Romantic since the beginning... and old habits die hard.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Dia de las Muertes
"Why are these cars so fucking high? Who needs a car this damn tall?"
I'm standing on the tire and just barely making the roof rack trying to tie on two cornstalks for some dumb suburban broad.
"Stop being so fucking short." Smartass.
I give him the finger as he leans against the fence, and he smiles.
I finish tying the stalks up, and I see her brake lights glare and she drives away. "Your welcome!" I yell after her. I fucking hate when people don't say thank you. If anything, I say it constantly just to make up for her assholes like her.
The brake lights click on again and the car halts to a stop. Fuck.
She gets out and starts screaming. "I said thank you!" she says viciously. And I heard you talking about my car! BLAH BLAH BLAH!!!" Huge thundercunt. Great.
"Well, I'm never coming to this store again!"
"Good", I say. "Go to Home Depot instead."
"This is terrible service!"
"Anytime lady." I point my fingers at her like a six shooter and wink.
I almost got fired for that incident about three years ago. Ryer got in trouble too, because when that damn broad asked him what my name was after I walked away, he shrugged and never told her. After that incident, everyone at that store had to wear nametags. They hated us because of it.
-----------------------------------------
I am driving the forklift in the early morning, severely hungover from too many drinks at the pub and irritable as hell. My grandfather died today twelve years ago, and my mother just called my cell to tell me that a single blossom appeared on the gardinia outside the house, just as it always does on Halloween. Gardinias were, of course, his favorite flower.
"He's watching us today."
And then the sunlight charges through the clouds and laces into my face, and something inside me finally breaks, and a voice inside me audibly says it: "Today is the day. You must finally do it. Today. This is not a choice."
"You've never been there? Going on Halloween huh?" my boss asks.
"Yea. Time to put some ghosts to rest."
I'd quite forgotten that today was Halloween. It's kind of like realizing that the Fourth of July is tomorrow while you're lying wounded during the last day at Gettysburg.
----------------------------
I'm driving down Totowa Road, and it's now almost 5:30. If you live anywhere in New Jersey, than some poor soul you used to know lies in Totowa, for it is home to almost all the massive cemetaries for a few miles around- it's the only town in America with more dead residents than live ones.
The whole day, I have been tearing up and choking it back, steeling myself for what I must do. Now, I can't hold it back anymore. This dam, which held fast for so long, has burst.
It's on the right hand side off the road.
As I slow down, I see the massive building, the gray stone square lurking over the road. I begin tearing uncontrollably, and nearly lose control of the car. I pull into the circle driveway in the front where all the roads spider from, and my left arm goes numb from the elbow down. I am hyperventilating, sobbing, and my lungs tightens as if a wire were were tied around my neck like in the Mafia hits. I pull onto the road that I know goes to his grave. Now my right arm turns numb and I can't feel the steering wheel anymore, my hands are shaking violently and the tears pour down like old water from a broken fountain.
Two lefts. A right. Park by the garbage can. There's a green marker on the grass. Go straight.
I am wandering, wandering, "Where are you motherfucker?" These headstones are too old to be yours...
Suddenly I turn and see it, and I know it's his before I read it, a bronze plaque embedded onto a patch of marble. When I see the hints of the initials my knees buckle under the cold October sunset and I fall on his grave and start weeping, unadulterated wails coming from someone who has just held this all in for too fucking long. I have broken.
I am so sorry, my old friend! I am so sorry it took me three fucking years to get here, three long years to be able to handle seeing your name engraved on this patch of metal! I am sorry I couldn't fix everything with your old girlfriend, I am sorry I couldn't straighten out your brothers like you could have! I am so sorry!
And then I begin to talk....
"You know all the answers I need to know man. What's God like? He better be cool. That would suck if he wasn't... I hope you didn't feel anything. I hope it was quick buddy, you just passed the fuck out and never woke up, never felt anything, ... I know it wasn't the coolest death you could have had... getting killed by a pirate would have been a lot cooler of a way to go... or even a ninja... even though they're kinda gay and all." This is a conversation I could only have had with him, and he is smiling somewhere at the overwhelming irony of me.
I tell him about his ex. I tell him how I hate that she's living with the guy she is, and so I keep my distance, but I watch her from afar to make sure nothing bad happens to her. I may not like her anymore, may not agree with her chosen path... but he loved her. And that's enough for me.
I tell him about her sister who was a little sister to all of us. "She is a knock out now, Ryer, you should see'er. She is no longer that young, awkward 16 year old you had to carry out of Chud's house after she drank too much.... she has grown into a beautiful, strong woman. You'd be proud of her."
I tell him about my father, how the only time I saw the old man cry in my life was at his funeral, and how he told me once after a few beers that he loved him like a son, would have let him live with us anytime he needed to without question. "He drank that twelve pack of Yuengling you bought him for driving him to work all those times... he drank it on the day you died."
I tell him about how the bosses miss him, still talk about him once in a while, with a twinkle in their Scotch-Irish eyes.
I tell him that me and Jenn broke up. I tell him how I selfishlly wish he was there to help me with that, because I needed a guiding hand, and he was always wiser than I was. "I didn't know what to do... I hurt her so fucking bad, I needed someone to tell me I was doing the right thing."
I tell him about my new endeavor, the great challenging woman who has made a mess of me for the last year. "Ryer, you should see her. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, she looks like an angel put on Earth, luminescent and glowing and wonderful. I don't know if she'll ever be mine... but she is everything to me. Ryer, I'm sorry about the jokes I made after your ex left you. I never understood what it was like to love a girl so passionately and unconditionally, and then to lose her. I'm sorry... I never understood. I understand now. Oh, man do I understand."
Lastly, I told him about me. How much it fucking murdered me that he died, how I thought for a while that I should have died in his place, or at the very least died also, just so he wouldn't have to be alone over there. How I haven't slept well for years, how many times I would break down and tears would stream out and I would just want this life over. How many times I cursed off God in gin induced rages, or how I was thrown from the Church by that voice in the bushes on that hot night where I knew God was angry at me. How many times I was hopeless.
It all falls away from me like an angry shell, shattered into pieces and for the first time in years I feel like myself again, the young hopeful kid with dark cunning eyes who was quick with a joke and had a jovial spirit about life. I haven't felt like this in fifteen years. I draw the smoke from my cigarette, sitting just above the line where the dirt settled so many years ago. There is a prescence here, solid, like he was. I am comforted by it. I get the feeling that in the Otherworld, he has met my stout Italian grandfather, and no longer wonders how I came out so short and dark when the rest of my family is tall and bright. I get the feeling that things are ok.
"My friend, I would have never told you this during life, but I always wanted to be just like you. Strong, tough, a good head on your shoulders, a gorgeous girlfriend, hopes for the future. I will live the life that you should have been able to. I will do all the things that I promised myself I wouldn't, I will get married, I will have kids, and I will raise them to good, strong, righteous people with a sense of purpose, because I am so lucky, so fortunate to carry breath in my lungs, that it would be a sin for me not to. You never had the chance... so I will take mine. I will live."
I take his nametag out of my pocket, slide my thumb over it one last time. Like Goose's dog tags. RYER, printed in big black letters on the white background, faded now from being in my car for so long, from having so many tears fall and hit it. I smile, think of that stupid broad in the car, amazed by the fact that if she hadn't cause such a commotion that day, I wouldn't have had this last reminder of you that I grabbed from by the time clock the day you died.
I lay it next to the headstone, pin it to the ground as best I can. I take out a cigarette and leave it on the base of the headstone. This is the last cigarette you'll bum from me, fucker. But this one is my gift.
I lean over on bended knee and kiss his headstone, and the wind whips on my cheeks that are strewn with dried tears.
"I love you, brother. And I will see you soon. But not yet."
I'm standing on the tire and just barely making the roof rack trying to tie on two cornstalks for some dumb suburban broad.
"Stop being so fucking short." Smartass.
I give him the finger as he leans against the fence, and he smiles.
I finish tying the stalks up, and I see her brake lights glare and she drives away. "Your welcome!" I yell after her. I fucking hate when people don't say thank you. If anything, I say it constantly just to make up for her assholes like her.
The brake lights click on again and the car halts to a stop. Fuck.
She gets out and starts screaming. "I said thank you!" she says viciously. And I heard you talking about my car! BLAH BLAH BLAH!!!" Huge thundercunt. Great.
"Well, I'm never coming to this store again!"
"Good", I say. "Go to Home Depot instead."
"This is terrible service!"
"Anytime lady." I point my fingers at her like a six shooter and wink.
I almost got fired for that incident about three years ago. Ryer got in trouble too, because when that damn broad asked him what my name was after I walked away, he shrugged and never told her. After that incident, everyone at that store had to wear nametags. They hated us because of it.
-----------------------------------------
I am driving the forklift in the early morning, severely hungover from too many drinks at the pub and irritable as hell. My grandfather died today twelve years ago, and my mother just called my cell to tell me that a single blossom appeared on the gardinia outside the house, just as it always does on Halloween. Gardinias were, of course, his favorite flower.
"He's watching us today."
And then the sunlight charges through the clouds and laces into my face, and something inside me finally breaks, and a voice inside me audibly says it: "Today is the day. You must finally do it. Today. This is not a choice."
"You've never been there? Going on Halloween huh?" my boss asks.
"Yea. Time to put some ghosts to rest."
I'd quite forgotten that today was Halloween. It's kind of like realizing that the Fourth of July is tomorrow while you're lying wounded during the last day at Gettysburg.
----------------------------
I'm driving down Totowa Road, and it's now almost 5:30. If you live anywhere in New Jersey, than some poor soul you used to know lies in Totowa, for it is home to almost all the massive cemetaries for a few miles around- it's the only town in America with more dead residents than live ones.
The whole day, I have been tearing up and choking it back, steeling myself for what I must do. Now, I can't hold it back anymore. This dam, which held fast for so long, has burst.
It's on the right hand side off the road.
As I slow down, I see the massive building, the gray stone square lurking over the road. I begin tearing uncontrollably, and nearly lose control of the car. I pull into the circle driveway in the front where all the roads spider from, and my left arm goes numb from the elbow down. I am hyperventilating, sobbing, and my lungs tightens as if a wire were were tied around my neck like in the Mafia hits. I pull onto the road that I know goes to his grave. Now my right arm turns numb and I can't feel the steering wheel anymore, my hands are shaking violently and the tears pour down like old water from a broken fountain.
Two lefts. A right. Park by the garbage can. There's a green marker on the grass. Go straight.
I am wandering, wandering, "Where are you motherfucker?" These headstones are too old to be yours...
Suddenly I turn and see it, and I know it's his before I read it, a bronze plaque embedded onto a patch of marble. When I see the hints of the initials my knees buckle under the cold October sunset and I fall on his grave and start weeping, unadulterated wails coming from someone who has just held this all in for too fucking long. I have broken.
Forever in Our Hearts
Ryer W. J-------.
November 21, 1982 - January 19th, 2005
Beloved Son and Brother
It all dumps out, all the hate and anger and pain and bitterness, it seeps from me as the feeling starts coming back to my hands, starting from my elbows, as if the rage is draining out of me and into the dried brown dead grass where my best friend lies, my brother, in his eternal rest.
I am so sorry, my old friend! I am so sorry it took me three fucking years to get here, three long years to be able to handle seeing your name engraved on this patch of metal! I am sorry I couldn't fix everything with your old girlfriend, I am sorry I couldn't straighten out your brothers like you could have! I am so sorry!
And then I begin to talk....
"You know all the answers I need to know man. What's God like? He better be cool. That would suck if he wasn't... I hope you didn't feel anything. I hope it was quick buddy, you just passed the fuck out and never woke up, never felt anything, ... I know it wasn't the coolest death you could have had... getting killed by a pirate would have been a lot cooler of a way to go... or even a ninja... even though they're kinda gay and all." This is a conversation I could only have had with him, and he is smiling somewhere at the overwhelming irony of me.
I tell him about his ex. I tell him how I hate that she's living with the guy she is, and so I keep my distance, but I watch her from afar to make sure nothing bad happens to her. I may not like her anymore, may not agree with her chosen path... but he loved her. And that's enough for me.
I tell him about her sister who was a little sister to all of us. "She is a knock out now, Ryer, you should see'er. She is no longer that young, awkward 16 year old you had to carry out of Chud's house after she drank too much.... she has grown into a beautiful, strong woman. You'd be proud of her."
I tell him about my father, how the only time I saw the old man cry in my life was at his funeral, and how he told me once after a few beers that he loved him like a son, would have let him live with us anytime he needed to without question. "He drank that twelve pack of Yuengling you bought him for driving him to work all those times... he drank it on the day you died."
I tell him about how the bosses miss him, still talk about him once in a while, with a twinkle in their Scotch-Irish eyes.
I tell him that me and Jenn broke up. I tell him how I selfishlly wish he was there to help me with that, because I needed a guiding hand, and he was always wiser than I was. "I didn't know what to do... I hurt her so fucking bad, I needed someone to tell me I was doing the right thing."
I tell him about my new endeavor, the great challenging woman who has made a mess of me for the last year. "Ryer, you should see her. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, she looks like an angel put on Earth, luminescent and glowing and wonderful. I don't know if she'll ever be mine... but she is everything to me. Ryer, I'm sorry about the jokes I made after your ex left you. I never understood what it was like to love a girl so passionately and unconditionally, and then to lose her. I'm sorry... I never understood. I understand now. Oh, man do I understand."
Lastly, I told him about me. How much it fucking murdered me that he died, how I thought for a while that I should have died in his place, or at the very least died also, just so he wouldn't have to be alone over there. How I haven't slept well for years, how many times I would break down and tears would stream out and I would just want this life over. How many times I cursed off God in gin induced rages, or how I was thrown from the Church by that voice in the bushes on that hot night where I knew God was angry at me. How many times I was hopeless.
It all falls away from me like an angry shell, shattered into pieces and for the first time in years I feel like myself again, the young hopeful kid with dark cunning eyes who was quick with a joke and had a jovial spirit about life. I haven't felt like this in fifteen years. I draw the smoke from my cigarette, sitting just above the line where the dirt settled so many years ago. There is a prescence here, solid, like he was. I am comforted by it. I get the feeling that in the Otherworld, he has met my stout Italian grandfather, and no longer wonders how I came out so short and dark when the rest of my family is tall and bright. I get the feeling that things are ok.
"My friend, I would have never told you this during life, but I always wanted to be just like you. Strong, tough, a good head on your shoulders, a gorgeous girlfriend, hopes for the future. I will live the life that you should have been able to. I will do all the things that I promised myself I wouldn't, I will get married, I will have kids, and I will raise them to good, strong, righteous people with a sense of purpose, because I am so lucky, so fortunate to carry breath in my lungs, that it would be a sin for me not to. You never had the chance... so I will take mine. I will live."
I take his nametag out of my pocket, slide my thumb over it one last time. Like Goose's dog tags. RYER, printed in big black letters on the white background, faded now from being in my car for so long, from having so many tears fall and hit it. I smile, think of that stupid broad in the car, amazed by the fact that if she hadn't cause such a commotion that day, I wouldn't have had this last reminder of you that I grabbed from by the time clock the day you died.
I lay it next to the headstone, pin it to the ground as best I can. I take out a cigarette and leave it on the base of the headstone. This is the last cigarette you'll bum from me, fucker. But this one is my gift.
I lean over on bended knee and kiss his headstone, and the wind whips on my cheeks that are strewn with dried tears.
"I love you, brother. And I will see you soon. But not yet."
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
On Hope
I have a cousin who fought in the Easter Rising of 1916. I don't know much about him. I don't know his name, or how he is exactly related to me, but it is a family story that on that Easter Sunday so long ago, he strapped a cold, gray rifle to his back and marched into the city streets of Dublin, knowing that the day Jesus rose from the dead could well be his last day on this Earth.
Over the centuries, many had cried and lamented and wished and hoped that one day, one fucking day, Ireland would be free. My cousin, well, somewhere down the line, he stopped hoping for a free state... and decided to make a free state. He took it upon his shoulders, as did Joseph Connolly and Patrick Pearse, for as they raised that Green flag of Ireland in Dublin Square, they lowered the noose onto their veritable necks. They knew this. They did it anyway.
Hope is a word that is thrown around far too carelessly today. People hope for things when they should be changing things.
"I hope I get a better job."
"I hope I find a better mate".
"I hope I can fix this."
My friends, I do not knock hope. It is a powerful thing, perhaps the most powerful of things. It kept Edmund Dantes alive in the depths of his cell in the Château d'If, and burned through Frederick Douglass' veins on his race to the North. It glared in the steel heads of the sledgehammers that shattered the Berlin Wall, and flashed in the swords of Brian Boru. It runs thick and deep, and lies in the heart and soul of every oppressed people in all the world.
What it is NOT, however, is a catchphrase. Hope is for those who have nothing left, who have no strength left in their taut muscles, and therefore must resort to believeing (often somewhat irrationally) that some miracle will happen, that some great cataclysm will occur, and change their situation. Hope is for when all other avenues have not only been exhausted, but for when they have become barricaded and wired to explode and have cannons pointed straight down the cement.
If you have the power to change things, then you must do it. Don't hope that it happens, because hoping is equivalent to a begrudging surrender and a dependence on a higher force to do it for you. There is nothing so useless as a hopeful dreamer.
Emerson once said, "Your actions speak so loud that I cannot hear what you say." Like Randle McMurphy, you must put your hardened fist through the spotless glass dividing your current life from the life you want. There are many who can play poker all night and stay in the game, but when it comes to the one hand that they could take the pile, they fold under nerves and pressure, and choose security over victory. You could lay down your hand and lose, or you could fold it... and then what happens? Nothing. And that is the worst fate of all.
The only difference between my cousin and the other few million people in Ireland was the fact that he was willing to take the chance, to try to accomplish the impossible dream. That is what heroes are. They are not superhuman, nor are they born with some extra gene that endows them with talents that are beyond comprehension. They are mere mortals, but mortals that have a sense of conviction, a sense of urgency, and a sense of truth. They realize that their feelings, their lamentations, their voice, is not wrong, no matter what anyone does to attempt to brainwash them otherwise. They realize that their thoughts have relevance, and that they are all too aware of the miserable, anonymous fate that awaits them should they say nothing, even in the face of overwhelming odds. There is nothing in the world that will shut down their cries, and the cry is, as always, for all of us, "Freedom! Happiness! Equality! Truth!" We wish to live how we want, to love who we want, to believe what we want. If we do not have this, then struggle will ensue, and like all good things worth doing, it will be hard and it will be desperate and senseless, but the right side will always prevail, for the spirit of a person with such convictions cannot be broken by bullet or chain or whip or word, but only by a surrender of the indominable will.
The future of all things lies in your hands, in your fists, for though there may be many billions of people, what you do counts in a way that you must understand. The human spirit is forever marked by the need for freedom. Yours is no different. The only difference between you and anyone else, between you and the warrior poets and heroes of the generations, is how far you are willing to take it, how hard you are willling to fight. Look at your hands; they are strong hands. Do not underestimate them.
Over the centuries, many had cried and lamented and wished and hoped that one day, one fucking day, Ireland would be free. My cousin, well, somewhere down the line, he stopped hoping for a free state... and decided to make a free state. He took it upon his shoulders, as did Joseph Connolly and Patrick Pearse, for as they raised that Green flag of Ireland in Dublin Square, they lowered the noose onto their veritable necks. They knew this. They did it anyway.
Hope is a word that is thrown around far too carelessly today. People hope for things when they should be changing things.
"I hope I get a better job."
"I hope I find a better mate".
"I hope I can fix this."
My friends, I do not knock hope. It is a powerful thing, perhaps the most powerful of things. It kept Edmund Dantes alive in the depths of his cell in the Château d'If, and burned through Frederick Douglass' veins on his race to the North. It glared in the steel heads of the sledgehammers that shattered the Berlin Wall, and flashed in the swords of Brian Boru. It runs thick and deep, and lies in the heart and soul of every oppressed people in all the world.
What it is NOT, however, is a catchphrase. Hope is for those who have nothing left, who have no strength left in their taut muscles, and therefore must resort to believeing (often somewhat irrationally) that some miracle will happen, that some great cataclysm will occur, and change their situation. Hope is for when all other avenues have not only been exhausted, but for when they have become barricaded and wired to explode and have cannons pointed straight down the cement.
If you have the power to change things, then you must do it. Don't hope that it happens, because hoping is equivalent to a begrudging surrender and a dependence on a higher force to do it for you. There is nothing so useless as a hopeful dreamer.
Emerson once said, "Your actions speak so loud that I cannot hear what you say." Like Randle McMurphy, you must put your hardened fist through the spotless glass dividing your current life from the life you want. There are many who can play poker all night and stay in the game, but when it comes to the one hand that they could take the pile, they fold under nerves and pressure, and choose security over victory. You could lay down your hand and lose, or you could fold it... and then what happens? Nothing. And that is the worst fate of all.
The only difference between my cousin and the other few million people in Ireland was the fact that he was willing to take the chance, to try to accomplish the impossible dream. That is what heroes are. They are not superhuman, nor are they born with some extra gene that endows them with talents that are beyond comprehension. They are mere mortals, but mortals that have a sense of conviction, a sense of urgency, and a sense of truth. They realize that their feelings, their lamentations, their voice, is not wrong, no matter what anyone does to attempt to brainwash them otherwise. They realize that their thoughts have relevance, and that they are all too aware of the miserable, anonymous fate that awaits them should they say nothing, even in the face of overwhelming odds. There is nothing in the world that will shut down their cries, and the cry is, as always, for all of us, "Freedom! Happiness! Equality! Truth!" We wish to live how we want, to love who we want, to believe what we want. If we do not have this, then struggle will ensue, and like all good things worth doing, it will be hard and it will be desperate and senseless, but the right side will always prevail, for the spirit of a person with such convictions cannot be broken by bullet or chain or whip or word, but only by a surrender of the indominable will.
The future of all things lies in your hands, in your fists, for though there may be many billions of people, what you do counts in a way that you must understand. The human spirit is forever marked by the need for freedom. Yours is no different. The only difference between you and anyone else, between you and the warrior poets and heroes of the generations, is how far you are willing to take it, how hard you are willling to fight. Look at your hands; they are strong hands. Do not underestimate them.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Tell Me
"Well, you know... I see dead people." She whispers it with a smile, mocking the movie.
"Ha. Oh do you?"
Her expression changes, suddenly serious. "Kind of" she says quietly.
I give her an odd look. "The fuck do you mean?"
"It might sound strange. But yes. They come to me...ghosts... in dreams. People I don't know, never met, but who had some large effect on the lives of those around me. It happened with my ex a couple times... people that he knew that died. They came to me, with messages for the him and his family."
She tells me a couple stories that are creepily disturbing, and I remind myself that she has no reason to lie. I also remind myself that it's no more irrational than believing in some great omniscient force in the sky that runs evey detail of our lives... although being the supersitious Irish prick that I am, I never had any trouble believeing in ghosts or spirits or whatever you want to call them.
"So that's why you have no fear of death? It has nothing to do with you being a nurse, does it?"
I see the hulking figure, the red goatee covering the smirk that adorns his face as he leans against the four by four.
"How often does this happen?"
"Once in a while. Ghosts have better things to do than haunt people... but they do have a presence around me. They want to pass on something, a message, or whatever, to the living. I read up on it a lot when it first happened to me. Most things said that most people are too close minded to be able to hear them, or let them in... and because I'm so open minded and free spirited, I guess they can get through."
Tell me Ryer, tell me that there are green fields where the red poppies dance where the dead children of the Famine never yearn for food, never utter a solemn plea for life.
"I would have so many questions... that's probably why they don't bother with me. They'd never get a word in edgewise."
Tell me, tell me that there are green plains where the Native Americans hunt an endless supply of buffalo, tell me that there are city squares made of gold where Jews live and fear neither suffocating gas nor white hot oven. Tell me that there is a place, a merry place where the booze flows and the air is free of flying lead, for the World War II verterans who saved us from the iron grip of fascism, who saved civilization. Tell me there is something beyond the flawless rows of white crosses, and tiny American flags that flap in the warm breezes of Normandy. Tell me there is a home for the million mutilated dead at Verdun. Tell me there is a quiet reprieve for the persecuted, shell shocked veterans of Vietnam.
"It makes you look at things differently. Changes your outlook. It's like... when they die, you know they're not gone, you know? They are just... somewhere else. It really is very selfish to wish them to be back with you, but then that's what humans are. It's what we do. It's the human reaction to death."
Oh Ryer, tell me there is a place without cholera or cancer, with clear water that runs forever free of the blood of the innocent. Tell me that Captain Pollard and his men swim in seas of fresh water, and at night wade up on shores filled with midnight feasts. Tell me that there is a place, a gentle home and hearth, for every Molly Maguire that was murdered trying to unionize, for every Zapatista that decided to die standing up, for every Union soldier that caught a bullet in the teeth in order to set other men free.
"I couldn't handle that gift."
"No you couldn't. But God wouldn't give it to you if he didn't think you could handle it."
But most of all, Ryer, tell me that I did a good job. Tell me that you know I did my best, I tried to help her, I tried. I tried to keep her safe, to keep her from making mistakes, the mistakes that I know would have turned your insides. Tell me that you know I tried to help your brothers, I tried to keep them straight... but they have all slipped through my fingers.. it was like trying to hold the rain in your fist. There was too much, it all fell apart too fast. I'm sorry.
Tell me this is all worth it. Tell me Ryer...
"Ha. Oh do you?"
Her expression changes, suddenly serious. "Kind of" she says quietly.
I give her an odd look. "The fuck do you mean?"
"It might sound strange. But yes. They come to me...ghosts... in dreams. People I don't know, never met, but who had some large effect on the lives of those around me. It happened with my ex a couple times... people that he knew that died. They came to me, with messages for the him and his family."
She tells me a couple stories that are creepily disturbing, and I remind myself that she has no reason to lie. I also remind myself that it's no more irrational than believing in some great omniscient force in the sky that runs evey detail of our lives... although being the supersitious Irish prick that I am, I never had any trouble believeing in ghosts or spirits or whatever you want to call them.
"So that's why you have no fear of death? It has nothing to do with you being a nurse, does it?"
I see the hulking figure, the red goatee covering the smirk that adorns his face as he leans against the four by four.
"How often does this happen?"
"Once in a while. Ghosts have better things to do than haunt people... but they do have a presence around me. They want to pass on something, a message, or whatever, to the living. I read up on it a lot when it first happened to me. Most things said that most people are too close minded to be able to hear them, or let them in... and because I'm so open minded and free spirited, I guess they can get through."
Tell me Ryer, tell me that there are green fields where the red poppies dance where the dead children of the Famine never yearn for food, never utter a solemn plea for life.
"I would have so many questions... that's probably why they don't bother with me. They'd never get a word in edgewise."
Tell me, tell me that there are green plains where the Native Americans hunt an endless supply of buffalo, tell me that there are city squares made of gold where Jews live and fear neither suffocating gas nor white hot oven. Tell me that there is a place, a merry place where the booze flows and the air is free of flying lead, for the World War II verterans who saved us from the iron grip of fascism, who saved civilization. Tell me there is something beyond the flawless rows of white crosses, and tiny American flags that flap in the warm breezes of Normandy. Tell me there is a home for the million mutilated dead at Verdun. Tell me there is a quiet reprieve for the persecuted, shell shocked veterans of Vietnam.
"It makes you look at things differently. Changes your outlook. It's like... when they die, you know they're not gone, you know? They are just... somewhere else. It really is very selfish to wish them to be back with you, but then that's what humans are. It's what we do. It's the human reaction to death."
Oh Ryer, tell me there is a place without cholera or cancer, with clear water that runs forever free of the blood of the innocent. Tell me that Captain Pollard and his men swim in seas of fresh water, and at night wade up on shores filled with midnight feasts. Tell me that there is a place, a gentle home and hearth, for every Molly Maguire that was murdered trying to unionize, for every Zapatista that decided to die standing up, for every Union soldier that caught a bullet in the teeth in order to set other men free.
"I couldn't handle that gift."
"No you couldn't. But God wouldn't give it to you if he didn't think you could handle it."
But most of all, Ryer, tell me that I did a good job. Tell me that you know I did my best, I tried to help her, I tried. I tried to keep her safe, to keep her from making mistakes, the mistakes that I know would have turned your insides. Tell me that you know I tried to help your brothers, I tried to keep them straight... but they have all slipped through my fingers.. it was like trying to hold the rain in your fist. There was too much, it all fell apart too fast. I'm sorry.
Tell me this is all worth it. Tell me Ryer...
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Forever
I have found the only American equivalent to Paradise Lost, and it lies in between the cover pages of the Pete Hamill novel Forever.
The very basic plot is that a young man immigrates from Ireland in pursuit of the man who killed his father. After the initial voyage, he helps a slave escape, one who, in return, endows him with the gift of immortal life. The only condition is that he remains only on Manhattan Island- if he leaves the island for any reason, he will die, and it will be considered suicide, thus barring him from the Otherworld, the Celtic version of the afterlife. Thus, Cormac O'Connor remains on Manhattan Island for over three hundred years, and sees it change from a village on the tip of a wild island to the Metropolis it has become.
The bits of Irish and American history strewn about its pages make it seem more like reading a history book, albeit one with a thriving plotline that twists and turns with the times.
If nothing else, you will come away from this book realizing, truly realizing, that we are alive for the last time.
Things will never be perfect, but they are beautiful because we are here, we are living, we are eating and breathing and fighting. Time passes regardless of what we wish, and events will come and go. O'Connor watches all the people he loves die, and comes to wish for death. We need none of that- we should desire only life, and a good one at that, a wild brawling one that will live forever in the pages of history.
We think our stories are unique. We think that no one has possibly lived our life, felt our pains so severely, our joys so emphatically. We are wrong.
Our story has been told a million times. All of them. A strong kid who dies years before his time in a blink of an eye... that's happened. A wannabe writer who wishes for both extraordinary life and a quick death... fucking cliche. Star crossed lovers who are cursed by outside influences and even worse luck.... even Shakespeare wrote about that.
What makes the stories different are the nuances of our personalities. There are some who will not go quietly into the night. There are some whose personalities will not dictate the plot, but will write the words on the page, filling in the gaps between the covers in a way you didn't think they could.
We all die. It's hard for me to say it, but we all fucking die. Even me- I will be under a big, cold Celtic cross one day But our job as people is to live as passionately, as forcefully, as we possible can. We must make our choices, and forge our own paths, whether or not we think we can, or whether we believe we are capable of doing it well.
For in the end, unlike Hamill's character... we don't have all the time in the world. The clock is ticking to make this shit interesting... and for me to make myself happy. You too.
Make it fucking worth it.
The very basic plot is that a young man immigrates from Ireland in pursuit of the man who killed his father. After the initial voyage, he helps a slave escape, one who, in return, endows him with the gift of immortal life. The only condition is that he remains only on Manhattan Island- if he leaves the island for any reason, he will die, and it will be considered suicide, thus barring him from the Otherworld, the Celtic version of the afterlife. Thus, Cormac O'Connor remains on Manhattan Island for over three hundred years, and sees it change from a village on the tip of a wild island to the Metropolis it has become.
The bits of Irish and American history strewn about its pages make it seem more like reading a history book, albeit one with a thriving plotline that twists and turns with the times.
If nothing else, you will come away from this book realizing, truly realizing, that we are alive for the last time.
Things will never be perfect, but they are beautiful because we are here, we are living, we are eating and breathing and fighting. Time passes regardless of what we wish, and events will come and go. O'Connor watches all the people he loves die, and comes to wish for death. We need none of that- we should desire only life, and a good one at that, a wild brawling one that will live forever in the pages of history.
We think our stories are unique. We think that no one has possibly lived our life, felt our pains so severely, our joys so emphatically. We are wrong.
Our story has been told a million times. All of them. A strong kid who dies years before his time in a blink of an eye... that's happened. A wannabe writer who wishes for both extraordinary life and a quick death... fucking cliche. Star crossed lovers who are cursed by outside influences and even worse luck.... even Shakespeare wrote about that.
What makes the stories different are the nuances of our personalities. There are some who will not go quietly into the night. There are some whose personalities will not dictate the plot, but will write the words on the page, filling in the gaps between the covers in a way you didn't think they could.
We all die. It's hard for me to say it, but we all fucking die. Even me- I will be under a big, cold Celtic cross one day But our job as people is to live as passionately, as forcefully, as we possible can. We must make our choices, and forge our own paths, whether or not we think we can, or whether we believe we are capable of doing it well.
For in the end, unlike Hamill's character... we don't have all the time in the world. The clock is ticking to make this shit interesting... and for me to make myself happy. You too.
Make it fucking worth it.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Books
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest has imparted upon me another hero to be added to my pantheon of greats- Randle McMurphy. That brawling character embodies the best and worst in men, but in the end, the good wins out in a triumph when the psychos in the ward realize that Mack does actually give two shits about them, and that they themselves would rather die standing up then live kneeling down, just as he would. A beautiful thing that Kesey created... I should have read it years ago.
Forever by Pete Hamill is an intense story that I am about a third of the way through. Hamill is amongst my favorite writers of all time- if you are bored, pick up A Drinking Life, which is still the only autobiography I've ever read that's worth a shit. This story is full of turns... we'll see how it ends up. 600 goddamn pages... thank God work is slow.
Forever by Pete Hamill is an intense story that I am about a third of the way through. Hamill is amongst my favorite writers of all time- if you are bored, pick up A Drinking Life, which is still the only autobiography I've ever read that's worth a shit. This story is full of turns... we'll see how it ends up. 600 goddamn pages... thank God work is slow.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Fall
I am careening up the side of a massive mountain on a road that lies coiled in the high hills of Northern New Jersey while "Last Dance with Mary Jane" serenades me from the radio.
The woods here are full of a dense undergrowth, one that has spawned repeated legends about wild albinos descended from Hessians and runaway slaves that live in them. In a bit of irony, from the highest promenade you can see the brazen lights from the New York City skyline. That only happens in the winter, though, when the life has fallen from the trees in a million fluttering yellow raindrops and leaves a wall of toothpicks along the sides of the road. In the summer, everything is obscured, and you can see little except the fifteen feet of road that your headlights illuminate.
The wheel begins to shake as I hit the brakes on a downward hill. I know my ball joints are bad, and the replacement parts sit on the floor behind the passenger seat. I have no idea how to change them. The check engine light also glares at me. Glare all you want motherfucker. I'm ignoring you until inspection.
I shut the truck off and head towards the house. It strikes me that there are more stars visible here than anywhere where I live. The Big Dipper stares down, a mute spectator to our mundane lives.
I'm not sleeping well lately. I think it's because I'm bored. Unfulfilled. I can't seem to hook a decent job. Martial arts and other athletic endeavors keep me occupied during the day, but as the lonely night arises (slowly at first, and then in a flood), I realize that it's just me and those stars. It is as if when I close my eyes, I'm scared that they will not reopen. For the first time in years, I can feel myself drifting into sleep, with my warring mind fighting at every step.
The other day, a hundred birds flew through a willow tree, little black bullets darting between the limp foliage. I envy animals- life is so simple to them
We are here to live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us
The woods here are full of a dense undergrowth, one that has spawned repeated legends about wild albinos descended from Hessians and runaway slaves that live in them. In a bit of irony, from the highest promenade you can see the brazen lights from the New York City skyline. That only happens in the winter, though, when the life has fallen from the trees in a million fluttering yellow raindrops and leaves a wall of toothpicks along the sides of the road. In the summer, everything is obscured, and you can see little except the fifteen feet of road that your headlights illuminate.
The wheel begins to shake as I hit the brakes on a downward hill. I know my ball joints are bad, and the replacement parts sit on the floor behind the passenger seat. I have no idea how to change them. The check engine light also glares at me. Glare all you want motherfucker. I'm ignoring you until inspection.
I shut the truck off and head towards the house. It strikes me that there are more stars visible here than anywhere where I live. The Big Dipper stares down, a mute spectator to our mundane lives.
I'm not sleeping well lately. I think it's because I'm bored. Unfulfilled. I can't seem to hook a decent job. Martial arts and other athletic endeavors keep me occupied during the day, but as the lonely night arises (slowly at first, and then in a flood), I realize that it's just me and those stars. It is as if when I close my eyes, I'm scared that they will not reopen. For the first time in years, I can feel myself drifting into sleep, with my warring mind fighting at every step.
The other day, a hundred birds flew through a willow tree, little black bullets darting between the limp foliage. I envy animals- life is so simple to them
We are here to live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Walk Off
You want to know why I love basball? Watch this clip. The first ball is low and away. I sighed. I was at a bar drinking dollar beers, with my hands folded like I was praying. I was the only one rooting for the Sox, and, as usual, the bars were filled with slews of useless Yankee fans; this year, they are significantly quieter.
I'd been useless the whole night. I couldn't hit on girls, because I knew that nothing they were going to say was going to keep my attention from the game if something big happened. Some broads, I have found out, consider this "insulting".
If you freeze that clip at 31 seconds in, it is why baseball is, and always will be, America's game. There are 38,000 fans in that stadium, and they all have their own sets of problems. They have their own addictions, hopes, dreams, dissapointments. Their fathers have died, their kids are in college and they don't know how they're paying for it, the mortgage is due and their husband just got laid off. There's a few million more Red Sox fans watching in bars across the country, like me. We have problems with women, we don't know where our lives are going, and we are paranoid for the world.
But at 31 seconds into that clip, Manny hammers that ball and it flails towards the Charles River like it was shot from a brass cannon, and the crowd stands and roars with their hands up and I punch my hand and scream at the TV "GET OVER! GET OVER!" and a million guys in a million bars are yelling and dying and "Dirty Water" begins to blare over the massive Fenway speakers and Manny comes around third and flips his helmet off and leaps onto David Ortiz and the team mobs him and jumps up and down on home plate... and for ten seconds, just ten seconds... our problems are gone.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZPA54T3hS4
"It feels great, man. It's been a long time I don't do something special like that. But I haven't been right all year round. But I guess, you know, when you don't feel good and you still get hits, that's when you know you are a bad man." - Manny Ramirez
Damn right you are Manny. And Red Sox Nation loves you for it. I love October.
I'd been useless the whole night. I couldn't hit on girls, because I knew that nothing they were going to say was going to keep my attention from the game if something big happened. Some broads, I have found out, consider this "insulting".
If you freeze that clip at 31 seconds in, it is why baseball is, and always will be, America's game. There are 38,000 fans in that stadium, and they all have their own sets of problems. They have their own addictions, hopes, dreams, dissapointments. Their fathers have died, their kids are in college and they don't know how they're paying for it, the mortgage is due and their husband just got laid off. There's a few million more Red Sox fans watching in bars across the country, like me. We have problems with women, we don't know where our lives are going, and we are paranoid for the world.
But at 31 seconds into that clip, Manny hammers that ball and it flails towards the Charles River like it was shot from a brass cannon, and the crowd stands and roars with their hands up and I punch my hand and scream at the TV "GET OVER! GET OVER!" and a million guys in a million bars are yelling and dying and "Dirty Water" begins to blare over the massive Fenway speakers and Manny comes around third and flips his helmet off and leaps onto David Ortiz and the team mobs him and jumps up and down on home plate... and for ten seconds, just ten seconds... our problems are gone.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZPA54T3hS4
"It feels great, man. It's been a long time I don't do something special like that. But I haven't been right all year round. But I guess, you know, when you don't feel good and you still get hits, that's when you know you are a bad man." - Manny Ramirez
Damn right you are Manny. And Red Sox Nation loves you for it. I love October.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Fights
I circled to my right continuously, a consequence of my being a southpaw. It fucks with whomever I am fighting, takes some getting used to; I'm rotating in the same direction they are. I know that if I keep outside of his lead leg, I can keep pumping a jab in there and remain relatively safe.
This is bare-knuckle fighting, though, and I'm still not used to catching shots in the face, so I'm hesitant to square up and really bang out. We're not trying to hurt each other, especially with face shots... but inevitably one of us slips, or ducks into a hard punch meant for the ribs. My nose hurt for a week after the last workout.
Eventually he will shoot on my knees, and, even though I try to outmuslce him before we go to the ground, his techniques are far better than mine. In the end we are on the ground in a tangled mess of limbs, and my arm stretches across my neck until something feels like it's breaking.
I tap out when the pain becomes too much. Grappling is first on the list to learn. Karate teaches strikes, elbows, cheap shots... but not a damn thing off your feet... and I hate losing all the time when it goes to the ground.
I have figured out that it doesn't really matter who wins. I spend three days a week learning how to hurt people. It's becoming instinct to react to a fist coming at me, to be able to think clearly for a second before it hits. My ear is showing a few signs of abuse, my jaw clicks a bit. The callouses on my knuckles are becoming like little pebbles glued to my hands.
For those hours, it's just you and the guy hitting you. No girlfriends, no bullshit, no cops, no drinking, no anger, no bitterness. Just you and your mind, trying to outwit the guy across from you. Keep your jaw closed. Left hand up. Left hand up. Duck. Counter with a hook. Shoot.
People think that this crap is hard to do, to keep your head in the game, to not get shook up when you get smacked. It isn't easy, per se... but compared with the other shit that life throws at you, I can deal with my legs feeling like dried up rubber bands pulled to tight, or that someone's poured gasoline down my throat and lit my lungs on fire. It's a whole lot simpler.
This is bare-knuckle fighting, though, and I'm still not used to catching shots in the face, so I'm hesitant to square up and really bang out. We're not trying to hurt each other, especially with face shots... but inevitably one of us slips, or ducks into a hard punch meant for the ribs. My nose hurt for a week after the last workout.
Eventually he will shoot on my knees, and, even though I try to outmuslce him before we go to the ground, his techniques are far better than mine. In the end we are on the ground in a tangled mess of limbs, and my arm stretches across my neck until something feels like it's breaking.
I tap out when the pain becomes too much. Grappling is first on the list to learn. Karate teaches strikes, elbows, cheap shots... but not a damn thing off your feet... and I hate losing all the time when it goes to the ground.
I have figured out that it doesn't really matter who wins. I spend three days a week learning how to hurt people. It's becoming instinct to react to a fist coming at me, to be able to think clearly for a second before it hits. My ear is showing a few signs of abuse, my jaw clicks a bit. The callouses on my knuckles are becoming like little pebbles glued to my hands.
For those hours, it's just you and the guy hitting you. No girlfriends, no bullshit, no cops, no drinking, no anger, no bitterness. Just you and your mind, trying to outwit the guy across from you. Keep your jaw closed. Left hand up. Left hand up. Duck. Counter with a hook. Shoot.
People think that this crap is hard to do, to keep your head in the game, to not get shook up when you get smacked. It isn't easy, per se... but compared with the other shit that life throws at you, I can deal with my legs feeling like dried up rubber bands pulled to tight, or that someone's poured gasoline down my throat and lit my lungs on fire. It's a whole lot simpler.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
Best saying I've heard in a while
Hold your chin up while anticipating that uppercut and you'll have every chance to avoid a knock out.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
An Old Anger Finally Put into Words
They came over slowly at first, in a trickle. They came because the Great Famine struck the Old Country, and the children crawled out of their huts starving, and fell upon the roads to die. Cats and dogs had to be swiped away from eating the dead babies, and it was not unusual to find a home where four or five dead bodies lay, dead from starvation. A good dinner was one potato boiled in disease ridden water. The English did not care, but kept up their ban on growing corn. My ancestors were forced to flee, and came to this land, this shining city on the hill, not in order to find a better life... but to survive. Not to give their children a better life... but to give them any life at all.
The year was maybe 1845. Maybe 1850. We don't really know. But that is the year that James Symien Lynch came over from the County Galway in Ireland and settled in the blackened heaving city by the water- Jersey City. He, like all good Irishmen, started a liquor store, which means he was probably a tough son of a bitch, although everyone in the 1850's was. He lived in the time when there were signs on store windows that said, "No Irish need apply." My favorite was always, "No dogs or Irish allowed". They were compared to locusts, like their coming was a biblical plague sent from God to destroy this hard working Protestant country. They certainly did not like my great-great-great-great grandfather's Catholicism. They threatened to hurl the foreigners from their land, to kill their families, to burn the Churches... until the newly appointed Cardinal in New York told the Establishment that if one Church was touched, the Irish would burn New York City to the ground. They fought.
In the 20's, another great immigration came, but this time, it was from Southern Europe. At least the Irish spoke English; the Italians had nothing. They looked different, too; shorter, darker, hairy, speaking a language that no one could understand and few cared to learn. They swarmed over the ocean, gathered in huddled masses along the coasts in the great cities. My great grandparents were among these; their first sight of America came from the groaning wooden decks of a ship that sailed under the Statue of Liberty and took them to Ellis Island, where they would plead to get into Promised Land. They were a humorous bunch- they could only speak English to each other, for while the old man was from the upper classes and spoke that kind of Italian, his wife came from the lower classes, so the twain never met for them. He owned silk mills in Paterson, which is the nice way to say that he was likely to be heavily involved in the Mafia back when it was the motherfucking Mafia (don't think Sopranos, think St. Valentine's Day Massacre). He eventually moved his family up out of Paterson, and into the nicer neighboring town where Italians were allowed to congregate. When he wanted to move to the town I now live in, the Irishmen that already lived here woud not let him buy a house; they didn't want "his kind" here. Funny how soon they all forget. He fought.
I don't know the history of the Polish side. What I do know is that my father's father grew up in town dominated by Polish Catholics and Italians, and he went to war at 17 to make sure that I could grow up in a world free from the threat of the Japanese Empire and the Third Reich. He fought for three years, watching his brothers die in battle by the at the mouths of the guns of the Axis powers. Some flew into mountains, others got shot down. It didn't matter. His cousin flew with the Flying Tigers, the men who flew P-40's with shark faces painted on them because they knew the Japanese feared them.
The whole experience scared the man to the point where it is no longer conceivable to picture him as a "normal". He despised war, and would shake his head when I told him I wanted to go to West Point, saying, "If there's ever another damn war, you'll find me last on line to get into it." He wouldn't see Saving Private Ryan. He was also a mean drunk, and not the best example to his kids. I hate to sound apologetic, but I think he could never come to grips with the horror of war, and the terrible things men do to each other. Either way, he did what men do- he did the best he could with the hand he was dealt, and he took care of his family... and his country.
My Lithuanian side was a hardened bunch. That family tree is rife with alcoholism from the tough lives they had to lead. My great great grandfather worked in the coal mines in Pennsylvania, toiled every day in the black dust that eventually suffocated him on his deathbed, dying of black lung. The seeds were planted there for my fondness for animals; every day, he would bring an apple for the donkey that worked in the mines as well. My great- great- grandmother used to give him a quarter a day to go get drunk at the local bar.
Slowly, these families interacted, crossed each other, in the great American country. It was a hundred and fifty years of history in America, and centuries in the Old Country, that got me to the point where I am today. My ancestors have fought in fields and alleys, killed men, to get me to the point where I am today. They fought.
All of this, all that history, all of it, all so you could be told that you don't have enough money, you don't have enough prestige, your family isn't rich enough, to go get a drink with someone.
"Rage" is the only way to describe it. I am proud of where I come from. I'm proud of this family, of all of them. I am proud to be an American, from a middle class, working family who fought and clawed their way over the years out of the depths of the cities and into the suburbs. Sure, there are certain people that stride across the pond and walk into millions of dollars. And that's fine. But that's not what my family did. They worked in the coal mines, they worked behind the bar, they worked in the mills and factories. They toiled and fought and warred to get me to where I am, every second of their work was so that I could be where I am today, and have the shot to not do what they did. They did it so I could write about them with pride, no matter what misgivings and flaws the had. They did it so I would remember.
And believe me... I do. And no derisive comment from any rich man is going to change that.
The year was maybe 1845. Maybe 1850. We don't really know. But that is the year that James Symien Lynch came over from the County Galway in Ireland and settled in the blackened heaving city by the water- Jersey City. He, like all good Irishmen, started a liquor store, which means he was probably a tough son of a bitch, although everyone in the 1850's was. He lived in the time when there were signs on store windows that said, "No Irish need apply." My favorite was always, "No dogs or Irish allowed". They were compared to locusts, like their coming was a biblical plague sent from God to destroy this hard working Protestant country. They certainly did not like my great-great-great-great grandfather's Catholicism. They threatened to hurl the foreigners from their land, to kill their families, to burn the Churches... until the newly appointed Cardinal in New York told the Establishment that if one Church was touched, the Irish would burn New York City to the ground. They fought.
In the 20's, another great immigration came, but this time, it was from Southern Europe. At least the Irish spoke English; the Italians had nothing. They looked different, too; shorter, darker, hairy, speaking a language that no one could understand and few cared to learn. They swarmed over the ocean, gathered in huddled masses along the coasts in the great cities. My great grandparents were among these; their first sight of America came from the groaning wooden decks of a ship that sailed under the Statue of Liberty and took them to Ellis Island, where they would plead to get into Promised Land. They were a humorous bunch- they could only speak English to each other, for while the old man was from the upper classes and spoke that kind of Italian, his wife came from the lower classes, so the twain never met for them. He owned silk mills in Paterson, which is the nice way to say that he was likely to be heavily involved in the Mafia back when it was the motherfucking Mafia (don't think Sopranos, think St. Valentine's Day Massacre). He eventually moved his family up out of Paterson, and into the nicer neighboring town where Italians were allowed to congregate. When he wanted to move to the town I now live in, the Irishmen that already lived here woud not let him buy a house; they didn't want "his kind" here. Funny how soon they all forget. He fought.
I don't know the history of the Polish side. What I do know is that my father's father grew up in town dominated by Polish Catholics and Italians, and he went to war at 17 to make sure that I could grow up in a world free from the threat of the Japanese Empire and the Third Reich. He fought for three years, watching his brothers die in battle by the at the mouths of the guns of the Axis powers. Some flew into mountains, others got shot down. It didn't matter. His cousin flew with the Flying Tigers, the men who flew P-40's with shark faces painted on them because they knew the Japanese feared them.
The whole experience scared the man to the point where it is no longer conceivable to picture him as a "normal". He despised war, and would shake his head when I told him I wanted to go to West Point, saying, "If there's ever another damn war, you'll find me last on line to get into it." He wouldn't see Saving Private Ryan. He was also a mean drunk, and not the best example to his kids. I hate to sound apologetic, but I think he could never come to grips with the horror of war, and the terrible things men do to each other. Either way, he did what men do- he did the best he could with the hand he was dealt, and he took care of his family... and his country.
My Lithuanian side was a hardened bunch. That family tree is rife with alcoholism from the tough lives they had to lead. My great great grandfather worked in the coal mines in Pennsylvania, toiled every day in the black dust that eventually suffocated him on his deathbed, dying of black lung. The seeds were planted there for my fondness for animals; every day, he would bring an apple for the donkey that worked in the mines as well. My great- great- grandmother used to give him a quarter a day to go get drunk at the local bar.
Slowly, these families interacted, crossed each other, in the great American country. It was a hundred and fifty years of history in America, and centuries in the Old Country, that got me to the point where I am today. My ancestors have fought in fields and alleys, killed men, to get me to the point where I am today. They fought.
All of this, all that history, all of it, all so you could be told that you don't have enough money, you don't have enough prestige, your family isn't rich enough, to go get a drink with someone.
"Rage" is the only way to describe it. I am proud of where I come from. I'm proud of this family, of all of them. I am proud to be an American, from a middle class, working family who fought and clawed their way over the years out of the depths of the cities and into the suburbs. Sure, there are certain people that stride across the pond and walk into millions of dollars. And that's fine. But that's not what my family did. They worked in the coal mines, they worked behind the bar, they worked in the mills and factories. They toiled and fought and warred to get me to where I am, every second of their work was so that I could be where I am today, and have the shot to not do what they did. They did it so I could write about them with pride, no matter what misgivings and flaws the had. They did it so I would remember.
And believe me... I do. And no derisive comment from any rich man is going to change that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
