Divorce

Finishing a good book is like a divorce, albiet an amicable one. Finishing writing one is exactly the same. Once it's over there is just no going back. You just have to jump head first back into the dating pool. Oh you could go back, do the friends with benefits same old sad song thing again, but why? You already know what each brings to the party and somehow I find that I'm wanting something new and exciting, fresh and invigorating... not the comfortable old slippers that I've always had.

But there is one thing, as old lovers always leave behind some small token of their affection for one another, collections of words do the same for me. I'll always feel great affection toward the characters I brought to life, to the words I brought to the page. They will always be a part of me, a part of what makes me whole.

So yes... after more than two years, a dozen working titles, more than a few tears shed and greater than 120,000 words, I am done. And I am glad to be so.

hmm...

It's not just a daydream if you decide to make it your life.

--Train

Violated

...asked for advice from a genie in a bottle of jim beam and she lied to you.

I heard it today in the midst of an otherwise incredibly hickish whiny country song. But it made me smile. What did you expect? Ask the wrong person, get the wrong answer. Fairly simple stuff, no?

So watching tv tonight, the theme repeats itself as a young couple obviously together, yet obviously so not together walk into a bar and onto the dance floor. She is older, presumably the wiser of the two. And yet not so much. I was distracted by John Mayer on stage. Boy needs a hair cut and he's still hotter than pavement on bare feet in the summer. He sang my favorite new song, Waiting On The World To Change. Warms my heart and makes me feel not so much the freak I usually do. Anyway, I digress, the couple dances to the song and then she moves to the bar for a drink as the other half finds someone else to amuse himself with. The bartender signals her that someone at the end of the bar wants to buy her a drink. She says no thank you with a flip of her hair, a smile and runs her finger over her mouth. Is it really no? Or is it tease, flirt, coy dip of the head, and maybe later? When does no really mean no? When it's whispered in the dark after the clothes come off? When she refuses the drink the first time? When the tears begin to fall? When it's screamed in terror and pain? Come on... we all do it? We don't really say what we mean any more than we ask for what we really want or need. How's a man supposed to know? Or is that just a huge cop out and I'm a big sucker?

She picks up a drink. Supposedly the one she bought herself although its merely implied. Her vision begins to blur and the room begins to spin. I'm left thinking that someone slipped her drugs rather than she's had too much to drink. No overt signs of more than one drink anyway. But I'm paranoid about that kind of thing, so I never know when to trust what I'm sensing. And it's not that I hate men or don't trust them... well I don't and with good reason, it's more the bar scene that creeps me out. Then the show cuts away to something else and for a moment her impending moment of peril is lost to me.

I next get a good look at her naked back and GBF hair in some generic hotel room in Vegas. The only problem is the burgundy satin sheets. Not something one would see in a cheap motel is it? Anyway, she's alone - waking slowly and obviously has no idea where she is. It's clear she's been raped. Not from the bruises - there aren't any. Not from the scratches or scrapes - none of those either. It's the look on her face when she realizes that some man she can't remember, doesn't know, and didn't ask nicely, did god only know's what with her unfortunately willing body. Yeah, let's get that one straight. Drugs and or alcohol have a way of making a woman's body compliant where her mind never would.

Like we all haven't been there before? Finding ourselves disappointed for one reason or another. Deciding that the best remedy for our current state of loneliness is a warm shoulder, a cold bottle or both. Preferably both. Like we haven't all woken up once or twice wondering where we were, why we were there, what we had done and with whom? It's the why am I naked, sore and hmm... who does that delicious chest belong to? And do I really have the guts to look at his face before I bolt outta here? Sometimes it just works out better if you don't know. But for most of us, we've a least had the hazy alcoholic fog lift a bit and the puzzle pieces fall closer into place and it becomes somewhat clear just how stupid we've been. Or if you're very lucky, how good it was. She doesn't have that luxury. She doesn't remember. She never will. She didn't have a choice.

As I watch the room come info focus and see her face, a voice in my head is screaming - grab the fucking cell phone and dial 9-1-1. And the cynical side of me is saying - why the fuck bother? They won't believe her and won't even try to find him and it's not like I ever did the right thing so why should she? And when she steps into the shower and hot water rains down over her body washing away any potential evidence of the crime, I want to cry for her, cry right along with her. The law enforcement side of me cries "no" realizing that there no longer will ever be a chance in hell of making him responsible for his crimes. And the woman in me understands just how many scortching hot showers it will take to feel clean again. A lifetime. More than that. Maybe never. I'm still waiting.

Incidentially the show is "to be continued..." like I don't already have some idea of how next week will go? She won't tell anyone. It'll eat away at her like cancer until she can't stand it any longer. She'll try to exact her own cheap brand of revenge, not realizing that even if she gets what she thinks she wants it'll never be enough to make up for what he took from her. And then she'll be back to asking a genie in a bottle for advice that won't help her anyway.

Bitter? Maybe a little... but the fact that I can watch it and even reflect a bit without completely loosing it... is a Martha Stewart Good Thing.

Field of dreams

I stood there quietly, humbled, in front of him. Eyes closed, head down, ashamed of myself, terrorized nightly about what had transpired. Snapshots in my brain of a tiny curious hand curled tightly around menacing black steel. Images of her smile, now with a hint of pearly white baby teeth. Sounds of her sweet giggles. Such contrasts, those images that wake me drenched in a cold sweat.

"Well," He said to me, "it's a place of lost innocence, of broken dreams. No matter what the situation is, it boils down to somebody's world being shattered."

I looked down at the markers, the ribbons and flowers, the stuffed animals and toys that decorated the rows of tiny rows of flat granite plaques nestled neatly in the well manicured lawn.

After he said that, I felt like I could relax a little. Yes, my dreams of safety and security were crushed but my baby was alive and I learned a valuable lesson. The innocence lost was mine, not hers, and I didn't have much left anyway.

What are dreams anyway? They're the plates you can afford to hurl against the wall as long as the important things escape unscathed.

Truly Madly Deeply

I'll be your dream
I'll be your wish
I'll be your fantasy

Thank you Savage Garden... no one could have said it any better. That's just what I was thinking.

Harmful Events

It started with a piece of metal. Small, twisted, heavy... a piece of discarded road debris. The flotsam of the highways. Inocuous, deceptively innocent and often overlooked miscelani. In the heat and traffic of the late afternoon the first harmful event occurred. The casualty? One radiator. One missed day of work. One little silver car. The fate of the metal? A little more twisted, bounced a little farther down the highway, became airborne, sailed through the air toward the second most harmful event. The casualty? Physically... one more car, 75 feet of fencing, a lot of sweat, some time. In reality and in more human terms? A life as we know it.

Things get hazy at this point. A lot of suppositions, drawn conclusions and educated guesses. At what point did the twisted hunk of metal crash through the windshield? At what point did it impact the driver's face? How did he manage to travel through the median that many hundreds of yards without going into oncoming traffic? Why didn't he brake before vaulting over that embankment to the roadway 25 feet below? Did the car roll or just slam unimpeeded into the asphault? Does any of it really matter?

I stood at the top of the embankment watching a purple rope stretch to the breaking point as it was tied quickly to a bumper and used to rapel down to the car. I knew I'd never make it down that way. I waited. The sun was hot on my bare arms and sweat was already started to bead up. It was quiet despite the roar of the passing traffic and the whine of the engine still left running. The quiet is a mental thing. A way to stop thinking about the horrific Mr. Toadesque wild ride this must have been.

The blaring of sirens and foghorns breaks the revere as a sleek yellow firetruck screams toward the scene, quickly followed by a more traditional red firetruck. Ketchup and mustard strike me and my stomach growls. How can I be hungry while I'm watching fire and ems personel extricate this person and work him. Five minutes of watching turn into ten, turn into twenty as a yellow helicopter approaches hurridly from the east, sets down on the closed roadway. Twenty minutes turn into thirty as the blades stop spinning and the number of people grows around the victim in the middle of the closed roadway. They work him for forty minutes solid. Establish airway and control bleeding. He is combative. As he fights the pool of blood underneath him grows and spreads. Firemen in turn out gear move away from him to let helicopter crew get closer. The pool of blood spreads in an oval now... away from the victim. He fights as they try to stabalize his neck. More blood spreads as a hand moves away from his neck and relieves pressure on his severed corrated artery. Spatter and spray are everywhere. The oval pool of darkening, thicking blood is massive, larger than a manhole cover. It is ominious, sickening and it's beginning to smell of copper and rotten fruit.

The helicopter takes off finally... some forty minutes later with patient on board. I move back to the car to get some water and cool myself. The stereo is still on. The song? Another one bites the dust. And I think to myself of a hundred sick jokes. I keep it to myself. For now. It's the nature of the work. It sickens me to think that I no longer have the capicity to care. Maybe it's just that there's so much to care about that I have a hard time picking what to focus my short attention span on.

Later, after I've made my way down to the scene, I take in my surroundings. I'm standing in the middle of a two lane road, deserted because it's closed on both ends not far from here. The detrius of human existance is everywhere. Empty cigarette packs, crushed plastic soda bottles, a pair of abandoned sunglasses, papers, a starbucks bottle with the label faded into oblivion. I know what it is based on the familiar shape and my frequent consumption of tasty bottled frappucinos. Actually I despise the bottled ones, think they have a nasty aftertaste, but I would mainline caffine if I could.. and if you drink them quickly they're not so bad. That's how far I have sunk in my caffine addiction. But I digress. For once this is not really about me.

These items existed before this latest harmful event. I look across the road to the car I've so far avoided staring at. It's some random metalic color, not silver. Not quite sure what. I think it was a four door. Not anymore. It's scrap now. The back window is gone. The windshield is a mass of greenish safety glass smashed into a million little pieces. It is liberally sprayed with quickly darkening and drying blood. The doors are twisted, the axles bent and broken. The back bumper is forelornly gazing upon us from 25 feet away. The roof is caved in on one side, lending some creedence to the idea that it may have indeed rolled. The trunk is open and smashed and it's contents are spilled across the roadway . It looks like what my living room looks like on any given day after P is done emptying her toy box all over the floor. The medics have bundled all of their spent supplies into a bag and tossed it casually into the back seat. Like anyone really wants to see that later on. An ID is extracted from the car. It took has blood all over it and we have no real concrete idea if that is the driver. No one could get a good look at what was left of his face. We think it's him.

On the ground before me are broken golf clubs, gym clothes half out of their bag, the odd athletic shoe, paperwork, a green towel, cds which have escaped their holder and a backpack. The sun is glinting off the backs of the cds which are all I can see. I wonder about the kind of music he listens to but I cannot turn them over. I spot one that is face up in the mud. It is handmade, perhaps by the vicim. Someone with masculine handwriting anyway. Dashboard Confessional. The irony doesn't escape me, but it fails to amuse me.

The firemen are preparing to leave, gathering equipment and turning on the water supply from their truck to scub away the dirt and the blood that coats them despite wearing gloves. There is literally blood everywhere. They are nice enough to wash down the oval pool of blood in the middle of the closed roadway that we all know is still there. We've all been deftly avoiding it like the plague. The water washes away most of the evidence. Not all. We all still know it was there and avoid it like the plague. Like someone elses's blood is a bad omen or something. It's like not stepping on cracks because you are superstitious. Pssst... don't step where the blood used to be... it's bad karma dude.

The witnesses come and go with the fire people. We are left alone, just the five of us, to measure and diagram and work the scene. 25 feet from the top of the highway to the bottom of the street below. Tape measures survive the fall better than the car did. From fog line to right of way, telephone pole to canal, we plot out the scene, measure everything and fill two pages with numbers I hope will be helpful later. I am both amazed and impressed with the precision and the effort being put into the task at hand. We teach them well and let them lead the way. Their spirit of teamwork is inspiring.

I've been watching the sky off to the north for a while. Dark clouds have formed and the dust is beginning to roll in. We need to finish quickly before it hits. And in an instant the wall of dust is upon us. And as the skys darken we all reach for of all things sunglasses - anything - in an effort to protect our eyes from the swirling dirt particles. Our scene is being scattered and removed from us as is the top layer of our skin. I try to hold a clipboard up in front of my face to keep the dust at bay. My lips are chapped. My skin is pink and raw. My clothes are filthy and my hair has escaped the pony tail I put it up in. The wind is so fierce it's about to knock us over. There is no cover, no place to escape this torture. I can still taste the dirt in my mouth hours later. And as the dust slowly passes and we hurridly finish up, the rain comes.

The rain smells clean as it hits the desert floor. It is cleansing and I raise my head toward the sky, jut my chin out and let the drops fall upon my face. They are cool and I am hot. They are fresh and I am jaded. They were unexpected and I've become predictibly numb. They are a welcome change for with them they bring thunder and lightening which distract me from my wonder about our victim. I feel the calm come over me and I ask for what seems most pressing. Be with this young man and do what's best for him. A rumble of thunder and a jaged light slicing though the dark sky. They hear. They are there.

And then we are gone. We get back in the car as the rain begins to sheet and visibility falls to zero. All evidence has been removed quietly and efficiently as though nothing ever happened. Three orange barricades neatly placed in the median next to the downed fence are the only hint that anything was ever amiss.

Shows over folks, nothing more to see here.

50 Words - Falling In Love

She said it tonight and I beamed a radiant smile from ear to ear. "Mama." Plain as day. Loud and as clear as possible on a cell-speaker-phone in her little girl, whiskey-husky-smoke filled room voice that she got from me. I fell in love again today.

50 Words - Sunshine

Last night while lying in bed with the peanut between the handsome husband and myself I discovered just how blessed I am. Her laughter inspires me. His laughter excites me. Between the two of them my world has light, hope, laughter, sunshine and wonder like none I've ever known before.

Burnt Out Torchlight Along The Pathway.

"I see myself as a huge fiery comet, a shooting star. Everyone stops, points up and gasps 'Oh look at that!' Then - whoosh, and I'm gone... and they'll never see anything like it ever again, and they won't be able to forget me - ever."

It's an old Jim Morrison quote. It was how a young, energetic, delightfully charming young man described himself on more than one occasion. He could recite that quote verbatim. It meant that much to him. It was prophetic, just a little. Oddly disturbing to be reading it tonight in light of what has happened. From the fiery died red hair to the crooked smile, to the intensity with which he approached his short life, there was nothing about him that ever said inconsequential. There are a thousand 22 year old boys who are interchangably typical and completely forgettable.

Why take away a man who had so much more to live and so much to give? Why? Just to make the world a darker place, to extinguish a light that we enjoyed decorating our world. That makes no sense. A reality check perhaps? To show us how perishable we really are? To make us feel unsafe and to remind us once more that everything in life is temporary and leave me feeling again that everyone leaves my life before I'm ever ready to let them go? It's the bitterness and the hours talking. It's the anger beginning to set in. Logically I know all that.

I remember the last time I saw his face. I was slow dancing barefoot around the livingroom, the only music in my head, my beloved peanut tucked up under my chin. It's the sweet spot... the one that makes me feel whole and brings me peace, much the same way his mother must have once upon a time felt about him. He was watching us. Not staring, just taking it all in. I wonder now what he must have been thinking in that nearly 23 year old brain of his.

I think sometimes that he was considering his future. The one he had planned with the wonderful young woman who loved him dearly and deeply. The one he hopefully someday would learn to love just as much. I know he had that in him. It's just sometimes slower coming in men than young women. I know they dreamed together of their future. She would tell me once in a while of lying in bed next to him, feeling whole, wishing, hoping, planning, scheming and dreaming of the next right thing for them. They loved each other now.... and she always expected to love him 20, 30 years from now. She's gonna make it... he never will.

I said to him as we shared a moment before leaving "be safe." He looked at me with his head tipped sideways and that impossibly crazy hair hanging in his face. I ran a finger down the side of his face, took his chin in my hand and kissed his forhead. He ducked his head a little. It wasn't his time to be thinking about growing up, acting with a little healthy caution. Timing is such a personal thing. It's everything. I know it sounded odd coming from me but we talked for a moment. He listened earnestly, intently... but in the end it didn't matter. I keep seeing things. Little snatches of little scenes over and over in my head. All of them dark. None of them positive. Just really an impression of something unsettled and negative around him, of some impending pain I wished I could spare him. And nothing concrete that would satisfy him or me for that matter. I wish I could have explained it better to him, but I don't really understand it myself. It's not like there is evil music playing as the woman creeps down the stairs to the cellar in a bad horror flick and everyone in the theater is yelling at her not to go down into the cellar. I wish it were that simple.

It happens sometimes. An impression or an image that comes along at the worst possible time when I have no time to think or analyze it. And I hate that I get a little bit here and there and no good idea of what it is that I'm really sensing. I feel cheated that I could not see enough to tell him to stop, sit back and watch from the sidelines for a while.

With him I chalked it up to the craziness that is being 22 and living on your own, making sometimes poor choices and behaving like a kid. But honestly no more so than any other young man his age, living with his talant and his gifts. When I saw him perform on stage I was captivated by his presense and his ability to hold the room. It was raw talent, a little rough around the edges and in need of refinement, but clearly the gift was there. He was a good kid. Really. Seriously. He worked hard, had good relationships with his parents and loved his girl. And he was like a hummingbird in some ways. The way Nathanial Hawthorne described one anyway. If you sat still long enough and watched, he just might alight upon you. And you were in for a treat when he did.

And then one Sunday he made the worst possible decision of his short life, experimented one too many times with stuff better left to the street junkies and wound up dead at the bottom of an apartment complex swimming pool. Quietly, effortlessly and unintentionally dead. What he left behind is far more complex and painful than I'm sure he ever thought it would be. And no one can explain to me why or why not one of us who loved him had the power to stop it.

What good is a gift if you're only allowed the part of it that frustrates the hell out of you and not enough to do anyone any good?

42.

We spent the end of his 42nd birthday laying in bed eating ice cream. I could tell you it was good. Good in a way ben and jerry only understand. Pfish food good. We did a complete post-mortem on the doctor's appointment that I didn't get to go to. White count at 170,000 is not good. We knew that. The tests start Monday and don't stop. It's like a carousel at a carnival. The one that scares the littles with it's music and constant revolutions. He's going to have some hard choices to make once they tell him what his options are. I already know what he will chose. And I know I won't like it. I told him that whatever we find out next week I'll support his decisions. It's not easy to let someone you love go, ya know. But I can't force him deeper into hell because I'm selfish. The truth is I'm not ready to let him go. I doubt I'll ever be. But it's time to grow up and see that it's not about me anymore. It never really was. Maybe it is the way it was always supposed to be.

Living

He knew as well as anyone who had been diagnosed with a disease such as his that it changed your life. Permanently. But it was still his life. The only one he knew for sure he had. And it was a good life to boot. He had stopped asking why eons ago. Fate? Kismet? In the end he supposed the why of it wouldn't really make much difference. In fact on some level he didn't want to know if this was his karmic bitch-slap for something he had done. Or for that matter, payback for something he hadn't done that he should have. It just mattered that it was destined to be this way. It dawned on him one particularly cold and lonely night in the dead of a long harsh winter that occasionally ignorance truly is blissful. There just might be circumstances where not knowing what he knew could be infinitely preferable to those things which he knew for certain.

Learning to make more than the best of it was his latest quest. Living as gracefully and as unapologetically as possible in a world where society expected him to disappear into the shadows like some sort of thief who steals away into the night is one tall order. The initial spikes of anger that had coursed through his veins had mellowed like fine red wine into a more subtle shade of bitterness. It was counterproductive to his cause to dwell outwardly on emotions that were unquestionably costly to his sanity. Bitterness was almost as expensive as the hope he could no longer afford either. He kept it to himself. Successfully most of the time too. There was no more looking backwards at where he'd been. No more hoping, wishing, waiting for the doctors to tell him they'd made a mistake. Gotten it all wrong. No more sitting idle strumming his fingers on the arm of the easy chair. If he was going to leave this life any time soon, he needed to go out on the highest of all high-notes, after having lived a life free of regrets.

The act of trying to stay positive was about channeling absolute fear into something more. Something tangible. Something of substance. Something that had a lasting effect on humanity when it seemed his time to make a difference was running a little short. Somdays it was liberating really, knowing what he knew. No need to worry about famine, plagues or pestilence. No fear of natural disasters or overindulging in an illicit vice or two, now and then. No apologizing to a seemingly perfect world for making them uncomfortable in the face of his stark and frank imperfections. He knew his death. He had looked it square in the eye and defiantely shaken it's cold hand. He refused to be intimidated by it's presence in his life. Before long he and the bastard were on a first name basis.

Solace

Two cars parked on a deserted side street devoid of lights. One masculine black work truck and one flirty dark sports car... a low to the ground racing model. Two bodies silhouetted in the scant moonlight, their faces obscured... their intentions not so much. She leaned on the hood of the second car, between the cars really, with her head tilted back and looking up at him. Her dark hair cascaded down around her shoulders, her tight sweater and dark jeans showing off her ample curves. He stood in front of her looking down, dark jeans hugging his hips, tee shirt and overshirt untucked, unbuttoned and a little askew. He leaned in toward her and she lifted a protective hand to his chest. There was a familiarity between them that was unmistakable. Friends? Perhaps. Lovers? Yes. Oh yes. Their voices low, carrying on a conversation meant for their ears only. Intensely treasuring their stolen moments together. The sound of low laughter, of contentment and sincerity would have given them away had anyone been paying attention. Just two random lovers, neither where they should have been on a late weekday evening, out with someone they never ever thought they'd cross paths with, on a desolate street in the dark center of any big city on any given day.

He caught me watching them. I should have looked away. Embarassed. He assumed I would. Without flinching or blinking I stared back, enjoying him enjoying my voyerism.

The Phoenix

broken
bitter
jaded
cynical
drifting
lost
alone
hurting
in pain
weary
at war
exhausted
surrendered
humbled
ready
longing
wanting
aching
surrounded
passionate
inspired
desired
awed
ravenous
renewed
afire
loved
confident
strong
aware
at peace
alive

At least I'm working on the parts I cannot yet find my way to feel.

He said, She said

He said he knew what she had been thinking.
She said that left her feeling unnerved,
quite.
He said he read all that she wrote.
As safe as she felt,
she still said it made her nervous
He said that as good as he was,
She was far better.
He said he was in awe,
and he didn't say it lightly.
She said thank you.
She was left feeling that it was
by far,
the greatest compliment anyone
had ever given her.

Dandelions

Perhaps it would be easier if the footsteps were four rather than two, but nothing's worth doing if you can't do it by yourself, if only to prove that you still have the ability, the knowledge. You can always rediscover what you thought you'd missed out on. You can never live the same moment twice, but a moment never dies and it's always ready to be born. Hold too tightly and it'll all slip through slender fingers that strain to reach truth but fall short and land on passion instead. Truth, that elusive beast, cannot be tamed. It cannot be caged. It cannot be owned. But it certainly can be felt.

You can push your body to the point of exhaustion, to the point of breakdown, to the point of pure and utter destruction. The soul will live on for as long as it pleases, regardless of you. Perhaps it's better to house it as it sees fit. That is if you believe you have a soul.

There's more to living than merely surviving, existing. There's more to happiness than the letters which comprise the word. There's always more to something than just the sum of its parts. That is if you believe you have a soul.

I have a soul. I've felt it in orgasmic moments of passion and erotic moments of bliss. I've heard it speak softly to me in the night as I lay on my side of the bed, the other occupied by a human form, and filled with the soul of a ghost which doesn't haunt me but rather comprises that which I long for. Not because I cannot live without it, but because I've lived it already, long ago, and desperately want it back. I am living in the now because that's all I'm allowed. Everything is temporary and while I know that... I don't relish it like I once did. I want to go beyond keeping it to myself.

Have I been selfish for far to long to learn how to live with what it looks that I cannot have? Am I beyond ever learning how to accept those things I cannot change? Certainly not. Sometimes in the night, I curl up in the laughter of love and in those moments, I can still see so clearly. A moment within a moment. Is that possible? Am i insane? To be touched by the sound of laughter in this way goes beyond any physical contact. To feel golden embers of splattered life transcending the physical and conquering the metaphysical to a point of joy. These moments are what life is made of.

For a moment I think I wouldn't change a thing. Gleaning from a stream of consciousness, I realized that dandelions are yellow. And, it's the yellow of friendship whose tune fills my mind and vibrates out through my smile. Can there be hope in the tattered ruins of a tortured empire? Nietzsche would say hope in reality is the worse of all evils because it prolongs the torment of man. Maybe he is right. Or maybe the reality is that the empire isn't so tattered. Maybe the reality is that there is hope. Is hope in hope a bad thing? A good thing? Shall we get beyond good and evil? Is indifference the best of all states because one is simply beyond?

No talk of indifference today. I am not indifferent. I care not to be indifferent with such matters of the heart. Because you can starve a body and you can starve a soul and you can starve a heart, but in the end the fate is far worse than not having hope. Or having hope if you have nothing with which to at least choose to have or to have not. I ask again do we have a soul? Is it a part of us, an extension of us, is it us? Is it whole? Are there soul mates and body mates? Do some people choose their physical mate and never get beyond the mundane while some pick their soul mate and transcend it all? Do some people have a soul mate and a wholly separate body mate?

I have a soul. I have hope. The truth is I know. What did i say about the truth? What did Nietzsche say about hope? What does strangelove say? Feel. Being numb only ends in a whole lot of pain. There's more to life than floating through...but one can truly float when one truly lives.

As Good As It Gets

As good as Friday was... and it truly was. The park, the grocery store we almost got ourselves thrown out of, the pharmacy and starbucks. Laughter and giggles... that's how we spent the day and I loved it... that someone would try that hard for me.

I digress... as good as Friday was... Saturday was equally if not more so, worse. Who knew one could pull a muscle on the top of their thigh.. and not have anything momentous to remember it by. Who knew that sliding while bowling could cause a knee to hurt a week later. Who knew that I could go from happy to pissy and bitchy in 6.3 seconds.

But as bad as it was... I did have some moments that weren't all that. Taking P to see her Grandma always warms my heart. When you set aside the idea that maybe I don't burp her enough, I'm evil enough to allow her to suck her thumb and think it's cute, I did infact purchase a pacifier for her (I refuse to call it a binky) and... she just might... horror of all horrors.. be a lefty, my mother in law is only trying to be helpful and she loves her granddaugher almost as much as I love her son. My heart is even thawing a little towards the dogs. Baby, who is anthing but, is cute and sweet and friendly. The other one is afraid of everything and keeps her distance. I'm all good with that.

What I cannot handle and we've deftly avoided lately... until last night is the step-father. I took a good hard look at him last night for the first time in perhaps a year or more. He is dying. He is not aware. Sitting at the table hunched over he appears 85 rather than 65. Still working, going through the motions on broken sleep, confused thoughts, wildly imagined stories and the haze of alcohol. My mother in law says to me that milk puts him out like a light... so he drinks milk before bed. Milk and the three shots of cheap vodka that not so discretely went into the generic glass tumbler along with the ice when he assumed no one was looking. I outted him just to see if she knew. She does and is powerless to put a stop to it. Or she does not want to, I don't know. Four hours until he is supposed to leave for work and he's downing enough to get my whole household feeling pretty damn fine. I'd be out like a light for the entire night. He only makes it an hour, before he's back up and at it again.

A single this time... again with the milk. I have to ask about the grapefruit juice in the fridge before I have any... to make sure no one tampered with it. No, I'm assured he did not. He tired of juice weeks ago and has moved onto the milk. There's a cycle here... V8, grapefruit, milk. All things that go well with the booze. Nice. He sits at the table, randomly changing the channel on the tv and messing with the volume at whim. Then he asks what we're watching and who turned off his favorite show. I busy myself with the baby and dinner.

He is a small man, made smaller by his broken-down appearance. Dressed in dark boxers and a tattered wife-beater, I can't remember the last time I saw him fully or appropriately dressed. Barefoot too, not that it matters much. His skin is still dark, not from time in the sun, but from his herritage - whatever that is. He has taken on a sallow and chalky appearance. His feet and ankles are swollen terrible, not that he seems to care. He has a bruise the size of a footlong overstuff sub sandwich on the back of one leg. It's been there a long time and it's black, not that he seems to notice. He is dying and he does not feel it.

His arms that once were intimidating and powerful are now shrunken and battle scarred. The tatoos that once proclaimed his love for parrots and for Joyce, in that order, are as faded and blurred as the memories they embraced. His children want nothing to do with him. They are embarassed by him and probably a little saddened to see how far he has sunk. The mind that was once agile and strong is gone. He wouldn't remember if they came to visit and while they were in attendance he would do everything in his power to humiliate and alienate them.

His face is concave, sallow, wrinkled and weary. He cannot form a sentence of coherant thought to save his soul. Does he even still have a soul? His hair stands up from his head like troll doll who met a blonde bottle and lost the good fight. His hair would surly be grey if only he would let it. It's his one last stand at vanity. That along with the dentures he rarely wears and nightly dousing with cheap cologne before work. He sits now at the kitchen table demanding whatever his foggy mind decides he must have next and usually it's nonsensical. He mutters whatever is on his mind without regard to the setting or the appropriateness of his verbage. He is like a dog with a bone when he gets going. Spewing forth filth, ugliness, hate, racism, whatever crosses his mind. It's like a giant word association riddle that's unsolvable to the rest of us.
His mind plays tricks on him, his imagination conjuring up wild stories that on their face are impossible. Two guys tried to carjack him in downtown and he had to shoot them both. Yet here he is... no police intervention, nothing on the news... didn't hear about it at the time it supposedly happened. Hmm... me thinks not. He supposedly fell off machinery at work, 50 feet and nearly died. Was unconscious for 45 minutes... they all thought he was dead. Yet there was no trip to the hospital, no workman's comp claim, no osha investigation, he simply up and drove him. Likely not.

It dawns on me as I watch him attempt with shaking hands to down the hot wings that came with the pizza, that in 12 years I have never seen him sober. I honestly think it's too late for that. He is dying and it's only a matter of time.