Loosening Fingers

I need a J.O.B. I've theoretically needed one for quite some time, but now I really need one. I've decided I'll do some sort of online writing crap first because I only need $800-$1000 a month. I haven't written more than a Facebook status or long message in quite some time. I'm also not too sure I can write about stuff other people want me to write about without swearing or adding my own personal brand of quirk to the writing. I'm pretty sure I have a strong voice, which technically should be a good thing, right? No matter, I'm just going to give myself another few days to research and then I'll pick some crap place to try and see how it goes. I don't even care about soulless content mill work, I just care that my kid get something for Christmas this year.

A few months ago, when I had some spare money, I bought an album by a band Patrick loved. I liked them too, but only the songs I'd heard through him. I'd never searched for their music on my own. Their new release was featured on i.tunes, so I decided to try it.

At first, I loved/hated listening to something I know he would have been listening to if he was still alive. I could feel the melancholy rolling off my Mac.book as the singer lamented his awful, rotten, directionless life. I wallowed with him for about two, maybe three songs. Then I started to wallow on my own, for different reasons.

I realized that I'm not in a spot where I enjoyed listening to despair anymore. I can't bear to hear it, in fact. It's not fun to get caught in the mire of how soul sucking life can be. I don't need to listen to someone else's loneliness and depression. I'd prefer to hear something that helps alleviate pain, rather than repeats it.

Realizing this made me feel horrible. I wanted to cry for a whole new reason -- Patrick never had the chance to get out of that stage. Sure, he may have chosen not to, but he didn't have that choice. He didn't get the choice to move on or stay sinking, because someone else decided he'd never again choose anything. Someone who hated him made sure he never got to grow in subtle ways. I doubt he'd have ever turned into the sunny disposition kind of guy acquaintances thought he was, but he should have had the chance to crawl out of the muck. Or the mulch that suffocated him. I guess all I can do is appreciate that the things that once attracted me because of their obvious pain no longer do.

4 years

Four years is a long time. Or it can feel like four seconds. Strange how things work out that way. Of course, eight or ten or however many years I went without seeing him the last time completely dissolved when I met his eyes. Too bad this time he has no eyes to meet. They've been extinguished, burned to ash and buried. I probably wouldn't want to see them anymore. I told myself that this loss wasn't going to be the same as when my friend died. I wasn't going to drink until I couldn't see or remember anything. I, in fact, was going to avoid drinking because I knew I wouldn't be able to stop, and because I knew the loss of his life would just come pouring out. I'd find myself in trouble and possibly homeless after the type of outburst I could feel welling up inside me. I stopped fighting with people who never cared to make me happy, yet insisted upon being around to watch me be miserable. I let obvious lies go unchallenged, I didn't ask questions when I didn't feel like hearing a lie. I made life easier for my son in the process because I knew Patrick would've given anything to be there for his daughter, to make her life easier. So I sucked up a lot of shit I never imagined sucking up in order to keep some calm around me. I ate instead of drank. I bit my tongue until I got so tired of the taste of blood, I didn't even have to bite anymore. I just shrugged, said, "OK" and popped a soda or some junk food. I, of course, gained weight and an odd complacency that never fit quite right, but, really, nothing else fit quite right either, so it was just one of many ways my skin felt wrong. I tried exercising, but leaving the house and interacting with people who were funny and thought I said things worth listening to depressed me more because it reminded me of what I'd given up. So I ate more junk for comfort. It wasn't really more comforting than getting loaded would have been, but it was a lot more safe. Mostly. Anyway, so I don't recognize very much of myself these days. I'm not sure I'm ever going to. I'm not sure if it matters if I do. Yeah, uh, that's what I've been up to since you've been gone. Maybe I should try to remember which one of us lived.

Here Ya Go, P

I've been getting lots of little "messages" reminding me of a dearly departed someone. I think the most ostentatious was a pair of glasses for alcohol (I'm not sure if they were for beer or what. No, I guess it doesn't matter.) bearing his full name. Apparently he's a restaurant in New Orleans. Or was. Anyway, I'm not up for writing, but I thought of this piece that I wrote for him back when he read my stuff on The Space. The date it was last edited? Exactly two years before his murder four years ago. I can't even bring myself to read it, but here it is. You come to me in the night, silently waiting outside my door.  I feel your presence and step out into the full moon-lit air.  The night is hot and still.  The dew is on the grass and my bare feet get wet as I reach out to grab your hand.  Shyly, I raise my eyes to meet yours.  I can see my intentions mirrored in your eyes. You are holding a blanket, and we walk with you leading the way, but only barely.  The meadow is empty except for the fireflies.  Most have gone to sleep, but a few still flicker here and there in the air.  The small stream running through the meadow provides the only noise besides the sounds of our feet.  You spread the blanket, and sit, silently inviting me to join you.  Gingerly, I sit next to you.  Close, but not too close.  http://starmatt.com/gallery/astro/fireflies.jpg You lean over to kiss me and the slow sweet pace of the kiss barely masks the intensity behind it.  We recline in each other's arms, still kissing.  Our passion builds, as slowly, we begin to undress.  Our eyes never leave each other as we spend the rest of the night giving into our passion, until the birds begin to chirp. Slowly, reluctantly we dress, fold the blanket, and give a few lingering kisses.  We walk back to my door, where you slip away unwillingly, my eyes following you until you are out of sight.  Softly, I go inside, lean on the door and begin to cry.