A Lover, a Fighter, Have All Died Inside Her

Maybe it's Explosions in the Sky's Your Hand in Mine playing in the background that's got me all feely and sentimental. I am preparing for my interview- reading up on PETA and sifting through Google results on "how to ace a phone interview". The notion of departing this place, one of many places I will have left behind, is exciting, but currently this imposing sense of sadness overwhelms me. I look around at this house and these things... I look at her and imagine being apart. I take her for granted now- it's what we all do when we've gotten used to what we enjoy in daily life- but I don't pretend, should we part ways, it will be easy for me.

My beautiful, enchanting little felines will accompany me wherever I go of course, which comforts me some. In this fresh light I can see the beauty I couldn't see before. I can see things, new colors and shapes, previously unfamiliar. I can tell when it's going to rain. The street pegs me as a hardass, swaggering pileup of occasional enthusiasm and never ending controversy. It's a hard shell, sure, but really I'm a fucking oyster. Love and hate cohabitate this tough little heart of mine; I pretend I don't miss it all- home, the band, hope, the church, Status, you, you, you, and of course: You.

But I do.

And I mourn for you. I lose sleep over you, and any sleep I do manage is haunted by you showing up my dreams.

Haunt me forever.

Oh, this guilt. Damn this guilt. Every dollar I owe, every believer manipulated, every trust betrayed (redundant, I know), every harsh word vomited into the atmosphere, forever polluting these pristine waters. I miss those waters. Warm and clear and abundant with life and possibilities, dangerous and ripe for exploration. Whatever.

I miss those first days with you on the coast. Cloudy skies and high winds and as quickly as she had disappeared, Happiness arrived unexpectedly to spend some much needed quality time there with us. These days I can hardly remember what she looks like. If memory were a friend of mine...

My heart will ache for you. For all of this. Always. And... it's good, I'm concluding.

Turns out I'm human after all.

Adversary

It's storming out. Alive with the wrath of God: thunder shaking the house like His own footsteps on the front porch.

I sat down on my lovely baby grand, and out came an old song. It never got recorded, and I have resolved to remedy that.

I watched the raven circle anxiously above my head
Turned back to see my city as salt formed on my fingertips
Saw the ocean trade its mystery for the luster of a moonlit wing
I heard your voice on the wind...

I gave oxygen to a world that was never meant to breathe
My blindness felt its way through a place that dies with every feeling
Gave her the antidote to a poison that would let her sleep
How cries the enemy? Out cries the enemy...
I watched the mountain trade for fame its majesty with ashes
Its darkness burns in my chest

Here, I've insulted a man on the brink of suicide
Gave indecision to the faithful-hearted, do or die
Handed her the letter just before she felt the lightning strike
How cries the enemy? Now cries the enemy!

And I don't plan to let you walk away unharmed...

Hallelujah...

Just as love comes with hurt
And just as war comes with lives lost
The same as you are gone now
It's the only thing worth living and dying for

The only thing worth living and dying for

The Less Fascinating, Maybe...

Today I passed a dead alligator on I-4.

Today a motorcycle passed me in the same lane on I-4 (I ride a motorcycle); Turns out it was a cop; I was exceeding the speed limit by 20MPH. Apparently he didn't care. Or had somewhere to go.

Yesterday a girl named Lori Painter sent me an email. She received my resumé. She works for PETA. The interview is Tues. @ 2PM.

As far as the latter goes, it's the proverbial fork in the road. If I'm offered the position, it may mean my relocation- I've been thinking about moving to Chicago, but PETA would most likely have me in DC or Virginia. If they offer- I'm going. But it would mean starting all over again in a new place with no friends... something I've done several times in my life, including but not limited to my moves to NYC and Orlando.

My heart has never been in Orlando. I haven't fallen in love with it. I love the warmth, the unique wildlife and my experiences with it (i.e., sharks, dolphins, turtles, tortoises, eels, fish, boar, armadillo, alligators, crocodiles, snakes, poisonous spiders, owls and other birds, lizards, deer, and whatever else I'm forgetting). I love the storms... some other things.

I'm sure in retrospect I'll miss all kinds of things, even people I didn't realize I had any real fondness for, but mostly it's been a disappointment. There are no basements here, and it's a good analogy for life in Orlando- everything is primarily on the surface, anything deeper and you're flooded, making it difficult to grow roots or establish anything further embedded than one or two feet. Most of my friendships here have tapered off since I left the church. Kate (one individual whose influence and intellect I will miss) is reading a book defending the exclusivity of the faith based community, and it makes sense, but even with her impassioned telling of the author's philosophy, it couldn't have sounded more sour to a guy who, once so entrenched, now resides on the outermost fringe territories of its reach. Still, one can't be certain who excommunicated who.

I miss Oregon terribly. I hope one day to end up there again, drinking Sumatra at Cafe Delirium, reminiscing with long lost friends and unabashed liberals, protected from the miserable and oppressive weather just outside. But.. I'm not ready to go back to Portland yet, so on to the next adventure, I suppose.

Thinking about it now, it makes me smile.

Plastic Orlando: Kidnapping, Murder, and Other Dinner Table Topics

She saw on a branch a bird with his head hung low. He was brilliant once, she thought, but now his colors were dull and drab as if dusted with ash. Under the tree with the bird on the branch was a little heart, bloodless, but beating along steadily nonetheless, unaware it had been devoid of its purpose. This must belong to you, she insisted, but his interest in such things as living and breathing waned. Still she persisted, while he rued over memories and dark thoughts, unhappy to be here, dying like this.

In his little bird brain are home movies and in them is a fountain where she dances and bathes. In itself her beauty was an atmosphere and the climate it created he imagined was not unlike what the birds of Eden enjoyed. He (secretly) listens to her sing. He watches himself collect sticks with her. He remembers what they built right here in this tree, where later his heart would fall out of him for a little girl to find. She would offer it back to him. He would refuse.

His interest in such things as living and breathing waned, and besides- the space had been filled, and that old heart would simply have to find another place to live. The sad old bird waited for his body to notice the absence of its most vital organ, but it didn't.

Meanwhile, she waited.

My Letter to Bank of America.

Posted in the Comments & Suggestions portion of their website

Seriously, guys. $35 is a bit much for an overdraft fee. That cup of coffee was not worth $38. The idea is to keep your customers, especially at a time when you need them more than they need you. But please, when they plead with you, when they throw themselves shamelessly at your mercy (Google it), when they ask for your help and leniency, stand your ground, repeat the same phrase as many times as necessary, turn your nose up and assure them that it's actually a "courtesy" the bank provides to what should be grateful customers. Oh, I'm sorry- did I upset you with my rational argument? Did I sew a seed of doubt, plaguing your faith in the system? Did I simply ask for too much? "MORE?" It's Dickens. Wasted reference, I know. This one might be more familiar: When you think of yourself, Bank of America, realize that I was the old woman at the door, begging you for shelter, and that you were the arrogant prince that refused to help, and now look at you- you're a beast! I wonder if you would have felt similar if the government had simply said "It's your fault: I'm afraid we can't help." amidst the bailout. So here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to use my entire paycheck to cover all the fees caused by fees, and then I'm closing my account forever. When inevitably the announcement comes that BOA is bankrupt and Uncle Sam has no more money for you and you're all losing your jobs and you feel like the whole world's laughing at you, remember me- my laugh will be the first.

Dear God, we need to talk.

Let me know when you have some time. I know we've both been busy, and that things are- oh, I don't know, strained. I just can't pretend anymore, what with these awkward, obligatory pleasantries, these force-fed exchanges, these diplomatic tradings of basic information. We part disappointed and just- sad, both of us recalling days, better than these, ones where I would sing to you as loud as I could, excited- giddy, even- while you stitched up my heart, thread after thread and with great care. But that's, well... that's not how it is now, is it?

Anyway, I didn't mean to go on this long before we've actually had a chance to sit down and hash this out. I'm very tired and it's late and I don't think either of us have the energy to endure the conversation we're about to have- not at this hour, anyway. Let me know when you're free- I hope you can find some time for me.

I miss you. Life is different here without you. Emptier, somehow... I don't know.

So this is goodbye...

...a thought rejected and inverted, pounded and kneaded into an alternate reality where Time was sacred, held in reverence and attended to with tedious devotion, dusted and polished, maintained to the utmost. In the high tower of a lonely castle a beast broods over a dying rose, each fallen pedal another painful reminder of how much has been lost, and his posture sinks further. The saddest scene in any great film is not when the beloved character dies, but when the protagonist has to say goodbye. Parting is such sweet sorrow, except for the sweet part.

I'm no good with goodbyes. I left Portland with little fanfare. No going away party, no wrap-up conversations save for a few select individuals. The easy part for me was that no one knew I wouldn't be coming back; I bought a round-trip ticket, but I knew it was one-way. I said goodbye to my home, familiar faces, emberghost, the place where I grew up, the surrounding beauty, good coffee, x-girlfriends, all without saying a word. As good as I have it here, what with a fantastic job, super-cool girlfriend, bountiful social and home life, and a wonderful, endearing set of regal felines, the sense of regret and loss can be overwhelming when considering what I left behind. Several of the friends I've kept close over the last 3 years have the same initial question when we reunite over the phone: "When are you coming home?"

Home.

But it's deceptively nostalgic. Whenever I caught myself missing the glory days of high school, a quick trip to visit a former teacher, fighting my way through the hallways just to get to the classroom left me more anxious than ever to get the hell out. If I were to visit Portland now, expecting everything to be the same, expecting all the same smiling faces waiting with welcoming, wide open arms, I'd find myself just as out of place as I do at a Catholic mass or a Colombian holiday feast.

Why I will miss you so much is not due to the wry, southern charm or the whimsical, shotgun approach to debating my finer points. Nor is it your loyal, forgiving and focused, intentional friendship (though I can't say its absence will go unnoticed, either), or the constant attention and devotion given to any reaching piece of my own artistic expression, but that you make this place feel a little more like home. 3,000 miles from everything familiar to me, you make me feel a little less far away.

I'm tempted to feel somewhat sorry for myself. Plenty of friendships I've botched without any effort given to reparation before the opportunity expired. In this case I'd beat the buzzer, only to regret not doing it sooner. So much regret... it's become an unwelcome house guest firmly entrenched in the center of my sofa.

But you said it best, and there's nothing I can do without affordable time travel, so I won't rue it any longer (at least not in this particular entry, though I can't say how I'll feel when I wake up tomorrow). Instead, I'll avoid the temptation to fade the end of this one into the bleakest black, and I'll express my gratitude for having had a friend, graceful and caring, sincere and enthusiastic, poised and personable, thoughtful and giving, concerned and dedicated, open and warm, whom with I found so deeply entwined, fiber after fiber, into the threads, twisting and weaving as they do, of my daily life. You tend to show people the good things about themselves that they had long forgotten, and for the innumerable hopeless among us, yours is a rare and invaluable gift. With you gone, I'm afraid even the best of us will revert to our self loathing and depreciation, and you can take that as a compliment.

So is this goodbye? Nah, this is a thank you note. And well deserved it is.

One chapter ends, another begins, but the book is far from over.