I.          Unlikely Poems

 

 

A Good Enough Answer, I Suppose

 

Another one asks the question and

we freeze trying to gloss over a reply.

“Could it ever happen?”  We answer,

“Don’t start…”, then quickly become

busy at the counter or on the phone.

An hour passes and we are coworkers again,

forgetting touching hands that night over the table,

melting at each others’ silent gestures and

bursting eyes, forgetting that last hug,

how it seemed to last longer than previous ones,

setting aside for the moment that she was the one

I collapsed into for solace when the ground

was too far away to beat upon Nikki’s death.

It doesn’t alter the light of day that is has been

four years now and every other circle has broken.

It doesn’t matter the way she cried when I placed

states between us, even when she would join me

only months later.

None of the notes, none of the cards,

none of the days staying late after work

seem to make phone calls more frequent

or dinners more expensive, never cause us to

dress up and mingle over drinks at parties,

introducing each other to people we do not

care about, and dancing properly when expected.

We do not look at rings or wedding gowns,

or speak of our future together as

“when we decorate our house”.

We have not kissed (though, sometimes….),

and none of this causes us to drink or smoke,

or drive excessively fast on dark stretches of

road in the country while the moon laughs its

sinister laugh. We do not wish for more,

and ache and mope and trace our veins with

box cutters when no more comes.

Instead we laugh in unison at things only we share.

We are bound in unspoken security, resting content

in the knowledge that there will always be a tomorrow,

that it will shine and it will rain,

and we’ll throw each other in pools or splash

each other with puddles as we make our way

through parking lots to the cheese isle

of the grocery store.

There will always be a table to sit at,

or a hill to look out over a city from.

There will always be home and parents

and mutual friends and inside jokes,

always be new stories and long trips,

all saturated with melodrama.

We will never be perfect, but always

perfect for each other, always finding fortune

in emptiness, always savoring tears as gold,

finding every occasion in the absurdity of living

to laugh, to always see a light on the horizon,

and to race for it hand in hand.

 

I do not fancy myself your hero.

I will never happen to drive out to your place

late at night, and bang on your window,

and whisk you out onto a lake by torch light.

I will not wait four hours under a staircase

with flowers and perfume to say the most

charming things in known history.

The scenes will not cut back and forth like a

black and white film; I will never lose my color,

or change my wardrobe to only double-breasted

suits with a carnation pinned to the lapel.

Instead, I want nothing more than to read you

chapters at a time from books you’ve picked out,

while you stir fry vegetables in the kitchen,

then recline on the couch on an early evening,

with the television unplugged, and stream off

random thoughts, staring at the ceiling.

I want to walk past shops downtown, and stop in

an ice cream parlor to share a frozen cappuccino,

then sit on a bench for a while and mock

the Baptists passing by.

I want to run into an ex-girlfriend on some

street corner or in some store, make small talk with

genuine interest, then continue on with you

without thinking it strange. I want to see plays,

and play games, and rummage through yard sales

and thrift stores without over-planning and

without anxiety. I want to open my eyes

every morning, and rush along my waking routine

to rejoin you in friendship, and pick up where

we left off the day before.

Just as these words could continue forever as if

I were writing a journal, the mundane things,

the unromantic things, the less than perfect,

short of ideal things, the side notes, the chores,

in short, those things which make me human…

share them with me.

And in return, I can only say with such humility,

and with such thanks and awe and sincerity…

you make my heart smile.

 

 

At Your Name

 

All beauty ignites at

the voicing of your name.

 

Your name is the articulation

of all intangible beauty,

lying dormant to ignite.

The suggestion of you

is volcanic in its activity.

 

 

Each Farewell

 

Treacherous night

of farewell,

remove your talons from my heart!

Tonight’s lover glides fluid

between the chambers

of my heart.

 

 

Tonight, In The Dark

 

Sex is truly unique among

these truly ubiquitous things;

freely I pledge my mischievous

nature to tasteful experimenting….

 

 

Syrup

 

Sugary sweet,

I smile with rash intentions,

pseudo-sociopathic elitist invention.

 

You put the bounce in my kick,

you put the spit in my hiss,

you liquid trounce with a lisp;

I take a head to your stick.

 

Honeycomb hive,

you keep me barely alive

with innuendo, regression, and obsession.

 

 

Shooting Stars

 

When we see a couple,

sweet together in any manner,

we curl in closer on each others’ arms.

When couples see us,

sweet together in every manner,

he thinks to himself,

“The poor fool…”

while she pulls in and thinks,

“Why can’t we be like that?”

 

 

Marci, My Treasure, My Princess

 

You deserve for the seasons themselves

to dive into bottles for your possession,

autumn with its crispness and soft reflection

to uncork when you are sentimental,

winter as a blast of draft

to cool your mouth with peppermint,

spring to splash flora over your neck and face,

to blossom fresh as if a bath of meadow,

and even summer to anoint your head

with babbling brooks and chirping birds

across the underbrush of shadowy weirs.

Beauty and vitality are mindful of you;

they utter your name wistfully and naturally.

There is simply no impurity in you,

nothing less than inexplicable,

abstract perfection.

 

 

The First Longing

 

Hearts pound in time to tears

soft padding across cheeks.

Breath, deep with nuances of

longing, sigh audibly, visibly,

that the pounding sometimes

fails to reach the depth

at which the soul is touched.

There are ties so far beneath

vocal cords that expression is

no more than salt drops from

a chin. In every way a first,

lips tremble and the whimpering

begins—it is uncontrollable when

the total thought comes streaming,

beaming through panes with

such intensity. I am blinded,

love, by what I find in you,

blinded to anything not in its light.

 

 

Frames

 

The soul rests in time as if all was memory.

Pages in scrap books rest pressed together,

as two lovers on a late morning, framed in

golden edges. Echoes throughout the still

white and cedar frame of housing lap at

walls, dripping down over picture frames,

ushering out the old, ushering in the new.

Time no longer passes; it is at a standstill,

caught in some eternal treaty between love

and years, allowing both to settle in like

painted clay for the shelves no onlooker will

ever pass. There is no pretense in the day,

no rush, no more than a sigh in the eyes of

a lifetime’s companion. These are the years

I have given you, the years of splendor,

multiplied by infinity, imprinted with

a single kiss, drawing together two lives

into one, so rich, so full, so perfect in harmony

that no man can find its parallel. I love you

now as a million years prior to history;

there are no bounds and only silence can speak it.

 

 

Sifted

 

The refreshing is purification by your words.

All truth is sifted through the filter of your grace

to find sanctity in your refinement.

I am polished and sharpened and melted

down and resculpted again by heed

of your gentle whisper in my ear.

Distractions fall as shackles

to the sure ground of your temple,

then vanish as spirits at the name of Christ.

All the wonder I had forgotten,

seeing things for a first time as a child,

all is restored under freshly preened wings,

healed of mortal wounds whose scars never set,

and gleaming as stars for wise men to follow.

I have found a beauty in the wisdom of Solomon,

raised up from dust and packaged tight

by the hand of God.

I have found a purity beyond estimation,

packed tight and in bodily form;

she is the woman to whom all else must bow.

 

 

I Know What She Is

 

You have always know, Father, her father,

that the little girl hands from frills and pigtails,

open wide and stretching out with arms,

would someday close in tight on the

little boy hands of some quiet romantic.

You have always known that it would be,

someday, the saddest and happiest and strangest

of days, to look deeply, with full soul and

quivering lip, into the wide, imploring eyes

of your most beautiful daughter,

and offer her up once more to her God,

with only then the full impact of that reality

tugging at your heart.

 

The little girl hands from frills and pigtails—

you have witnessed over the years how strong

and how tender little fingers become.

You have seen the tiny fist in your palm

grow into a woman’s hand.

You were there to be overwhelmed with joy

at every first—her first word, her first step,

her first thunderstorm—all the times children

look up with excitement for affirmation.

Your heart broke when she was sad;

your eyes silently laughed when youth

misunderstood such simple things—

how you delighted in her innocence,

and adored the spectacle of your child,

making up songs and stories to herself,

unaware of being watched. You sat back in

your chair and listened to her timeless voice.

 

In my life, I have known but three things:

There is no grief like a mother’s.

There is no joy like a father’s.

Love is the only measure of time.

 

You have always known, her father, my father,

that the little boy hands of some quiet romantic

would someday interlock with hers,

to guide her, to be led, to walk alongside her

until the duration of years turns golden,

lining the pages of her life with riches and age,

blessing after blessing at the hand of God’s grace.

There is a moment in a father’s life when

for the first time he sees his daughter’s reflection

fully in the eyes of her life’s companion,

and he understands that his role has changed,

and the mixture of emotions is the recipe for

the sweetest tears he will ever cry.

 

You have always prayed, Father, her father,

for her future husband to draw near to God,

that his path would be protected and sure,

that he would be raised with wisdom and patience,

that he would be willing and anxious to endure

through trials, that his body would be strong,

and his spirit gentle, and that he would guard

her purity with his life. You have petitioned the

Lord your God to bring your daughter a man of

upright ways, a defender, a brother, and a servant.

You have prayed that he would know her, truly,

as a man knows his own heart, that every attribute,

every wonderful quality would be met with

enthusiasm and appropriateness, that she could

curl up in his security and rest in his provision,

that her heart would be truly happy in love.

You have prayed also that she mature as

a woman of God.

 

Father, my father, as your brother

in his service, I speak; I speak to you as

your daughter’s future husband.

 

I have seen the little girl hands

from frills and pigtails.

I have interlocked the little boy hands of this

quiet romantic with her strong and tender fingers,

to guide her, to be led, to walk alongside her.

I have looked into her eyes and seen her heart,

I have looked into her heart and seen her soul,

and her mind is as simple and as complex as

the words you can still hear in her little girl voice;

 

“Jesus loves me, this I know,

for the Bible tells me so….”

 

She is so golden, so bright,

so appropriate and so pure.

I have seen her past and survived through

her fears; I have never tasted a tear

more like sweet wine than my beloved’s.

I am so overwhelmed that I can only whisper—

I cannot even formulate an intelligible thought!

In Christ I was complete before her,

but like an empty vessel;

now I spill over with abundance, with wellsprings

of love and joy that lift my surroundings to the

heavens and saturate every near thing!

I am enchanted in the most realistic of ways,

amazed at how naturally the details of daily life

submit to her. I keep nothing from her;

there is nothing I do not want to share.

I am committed, heart, mind, and soul to her,

to always love, honor, and cherish her with

everything I am, to lay my life at her feet,

and serve with her the one and only true God,

whom she and I both love.

 

It is in the perfection of His will that we were

brought together, and it is with that same will

in mind that we shall proceed, relying on Him

and on each other for the strength and courage

—and every ripening fruit of the spirit—

to be a brilliant, shining example to a dim

and hopeless world that, in the most

tangible way, there truly abides

faith, hope, and love,

and that the greatest of these

is, truly, love.

 

 

Virgin Form

 

Lie back, undressed, pressed in covers,

your perfect breasts, tested lovers,

reserve of beauty, well adorned;

I disappear in sheer virgin form.

 

 

Poison Reaching Upward

 

Heart in my throat,

sneer in my gloat;

wrench and convulse

goes the soul—

intangible, the unknown.

My heart bursts forth,

splattering verse;

terse the knots on my

arms purple with venom,

sickening the blood

in spurts.

 

 

Your Breathing

 

Life’s very perception has

altered to mirror you.

I cannot stand the daylight that shines

over ground unhugged by your shadow.

I cannot stand the nights

without you in my bed.

The intolerable things of passionless

inanity are not stilled tonight by

your leg across my body,

are not silenced by the taste of

your breathing against my chest.

 

 

Our Sculpted Bodies Entwined

 

Sheer glimmer and glow fall anxious over

regal draping tapestries rich.

Silence and poise steady nervous hands,

awaken love in renewed vigor;

            intentional, ravenous.

Fluid and slow, catlike with mischief,

from the corner fold covering our bed,

 

I begin at your toes.

 

Cool tickling digits slowly tongue warmed,

individually, each,

an upward glance between long closing eyes.

On the underside curve of graceful, hurried feet,

pressed tightly fitted to my own warm face,

rounding delicate heel for a quick mouthing

            of the ankle.

In all of ancient Greece, there was no

more perfect goddess than she of my affection.

Her statuesque calves, dotted exclamations,

growing like vines upward toward the sun,

tender leaves unfolding cup-like, offerings of dew;

morning songs, morning birds, distant relations.

 

I center at your hearth.

 

Warmth radiating, inward pull,

snug locks the hold of hands immersed in clay,

following attentively smooth curves spinning,

burrowing deeper into earth rich with life,

mouth open to bursting fullness from wet soil,

earth tilled by fingertips, handfuls of dirt.

Ornamented shimmers, ornate bulbs

spring forth from splashes of color and sunlight;

floral is our bed of greenery and petals.

 

And upward again, surging to your blossoms.

 

Up the corridor of climbing stalk,

nerve centers awake, he slithers serpentine

across her surface, closely and metallic,

polishing, gleaming the sheen, reflection in her

            curvature laid bare—

then a grin across licked lips and hungry teeth,

wider opened suckling mouth unfurls its tongue,

forcibly urges contracting muscle

upward in heaves and bears down with its weight.

A process in motion paces itself—slow, fast,

then slow again, building volcanic urges emerging;

pulse and breath quicken to abrupt,

excitable doses.

 

His head lifts.

 

Equal treatment lays outstretched upon cast iron

frames of petal tipped, perfume dripped stems

            moist and strong,

interlocking fingers carrying lapping waves

back to the stern, bobbing gently as driftwood

            salty and fresh upon immersion.

 

Back to the shore, my mixed metaphor,

to reengage in activity.

 

My own sapling twigs of branches sway inward,

catching breezes, brushing intentionally and

            light against her foliage.

Shadows move slow across valleys deep and peaks,

paths upward open in exploration,

blooming and plumage full;

then we rest and settle.

 

Then, finally, the kiss.

 

Suppressed impression’s impassioned lover

unleashes, the mouth fixes in place and engages,

            airtight its seal.

Golden sun streams over skies oceanic in original

stark contrast, bridge outcropping slightly from

soft countryside, rolling hills.

A road, empty and inviting, stretches subtly;

eager steps trace its course.

 

Our souls

in union

speak.

 

 

True Romance

 

Romance involves such things as

restocking bathroom tissue,

noticing that there is garbage

to be taken out,

and coming to bed before you

are necessarily tired.

And often even forgoing poetry.

 

I thought tonight to write

a song about lost loves,

even down to descriptions.

My heart grieved for

loss of all the dead weight

it used to carry.

I am no longer that man,

and so I sang only for my wife.

 

 

Embers

 

Reach down your hand

from the tempest of who you are

to stir up the simmering

embers of me.

 

 

At Home

 

Unhappy people gather habitually

under the genuine stench of unoriginality,

discussing lame and tired topics,

and how sad it is, me sitting at

home with my wife.

 

Yeah, such striking mundanity,

you absolute buffoons.

 

 

II.        Unlikely Entries

 

 

13^th Thursday, April 1995

 

          Well, here I go again.  Not even a month after burning everything I still treasured from Lana and sending her the bottled ashes, I find myself ready to obsess about someone else.  We have this rule at the café that girls need to be escorted to their cars, or brown vans or whatever.  Mancy being of school age tends to leave work rather early, so as we were tonight all lazing in the alley and she decided to leave, Pino asked me to walk her around the building.  Which I gladly did.  Which, truly, I might have done anyway.  This of course was an insignificant thing, something she might remember or shrug off as nothing.  But what she may not know is that after I walked away and she was unable to start the vehicle, I stood at the corner behind a column of bricks, watching her for a good five minutes before she drove away.

          At closing I suggested to Annie and Pino that I might like her more if she were not a singer.  And they suggested I might just plain like her, and Pino offered to talk to her for me if I would lose the teddy bear backpack.  I shook my head at such a ridiculous notion… while, I must admit, she does share certain essential characteristics with the owner of the ashes.

 

 

15^th Saturday, April 1995

 

          “That’s so annoying!” I began.  Annie read my mind, “To like someone?”  “That you have to like her!”  She knew who I meant.  I’d been working like mad all day to prepare for the Kevin Smith show that night.  In retrospect, I suppose I can admit that I only agreed to be there because Mancy was scheduled.  In fact, and please let this go no further, I really only work at all because she’s there; otherwise, I should be somewhere else.

          Without going into much unnecessary detail, let me tell you what affected me most this particular evening.  First, she often turned to look at me or speak to me; at one point she sat immediately by my side.  Then, of course, there were the joking attacks and other things, which swung my mood a bit to the more giddy, emotional side.

          As hour after hour passed, the concert ended, and nearly everyone else went home, I was pleased beyond measure that she was still around.  Carrying tables, at that!  Following her down the unlit sidewalk to the church light before us, I noticed with almost a thrill the young, but perfectly feminine figure showing through a somewhat transparent dress.

          Her admirable qualities find themselves sticking in my mind, reinforcing a positive sort of first impression I’d formed.  Driving home, entranced by “Dark Side…” I could think only of how desperately I would love to kiss her.

 

 

Early August 1996

 

          What is man in his twentieth year?  Or his fiftieth, or eightieth?  What is his burden, what is his grief that it is worthy to note?  Nay, only one has yet defied the grave, and he with the greatest suffering of all—that of undue suffering.  What thought, what talent, what act may I claim that might give merit to my misery?  I ache to the very blood that sustains me.  I curse this twisted assembly of bones and cartilage with every grating movement.  My heart is as wicked a cinder as has ever plotted against itself.

          Yet, do I complain?  Is even one of my prayers indulged?  And do I not, with no more than a sigh, respectfully bow to every discouragement thrust at me?  And why?  Because man in his rapid succession of years will end with no more to say about it than an insect on his preference of not being stepped on.

          Who am I to occupy your hearing with idle chatter and dead theories?  Who are you that death should hold her hand still while you prepare for your great purpose?  Surely, you will in the end find that there is no more useful wisdom than this:  Man’s purpose in being introduced to life is that he must befriend death.  And in so doing, he must acknowledge his insignificance and submit in humility to the one whom death could not hold.  In the meantime, do not speak harshly of what you find disagreeable; these things are only inconveniences, placed to point us toward that final invariable resolve.

 

 

Late August 1996

 

          Oh God, that I could sleep!  That these desert-burning eyes could only shut!  Of anyone I have ever known, I am truly alone.  Precious, absurd people claim immediate segments of my time, and I oblige because I’ve no better way to pass it.  Oh, that this could be my last night of torment!  I wish it constantly to end, but my health remains and my heart beats strong.  Oh, that the whole in my stomach would split me from the inside out!  That my pulse would only cease its repetitions!  But no such comfort am I allowed; no solace am I given.  How often must my spirit be broken before my body joins in the decay?  Death is more welcome than life; I have befriended solitude more than his treacherous associate called love.  They pain me equally, and I have no joy.

          I wish the knack for chronicling on no one.  I said it earlier today, and I wish to impress it upon you again; I would give up all fame, glory, and recognition to only resume a peaceful and serene stability.  All the publicity in the world cannot make right the absences in my life.  To myself I am nothing.

 

 

27^th Tuesday, August 1996, 1:32 AM

 

          So is the pattern I have etched for my days.  While sun or overcast rule—the latter I prefer—I am thoughtless and complacent.  Lacking noteworthy redemption, I feign contentment amid bookstore ambiance and sell a most earnest façade to backed-up lines of customers.  My telephone skills are saturated with over-sweetness.  Then off with the turn of a key, and I am born.  Evening births anew sudden depth and introspection.  I am again aware of the evils in the human heart.  I scorn and rage, and not infrequently then accept my allotment.  I am suddenly overflowing with romance.  I once more to my heart commit anticipation.  I am vibrant and alive.

          Then are the hours never-ending, then am I the more enamored with both pleasantries and cruelties.  Ah, and then is the estate of our father Adam comprehensible.  Then is this terrible weight enough to crush.  Ah humanity, the blessed creation!  I am complex and sophisticated, bestial and primate.  I am confounded by my facets and driven by extremes.  In a day, I am bitter, nonchalant, resentful, impartial, uncaring, insincere, saddened, glum, distrustful, in love, and—however scarcely, perhaps outweighing even the nastiest of combinations—occasionally content.  Whether this particularly is one of those moments, I am not able to discern.

 

 

3^rd Thursday, October 1996, 12:35 AM

 

          God, I am horrendous!  My flesh is vile and should crawl off at its own reflection.  There are great holes left in my skin.  I have not the smooth, fair cover of those around me, but a blemished and peeling sort of leprosy I would do well to burn off.  Infection is my dearest companion.  I would sooner gouge my eyes than be reminded of the sight.  I would be wiser even to scald the nerves with a clothes iron to no longer feel bacteria multiply under this blush of talc.  Given a choice of fates I would sooner choose mental slowness than skin that does not rejuvenate.  I am disfigured.  I am horrible.  I feel as though kin to Frankenstein or the elephant man.  Eyes bore into me.  I am cursed.  I am mocked.  Redemption I will find only in death.  Happiness will not greet me on this earth.  Of all people, I know what it is to be truly ugly.  The world should not have to look at me.  Father, come quickly.  Master and maker, do not deny me my end.  I am so easily overwhelmed.  I can speak no more.

 

 

Undated Entry

 

          I woke with too much stress—it would not let me peaceably sleep.  In my head were hundreds of customers whose faces I did not see, every line, one after the other ringing, people blurting out questions as if I were not tending to a hundred things already, my music shelves in shambles and disarray, the numbers off, and baskets to be unwrapped.  Elsewhere, in the same state of mind, my thoughts were with the only one I have loved.  Has she been slipping unnaturally, or is this a developmental phase?  Has my residence affected significant areas of her life enough to alter her behavior?  Has she drifted in a wrong direction?  And what can I do about it?  Am I growing spiritually enough to aid another toward the same end?

          I would explore these further, but to no avail.  My inquiries end sometimes in a resolve to action, but more frequently in only deeper questions.  I can see that some good in my day is done.  If only by my patience or my heart, I have seen an occasional kindred blessed.  I intend well.  I am no less an imbecile, but perhaps a kinder fool than some are used to seeing.  And I have grown tired of berating myself for not being more than I am.  Is God limited by my limitations?  Is he unable to elevate the lowest and most prone to failure to be the most influential in his leanings?  He is a God of wonder and of miracles.  Who am I to despair of my place?

 

 

26^th Thursday, December 1996, 2:43 AM

 

          If some poor fool shows himself to react to an instance with any degree of drama, if he is idealistic or eccentric to his close friends, he is thought to be mad.  Utilizing instinctive defense mechanisms is thought to be responding with emotion rather than intellect—and people consider this unhealthy.  I share no kind thought with my society… it does nothing for me, and I crave no part.  So then, let me be the maddest of them all!  Watch me realize my innate capacity to self-destruct.  I do not want to live.  It brings me no joy and I would be well served to avoid it.  Ah, relief… the ultimate selfishness to disturb you, staring blindly and uttering nonsense.  Let chemical reactions and gray matter erode… analyze me with long psychological terms.  Unhappiness drives me to disregard such balderdash.  I would rather dwell happily in my neurosis than struggle day to day with your monotonous pattern of constant and intensifying tragedies.  Ha!  Then mad I am—I’ve come to look on it as a blessing.

 

 

3^rd Friday, January 1997, 2:58 AM

 

          Come quickly for me Lord!  Send your servants, your angels, with white cloaks to adorn me, with the warm light of your grace in accepting me, escorting me up to the loftiest heights of your kingdom in heaven.  I have been already too long in this world, extended my stay centuries past its host’s favor.  For my sacrifice has been made; I have loved and I have lost, and I slump now in a broken disposition on the soil, which by your mercy will soon cover me.  Comfort me, that my purpose has been accomplished, then send out across the chasm of realms to claim my life.  I wait for you in suffering and melancholy, pleading with you to cut short my days of woe and remove me from this impossible planet.  It suffices for those to whom no questions seem pertinent, but it wears away at the selected few with that mixed blessing of your expanded consciousness and intellect.  In despairing moments such as this, it is a curse.  I thank you nonetheless, but petition you as readily to let it end soon.  Call to me, Lord, and force me no longer to endure such agony!  Relent, and relieve me of the burden of my life.

 

 

4^th Saturday, January 1997, 3:54 AM

 

          I have just spent several hours with someone more miserable even than I.  To share in the extent of such wretched loathsomeness, and yet to have not even that hope in Christ to turn to….  I cannot comprehend such an existence.  Indeed, nor can she.  For, admittedly, her constant wish is to stumble across a loaded gun and take it upon herself to end the mystery.  This has been her waking mindset for at least the half year since we last spoke.  She was noticeably uneasy until a quick joint loosened her terse demeanor.  I smoked half a pack of Camel Specials (I may as well have cancer cells surgically implanted into my gums, then yank out my teeth) and burned a hole in the bucket seat of her otherwise flawless Bug, as I listened to her stories and remarks become truly incoherent.  She will probably prove to be true greatness—I half expect her to become an unstoppable witness to the faith.  But now my stomach feels like blunt knives are being jabbed from inside, and so I close this book in hopes of a deep and painless slumber.

 

 

January 1997

 

          I lost the time telling plastic rodent Natalie gave me for my birthday.  It used to dangle on its thin silver chain and stick its tail out of my front pocket, so I could look at its little behind whenever I needed to see the time.  It was a stupid gift, but the girl’s kind of off anyway.  My brother gave me one of those silver pocket watches I’ve always thought were so cool, but that broke last week.  I haven’t known the hour since.  A couple days ago I wrote 1984 on a check.  Recently I saw somebody’s sister that I used to go to school with and she’d gotten drop-dead gorgeous.  Then I saw the alumni newsletter for the same school, and I think I’m the only shiftless loser who hasn’t done anything yet.  I feel old.

          Well, okay, I guess I haven’t been that stagnant.  There was that half year in West Palm Beach with Jay, Scotty and Paul, all those days working The Book Market in the morning and Inspiration House at night, then spending all my free time at the Promenade with Lana.  That was as close to college life as I needed.  Like when Scotty gashed his leg open on the iguana’s aquarium.  Or when we stole that giant inflatable… no wait, I can’t tell that story.

          Then Nashville.  And Rocketown.  Gosh, now that I think about it, I really miss everyone.  I miss Shawn and Julie, and the birds and Recee, and Chris and Susan, and coffee and poetry and gourmet cigarettes.  I miss Kathy Martha with the third earlobe, and Derek in some expensive sweater saying “do it a’gin!” to her Amy Grant impersonation.  I miss Toad and Jared and Drew, and ELF, and our late nights at Catacombs, smoking honey mead and writing songs—I miss my dank closet, and that musty smell Jared’s mom scrubbed away.  I miss Jackie Chan movies on Thursdays, and losing at chess to that dress-wearing freak.  I miss Drew’s passive attitude toward everything, and how he couldn’t tell if a chick was flirting with him, and how routine his days were.  I miss watching the boys “circle up” to lip sync New Kids songs.

          And the girls.  I miss Alana the model, and Lorraine with the home tattoo, playing Hip-Hop Scrabble with Courtney and that beautiful friend of hers.  I miss Glitter-Eyes, and Amy with the Celtic designs on her back, and all those open mics where Sarah would sing a praise song or read something about Mr. Right.

          I miss the old café.  I miss being there ‘til two or three in the morning with Annie, singing along with Chris Isaak or Sting while we finished up all the dishes and floors.  I miss Pino coming in after a bad night and playing his congas and smoking his pipe.  I miss walking around Franklin with Mancy, talking about our respective love lives—or lack thereof—the whole time thinking how adorable she looked.

          I miss people from everywhere I’ve stayed.  I miss Angel from New Jersey, and her sense of humor and her sense of morbidity, and one or the other of us crying while I held her finger.  I miss waking up to such a pale, pretty face, and I miss her painting my eyes.  I miss watching VBS classes at her church, and being her personal photographer at Disney.  I miss Shara, breathing the incense in her room and listening to “Watermark”.  I miss our long drives and longer phone calls, and having people tell me she was beautiful; I miss her nervous laugh and baby doll eyes.

          I miss the old Powerhouse mob—Kim, Sab, April, Jen, Candle, and sometimes my cute little friends from Holiday.  I miss retreats to Georgia or Pennsylvania.  I miss Claire and Julia and Mandy, and I miss seeing Tara for a photo session every year.  I miss Melissa in Maine, who used to live with us in Virginia when life was trivial.  I miss staying up all night with her, then watching the sunrise on the beach before anyone else woke up.

          There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot to do in this town.  I keep ending up at Wal-Mart or Denny’s, those being the only things open at three in the morning.  Maybe I’m just not looking hard enough.  Or maybe I just don’t like driving.  Ybor doesn’t count, because the people there try too hard (but that’s just my biased opinion).  Someone did finally take me to a coffee house in Clearwater, but I asked for a double latté and got a mocha.  Borders can’t seem to get that right either.  My only hope is to get to Barnes & Noble before eleven.  And I haven’t bothered to make friends, and the ones I do have keep entirely opposite schedules.  Call me crazy, but I think nighttime was meant for writing.  Daylight doesn’t do anything for me.  Well, unless it’s overcast and rainy.

          I’ve been meaning to go back to school, but I have the attention span of a two-year old, and can’t seem to sit myself down to fill out applications.  I’m staying with my parents for a while because I can’t afford to get locked into a lease right now—being unstable and flighty and all.  My cousin wanted me to move to North Carolina with him, but I have the opportunity of getting at least one store’s music department to what it should be, and I can’t pass up an opportunity like that.  After all, I moved down here because the music scene is so far behind Nashville’s (sad, isn’t it?), and I intend to do something about it before I move on.  Still, I mean to go back and get a formal education just as soon as possible.  I really don’t mean to become a useless vagrant, living off the kindness of others; this is not a lifetime pattern.  I just want to be young for a little while.  I just want to write.

          So here I am in Tampa, selling specialty Bibles and Christian pencils to avid supporters of churchdom.  And the weird thing is that I don’t mind it.  Two years ago I couldn’t walk into a religious store without a certain immediate feeling of nausea, but I guess I finally learned to accept the industry side of Christianity for what it is, and to step aside as it accomplishes what it was meant to.  I finally decided that the church world is not an entirely bad thing, it’s just that people sometimes tend to lose their focus and forget that Jesus was all about unconditional love and forgiveness and unselfishness.  But hey, we are fallen, aren’t we?  We’ve all got our crutches—some people just happen to misuse the body of Christ.  He forgives them just the same as he forgives me for being overly cynical about it all.

          So here I am, an insignificant, uneducated music buyer, spending my nights stringing together metaphors and analogies in an attempt to come up with some tangible way to express the dichotomous perplexity that is human existence.  Alongside my despairing melancholy and wretched darkness, I carry also a joy and a hope.  I share a kindredness with believers and a bond with the wise.  I would not trade this perspective for anything.  I am content in my misery and comforted in the toil of this treacherous world.  I hate with all intensity and love with fullest passion.  I am the grandest of contradictions, and it is the only thing that makes sense.  Praise God for his simple complexity!  Glory and honor to the giver of wisdom for his insights and revelations.

 

 

1^st Saturday, February 1997, 1:05 AM

 

          I suffer.  I truly, truly suffer.  But it is an internal anguish that no one in my circle comprehends.  It is not anything that can be quenched or subdued.  It is my cold and detached mistress, in whom I plant the seeds of worth, yet in depravity and misguided longing.  I have written it, that this succession of intermittent pains is treacherous, that I would be served well to bind it and toss it into the deepest of lakes.  But no such comfort am I awarded.

          Then let it come to pass, you savior of fallen creatures, that some poor fool makes a motto of that rare inspired line, formed from the very dregs of this mortal existence.  Taunt me only if some unknown onlooker may find salvation from this dreary mass.  With cries I entered the world, and they shall continue until all breath is squeezed from my unhealthy lungs.  I have not been spared and I cannot be saved; then turn to music my groaning for that far away convert, so I will not have agonized in vain.  I am deeply unhappy and utterly disconcerted; it is my service to be so.  Pray you, then, let me linger not one second past the hour needed to balm some great prophet’s lips.  It nears becoming too much.

 

 

4^th Tuesday, February 1997, 2:31 AM

 

          “I am unworthy—how can I reply to you?  I put my hand over my mouth.  I spoke once, but I have no answer—twice, but I will say no more.”

Job 40:4-5

 

          “My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you.  Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes.”

Job 42:5-6

 

          Who am I?  Who am I to question the God of Job?  I get so caught up in my melancholy and gloom, and there reside.  No, the words are not mine, but they are the most touching balm my sinister depth has ever embraced.  I do not deserve even to elaborate.  Simply think on them.  No more need be said.  Tears and dust only… I become mud.

 

 

14^th Friday, February 1997, 12:39 AM

 

          Tonight I realized that I cannot be happy.  I used to think I would be someday.  I used to think that it would come with love, and with financial security and stability.  But I have already these things with Christ.  And it is not enough.  It will not come.  So again I reiterate my longing for the end.  I am a blight, an indelible blotch in the lives of those unfortunate enough to be close to me.  My only friends bring me no pleasure, as well as I offer none back.  I am the smallest and vilest of creatures.  My friends will momentarily weep when I pass, then will go about in the comfort of those they truly love.  Their joy will return and my misery will have ended.  I am truly alone in this world.  I look forward to nothing.  In my own eyes I am a failure.  Only in death will I be complete.

 

 

27^th Tuesday, May 1997

 

          I am silenced by my humanity.  I can neither know nor speak the mind of Christ.  There is balm, yes, but it is withheld.  There are answers, but they are kept silent.  The suffering continue to suffer and the pious go about foolishly and without wisdom, darkening congregations with words they do not comprehend.  I cannot answer but that my tainted heart does not understand the upright ways of justice, that it does not grasp the perfect purity of absolute holiness.  For all my human logic, I am proved to be a fool.  With this knowledge I am silenced.  But it is sufficient—not through blindness, but rather, quite the opposite—to be content with such.  I surrender myself because I find fault with humanity.  I give myself over to a Spirit beyond knowing, because there is a simple fulfillment in humility that surpasses any I could otherwise hope to find.  I mind the Scriptures, and ask that their meanings be revealed to me.  There is a process that cannot be sidestepped, and it is that faith rewarded with divine wisdom and true understanding.  This is what the Word says, and there is just cause to believe it:

 

          “For the foolishness of God is wiser than man’s wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man’s strength….  We speak of God’s secret wisdom, a wisdom that has been hidden and that God destined for our glory before time began….  This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, expressing spiritual truths in spiritual words.  The man without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from it, for they are foolishness to him, and he cannot understand them, because they are spiritually discerned.”

 

          “I know that you can do all things; no plan of yours can be thwarted.  You asked, ‘Who is this that obscures my counsel without knowledge?’  Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know.”

 

 

5^th Friday, September 1997, 12:28 AM

 

          Lyrics and songs swim through my nights like beer through the blood of college students.  I am en route from Tampa to my second stint in Nashville, holding over this first night in Gainesville.  I had hoped to spend an afternoon with Natalie.  I am a fool.

 

 

20^th Saturday, September 1997, 11:45 AM

 

          At work early these days.  Have to take lunch and park on the roof, working hours salaried people schedule.  Getting along well.  Been in Nashville about two weeks now.  Chris and Todd have both visited to sit and smoke and drink beer.  Met Mancy for coffee and a movie yesterday.  Mary was there too, but I left early so as not to suffer a public breakdown.  Called Heather, Sarah, and Natalie so far, convincing each they’re the most important thing on earth.  Must say I’m quite vocal and intentional with what I feel.  Have comp tickets to a festival tonight, but probably won’t go.

          Seem to fit right in here; like I’ve known everyone since before time.  Lots of familiar faces.  Living with a measure of grace and salt now.  Funny part is how it all came so natural.  Smile a lot.  Everything is found to be somehow perpetually amusing.  Nothing really draining anymore.  Still, hope to be completed someday.  Getting there….

 

 

21^st Sunday, September 1997, 10:56 PM

 

          Went to Belmont Church this morning.  Remembered just how to get there.  Saw only Jason and Lynn that I recognized.  Leaned standing over a balcony rail through the service.  The whole charismatic praise and worship thing going on made me sad… I’m hoping it’s just because this is a town of artists and melodrama, and not the new face of the church.  A few things in the short message impressed me… like how they don’t talk about being Christian anymore so much as being of Christ, united in spirit.  Angie and Debbie Winans sang.

          I very much love my brothers and sisters in Christ, but I know God’s work with me is in a different direction.  I just hope they understand and can accept his method with me.  It is very different than the dancing around and laying on of hands and out-of-time clapping I saw today.  I do feel part of it though, in a way only the spirit quite understands.  I’ve learned that God can use whatever he wants to his end, and that he does in fact move in ways that I am not to be a part of.  Which doesn’t concern me in the least, because I have his peace about my place in his hands, and I praise him for it in my own reserved and solemn way.  I no longer feel condemned for it.

 

 

30^th Tuesday, December 1997, 11:27 PM

 

          My teeth are clenched tighter than vice grips as I scream moans and wailing and harsh growls, hissing in pain, cursing into my pillow.  I force down as many gel caps as I can with a quick gulp of brown tap water from the bathroom sink, then return to my bed to lie belly down and clutch at the organs and tissue and nerves I wish so desperately I could rip out through what feels like a gaping spear hole at the most tender part of my backside.  It’s what I imagine it’s like to be bludgeoned by the broken handle of a broom, having it lodged in tight and left for the slow creeping blood to clot to.

          I glare at the two intrusive alarm clocks for the excruciating waves to pass, unable to find any remotely soothing position that wouldn’t first involve a succession of quick, deep slashes from the nearby razor.  I look at my relentless work schedule taped to the wall and wonder when it will finally get so bad that I’ll have to be carried out of the building to a waiting van just to be looked over by a doctor.

          I feel in turn the remainder of my body throb with precise stabs… my head, my chest, my toe, my stomach caving in on itself.  Two girls left an hour ago and I have to drive down tomorrow to Atlanta with them—the same girls who were over all this week when we sometimes ended up at Waffle House or Huddle House, or some lame empty dance club downtown.

          Moments like this I’m glad I smoke, and wish my cigs and my tarnished Zippo weren’t in the other room, as much as I wish I hadn’t shared my beer, so that I had some right now to smash myself silly and pass out.  But I don’t do that sort of thing because I’m a Christian.  Yeah, well f-ck it when you feel this bad!  Moments like this you wish someone would take a pewter candlestick holder to the back of your neck, get in a few good whacks and leave you in a bloody pool so you could finally get some rest.

          The phones were cut off again, so the only one who ever made any of it bearable… well, no one really knows, eh?  She’s not here.  No one is.  Nothing here but me and this unthinkable pain drilling into me.  The pain inherent in suicide’s method is no longer an obstacle—the only factor now is speed and permanency; how quickly, how thoroughly can I be rid of this slow, intense dying that incapacitates any rational line of thinking in moments like this!

          I beg and I beg and I plead and I beg again for it to be over.  Yet somehow I go on living this way.  And people guess as to the cause of my distress, never being able to understand it, save for a very few exceptions.  Finally the medicine begins to work.

 

 

2^nd Friday, January 1998, 12:17 AM

 

          Amy and Molly stopped by for a few hours to tell me of the trip I missed to Atlanta.  I’m rather glad I got out of it.  I slept late and don’t quite know where the time went… to my lungs, I suppose, and to my stomach.  I finally resolved to finish my books up to this point, and to start fresh and hopefully more chronological now than thematic.  I called Natalie once and she called back twice.  I love her and think about her more than I ever have anyone else.  But I can’t even begin to know quite where she is with me these days.  Perhaps I’m simply the most wonderful male friend a girl can have; it often seems that way, that I’m no more than moral support and spiritual guidance.  Think of it, me… a counselor!

          At any rate, I mean to put a good deal into my work over the coming months; and Natalie and Sarah, and Molly and Amy, Angel, Heather—whoever my heart may break for next—well, they’ll all make fine raw material for projects yet to come.  Save for my continuing to enjoy cigarettes and imported beer, I’ve put a special emphasis of late on my physical health.  I’ve been in some particularly unbearable pain for nearly two months, and finally became alarmed when I began bleeding again this past week.  But I seem to be doing better.  And now I’ll allow myself to sleep as well.  After all, the body requires a good bit of maintenance, almost as much as the spirit does.  With a little care, I’m expecting something of a successful year.  We’ll see then, eh?

 

 

4^th Sunday, January 1998, 12:49 AM

 

          Woke up tired and carried it through the day.  For the most part, feeling much better… until that hour in the car trying to find Shawn’s house—that I could have done without.  Stamped down hard on the pedal and didn’t much look at the road, not really caring if someone slammed into me; I really would have preferred that.

          Molly brought over some antique knick-knacks for the candle table, and also a box of turn-of-the-century photos, perfect for album art.  Greg showed me a few ideas he’s working on for the band, left me with a chorus to flesh out.  All of them were simpleton, here-it-is-with-no-need-to-think-in-any-depth-about-it, youth group evangelist lyrics.  Working to catchy pop song formulas like that might be worse than I thought; it’s been so long since I had to say something basic that wasn’t mere self-expression.  I think it can still be done artfully, but I’ll be far less impressed with the result.

          Had a good discussion with Amy and Phil about pornography and its effect on character.  A youth group scoured the music section at the store for about an hour after lunch.  I’d forgotten what that was like… how easily you get quick crushes in tight groups like that.  One or two customers had drop-dead amazing bodies, and it made me want to go home and just sleep off the returning waves of depression.  Yeah, that’s right… life is just fine, and I hate everything about it.

 

2:18

 

          Natalie called late.  She’s been at home in Tampa on holiday, so she’s had a lot of comparisons and a lot of time to think.  I know now that we’ll always have this same relationship.  It has an intimacy far past what I can ever hope to experience with anyone other—and I certainly never would hope it.  She is truly the dearest person on earth to me.  I will support her with the fullest scope of my soul’s depth in anything she should think to go after.  Our love in Christ is limitless, surpassing even the boundaries of life itself.

          She called to see if I would answer deep questions as to what I’ve been thinking lately… what I petitioned her to ask two days ago, and she never did.  I didn’t answer at first, until I realized that I had not, and that I committed to always be as open and humbly honest as even the most eloquent bridegroom to his young lover.  The answer then, was (and is, and ever shall be) that I’ve been scared of how unselfish my love for her is, that I would certainly stand by even her decision to be yoked to someone else, which she doesn’t believe will ever happen; but after all, she is the one with a new boyfriend, while I find myself with more and more close “special” friends like Sarah.

          Truly I am scared.  But even more so, I trust her to know our God’s will and to follow it unconditionally, and I trust my king and savior to work it out, as he said, to the ultimate glory of God, for the good of his children.  Absence makes the heart grow fonder—yes, not fonder than in the company of the focus of my affections, but fonder than when the relationship began, unable to sway the mind to no further long for that presence.  Indeed, perhaps the proper statement would be:

          “In absence, as in company, hearts once bound can only but tighten. They can never be separated.”

 

          My commitment to you is guaranteed.  My love for you is unconditional.  I am in the deepest sense yours, and you mirror the sentiment.  Always and all ways.

 

 

5^th Monday, January 1998, 12:16 AM

 

          Sitting in a Saab with the hood up and doors open, listening to “Angel”.  Tired and awake, and hopeful and hopeless, all at once.  A car with no lights drives by the Texaco where we’re parked.  A refreshing wind blows new air over recycled concrete.  I can no longer smoke my cigarettes without getting sick, thanks to the medicine I’ve been taking for the last week.  I got by with only two Tylenol today, although I slept through until around five.  I wanted to claw the walls when I woke up to football on the TV.  My roommate is the black hole of all life.  I hate living.

 

12:48

 

          Now at Waffle House for coffee and apple pie.  Was at Elliston earlier trying not to make eye contact with Kevin Smith, embarrassed that I know who he is, remembering how many times I’ve seen him around.  Molly is talking.  I’m spinning my coffee cup on the table.  She talks and I think about growing up, the past, memories, random falling trees.  She talks endlessly about nothing even as I write in this journal.  She asks what I’m writing and gets annoyed, and laughs as I chronicle the whole thing.  I’m listening, I promise.  The clock fast-forwards to 2:00.

 

 

7^th Wednesday, January 1998, 9:39 PM

 

          There’s a car on fire down the street.  It’s too hot in the café, but I drink a double latté because it’s been two weeks now that I’ve been drinking tea.  A three-piece jazz band plays to itself as people beg for coins at the payphone.  Just around the corner outside, a man in ragged jeans and plaid holds a sign saying he needs beer.  Two sad girls joke about being lesbians and I wonder what Angel would say to them if she were here.  I get up for a cranberry juice and cram down the last two pills from my bag.  I’m tempted to try a smoke, but I know it hasn’t been long enough, and I would still gag halfway through.  Molly’s eyes are as tired as any I’ve seen, but she refuses to sleep.  I couldn’t stand to sit at Weathertop another night.  This whole era is pointless.  Drew mentioned band practice on Friday and I just glanced over at him, feeling too sick about it to respond.

 

10:19

 

          Molly goes to call Chris and I’m still in a bit of pain.  He’s not there, which I can’t say I mind, because I don’t particularly want to be out that late.  I hear endless stories about how messed up everyone is, and how everyone hates everyone else, when everything thrown at them is the last thing they need.  At work today I switched all the in-store play to instrumental Celtic and smooth jazz to make myself feel like I was living in a movie.  I still feel that way, only it’s a grittier script now than the gospel film I was in earlier.  I can’t tell if the girl in the armchair across the way has blue hair or if it’s the light.  I think about everything all at once, and sum it all up with, “I’d rather not think about it.”  The windows are steamed up a little and the same low-key people have been sitting here for an hour straight, as I pause to look around between every line.  There is never an actual stopping point when you write, only a short or a very long pause until you think of the next thing to say.

 

11:14

 

          Now Elf sits with us after I finally recognized him sitting alone there behind Molly.  He’s high from something he took twenty-five minutes ago.  He’s cool enough, and I don’t mind that he showed up—him and his long, black leather trench and sizeable top hat.  They talk about the café where they get unfavorable comment cards for washing dishes—how these old crabs really need more to do.  Two new characters, friends of Elf, wander in from the seventies, hair puffed out like bushes, and the three of them take off into the evening.  We fiddle with random items on the table—twist ties, cigarette ashes, empty cups—and talk about how airports make us cry.  I look at the clock and decide to sit a while without writing.

 

11:36

 

          One more thought.  Fifteen feet away a guy sits with his pen and a pad out—sitting at intervals, then writing the off-beats—and I wonder if he writes the same pointless drivel as me.  If so, what an interesting mirror it would prove to someday stumble across a sketch of myself in print.  And eh, if he stumbles across this… keep it up, pal.

 

11:42

 

          The workers are well into their closing duties.

 

 

9^th Friday, January 1998, 12:14 AM

 

          Molly called around 11:00 from Sherlock Holmes.  I was about to go to bed, just cleaned my room and hooked up Drew’s amp to Greg’s keyboard, and set out my work clothes for the morning.  She just said, “Are you busy?  Come to Sherlock Holmes.”  I asked why and got, “Don’t ask me right now.”  So here I am over an hour later after a Harp and a clove, and the wait staff are pushing and clanking around clearing tables.  Some drunk BMI exec sat with us for the length of our drinks, trying to remember what he was saying about the Baptist Mafia or the bottom-feeding industry types.  Molly is still a little drunk, so she can’t drive yet.  I write fast so we can walk over to Elliston.

 

1:14

 

          Molly’s hanging all over the small round table, talking partial stories and nonsense and trailing off into laughter.  I burst out every now and then at how she keeps talking, even as my eyes stay focused in my book.  We’re in the nonsmoking room at the front of Elliston, so we won’t stay long.  The place is fairly empty now that school is back in.  The art on the walls this time around is different sorts of quilted tapestries—reminds me of my baby blanket.  The middle track light just above the counter makes a visible beam down at the pastries, stopping just short of the breadbasket.  The walls are red and blue, but the poor lighting makes it inoffensive… almost comforting.  Earlier I sat at Weathertop listening to “Aqualung” and “Wish You Were Here” on vinyl.  Tonight’s overhead selection is a flute version of a Stevie Wonder tune, which I don’t think anyone notices in such subtlety.  The bar is made out of tin siding—I suppose it always has been.  Molly is all over the place.  Everyone in this town is some kind of celebrity.  Now she talks to some guys about Rocketown, the good old days just after I left, the hard times now that the staff has had to fire itself, not mentioning that my brother was the director of operations.  They leave and Molly tells me a story about each one.  Everyone just looks around at each other, occasionally someone laughs.  I want to be home.  I want to be asleep.

 

1:47

 

          Alright, this wears thin.  I’m watching some beaver-toothed, balding guy make an origami dragon from a dollar bill.  Molly cracks up and asks if she can have the dollar.  They talk about the guy Fazey who just walked out, how he’s the son of either Crosby, Stills, or Nash, and how he never talks about it.  Yeah, that’s Nashville.

 

2:24

 

          Six people left in the room now.  Molly steps out for a cig.  The beaver-toothed guy looks at his watch and takes off.  I’m hoping Mol has sobered up enough that I can go home.  She seems pretty coherent—started drinking around 7:30, so all she should need now is water and a bit of sleep.  “How do you feel?” I ask.  “Tired… and dizzy.”

 

 

9^th Friday, January 1998, 11:41 PM

 

          Finally my small square space heater is on and I lie in my bed about to sleep.  Marci lives in town now.  She stopped by the store this morning for a hug and hello.  My head was throbbing and I was delirious with exhaustion, but it was actually kind of fun.  I came home directly and fell asleep on the half sofa with a Guinness.  Greg came over around eight and we set up my room as the music room, then worked on a few songs.  But I’m too tired to think anymore.

 

 

10^th Saturday, January 1998, 1:59 AM

 

          Well, it was an effort at sleeping, but Natalie called an hour or so ago.  I called her back so the bill would be mine, and she talked mostly about whatever swayed her attention in the past week; how she can’t date Luke even though she likes him, how renowned her professors are this time around, how she laughed and cried harder than anyone else at As Good As It Gets.  There are so many sentiments, there is so much regard that I can never convey.  I could only smile and listen as she trailed off toward the end.

 

 

12^th Monday, January 1998, 12:25 AM

 

          Sitting at a Waffle House just outside Opryland.  Finally got some serious editing done while Drew watched his little Spanish porno and the second Godfather.  Molly and Amy came over to check email and slump on the floor before they could drag me out.  Marci and a friend stopped by just for the initial introduction, then left.  The girls went to check out the scene downtown at the Mix, but it was a Sunday night during the semester, and raining.  We stopped by Elliston for a couple minutes, then walked by the Pub, but it was closed.  We ended up at Opryland Hotel, walking around the fountains and bridged walkways under an enormous canopy of windows.  Molly got in a slump over Jared and kept wandering off, leaving me to entertain Amy, who I really like.  By the time we found the main fountain it was shut off, but I was in a mood so I danced around Broadway-style and sang “Dream A Little Dream”.  I got a few smiles and kept it up on the way out.  Now my stomach hurts again and I’m ready to be in my comfy little bed—the space heater on just for noise.

 

 

12^th Monday, January 1998, 11:00 PM

 

          How I could have slept all day!  But the alarm thrusts me into work with coins for the vending machine, a fresh box of tea, two frozen dinners, a V8, and a small cup of applesauce.  And such dreams I was having, of grand palaces and overgrown foliage on dark days of wind and with no one around but the focus of such dreams—I cannot say who!  But how quickly was I pulled from that and kicked out into the city at daytime.  Not to let my complaints overdramatize it, I do very much enjoy my work.  You have days when you’re just “on” and everything you touch turns to gold, and as long as I maintain my style the customers get the best service any one person can give.  I call it “service with an attitude”, and people have no legitimate complaints.

          While I’m on that, it reminds me how arrogant I really am.  Molly said I was yesterday, and today I have to agree.  But it certainly is not in a condescending way, so I can’t think it’s a bad thing.  More like confidence really.

          Anyway, I worked from 10-7, then came directly home to fall asleep on the sofa with a Harp.  Which was a fine nap until Drew started playing his Chicago record.  And he wasn’t even in the same room as the player… I was.  So I took a shower and retired to my room to screw around with Greg’s bass.  It’s only the second time I ever picked one up, and I lost interest after an hour, but I suspect if I kept at it for a couple of days I could play “Stand By Me” rather well.  If only I had the patience.  It seems I may get to bed now.

 

 

14^th Wednesday, January 1998, 4:21 PM

 

          I’m sitting in the waiting room to a walk-in clinic, praying they’ll be able to diagnose something, and that I’ll be able to pay for it.  I can’t keep going like I’ve been—pounding the walls and hunching over in chairs, every muscle tensed and a look of torture on my face.  I’m supposed to be at Jammin’ Java for Afterburn, but I’m trying to take care of things.

          Last night I met Marci at Bongo for a double latté, but Bongo was cold and trendy so we drove down to Owl’s Nest.  Owl’s Nest had some old blues man screaming at the top of his lungs, making it difficult to talk, so after another double we walked over to Elliston for yet another.  The Goths were in the backroom.

          (My name is called… rather, a name that by some stretch resembles mine.)

 

11:41

 

          So the doctor was this Indian lady that I hardly understood.  She gave the impression that I wasn’t really in pain.  I got to wear a cotton gown and lay on my side while Baywatch ran in the corner.  She couldn’t find anything external either, but I now have some more powerful medicine to try for a week.

 

 

15^th Thursday, January 1998, 1:48 AM

 

          I bought a new cane.  It rests in the corner of the Waffle House booth as the thick smell of cigarettes stuffs dirty socks down my throat.  Molly sits across from me and thinks about Jared and writes in her notebook.  Her dirty blonde hair is tied up as usual, and she props the pages against her knees where the red sweatshirt ends.  We’ve been here long enough to irritate the waitress that her booth is tied up, and the place is loud and crowded.  I still have to do laundry tonight, so I expect I’ll be in a mood tomorrow if they take Shelly to a different department again.

          Mancy is opening for Plumb tomorrow at Caffé Milano, but I’ve decided not to go, just to see if she notices—a little out of spite that we haven’t spoken in several months.  A guy named Stewart from a tobacco shop in Springfield is staying with us for a few days.  He does a few impressions and wears a sort of hunter’s cap, and smokes decent cigars, so he’s alright.  At this very moment I wish I could walk along a train track in the rain and in the occasional opening of light.  I’d just like to crouch down near some puddle, near some corner, under some bridge and sleep until the early morning sun ices over.

 

2:10

 

          The House is filled with groups on their way home, and sad old men, and fat couples, and lonely watchers who smile at people who never look back.

 

2:56

 

          I’ve managed to balance the plastic cup on top of the coffee cup, balancing crooked on its rim.  Molly’s been talking about her family and how psychotic and dangerous her brother is.  I’d love to punch them all in the face.  So much for laundry.  I’m back to who I used to be… only more me this time.  Listening for hours as people talk about how messed up everything is and why suicide looks so good.  She says she’ll go home and break something, and I really don’t blame her.

 

 

15^th Thursday, January 1998, 12:40 PM

 

          In the break room for lunch, with my V8, my tea, my applesauce, and my orange glazed chicken and rice.  Just talked to Cory about Molly’s life and how I lose sleep because of it.  Drew stayed in the shower ten minutes later than usual this morning, which made me ten minutes later than usual and cursing like Jack Nicholson playing a sailor.

 

10:03

 

          At the Laundromat with twenty dollars in quarters in my pocket.  I load four machines at a time and jolt my head to stay awake.  Running on two sandwiches and a Winter Brew.  I look around to see what the mix is this evening, then turn to watch the colors tumble through the dryers, deciding clothes are far more interesting than people.

 

10:30

 

          I get up to check the cycle and coins pour out from the hole in my pocket.  I stand there looking down with a puzzled look and a lively girl springs from her seat to collect the money.  I stuff the handful into the same pocket it just slipped out of and it clatters to the floor again, two steps further.  I react the same way and a different girl gathers it for me as I poke my finger through the obvious lack of stitching.  I happen to choose the only dryer that rattles audibly and I snicker to myself at the odds.  A couple Goths walk in and I giggle louder at the image of a Goth in a Laundromat.  But the girl is very beautiful and I remember my weakness.  They separate their blacks—into fabrics, I guess—as I try not to stare too obviously.  I pass the time pacing around.  The IB is starting to wear off again.

 

 

16^th Friday, January 1998, 1:34 AM

 

          Natalie called earlier.  She talked about the old guy who sends her dorky emails, and how everyone is suddenly in love, and how she slid her way into a 400 level C.S. Lewis class.  I sat there in a slump listening to her talk so comfortably and uninhibited.  I listed to the changes in her voice when she got sentimental and tired, and I just sat there smiling at the pipe-cluttered coffee table, genuinely missing her, realizing that I will never love anyone in quite the same manner.  I didn’t mind.

          I was still sentimental when we hung up, so I left a message on Mancy’s machine, saying that I still think about her, and that I’m proud of her.

 

 

18^th Sunday, January 1998, 1:43 AM

 

          Today hurt.  I would have quickly shot myself in the head any number of times, but I had to work 10-7 and The Bishops did an in-store.  I was thinking how anyone else is allowed to sing or joke or plan suicide, but people flip out at me when I say anything about it.  I understand not wanting to bring up such a horrible thing to anyone who lost someone to it, but I may well be the very epitome of the type who actually do it.  Rather, I would if circumstances were the slightest bit different.  But I will not tell you my ideal conditions, because it has nothing at all to do with you.  At any rate, I’m somewhere between vengefully bitter and utterly crushed that my body remains afflicted even after my soul is cured.  Indeed, it’s worse.  And I have no control over the lifestyle I’ve been thrust into, surrounded by beer and tobacco, and up until the morning sun is visible.  Everything is so rushed and cluttered and constant.

          Greg was over last night to work on “When Jesus Sings”, which is coming along better than I’d expected.  But we were up way past when my health required, and when I finally had a bowel movement I was bleeding again.  Greg fell asleep talking about how it was probably a demonic attack against some exceptional talent.  Reading my own words lately I’ve come to reconsider whether I am anything more than a crude old chronicler.  I no longer opt for the cleaner way to say things, I no longer paint over rotten wood for aesthetic value.  Everything is earthy and soiled and dirty now, the way it is, in as unpoetic a way as it can be said.  I no longer polish up the silver before setting the table, and no longer arrange it according to etiquette and tradition.  I am no longer an artist, just a guy with diminishing health and bad habits who no longer finds himself a failure and no longer strives for more.  I just want to die.  I just want to sleep.  I just want to close my eyes and never have to wake again.  I no longer think about fixing things or owning my own company.  I no longer want anything to do with this world, this life.

          Even so, I’m so much freer than any more religious phase I’ve been in.  I don’t care if a few curse words slip out occasionally.  I don’t care if the music in my tape deck is Christian or secular.  I don’t even care that I don’t go to church anymore.  It’s all nonsense.  None of it gets me any closer to the Holy Spirit or the Living Christ inside me.  Nothing will ever separate me from God’s love, from his grace or from his favor.  I am not in any danger of falling away from him.  Yes, life sucks, but I am so undeniably, unalterably in love with my Lord who promised to save me from it.  I am more deadened to the world than many of you will ever grasp, but I am so very alive with the hope that it will all be over soon, and I can again be in the wonderful presence of the Holy Trinity.  Nothing else is worth anything.  So then, let me sleep.

 

 

18^th Sunday, January 1998, 10:02 PM

 

          Molly is picking up her mother for the next twenty minutes.  I’m sitting at the large booth at Waffle House with Joel and Amy.  As Mol was driving in she hit the opening door of a classic old car parked the spot over.  The fat hag was all irate to the cop and it turned out to be the wife of our regular server.  I spent all day working on the anthology.  I’m suddenly tempted to read through Mol’s journal sitting out on the table.  She and Jared talked for an hour on my phone bill, so he opted to wait for another day to talk to me, as it’s such an emotional strain when they speak.

 

10:15

 

          I looked at the journal and most of it was written while she sat across from me in this same Waffle House.  Tonight she handed me a stack of photocopied letters from Rocketown kids about how much the staff and my brother helped them all, or letters thanking Michael for having such a vision.  Molly is the most passionate about the place, but she keeps saying she’ll kill herself in March.  The tour dwindled into just a few weekends and Drew decided to move up near Whitney in April, which is actually a huge relief.  Julie wants me to move back in with her and Shawn so they can get rid of Pam, who does nothing but sit in her room stuffing her face with cinnamon buns and candy corn.  Amy is going through Joel’s wallet-on-a-chain, and the old man behind me is asking why his bill is so high.  I have tomorrow off, but Shawn and Julie are having Sam and Dave over, so I’ll be joining them for dinner.  Hopefully Drew will work, so I can spend a few hours during the day writing.

 

 

19^th Monday, January 1998, 2:25 AM

 

          I leave out so many details.  Like how Kathy finally left a message, and Jared finally called, and how I haven’t gotten back to either of them.  I left out that Nate’s back in town, and that Jason called me at work the same week Andy called about Holy Soldier and Spaceport merchandise, and how they forgot to invite me to the last cigar night.  I neglected to write that I have to take suppositories now, and that coffee hurts my stomach.  Most people will never see that this journal is written completely out of order—how every other page is skipped and backwards and upside-down.  I never did have that fondue and Phase 10 night with Annie.  I almost never write any details about work.

          Amy asked me to go out with them Saturday, but the coin came up heads and she guessed tails, so I graciously declined.  Natalie called tonight just as I was brushing my teeth, so I answered the phone with a garble.  She wanted to tell me how excited she was about rooming with Liz next year, and how lately she’s been disgusted with herself.  She asked what I thought my biggest mistake has been, and I honestly couldn’t think of any… I simply don’t see things that way.

 

 

20^th Tuesday, January 1998, 1:35 AM

 

          Another setback in the anthology… the “Kings” file is now tainted and unreadable, so I’ll have to copy it from primordial backups, which will take another couple days to translate.  Every time I get close, something else goes wrong.  Greg called to say his discipleship group prayed for my health, and then just to remind me that he’s excited to be doing Narrowpath and Rays stuff full time.  The house should be done soon, so Kerri and Tyler will be able to move in within the month.  They’ve been staying with family down in Georgia, and she’s pregnant again.

          Fell asleep from 5:30 until around 7:00, then went over to Shawn and Julie’s for one of her incredible, made-from-scratch meals.  They were all sitting around in candlelight and glasses of wine, listening to some classical piece I hadn’t heard.  Dave is Atticus Fault’s manager, so we talked about that for a while.  The shows are getting tight, to where even Todd is pleased, and they sold about 35 units at the last one.  They’ve already turned down Steve Griffith and Eddie DeGarmo, and now they’re talking about turning down David Zaffiro and opting for a secular deal, which is absolutely the right thing to do.  It reminded me that Nate’s been talking to Forefront, and I’m hoping we can reach him before he signs.  On the other hand, it could well be that God wants someone like Nate in the Christian market simply because he spent so long hating it.

          Dave wants to post some of my poems on one of his sites, probably on the same page I found his and Sam’s on.  They all think I look better since I’ve been eating, which is always nice to hear.  Shawn wants me to take 4000mg Vitamin C until my pain clears up, so I took six tablets when I got home.  Molly said she was coming to crash here tonight—I’m assuming things got unbearable about the car—but she hasn’t shown up.  Not much I can do for her.

 

 

21^st Wednesday, January 1998, 12:46 AM

 

          A guy came by the store to see if LSU’s new album was out yet.  He came by late last year for the same thing, and we talked about the darker side of Christian music—Brian Healy and the like.  He reminds me of a guy from high school who somehow reminded me of Glen Danzig, who always wore a dog collar and chains.

          (When I wrote dog collar just there, I immediately thought of Jessica, who always used to grind a little when she hugged me, who rarely wore anything under her one layer of clothing, and used to grab my crotch in crowded hallways.  I miss her….)

          Anyway, the guy asked if I happen to know Jesus Freaks because he heard the new lineup was looking for a singer.  I told him to ask me again on Friday after I’ve seen Greg, who did their first couple of albums.  He also did The Swoon, who remain my single favorite Christian band from the past.

          Work was work, and Drew was on the computer when I got home, so I had dinner and a beer and fell asleep.  Then I took another bath—doctor’s orders.  Oh, Marci brought in an old photo of our Christian lunch clique from high school, and I couldn’t even remember looking so skuzzy and unkempt.  Molly still hasn’t been by and I’m beginning to wonder if I should worry.

 

 

22^nd Thursday, January 1998, 1:22 AM

 

          I am still not well.  A mite better though.  Todd left four seductive messages and called me at work to say he may need a place to live soon.  Alan is about to marry Patti and Danny is thinking of moving back home.  Jay asked me to reschedule my vacation days next month so he could be home on Valentines Day.  I went nuts with boredom and depression and played solitaire for a few hours.  Molly showed up to check her email and run up my phone bill. She’s talking to Jared right now, and if I listened I could make out what they’re saying through my cheap phone that still receives when it’s hung up.  These are the dreary days without highlights.  This is my season without poetry.  I thought about writing a fairy tale where a prince is granted splendor and supreme beauty for all but one hour in the day… and that happens to be the hour when his princess throws her galas.  I’m sure the idea is not worth pursuing.  But then, what is?  I’m listening to Molly cry.  Bitterly.

 

 

24^th Saturday, January 1998, 1:02 AM

 

          So then, yesterday the Diamante Rep was at the store through most of my shift.  He kept rattling off titles so I could tell him who they were by, as I knew more about it than he did.  Jim was off, so we all had fun.  Heidi worked and was gorgeous as always.  Greg called several times for Narrowpath business, while Todd screamed obscenities in the background.  He was at Weathertop when I got home, and we came up with the beginnings of “Confessions Of A Fool”.  Out of nowhere yesterday, Amy blurted out, “Ryan… hold me.”  I died laughing and turned bright red, having absolutely nothing to say back.  At least, I think she was joking.  Sarah called, but not really about anything.  Shelly looked cute this morning with oversized clothes and her hair pulled back, and Marci told me about her first date, and introduced some random lady who pushed her head.

          Molly brought back Drew’s Atticus demo, so he was listening to it all day.  I can’t even believe how good they really are.  Well, Todd mostly, but Jason is a perfect compliment.  I spent the last few hours settling on what personal letters to reproduce in the anthology.  Alan stopped by the store early and I remembered that he’s an agent for some pretty major bands like Fold Zandura and Stavesacre now.  Anyway, it just made me realize how much I’ve changed since the first time I lived in town, how everyone else’s success excites me now, and I find myself rooting them on without wanting to get involved.  I just keep plugging away at my words, content that someday I’ll simply finish something.  Oh, and I’m not in so much pain.

 

 

24^th Saturday, January 1998, 1:44 PM

 

          I can only hope my journals are interesting for the fact that you can live in a weekend what I lived in a year.

 

 

25^th Sunday, January 1998, 2:55 AM

 

          Hit every green light on the way to work and for once made it on time.  A new girl, Beth, started in music today, who worked here earlier last year but I only just met.  She speaks with slight Alabama mannerisms, but sweetly, and has a nice little frame with an absolutely penetrating smile.  But everyone I meet these days reminds me of someone else, just as every road I joyride slowly down—windows open and listening to Morrissey—reminds me of everywhere else I’ve lived.  It was a slow day, but several cute girls stopped in.

          Had a craving for Ben & Jerry’s around ten this evening, so I bought groceries for the week.  Molly was over when I got back, and Amy showed up not long after.  We watched the remainder of SNL, then sat around cursing and smoking, and me with a beer, talking about relationships and God.  I was frustrated because a guy like me could adore someone like Amy if she just wouldn’t avoid so much the search for that elusive missing part.

 

 

26^th Monday, January 1998, 11:12 AM

 

          Details of the light hours wear too thin and surface and maddeningly mundane to explore.  Suffice it to say that two more days are gone and nothing has changed.  I still think of Lana.  I still wonder about Shara.  I still talk to Sarah and Molly and Jared and my brother, and I still cringe at every irritating reminder that I have a roommate whom I will never count among my friends—whom I make every effort not to engage in conversation or stay very long in the same room with.

          I still think about everyone in Maine, my relatives, and that afternoon with Natalie.  I think of Jersey and the mission, the general store and the camp.  I think of the farm in Virginia, and Missy crinkling her nose to adjust her glasses, and cow chip and mud wars with the Deboes.  I think of Tuscarora, Ryan and Mario and spaghetti and writing songs, seminars and the castle, and Nancy and Brad and Tara and the Bangor people.

          I think of my several stays with Angel, the carnival and the swimming pool, dinners and soaps and turning my head as she changed, malls and the snow cemetery and Epcot.  I think of Heidi, and Shawn and Moron TV and the old Caffé Milano and our sword fight and Camp Sunrise.  I think of Meltdown and Gatlinburg and concerts and the Lutheran Brethren church, Amy and Erika, Jimmy and Des.

          I think of high school, of Showcase and Spectrum, of writing songs with Matt and joking around with Johnny Erb.  I think of Mike and Sharon and Marisol, afternoons at their house, scared to death of their total flakes of parents.  I think of how vulnerable Jessica was on the phone, how she softened up and took care of her kid sister coming down off a high.

          I think of Forest Park, of seeing Desiree at lunchtime, and sometimes that Goth girl Michelle.  I remember kicking the door open while a gang of black guys attacked and pounded on me from behind, my brother hunting them down when he found out.  I remember roller-blading and kneeboarding with Jason, and jogging for an hour then hitting the hot tub after hours.

          I remember being abused, how it took many, many years to finally realize that it was abuse.  I remember fishing trips and canoeing and music festivals.  I remember dates and coffee and movies and kisses and laughter and sleepovers and games.  I remember Dragon Park that night in the rain, cigarettes and Christmas lights and poetry and hanging upside-down from water pipes.

          I remember Brenda from Creation ’89, and the year the water shut off and the prayer after Tony Campolo spoke.  I remember walking around campfires giving my version of a testimony, and I remember every kind word anyone has ever said to me.  I think of PowerPlay and sharing a chair with Dawn playing Bridge.  I remember lock-ins with Alecia and the Webbs, then later one with the Rocketown staff.

          I remember early mornings with Julie, jogging, or driving to work at the café in Franklin.  I remember working on mailing lists and tasting new foods, and I remember all my meals alone in West Palm, at Roasters or the K-Mart café or that Italian place I always went.  I remember my jobs at The Book Market and Inspiration House, then Milano and Media Play, and working Martha’s on the weekends, then Barnes & Noble and the Baptist Bookstore in Tampa—almost always two jobs at once until I moved back to Nashville.

          I remember random people like Katie from the bus, and Dawn’s sister Gloria who I only went out with once.  I think of my brief online life, how that’s the only way I ever talked to Sandra, and how eventually I met Heather and fell in love.

          I still cry when I hear “Return To Pooh Corner” or “Bridge Over Troubled Water”.

          There are so, so many things I hold dear.  And there are so, so many more that pop up at random points in the day, just long enough to remind me what a wonder life is, then dive back to their depths.  Overall I am still incurably sad, but at the end of it I treasure in retrospect every second that passed because it is, after all, a delight to simply be a part of it all.  Not that that makes it any easier at the time.

 

 

28^th Wednesday, January 1998, 11:10 PM

 

          Have I learned to live with my pain?  Perhaps.  Or perhaps I hope to speed the dying process by resolving myself to force down enough nutrition and IB and Vitamin C tablets to get through the day without lying immobile.  At points it gets too much, but there is nothing I can do but hope it all ends soon.  I finished a couple more chapters and then Molly stopped by twice.  I took a bath in the morning and one again moments ago, but I still feel as though my insides are ready to gush out.  I can only conclude that I am in decline.  I am desperate, hopeless, and without aid.  All ambition has been drained from my improved pallor—what I am internally does not resemble the outer shell, which has everyone fooled.  I no longer see any distant future, only far enough for God to be glorified and manifest in others.  If only that were true!

          I called Natalie’s and some guy answered and did not offer to take a message.  So then, I will tell you what happened yesterday.  I found myself getting closer and more personal with the people at work, as I’ve been insisting everyone go this Saturday to see Atticus Fault.  Beth finally mentioned her boyfriend, Marci is giddy with a fresh crush, and Amy keeps talking about being lonely.  Marcia, Stephanie, and Tiffany from West Palm showed up in the store and took a picture to show everyone.  Tiffany was all grown up and had a very pretty face; the other two hadn’t changed in even miniscule ways.  Had a decent talk at lunch with Brianna, the Manager In Training, and thought consciously that age truly presents no single barrier to human kindredness.  Which points my thoughts in another direction; I suddenly marvel at how courteous and professional and confident I have become, able to deal with celebrities and irate customers and monstrous record companies—things I used to admire Shawn for, yet here I find myself with a superior flare for it; when as recent as four years ago I was able to avoid such things, spoiled rotten as I was.  (I can also make entire paragraphs from single sentences.)  Although I do tend to avoid industry figures when I know who they are.

          We did an in-store today with Gold City, Greater Vision, Alvin Slaughter, Sandra Payne, and Dottie Rambo.  I could never pay a high enough compliment to Gold City’s bass, but I refused to meet any of them, as that is my custom.  On the other hand, Greg is not exactly invisible in the scene, having met nearly everyone I can mention, having been the first to sign many of the bands I grew up listening to.  He brought a tape of sequencing for the song we’ve worked the most on, and his musicianship blows my mind.  I still find it a little odd that he chooses to include me, but so long as he does I’ll do what I can.  I’ll admit though, I’ve had little on my mind but completing what I started, and nothing else will have my full attention until it is complete.  On a happy note, I was able to bum and finish two whole cigarettes today without getting sick.  The security guard at work will be thrilled.

 

 

29^th Thursday, January 1998, 11:54 PM

 

          Stopped by the store to pick up my check and was bombarded with people saying they miss me.  Brianna rushed right over with a bright face to tell me how much her letter meant to the guy she wrote to.  Shelly gave me the rundown on Jim, how he stood next to David until he left, how Bruce means to take him off ordering, how they all said I could tolerate him only because I do my own thing anyway.  He’s not so bad really, just in a too military frame of mind.  The rest of the day I was hurting too much to be productive… got through about three chapters, then had to lay down.  Sleep is pretty much the only thing that brings me any enjoyment anymore.  Well, that and complaining about everything.  I enjoy the reliability of my misery.  There’s a sizeable and uncomfortable knot on my forehead that I would just love to smash with a hammer.  There is also a red splotch one-third the size of my cheek.  I feel like tearing my skin off.  We broke our plans with Greg and blew off Kathy and Molly, who called from Davis-Kidd.  I’m so disgusted with everything.

 

 

30^th Friday, January 1998

 

          Well, I definitely don’t belong here.  I’m sitting on the floor under some bleachers along the far wall of The Mix Factory.  It’s the first time they’ve been able to drag me out here, since my only other option is lying across those two chairs at Weathertop.  The girls look cute in their skimpy little outfits, but I look at them more like kid sisters than anything else.  I’m near the bar and thinking about getting a drink.  “Everybody in the house, come on, le’ me here ya say, ‘oh, oh!’”  Yeah, whatever.  There’re a couple hundred people here, but somehow I remain a separate entity—just the way I like it.  They’re doing a few giveaways. 

          These places have been the same since the disco era.  People enter in waves, each as ordinary as the last.  Some try to look handsome, others try to look cool.  To me they all look retarded… but I may be unfair.  I’m sure I’d get along with any of them in a different setting; some dim and smoky lounge perhaps, light jazz just barely audible in the background.  I might be missing the point.  Or maybe I’m the only one who gets it.

          Amy begs for my armband so she can get a shot of Tequila.  I tease her because my ethics don’t allow that sort of thing.  Time passes.

          I had a Corona and found out I can smoke again.  Should be able to finish half a pack of Camel Lights before the night is over.  Amy and Molly are pole dancing, but don’t last too long before two guys try to get perverse with them.  We’ve moved down a level to where they loop “Another One Bites The Dust”—reminds me that people used to think Queen was black.  I like this room better; the beats are harder and the bass isn’t so distorted.  There are a few loveseats along the wall and this room feels more like a subway, and the vocals in the music are more prevalent.

          I’m sure I’m a drag to have around, but I enjoy watching everyone.  Molly still looks sad.  They both do.  I don’t think they found the kinds of guys they were looking for.  Mol was all over some guy who said I look like Quentin Terintino.  The whole thing makes me laugh.  They play more retro here—right now it’s “Raspberry Beret”.

          Back upstairs I meet Dino.  He’s tall and bald and has a nose ring—looks like a typical raver.  A different guy is all over Molly now, and some Rican just snatched Amy.  I crack up and go to the window.  (Oh God, that’s vile to watch.  Funny as hell, but vile.)  Time passes.

          Amy followed the guy downstairs and Molly’s guy is back on her.  I no longer care how I look, so I take a slightly more comfortable kneel.  I am no longer having fun.  I watch everyone and it starts to irritate me.  The girls all dig on them.  I wonder about Natalie and smoke gets in my eyes, so I leave them closed for a bit.  My stomach is starting to tear up and I start longing for my cozy little bed and space heater.  This isn’t even music, just way too much bass out of some lousy speakers.  I want to curl up into a ball under the bleachers, but that would call attention to me, which I certainly do not want.  My scowl and sneer are back and I wonder how I got to be so moody.

 

 

31^st Saturday, January 1998, 3:23 AM

 

          Now sitting around a large table at Denny’s with a group of people from the club.  Mike is here who I used to work with at Media Play.  He used to follow Shawn around like a puppy dog and beg to deejay.  I feel absolutely sick, but Molly redeemed her coupon for a night out, so I have no choice.  My scarf smells like smoke and I no longer enjoy it.  One of the guys brings up spinning at Rocketown and I keep quiet.  Dino walks in totally high and instantly sees someone he knows.  The guy talks about the club and the conversation shifts.

 

5:10

 

          Finally home and still in great pain.  Drove Dino home and he told a few sentimental stories about coming out, and breaking up with Kyle or whoever, and was about to cry when Molly started talking about Danny and Jared and my brother.  He’s a nice guy; I like him.  But I still feel like hell.

 

 

1^st Sunday, February 1998, 11:54 PM

 

          Woke up around noon yesterday and bought some groceries.  Got very little writing done because Drew was working on his Valentine’s mix for Whitney.  Amy showed up around 7:00 and we all drove out to Jammin’ Java for Atticus.  I would have preferred taking two cars since Amy isn’t all too fond of Drew, but oh well.  I decided to try and refrain from knocking people in my journals, to try and focus on the details of my own negative existence and spare those close to me my scrutinizing eye.  Anyway….

          Shelly and Ross were already at the café and the place was packed.  By the time I said my hellos to everyone—Chris, Todd, Jason, my brother, Aaron Eye-Ring, Dave, the wives, and Darryl behind the counter—the seats were all taken.  I stayed pretty near Amy so she would feel like we’re friends, since it was the first time Molly wasn’t with us.  Annie opened with mostly powerful ballads, with Jenny Martin playing violin, and did a wonderful job.  I sat outside with Aaron and Amy for the set change so they could smoke.  My Diamante rep showed up with his wife and baby, but Amy was my priority.  Jason broke a string on the first song, but they’re informal enough that it doesn’t matter, so long as Todd makes jokes between numbers.  His head had glitter stuck to it, but they’re the coolest people in the world.

          Talked a little with Julie and Susan afterward.  Shelly and Ross left somewhere in the middle.  I was a little miffed at that, but I’m sure they felt out of place and neglected.  Greg wasn’t there at all and I feel a little bad that we stood him up Friday.  We didn’t stick around long because Amy had to meet Jordan at 10:30.  So I was adamant and forthright with her on the drive back; she answered a little, but I have the feeling it will be a good while before she trusts me enough to be vulnerable.  So I had a beer and watched SNL.

          Slept ‘til noon again today, then hit Blockbuster to make use of my $50 credit.  Watched The Shining again (bought it, actually), then got a good bit done on the anthology.  Just before writing this I added another verse to “So Worth The Crashing”, which I started yesterday while Todd was playing, because of something Amy had said earlier about not wanting to get hurt.  I felt like crying all day, but didn’t see the use.  I still haven’t heard from Natalie.  I decided not to call her, simply because I want to.

 

 

3^rd Tuesday, February 1998, 12:10 AM

 

          Feel a lot closer to Marci now that we’re both in Nashville.  It hurt her that I missed her on Saturday, but she had a date with Holmes.  I pushed my lunch back an hour and a half so I could take it with her.  She’s already slightly disenchanted with him, on the grounds that he is “too attainable”.  Apparently, girls like a challenge. 

          Gary Chapman was in the store.  I was thrilled about it for Richard’s sake.  I thought how awkward it must be to never quite be sure if someone knows who you are or not.  Like, he looked at me for a split second as my subconscious tried to process where I’d seen that face before, and his expression just looked overall sad to me, even though there didn’t seem to be any outward trace.  I felt guilty for recognizing him, like I was invading his privacy.  I was annoyed with everyone throughout the day, but not for any particular reason.  We got new security guards.  Too bad, because now I can’t smoke with the guy whose name I can’t pronounce.

          I hate what I write lately, but I resolved to do it and intend to continue, almost like an experiment, to see how it turns out.  It’s like I’ve already expressed every feeling within the capacity of human emotions, and now I’m filling in the details of the context they are felt in.  It’s like painting leaves over branches of a tree I finished a long time ago.

          Chris was over when I got home, for pizza, beer, smokes, and movie night.  His screenplay is done and they’re about to record a higher budget demo.  I told him how glad I was every time I think of them as a focused band, glad that I moved away back in the days of ELF.  He stammered for a moment, looking down at his hands, then shook his head and said, “Your humility is staggering.”  It struck me as the most beautiful compliment.

          Natalie called and it somehow made me far sadder than if she hadn’t… I don’t want to think about it.  Along with Drew’s care package, Whitney sent me an engagement book featuring “The Gashlycrumb Tinies”.  And so it went… another day, another squalor.

 

 

3^rd Tuesday, February 1998, 11:23 PM

 

          Sitting at the Laundromat after a full day of silver clouds and rain.  Only three people here, and few machines running.  People are so intentional and unattached during tasks like this.  No one looks at anyone or talks to anyone.  They just watch the cycles and watch the clock.  A few read the newspaper or try to do school work.  It was not an uneventful day, but it does seem unimportant.  Jason called work to say he wouldn’t make it up from West Palm this weekend.  Everyone seemed miffed about relationships today.  All was dreary and gloomy and it made me happy to be me.  But I would still rather die.

 

 

7^th Saturday, February 1998, 3:11 AM

 

          Marci got to work music all day Wednesday.  She has this thing now that whenever she laughs at something I say she covers her mouth and says, “I love you.”  Somehow it makes me think of how she cried when I left Tampa.  That in turn makes me think of when she saw me bawl all through Francesco.

          And when I’m thinking of Tampa I remember baking cookies with Sarah.  Around that time I remember Lana huddled in the corner of my bedroom, the lights off and the stars glowing, and the fan spinning while “Wish You Were Here” played.  A year later I stood under that same fan watching Delia read something I’d written about her on a napkin or a torn piece of loose-leaf, when she tried to pull me to her on the bed and I used every bit of energy to hold myself back.  It was the same bed where a year and a half earlier Angel slept in my full body cast of an embrace, pictures she had colored me taped to the wall immediately above.

          It was the same room the Round Table Society met in before I met Natalie, my bicycle still hanging upside-down from the ceiling and a papier-mâché mask of Creon permanently reaching out from the wall.  It was the room where I stayed hours on the phone at night with Shara, switching off with everyone else I’ve mentioned, and hours more with Katie, Jessica, Patricia, Tara, and Amy, then eventually Heather.

          I would listen to her be a mother, to how she was a total composite of everyone else.  I would spend hours more with her online in our favorite chat rooms, drinking coffee and working on my books until the sun was well into the sky and my parents left for work.  Once she even had flowers delivered to the house—the most beautiful gesture anyone had made to that point.  A little while after that Natalie was over on a Sunday wearing her tight black velvet dress, and I read to her from my favorite book of children’s poems, one called “Stufferation” by Adrian Mitchell—a book I later sent Heather in a care package.

          I remember everything about falling in love with Natalie, though I don’t quite remember how we remained friends afterward.  I remember the cemetery poetry reading, how we kept laughing while Eric read his death verses, and Gaylord’s party where she made little animals out of the vegetables and toothpicks, how I signed her yearbook with pool chalk.  I remember the phone call to Nashville when my cousin had just arrived, how she listened to me in hysterics over our sentimental videos.

          I remember Maine, how her aunt and cousin were trying to guess which guy coming through the doors she was supposed to be meeting, how when I walked through with my cane and sunglasses and teddy bear backpack her aunt exclaimed, “Oh God… it’s him!”  I remember her asking what I saw myself doing in ten years, how I simply said, “Smiling.”  I remember the guys at the soda machine, and how she nearly ran over a motorcyclist, then we sat under a tree and she looked through my photo album; and how she later admitted she was jealous of all the girls in it.  I remember buying Chris a toothbrush, and that it was on the sidewalk up to the clubhouse where we looked at each other and it suddenly hit that we were in love.  From there it was pretty much downhill; the rest you can read in “That We Soon May Be One” with the exception of a few humiliating details I’ve chosen to omit.

          I’m overtly sentimental today.  Three out of the six books are finished, equaling 344 lyric poems arranged by theme.  I started on the personal journals today, so I was in one of my moods.  Then Molly showed up out of the blue, and we ended up with Amy and Joel at Waffle House about four hours ago.  Mol had a draft of a story Jared just finished—ten pages—so I ate my lemon pie while I read it.  It was about him and Chris in limbo as spirits, still visiting the Waffle House every Thursday, remembering the greatest parts of living.  I got all misty toward the end when he brought my character, Case, into the story, and reminisced about the thunderstorm in Dragon Park.  I still want to cry about it, because it may be one of the only memories I actually share with two other guys; it’s certainly one of the best.  I was moved that he thinks of me so fondly.

          It reminded me of something Drew said the other day, that a friend of his remarked about my cane, that I might be trying too hard to get attention.  But he came to my defense saying, “Well, once you get to know Ryan, everything he does makes total sense.”  That was the second nicest thing anyone ever said about me.  All in all, I’ve been a pile of mush for the last three days.  I locked myself in the apartment and forced myself down in front of the computer.  I managed to dodge most of the phone calls, except for one from each brother and a quick one from Marci, who just said, “I was going to ask you something, but I just chickened out, so never mind.”

          Nothing Joel says makes any sense, but he’s funny.  Amy got her tongue pierced, but she was smoking anyway.  I managed to polish off a pack since around 6:00.  Mol said Amy was raving about the Atticus show, about Annie and Susan and Julie and Aaron Eye-Ring.  But she’s still too shy to say that kind of thing to me—that she had fun.  Ah well, it’s 5:02 and I need to sleep.

 

 

9^th Monday, February 1998, 12:15 AM

 

          Waffle House with Molly.  The server is extra nice to us because Mol’s a regular and I over-tip.  She just got through telling me what she wants to do as a wife and I nearly cried, but I’m not quite sure why.  The anthology is almost complete; I’ve been working on it almost nonstop for the past week, except yesterday when Todd and Greg came over for beer and movies.  Greg brought over the final product of Narrowpath’s “Eureka” sampler.  He said a couple of the guys from Homesick want to merge with the Rays for a touring band.  Todd just came to check out the apartment to settle his mind on moving in next month.  Molly came over twice during the day, and I’m beginning to consider her a friend.

 

 

10^th Tuesday, February 1998, 2:05 AM

 

           Only slept an hour last night, and not a good one.  First day back at work for half a week.  Everyone was in a stench and everything was irritating.  Shel and what’s-his-face were in a tiff, and Jim is just oblivious.  Richard talks and talks about music schlock.  Brianna was the only manager I saw, which I like.  I’m a wonderful faker, though, so my customers, as far as I could tell, found me very pleasant.  (Oh, dear God… I just realized I’m out of tea!  Damn.)  Shelly asked why all guys can’t be like me, to which I replied, “Cause they’d all be freaking lonely.”  Beth worked today.  I can no longer look at her without consciously thinking, “Holy Lord, she’s beautiful.”  My chest hurts from averaging a pack a day of late.  Then I naturally got myself up to three beers for dinner.

          Another setback in the poetry portion of the book; another file was corrupted.  Haven’t found out how many titles are lost yet.  Wanted to break down and sob my frustration, but Molly was here.  Her new thing is to sit in the swivel chair next to Drew’s dresser while I work, and go through my notes.  She’s such a sweetheart.  I’ve wanted to sleep all day, so I forced myself not to.  It’s catching up.

 

 

11^th Wednesday, February 1998, 1:00 AM

 

          I remember now why my previous journals were so sporadic and unintentional; everything is just so monotonous, it isn’t worth the effort.  I’d rather sleep.  I’m in a funk over talk of Valentine’s Day.  What a useless day!  I hate everyone.  Had even Natalie called today, I would most likely have had Drew (as if I would ever answer the phone) relay that I was working and didn’t wish to speak with anyone.

          If anyone cares, Marci’s and my shifts overlapped an hour, which is significant only because she keeps me company, and far more pleasant of demeanor.  And Beth worked, which is significant only because she’s beautiful.  I told Shelly that if I were a normal guy I would go after Beth.  But I am far too dark to pursue a Christian girl, unless she’s ready to be tainted.  God, the things in my mind!

          My thoughts as I write drift in so many directions.  Helena Bonham Carter was on one of the late shows.  Molly was over and sat and scribbled things and smoked while I wrote.  I could rant on about the clutter of nothingness in my head, the jumble of memories, the flickers of hope; or I could say how incredibly alone I feel and how I don’t see any of it changing.  But honestly, what’s the point?

 

 

14^th Saturday, February 1998, 2:17 AM

 

          Thursday I stayed at work an hour after I clocked out, standing around with Beth, Shelly, Amy, Marci, and Heidi.  Usama took a picture to send to his wife in the Middle East.  I got home and worked on the computer a bit since Drew is off in Colorado, and sent out three emails, but heard back only from Sandra, the beautiful model with a kindred melancholy.  Molly was over the next yesterday to kill a few hours in the afternoon, so I did a little grocery shopping, and in the evening we… no, wait, I’m getting my days confused.

          It was Wednesday night that we rented The Prophecy and stayed up until 5:30 talking about the joy in Christ that she hasn’t yet laid claim to.  Right now she and Amy are asleep in the living room.  They came over after Todd and I knocked back a six-pack and smokes watching Rosencrantz And Guildenstern Are Dead.  I got less writing done than I’d hoped, because people like Weathertop when Drew isn’t here.  Molly will wake up any moment now because she has to pick up her brother, who wrecked his car driving into a wall drunk.  Jared called, and is thinking about moving back in August.  Wonderful—I’ll have a percussionist.  Only had to take two IB tablets all day.  I may be getting better.

 

 

18^th Wednesday, February 1998, 12:03 AM

 

          Waffle House.  Some college guy talks about Yeats and Whitman and his goatee to another guy, who talks about homosexual sociology.  I feel compelled to write only because I haven’t in several days.  It was excessively dark and windy today, so I agreed to come out so long as we sit out in the air for a while.  Drew only just got back tonight, and in an upswing, so it wasn’t that bad.  I spent the weekend while not at work finishing up the last of the old material and turning down Molly’s invitations out.  I’ve been morose about the total absence of Natalie in any form.  On the other hand, I have a severe crush on Beth at the store, so I suppose it all balances out.  Usama brought me coffee for lunch.  Marci sent an email of a virtual frog in a blender… nice Valentine gesture.  Everyone else I’ve been avoiding, crying quite a bit at every little thing.

 

3:30

 

          Sat with a number of characters Molly calls her “Waffle House Dwellers” and “Waffle People”.  Read through her journals and notebooks and smoked until that sick feeling returned.  On the way home we stopped on an overpass for ten minutes to stand and watch the cars, Molly bundled in four layers of clothes, and me without my cane.

 

 

18^th Wednesday, February 1998, 11:45 PM

 

          Havana Lounge.  I’m here with Jason, Q-Ball, Shawn and Julie, Chris and Susan, Todd, Paul, and Nathan.  Paul is kind of a bigwig in the music industry now.  Nathan is a musician.  The guys are from Atticus.  My oldest brother is drunk and Jason drove up from Palm Beach today.  Shawn just yelled at me for having three packs of cigarettes, but he’s one to talk.  My espresso is in the way.  The lounge is dimly lit with 70’s décor, leopard skin rugs and velvet red pillows.  There’s a swing band playing on a stage with no lights.  I had a martini or two, and a little taste of port wine, and something Jason and Nate seem very fond of.  We’re on the second floor looking out over Main Street.  The waiter made me a double latté even though it isn’t on the menu.  I spent an hour smoking one of Jason’s cigars—slow and smooth.  Nate told this Goth roommate of his about my poetry, which I take as a high compliment.  Work was terrible today, only me on the schedule from 9-7, so this is a much needed relaxation.  Feeling pretty good at the moment.

 

 

19^th Thursday, February 1998, 2:05 AM

 

          Home.  Shawn had a couple more drinks and got all goofy.  Jay’s head was spinning just enough that I had to drive home.  Paul mentioned something to Jay about a writing project I might have something to do with.  Todd got the waitresses name, and I think her number, and Chris and Jason bought a few more choice cigars and got two wooden cases free.  I managed to lose my Zippo, over which I’m somewhat distraught.  As Jay and I were walking back to the car this wrinkled old man in a winter hat approached, saying, “Is one of you named Ryan?”  We both said no and kept walking a little, until he looked down with defeat and said, “Some guy just told me a guy named Ryan would give me cigarettes.”  So I stopped and said I might have some, and dug the rest of the Camels out of my bag.  Jay gave him some change and said, “For the next time you run low.”  The man looked shocked and warm, and blessed us as we walked away.

 

 

21^st Saturday, February 1998, 1:49 AM

 

          Laxed on the job a bit because people kept coming by.  Met with Terry, Jay, Shawn and Julie, and Nathan after work to see The Wedding Singer.  Jason, Lynn, and Greg met us there.  The flick made me angry at Natalie and I cried.  I want nothing to do with her anymore.  It’s easier to be sad and bitter than to care.  Afterward we met up with Paul at the Hard Rock to see Love… Circle… something.  I rode with Greg and we talked about Narrowpath and projects and other miscellany.

          Molly and Jared are walking up the stairs….

 

 

22^nd Sunday, February 1998, 3:41 AM

 

          Work was almost horrible.  Well, not so bad, but I would rather have spent the day with Jared.  Well, then again, perhaps not today, because they ended up taking Molly to Baptist Hospital for an OD on IB, Aspirin, and blood thinners.  She left a note by Jared’s sleeping face, then sucked back pills.  Jed visited with her for several hours while I finished out my shift.  On the plus side, I got Usama a Jacki Velasquez tape and he brought me coffee.  And there’s another adorable 19-year-old chick for me to have a crush on, who absolutely hates poetry.  There were only four of us to close and I had to run register for the first time since I got here.  Jed was still at the hospital when I got home, so I took a nap until Shawn called, then went to their place to meet Terri’s fiancé and listen to Nate’s new songs.  Got home a little after midnight and Jared was drunk, so we stayed up and traded poems and smoked, and drank a little J.D. until Natalie called around 2:45.

          I was absolutely shocked to hear from her, so I started with, “Whenever you call me, I get the feeling it’s for a very definite reason.”  She responded with one of her “How do you know me so well?” deals.  I continued with, “What is it that you don’t want to tell me?”  She did her little freak-out thing and said, “I have to hang up right now!”  Instead we talked about not being under the law, and about how bad everything is down there, how Arturo is screwing Heather, something about Luke on his birthday, how our mothers are both deteriorating into the alcoholic vortex.  We cried a bit and our hearts broke, and at the end she said she loves me very much.

          But my eyes are no longer open enough to see what I’m writing, and my dreams have already begun, and so I am not coherent enough to continue.  In my mind it’s all running together.

 

 

24^th Tuesday, February 1998, 3:07 AM

 

          Slept ‘til 4:30 Sunday afternoon, after Jared and I talked a bit the night before.  Went to TGI Fridays for dinner and liquor, then picked up the Hayden disc from Tower.  We had to be back by 8:20 so Jed could go with Jason to pick up Chris from the airport, so I spent an hour and a half on laundry, then fell asleep on the chair ‘til midnight.  Jed came by early and we got two six-packs and had another reading; talked in depth about Molly and Natalie and Heather and spirituality.  Nothing had changed—we still got along like close brothers.

          Shelly was back at work after staying with her dad at the hospital for a week.  I was angry at the phones and bitter at my customers for existing—another 9-7.  Fell asleep for two hours after work before Molly came over for the first time since the incident.  We went to Waffle House and I started out cold and angry, until she softened and opened up and started crying.  God said a few words between my babbling and then I read two chapters of Job to her.  Marine Tim gave me a ride home after Mol’s dad showed up all irate.  I smoked a full pack of Camel Special Lights and wrote “Darker Than Sin” while Molly was talking.  I set down my pen at 3:21.

 

 

24^th Tuesday, February 1998, 10:38 PM

 

          Stared in the mirror for ten minutes noting how in a certain light I can be handsome.  But as it is, I wear my hair down over my eyes and hide my cheeks with tinted spectacles and I do not shave.  I am no longer romantic in hope, but a romantic in defeat.  No one may fall the way they once did.  No one may earn my totality and be swept up in the early emotions of infatuation.  I have no more hope for love, but rather fear that it may find me in spite of myself.  My lifeline runs short and wonderful.  Tragedy and love are one and the same.

          Spoke broken English with Usama about my friends on drugs, and everyone’s drinking problems, and Molly trying to kill herself.  He was shocked, and very sad about the state of affairs in our free country; in the Middle East these things are not so prevalent.  Although, his wife is seventeen—less than half his age.  Lucky bastard.

          The usual people were in my day, and I in delirium.  I am the saddest of all, and again with the most joy.

 

 

25^th Wednesday, February 1998

 

          Stopped by Barnes & Noble for a double latté, Uptown for Hint of Mints and Sherman Lights.

 

 

26^th Thursday, February 1998, 2:00 AM

 

          My hair is tied up and there is a peel-off vitamin mask on my face.  I have just looked in the mirror and realized that I will never have a baby face.  I will never have clear skin without wrinkles.  There will always be blotches and pits scarred into my surface.  Yet somehow I shall be beautiful anyway.  I shall be the romantic version of ugly, the kind of security truly beautiful people will never tangibly grasp, never have thought about.  I love hating myself because I am passionate about it.  And I love myself for being worthy of such scorn, for being able to evoke such strong emotion.

          I spent the day alone, alphabetizing titles for an index, smoking cigarettes for no reason and emptying a full pot of Espresso Roast.  Around 6:30 I drove downtown to pick up my check and visit with Usama.  Then I just drove.  I ended up in downtown Franklin, but my parking lot was full, so I drove some more until I ended up back at home.  Drew brought up details of his move, but I think he’s making too big a deal of the whole thing.  I would just up and leave with no word to anyone; that’s the proper way.  I’ve been very alone and thinking of people, but I doubt I’ll do anything about it.

 

 

27^th Friday, February 1998, 2:09 AM

 

          I am so filled with ideas.  I sat just now on a black metal chair on my black metal balcony as the rain slowed and mist crept over across the yard, and I looked out at the old building, out and over the street, through glistening bare branches, and I thought.  I thought of how as a child I drew out house designs and stage designs, and how it was all based around sitting.  I wished I could become permanent and fixed where I was, as the hanging chime above me or the board nailed to our front door.  I thought of inspirations and idols and grandiose schemes, of people I once knew and people I wish to meet.

          There is a clarity with the earliest hours of morning that most of the population never knows, sleeping in their beds as they do, to scurry about in the hours yet to come.  I am so foolish and so young, so ageless and so old.  I set down my pen and refuse to write, only to experience merit in the absence of it.  I will die an unfulfilled man, never having done all there is to do, never having finished all I have set my mind to accomplish.  I think of the magnitude of the yet to come, and I am excited and I am afraid.

          I was steeped today in the underwhelming details of the mundane, of my useless job and the futility of Christianity.  I wanted to shake my customers by the ears and scream, “You miserable wretches!  You loathsome, contemptible curs!”  There were very few salvageable moments, Usama showing me prints of us looking like pop stars, Marci… well, all of them with her, and Beth’s gorgeous face intent on my words.  All the rest was mental anguish and physical pain.

 

 

2^nd Monday, March 1998, 1:32 AM

 

          We’re at the Franklin Waffle House because I owe Ray at Harding $20.  I read through Molly’s Bono notebook for the sake of being thorough.  I’ve got $8 in the bank and my ATM card doesn’t work.  Todd moved in two nights ago to the good room, and I’m counting down the days until Drew leaves.  I’ve been sleeping in the eves where it’s pitch black, and getting later to work every day.  Saturday night Drew and I met up with Michael and Leanne for dinner and bourbon and smokes.  Shawn and Jason stopped by for a drink and target practice.  Michael and I had a long talk about the Christian music industry before I left.  I slept until three today and have still been tired.  I’m so disenchanted with everything.

 

 

3^rd Tuesday, March 1998, 11:47 PM

 

          Searched for a new journal, but can’t find the one I’m looking for.  This one is four years old, from when I worked at The Book Market on Military and Okeechobee.  I’ve finished four others since beginning.  Walked around Wal-Mart late the other night without finding anything.  Monday we all met at J&J’s Market around 8:30 for Todd’s birthday.  I went on a shopping spree just before and had plenty to smoke.  Chris and Jay and the wives, and Tim and Jason’s sister, and my brother sat playing Monopoly while Todd and Susan drew with markers and chalk, and I sat on a desk drinking Todd’s beer.  Kevin Clay and some bald guy showed up and we sat with Drew and Dave, smoking and talking and petting some girl’s Husky, then went to Jay’s for ice cream.  Then Todd and I stayed up ‘til two or three listening to new releases from Diamante, getting psyched that diversity and flair and discovery are coming back.

          Tuesday I worked 10-9, playing Starflyer after 7:00 when it was just Marci and me in music, and Brianna and two others in the store.  Molly was on the phone for an hour when I got home, and Drew was asleep until ten or eleven.  Then we sat around awake and delirious, smoking until two.  Molly and I talked for another hour after that and she seems better with medication and counseling.  She’s been happier and warmer and even called me a friend, but her eyes are still tired.  She is very beautiful though (in a completely unromantic way).  Louise Mandrel was in the store to order an Andre Crouch tape, but I didn’t know who she was until the customer service ladies freaked out, and I wasn’t able to get the album anyway.  She seemed nice enough.

 

 

4^th Wednesday, March 1998, 12:05

 

          Molly and Amy just called on two-way from the same room.  I haven’t heard that giddy girl chatter since Erika and Amy back in Holiday.  It was kind of enjoyable in a Jr. High sense.  Natalie is no longer in the picture.

 

 

9^th Monday, March 1998, 2:51 AM

 

          I might be a little buzzed.  Had some Guinness and a little vodka, a Monte Cristo and some cigarettes.  Days have muddled together over the last week.  Marci came with me to see Atticus on Friday after I told youth groups about it.  We sat with Greg afterwards and everyone visited in turn.  Everyone thought Marci was beautiful and suspected there was something between us, which it sometimes feels like there is, but I’ve decided not to explore it.

          I slept until two, then sat around until Mol came over at six.  We fell asleep until Amy got there at nine or ten to cut and dye my hair.  Lisa and Jill (two more cuties) showed up in a fowl mood and we went out to Wal-Mart where they bought me baggy jeans and some whigger-looking sneakers.  After some driving we got to The Zone, a gay club, a little after three.  I was a little disgusted at first about all the fags with their shirts off, grouped in threes and tongue kissing.  But the girls seemed a little miffed, so I eased up and passed an hour or so dancing.  I found out they thought I was cute with a fresh shave, and I ended up having quite a bit of fun.  There were a few drag queens, one Goth, and a roomful of people who didn’t look all that flaming, and the music was far better than what they play at The Mix.

          Mol and Amy and I ended up at Waffle House with the early morning church crowd where one of the servers joined us for breakfast, and we got back to Weathertop around eight or nine to sleep.  Loud footsteps on the roof woke me at some point and the downstairs burglar alarm went off, but I managed to get back to sleep until Todd and Drew woke me up talking in the kitchen, making coffee in the afternoon.  We all went for a drive through floodwater and rain, then Mol and I went to Denny’s for dinner while Todd went to J&J’s to talk to Juan.

          Todd and Molly have been talking in his room for nearly an hour and I’m thinking of just going to bed.  I have mixed feelings about everything and I’m pretty light headed, and I need to pee.  Todd is so lonely that I’m a little scared of him and Mol.  I’ll just have one more cigarette and retire to my crawl space to sleep.  It is now 3:40.

 

 

14^th Saturday, March 1998, 2:19 PM

 

          I used to look forward to wrists cut into slits, to being shot point blank range in the face some Wednesday night.  Now I look forward to parking on the roof on Saturdays, and Keynotes being down, Marci swallowing her whole head in laughter, and ten minutes silent on the porch.  I no longer defend friends driving over curbs, or exist for the recapturing of that perfect, unattainable kiss.  I sit in groups, smoking in coffee shops and hardly ever think about you, and when I do, no longer sad at having lost you, but maybe a little that I have grown to such unrealistic proportions.

          I no longer break silences out of unease, but go about folding clothes or not looking at anything, not posing or necessarily thinking anything intimate about you, as I spent so many years doing.  I no longer take my coffee black or eat only macaroni and cheese.  Sometimes I pause mid-step and look around with renewed interest and genuine wonder at the expanse of the skies or the nonchalance of strong winds.  And I let my hands crack and my hair freeze, then wander through the warehouse with a 24oz cup in my hand, backpack slung over one shoulder, small purse at my side, singing old, familiar songs that no longer hold my interest.

 

 

22^nd Sunday, March 1998, 3:00 PM

 

          Any given moment, a series of conversations whisper wisdom, understanding, and the peace which accompanies the two.  Their tongues are clouds blowing kisses to the earth, the vast expanse of waters spraying kind mist against the rocks.  The words belong to shadow, mouths stretching uneven over foot-imprinted sand, unfaltering, manta-like in worship and reverence, whispering praise to the lungs of that first breath.

 

 

3^rd Sunday, May 1998, 10:24 PM

 

          Where are you, in this uninspiring moment, as water drops moisten the concrete beneath the spout and nonexistent gates fall across the painted on parking sign the length of the wall?  Where are you on this busy city evening, late and under a sad moon’s watch, where details carry on uninterested in the lives of a hundred thousand people trying hard to get new jobs and make rent and get the phones switched back on?

          I consider that you must be in some coffee shop or in the lobby of your roommate’s building, squirming in conversation with your boyfriend about how you never act in love.  And the whole rest of the city maintains its activity, and somewhere someone has an original thought, but certainly not here.

 

 

17^th Sunday, May 1998, 1:42 AM

 

          It’s different this time.  The call came at two in the morning; my brother called me at work the next day.  Twenty hours later we stood in the parlor and stared at the name on the wall before entering the room.  It was a gathering that may have represented all vivacity and life and passion, but not on this day.  Not remembering those first days of her staring up from the swinger, with all fascination at colors and sudden movements, and how one smile sparks another.  Not remembering her playing teacher to the other kids, or helping keep them in line.  How casually she could say hello after so many months away, how she acted as though it was only yesterday she last opened up her arms and waited looking upward to be held.

          This time we knew the drill, carried out our duties of appearing strong and trying to carry on as usual.  This time we needed no prompting when to bow our heads, where to stand around the carpet beneath the canopy.  This time we knew when to cry and when not to, and understood that this was only precursor to the grieving, that it would come throughout the following months in the most unexpected moments, with certain songs or at the dinner table, or hearing a certain word said a certain way.

          Sitting on the kitchen floor now in the silent house, it begins, slowly, suddenly, the realization that years will pass while she teaches little Jonathan up in heaven, years before she looks up again with open arms and says hello as if no time has passed.

 

 

3^rd Monday, August 1998, 1:00 AM

 

          Sometimes she cries in denial, silent and immune to tenderness.  Sometimes an unexplained tear tries not to fall too noticeably down a cheek, terrified that it might be asked to account for its path.  Some thoughts are too horrible even to be reassured, some doubts too unthinkable even to be verbalized.  These are the recesses from which sadness arises, never listening long enough to its own voice to find any comfort.

          Sometimes she will not be comforted, as if some form of punishment is necessary for one thing or another.  And all I can do to show her how my heart bleeds is open it up from the sharpest point, and spill out the details of the exact moment I was unable to help, another instance unresolved.

 

 

13^th Thursday, August 1998, 5:40 PM

 

          And now you are here, whom all of this was for.  I have no need to write further.

 

 

15^th Saturday, August 1998, 7:51 PM

 

          Lately I’ve found that even our mouths taste the same, that they can interlock for a full twenty minutes without tiring, and that your stomach is flat and perfect, and tastes different than the valley between your breasts, and that there is no part of the body the tongue does not like.

 

 

22^nd Saturday, August 1998, 3:57 AM

 

          In my perfect world, I’d get to beat thoroughly the subhuman who stole my debit card.

 

 

2^nd Wednesday, December 1998, 6:38 AM

 

          God, let us start the world over and not hurt each other.  I would do anything, give anything to take the abuse, but it is done.  A lifetime was destroyed in a mind, with a pattern of secrecy and intimacy none of God’s creatures was ever meant to know, and everything since has been reaction.  Come quickly, Lord our God, with the swift hand of justice, and swallow up the destroyers, and still this rage!  I cannot take the horror, but I offer myself as your refuge.  Hide in me, now and forever, and I will protect you.  The evil is passed; now let us cut off its head!

 

 

January 1999

 

          By now the majority of you are well aware of the details of my engagement.  All of you who were distanced by time and circumstance would be amazed at how much I’ve changed.  Don’t let that worry you, I’m still very much myself, only much more capable of adapting to this absurd world which falls so short of my ideals.  I actually answer the front door now, rather than hiding in the hallway until whoever it is leaves.  I actually return phone calls (mostly), and order my own pizza.  Sometimes I even check my transmission fluid or look at bank statements.  Dear ol’ Miss Dot said she’s never seen anyone change as much as I have since Marci came into the frame.

          So for the benefit of anyone who hasn’t heard the story, here’s how things came about.  Marci moved up to Nashville in the beginning of ’98 to attend Belmont.  She came into the bookstore to meet with our manager (who is rumored to have roots in Transylvania and has unusually long incisors), and I surprised myself with how happy I was to see her.  Having met at prayer group in high school, and after working with her in Tampa, we had a certain familiarity that was somehow very significant.  It was one of those innate senses you never quite know how to explain, until one day it just slams you in the face.  She was already one of my favorite persons, through email and IMs, but we never spent much time together until moving to Music City.

          This is how it was.  In high school, the most interaction we had was innocent flirting, with no intention of ever pursuing anything.  The only thing I remember is how much we laughed, and how she used to cross her eyes and stick out her tongue more often than is healthy.  Then I took off for Palm Beach, and then the Nashville stint; so a year and a half passed with only one “remember me?” type note she and Jen left when their youth group visited Rocketown.  I moved back to Tampa in the spring of ’96, and my first day at the bookstore was her last, so more time elapsed, with only minimal email contact.

          She returned after a few months, and we finally got to work together, which is the most fun I’ve ever had at a job.  I used to stay late and come in on my days off just to see her.  I would check the schedule the night before to see if I would have a good day or not.  If I was in a bad mood in the morning, it would disintegrate the second our eyes met as she came in for her shift.  I was still in my morbid phase, and she was still dealing with a lot, so there was a (usually unspoken) kindredness whenever one of us was hurting that just sunk deeper into our souls than word or conscious thought.  My heart broke when it knew hers was grieving, as hers did mine.  But we seldom opened up about it.  Indeed, we had little occasion to, as we found it too awkward to spend time together outside of work.  The only times we did were once at a staff dinner at a Japanese place, once on my birthday when everyone took me out for Mexican, and just before I moved up to Nashville for the second time, when I had her come over and watch Francesco because I wanted her to see me cry.  That was the extent of it for one reason only—because I knew that if we got any closer I would fall in love, and it terrified me.

          Tennessee seemed to be no better the second time around.  I was tearing up my stomach with coffee and vodka and cigarettes, topped with aspirin and not eating.  My roommate was an inanimate object, constantly tying up the phone line (when it was connected) and running up the bill with his pseudo-Goth, sorority sister fiancé (whom I actually kind of liked).  Then when he left, Todd moved in during the worst part of adjusting to his medication, which he hardly remembers, and he was absolutely out of his mind.  My only sanity in those days was Molly, which is ironic considering the state she was in when we met.  The later months of ’97 and early parts of ’98 were spent with her and Amy, at Waffle House or Wal-Mart, or club hopping until daybreak.  There was a gradual shift from that period to where I am now, which seems drastic in retrospect.

          Marci moved up in January.  For the first couple months she would stop by Weathertop only occasionally, usually with a friend, and stay for just a short time.  Slowly we started doing things in town together, going out for coffee, or going to support Atticus or Mancy at shows.  We started going out to eat, and walking around Opryland late at night, or we would rent movies and lie on my comforter on the floor, later and later.  Things got more frequent and more natural, and I found myself wanting to spend more and more time with her.  People started asking about the possibility of us dating, and we would quickly change the subject because we were scared of ruining what we had.

          The day I realized I needed Marci Le Ann Klassen for my survival was the day I learned of Nikki’s death.  I hung up the phone with Shawn and finished up with my customer without speaking, then hid back in the music cave in shock and about to implode.  Marci came around the corner and I lost it, fell into her and wept bitterly.  I was in shambles and she was the only thread to hold me together.  As I left her in the parking lot and headed for Atlanta, I knew only how profoundly thankful I was for her companionship.

          My next trip to Atlanta was on my birthday, and this time Marci came with me.  By then I had written her first poem, five pages scribbled from the Laundromat, and we were spending as much time together as any couple.  Our looks said more and our tones were warmer, more intimate.  We laid on the trampoline looking up at the branches and stars, and I tried to get her to admit something; the most I got was that she was scared I might leave someday.  I answered with something along the lines of, “Well, if we’re still friends in a year, I’ll either have to leave or I’ll have to marry you.”  She laughed somewhat and said, “You’d better run while you can!”  Driving back I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I asked how she felt about us, about me.  And she finally said something like, “Well, I… love you…. You’re my best friend… and, it’s… more than that.”  To which I replied, “Alright, if we make it through the next year or so, with you in school and me trying to figure out what I’m doing for a career… can you see yourself married to me?”  “Yes,” she said simply.  I was taken aback.  “Really?”  “Yeah,” she paused slightly, “Can you?”  I smiled, “Yes.”  And that was it.  A few days later we had our first kiss, by moonlight, sitting on the grass in a confederate cemetery.

          Very soon after our dating was officially announced (by way of a memo posted by our Assistant Manager at the office), we took a short vacation to New England for my family’s reunion.  We spent most of that time at the lake house, canoeing under shooting stars, swinging gently in the hammock, having barbecues or eating out, and antiquing at the old shops in town.  Melissa led us on a guided tour of the lighthouses at sunset, and I smoked my pipe for the last time.  There’s something perfectly mystical about New England, and we decided we should move there someday.  She read me some of her journal entries from the previous months, and I picked up the habit of blubbering like a sappy juvenile from being so overwhelmed.  So I made her start looking at engagement rings.  We spent a day trekking seven miles up Mt. Washington and having pictures taken, and Sharon planned a picnic, then we returned to Melissa and Stacy’s for the final night (and another late night walk through a cemetery).  There are of course details I have omitted in the interest of space, but you can hear all those by asking to see the scapbook.

          The year grew late and the nights grew torturous—I couldn’t stand having to leave her night after night.  My heart would ache and I could barely breathe.  I had to shorten the days until we could be together with no restrictions—constant, wholly, limitless.  I told her one night that I would propose three separate times, once each for my heart, soul, and mind.  It seemed the only way I could do it, since that is how we are called to love God, and since we are created in his image.  So she expected it.

          The first came on November 24^th, the night of the Chris Isaak concert, just before she went home for Thanksgiving.  We met Shawn and Julie for dinner at The Spaghetti Factory (which is nowhere near as horrible as it sounds—it was rather elegant, in fact), then walked over to the Ryman for the show.  Now, if you haven’t seen Chris Isaak in concert yet, it is absolutely required before you die; there is simply no greater performer on the planet.  I can say nothing else.  We left after the first encore to take a carriage ride through the city, silently padding along empty streets to the car, strategically parked several blocks away.  From there we dropped off Shawn and Julie and headed to Opryland Hotel to look at the Christmas lights.  We’d been there for an hour or so when the power shut off, which is not exactly a regular occurrence at the Mecca of Music City, especially during the holiday season.  I faced her outline against the red backup lights and began.  “You know that I’m going to propose to you three times.  Tonight is the first.”  I paused, then stammered through words I don’t quite remember, which I think sounded eloquent at the time; anyway, it was a proposal and it was from my heart.  She said yes, then I handed her the first of three poems, rolled up inside a silver ring.  The next morning I drove her to the airport.

          A month passed and there was no second proposal.  We left for Tampa on the 17^th of December and rested on the 18^th.  The next day was Justin’s wedding, and my mind remained preoccupied with the final two proposals, and how I could fit both in before we left for home.  The days up until Christmas were rapid and steady; I spent most of my time at her parents’ house, and had to sneak around under the guise of visiting my own family in order to get the remaining rings and a Christmas present.  Quite some time earlier I had cut and pasted a selection of ring styles Marci liked, and recruited several people to aid the search.  The one we were looking for turned up at a jewelry store in Clearwater—a simple, classic style platinum ring with a raised emerald cut and baguettes on either side with a total weight of about .75—sold by a Christian lady my parents met while looking to replace my mother’s stolen wedding band, for about half price.  We picked it up a day or so before Christmas, then scoured jewelry stores on the way back to find a textured white gold band and chain for the second proposal and her Christmas present, respectively.  I must admit, it felt wonderful to spend that much money on her in just one day, simply because she herself is priceless, and I could never possibly spend too much on her.

          Late Christmas Eve the house was alive with last minute preparations for the next morning.  I was hardly able to enjoy the festivities of the day—a seafood dinner with the family, a slow drive through lantern-lit streets, a multi-congregational worship service, during which Marc and I played in the foyer with Eden—as my pulse raced faster and faster with anticipation as each minute passed.  I had mentioned to Bruce that I needed Ken’s blessing, trying to get at least one family member on my side, to maybe leave me with an opening, but he just kind of avoided eye contact and half forced a smile.  So I paced… and wished I hadn’t quit smoking, because my nerves were shot.  Marci and Sue were wrapping gifts in the garage and Ken was exhausted and getting a drink in the kitchen.  I paced a bit more, stood across the counter from him, took a deep breath and said, “I do have one thing I still need resolved… I need your blessing to marry your daughter.”  He turned slowly and laughed deeply, then said, “I’m laughing because I remember when I had to ask Suzie’s father the same thing.  You have my blessing.”  Well, then my excitement level was through the roof, so I went and got Sue’s blessing, still pacing, and we talked a bit, and she asked, “So does this mean a ring is impending?”  “Actually, it’s sitting in a box under the tree as we speak.”  She glowed with the excitement only mothers have.

          Christmas morning we woke slowly, but still fairly early, and settled in the living room in a semicircle around the tree.  Procrastinator that I am, I continued rewriting the final two poems on the couch while the family began unwrapping packages.  South Park dolls looked on from near the fireplace as Bruce read through “The Lost Deep Thoughts”, setting the book down only long enough to open more gifts.  A good number of the presents were from Marci to me, so the poems took right up to the last minute to finish.  Finally Sue looked at me and said, “Do you want Marci to open one now?”  I pointed to a fair sized box that was unassuming enough, and Marci opened it innocently, then slowed down as she removed from the excessive packing paper a ring box.  I stopped her with, “Oh, before you open that, read this….” and handed her one of the poems I’d just finished.  Everyone else in the room faded into the background, and Marc got quiet and misty while I proposed for the second time—once again using phrasing that escapes my memory—now from my soul.  She looked up and whispered yes, then gave me a look like, “I can’t believe you just proposed in front of my family.”

          A few minutes later, Ken opened the framed poem I’d written about his relationship with his daughter, but it took him several hours to read because he kept crying.  My parents stopped by before the rest of the presents were unwrapped, so there was a break in things while everyone had coffee and talked.  I used the opportunity to suggest that Marci and I sit on her roof for a few minutes, since that was her prayer and deep conversation spot through high school, the first place she took me when we visited Tampa for Dan and Sarah’s wedding.  We sat there for a second and I reached back into the window for her final package.  “You want me to open this now?”  I nodded and stared at her while she talked away and unwrapped another large box.  “Went a little crazy with the tissue paper,” she mused, then stopped.  “Oh, before you open that, you have to read this,” I said with my crooked smile.  Her eyes got wide and her breathing came in short gasps.  “So I was thinking, the only way you’d be surprised with the third proposal was if it came immediately after the second.  This time I’m asking with my heart, soul, and mind.  Everything I am wants everything you are to be my wife.  Will you marry me?”  At least, that’s the gist of what I recall saying.  She answered the way she always wanted to, with a line from Little Women, “With all my heart.”  That night I got baptized, in the Jacuzzi on their back patio—the most relaxing baptism ever.

          Now, at this point most people in my situation would be totally stressed out.  Here I am with no money, no real career, and no home, about to be married to everyone’s princess.  People wonder how we’ll possibly survive, how I’ll provide for all the bills and debt and expenses to arise, and sometimes even if the two of us have fallen away from the faith of our childhood.  Well, that’s the nature of faith, isn’t it?  Hasn’t God always taken care of me, and always done so differently than I thought?  I have no worries (anxiety, yes, but no worries) because the God of my fathers has shown himself faithful, has proven throughout history that his plan cannot be thwarted, that his will shall always be done, and that every true need I have will be met in his timing, according to his purposes.  I took on that understanding when I surrendered my old ways to him, and every worldly fear that it is my natural inclination to have must be viewed in that context.  Therefore, let no one who lives in his mercy and grace fear for us; we are set apart solely for the work of our Lord, stumbling over our own feet, yet taking step after step toward that final goal.  I know above all my anxieties that God will systematically provide in every area for us, because I know beyond any doubt that he has ordained our union, and that his work is in it.  If anything, I am excited to see the outcome once the years have played themselves out.  It is still with a measure of trepidation, as my human side finds it hard to relinquish control, but ultimately, my heart and ways are his.

 

 

24^th Sunday, January 1999, 3:57 AM

 

          Every movie is a romance now, with you as every leading lady, and the backdrops and soundtracks all fields of wheat for us to lie in.

          I made everyone aware, today, of the length and number of such days upon us.  Do not cry, dear, until my fingers can again catch your tears.

 

 

29^th Friday, January 1999, 4:44 AM

 

          On these nights without you, I may as well be impoverished and untrained.  I am no longer of merit.

          There is a new hole in my wall, there in place of the ashtrays my roommate threw out.  Another bank notice greeted me home.  I cannot tolerate life in your absence.

 

 

14^th Sunday, March 1999, 2:51 AM

 

          Now this is romance!  This everyday of living, this breathing and holding and lying awake, and almost never having the spare moment to write it down.  I have found that I was less a lover when I was writing.  Then should you be so lucky as if I never write again!

 

 

13^th Sunday, June 1999

 

          Even so, removed countless times over by introductions and unrelenting pursuance, inspiration is not wasted on you.  I have yet to betray you to the hands of today, my eternal love.

 

 

1^st Thursday, July 1999, 11:43 PM

 

          I sit now at an antique desk leaning into the outside of the washroom in our Room 127 of The Ledgelawn Inn.  You will read in Marci’s journals the details of the week of our wedding, leading into the honeymoon, which has led us here by God’s mercy.  I find it comforting that my journals no longer stand alone, that they no longer set themselves up as the sole testaments chronicling what is to me supreme reality.  I am assured that you will read elsewhere of our first intimate encounters, how we made love on flower petals by candlelight, how the first night she bequeathed her notebooks to me.

          Rather, I will mention now that the wind from crisp New England streets causes our sheer drapes to float gracefully into the room, then drop back to the sill as light as moonbeams.  I will say that an hour ago we crossed slowly over the walk through a monumental cemetery void of names, and kissed in front of an Episcopal church.  I will say that there are a million split seconds like this as she emerges from the bath in material only my eyes are invited to trace, and I set down my pen to join her under the canopy of our bed.

 

 

4^th Monday, October 1999

 

          My wife… how my soul jumps to say it!  I so frequently make occasion to speak the words, but have only just now written them together—and again my spirit leaps!  My wife sits inside a flat building and sweetly answers calls from her deep mahogany desk.  Four months into our marriage we have taken early jobs, mine ending just after three in the afternoon, hers at four thirty to the minute.

          I dawdle for spare change in extra tips before making my way across town, light by light, stopping occasionally for a mock-coffee, ending up on the charity grounds with an hour to do nothing but ponder and admire my wife’s face.  It is into the first days of autumn, this silver wash of timeless poetry so like those long passed, a succession of bird cries in a sequence never repeated, and possibly never so loud, as people cradle their own arms instinctively and would kill for a warm mug of cider.  The greens we pass everyday hang tighter to shadows and bare a few more brush strokes resembling twigs, jutting haphazardly and uniquely about.

          A Madonna stands pale and forlorn near cement benches on the grass while every vent simultaneously spins at the wind’s urging.  People drift infrequently and without pattern across the blacktop and pass through walls, silently unprovoked.  I sit on the trunk of my old silver Cutlass and study nature’s wasted mannerisms while elsewhere humans made of skin and blood and tightly packed innards keep schedules and watch their clocks and call each other on cell phones, drinking chicken soup from Styrofoam cups.

          I stretch my arms and back and breathe deeper than any human, deep enough to filter through the pollution and smog to find fresh air, pure and beautiful, filling lungs that do not work biologically, but poetically.  And it is the breath of these lungs with which I will poise my lips and lean into my wife, and release the scope and impact of this moment at four thirty to the minute.

 

 

19^th Saturday, February 2000, 5:05 PM

 

          Sam’s for four new tires.  So exhausted from work.  Began formulating, designing future B&B.  I enjoy waiting for things like this.  The woman at the counter had a bad day; recently moved here from Illinois, had scars on her arm shaped like cigar burns.  Decided to keep more consistent journals; won’t interest anyone but me.  Marc has an active dream life.  Cute.

 

 

20^th Sunday, February 2000, 10:26 AM

 

          Marci at her makeup desk, a single bird outside calling melodically.  My feet dangle off the bed waving.  Sundays always feel like Easter.  She thanks me for talking sternly to her last night.  It is always torturous to love sternly.  This morning again she comes back to me as a forgiving child.  Praise seeps in from the living room speakers.

 

11:22

 

          Unfamiliar team at Belmont today.  Friends are here.  My wife in worship is a huge turn on.

 

5:20

 

          Sleep—sweet, beautiful slumber!  Naked, ourselves held together under canopies of birds and rain, sounds swept gently away by streams.  Skin is never so smooth, bed never so inviting as under a Sunday afternoon shower.

 

 

27^th Sunday, February 2000

 

          I have spent the last week in contemplation of several things—the future manor, Basia, a cover album called “Homage”, and such endeavors.  I am impatient with church today.  The mundanity is tiresome, almost feels that the group worships its own collective mind, that each is passionate about being passionate, above zeal for Christ’s heart.

 

 

28^th Monday, February 2000, 12:15 AM

 

          Lumber and clunk go the retards’ feet, upstairs directly.  My wife lies asleep naked and my head tremendously aches.  I’ve the notion to hobble the immature noisemakers; hobble then silence permanently, the inbred sex-havers.

 

 

March 2000

 

          More and more I choose not to write.  We are in Palm Springs during the last week of March, on our miniature vacation.  The sun is bright and intrusive at the hour of eight as I sit in relative discomfort and back pain while Marci sits up from bed greeted to the same.  Grandparent and parent voices clink in the kitchen and I ponder that first cup of coffee, why nothing else seems so important.  We really ought to get a hotel tonight.  On this trip so far I’ve had only bad dreams and uncomfortable sleep.  But the day portions have been decent.  I keep waiting to see what comes next.  We have no camera, so much may be forgotten—Laguna Beach with Bruce and Deidi, Beety and Freed’s immaculately queer home, the Crystal Cathedral with its donated monuments.  I’m not sure if I am rested or not.

          I love that spark in my wife, that quirkiness which urges my smile to break forth at odds with itself.

 

 

III.       Unlikely Lyrics

 

 

Who Would Have Thought?

 

Who would have thought you

could bleed the milk I suckle?

Who would have thought I’d

be swallowed in your song?

Who would have dreamed I’d

deem you infinitely supple?

Who would have thought

that it was you all along?

 

Who would have thought,

who would have thought,

this sweet little girl is

a woman at heart?

Who would have dreamed,

who could have known?

This sweet little girl is ever so,

ever so grown.

 

When did I notice how

nicely your curvature settles?

Where have I been that I have

not been moved by your grace?

What could be better than

finally speaking surrender?

What greater sensation than

brushing the blush of your face?

 

Who would have thought,

who would have thought,

this friendship we nurtured

was all that we sought?

Who would have dreamed,

who could have guessed?

The heart of a woman was

beating just under your breast.

 

Who would have thought,

who would have thought,

this romance is all that

we swore it was not?

Who would have dreamed,

who could be sure?

The friendship we cherished

turned out to be so much more!

 

 

I Am In Shambles

 

I am the stick figure on the notepad

where you scrawled your name,

meeting various untimely demises

to keep you entertained.

You fashion blue prince and sketch marks

and stretch out across the landscape;

I would fly off alone, but I bandaged

your wounds with my cape.

You kill me. You kill me. You kill me.

So light a candle. I am in shambles.

 

Your incisors elongate an inch

when you near my throat;

I wince when you greet me with

mercy and join me in my coat.

You are recompense, resistance,

insistence, sexy, and smooth.

I try to escape, but my knees

are unable to move from under you.

You fill me. You fill me. You fill me.

So light a candle. I am in shambles.

 

 

When I Fall

 

When you strike me like a bullet on the side

of my head and the shrapnel imbeds in my face,

when your arms become a vice grip getting tighter

and tighter, and my neck straightens up

for the brace…

 

and when I fall, when I fall,

I fall hard, I fall hard.

 

When the lights at night cast cylinders

and candle flickers flame, when the blue and

green and glowing hums are silenced by the rain,

and reaction and distraction cause alarms

to sound and wail, breaking the moment,

slamming me in jail…

 

and when I fall, when I fall,

I fall hard, I fall hard.

 

 

Make Me Blush

 

With your plush velvet

and crushed velvet sleeves,

run your hands across by back and

attack with your arms around me.

Such intense fascination urges

endless applications to cheeks;

my temperature rises with the

infinite surprises and peaks.

 

Make me blush—make me

an offer such as I cannot refuse;

with each touch, I grow

that much fonder of you.

 

With sensuous whispers, you

unleash your heart on my neck;

I wear it like a badge to confirm

what everyone suspects.

My blood turns warmer while

a shiver caresses my spine;

I poise to pounce and tackle you

in shackles that may parallel mine.

 

Make me blush—drape me with

beauty such as I have never known;

make me gush the rush of

mush that crushes my soul.

 

 

Captured

 

From the dim stream of beaming

from the porch outside,

I cast a barely moving shadow on the wall,

weaving smoke screen ribbons

from the depth of my suggested eyes,

across the line from where you call.

 

And I’m captured,

you subdue me instantly;

if this is what being in submission is like,

then a slave is what I always want to be.

 

There’s a frame on the table where my journals

lie unfinished under melting wax,

folded open under candlesticks in hopes that I can

etch in glass or cross-stitch the moment passed.

 

And I’m captured,

and I’m blissful and intrigued;

if this is what being imprisoned is like,

I don’t ever want to ever be free.

 

In the silence of the torturous enduring nights,

I fix a grin with every mark across the stone;

the sneer has disappeared at the prospect of

a nearing pendulum swinging on its own.

 

And I’m captured,

and your shackles run through me;

if this is how cushioned your padded walls are,

I never want to ever have to leave.

 

 

Forever Is Wherever You Are

 

I don’t have to look further

than the windows of your soul

to find flowers on the pane.

I don’t expect to ever see

a summer shine more brightly

than the rainbows you paint

along the way.

 

If I should live forever,

I will never leave your side.

Forever isn’t ever too far.

Oh, forever is wherever you are.

 

And if sometimes you catch me

with a smile across my lips,

as wide as the horizon on the sea,

you shouldn’t be surprised to find

the glimmer in my eyes is just a

hint outside of what you mean to me.

 

The two of us together

is the measure of time.

Forever isn’t ever too far.

Oh, forever is wherever you are.

 

If you should live forever,

I will never leave your side.

Forever isn’t ever too far.

Oh, forever is wherever you are.

 

 

Unravel

 

Unravel me the mysteries of you;

let me know what ocean I dove into.

Unwrap all the happiness inside;

expose all the roses that you hide.

 

Unravel, unravel,

lead me with your words

along the road you travel.

Unravel, unravel,

 

string unspoken words

to pull me through the gravel.

Unravel, unravel….

 

 

When It’s You

 

When it’s you to beckon me out to the sun,

I bottle my raining and run over

like a waterfall into you;

we throw rainbows at the sky,

shoot arrows at the horizon

to bleed its streaming of hues.

When it’s you to paint me a picture of life,

you paint yourself the role of a wife;

I finally find I picture I like, and it’s long overdue.

 

When it’s you, such stupid things are alive,

the wonder I lost is revived,

there’s nothing I don’t want to try

when it’s you.

 

When it’s you to hold up a banner of truth,

I hold it as indelible proof

that fairy tales can come true

when the princess is you;

our chariot is waiting outside,

of pumpkin seed and ivory lined,

snuggle in—let’s go for a ride and take in the view.

 

When it’s you, I don’t want to break down and cry,

I’m well and I don’t want to die,

I’m not the saddest person alive

when it’s you.

 

 

This Bed Is Empty

 

Another night, I tuck you in,

into the distance to your skin,

across the hall of city streets,

to sink alone into this sea of sheets;

I’m left imaging your form,

but pillows cannot keep me warm,

the mirrored headboard one of two

—why am I not with you?

 

This bed is empty and too large as I pan out

across the stars, when you are so far away,

this bed is empty when you cannot stay.

 

Another struggle to abstain,

to not fully give myself away,

kept apart by commitments in tact,

imagining the sentiments

to which I can’t react.

There is a cold air tonight,

in the absence of your body’s invite.

Pressed into the sculptures of our warm

imaginations, we are patiently doing it right.

 

This bed is empty and too large as I imagine you

in wedding night garments, in sheer white lingerie;

this bed is empty as excitement makes me wait.

 

This bed is empty for tonight so we assure that we

might offer ourselves purely to each other on that

day; this bed is empty but it will not stay that way.

 

 

Let’s Wait This Engagement Out

 

You pull me down to the carpet,

glide your tongue across my stomach,

you in a bathing suit and me in board shorts;

I slide my hands up to your summits.

The blackout covers everything,

but amplifies the sounds;

your parents walk across the ceiling

as we press each other down.

It’s like a juvenile excitement,

like the fear of getting caught,

it’s like the intimacy secrecy

shoots glances in the dark.

 

Let’s wait this engagement out on the floor.

 

Your curves run long on soft skin,

I run my eager mouth over your side;

moisture impresses the mood I am in,

as we practice being bridegroom and bride.

Streetlights shine patterns across us,

our bodies make one silhouette,

which from every angle forms every design,

speeding up as the hours undress.

 

Let’s wait this engagement out on the floor.

Let’s wait this engagement out a little more.

 

 

Her Prompting

 

She reads like a tenth printing,

Silver Anniversary Edition,

with collectible figurines;

I pose these porcelain arms

around the china white body

of delectable ballerinas posing.

 

I gave my heart to wrapped in this body.

I gave my soul to you packaged and sealed.

 

At her prompting I am driven

to the ledge of my extremities;

her words are like a gilding

over leather-bound obscenities,

and I would not change

my tune to remorse, before

an orchestra of intercourse.

 

 

Guiltless

 

You stop my heart rate and

I die for the time we touch,

you coil up inside the

mausoleum of doing such,

I dig in softly to the ivy

of your clinging vines,

to wind in tightly interspersed

with intricate designs.

 

All creation sings its praises,

serenaded by the ages;

every ailment finds its cure,

raising Eden’s edict once more, purely.

 

Once tattered banner with its

crest is stitched with soothing words;

I drape the banner like a blanket,

falling on you curves,

dropping lightly on your

monument of flawlessness,

timeless testament caressing

loving tenderness.

 

Both our bodies in communion,

sanctified through holy union;

every sigh requited true

in the willingness of two, in beauty.

 

 

For All You’re Worth

 

I wish to impress to you that

everything I ever do is rooted

in the nutrients of your balm.

The richest investment you have

soiled your hands to watch accrue

has landed this man in your palm.

 

I have never felt so nourished

or so well attended,

laud and acumen have flourished

since the hints have been amended.

I am still all those things

my allotment predetermined,

yet without all the suffering

measured out for me to squirm in.

 

As vermin take over the earth,

I hold you for all you’re worth.

Things could be worse,

so hold me for all I’m worth.

 

 

Your Technique

 

Baby, I get so tongue-tied sometimes

that I can’t define your grace.

Baby, you get so deep down inside

that I can hide in your embrace.

 

There are clearly no words

to relay what our spirits heard.

But you speak with your technique.

 

Sweetheart, you are all art at once,

and I find myself overwhelmed.

I cannot scrape the depth with this soliloquy;

I can only repeat to myself.

 

There can clearly be no speech,

when everything I want is in my reach.

But you speak with your technique.

 

Baby, my mind is blown;

I attack you with ecstasy and moans!

I cannot find expression in our vernacular;

you undress me with a language all your own.

 

I certainly silently concede,

you addressing the issues of my needs,

when you speak with your technique.

Let me steep in your technique.

 

 

The Happiest Man

 

As far as the east is from the west,

as far as the worst is from the best,

as far as the oceans are apart,

as far as perfection from my heart,

 

that is how changed I feel,

since you offered me a love that was real,

and my friends exchange glances

whenever we pass;

I have found something they

thought could never last.

 

For all that I care the world could end,

as long as you meet me after death,

so we can go dancing on the ashes and char,

and claim our place in the stars.

 

As long as the ocean meets the beach,

as long as your body’s within my reach,

as long as there’s music in the touch of your hand,

I will be the happiest man.

 

 

If You Stay

 

There comes a time in every real man’s life

when he rests inside the beauty of a Godly wife.

In a world full of criminals, malicious with intent,

I hardly bear the purity of the clearly heaven-sent.

 

Some men may take their chances

in the turbulence alone,

but I’ll stand still until I hear

your voice call me home.

 

If you stay here at my side,

I know my soul will always have its guide.

If you stay the path and help me on my way,

I swear my heart will never go astray.

If you stay….

 

Without warning, you came

and swept me off my unsure feet,

now I know only the constancy

of the beauty offered me.

 

Every morning, ever nighttime,

ever lazy afternoon,

you think up new ways to impress on me

the thoughtfulness of you.

 

Some poor fools spend all their time

trying to find a perfect woman like mine.

 

If you stay here at my side,

know that I am always fully satisfied.

If you stay the path and look at me that way,

we will walk along in faithfulness and strength.

If you stay….

 

 

This Passion

 

I want to cut out my teeth

and show you my beating heart,

but there is no relief

when you’re only doing your part.

 

This passion drips confused,

frustrated, maimed, and abused.

 

I want to break all my bones

and serrate my hands on your wrist,

but this internal bleeding can

only clot under fists.

 

This passion rips, reduced

to reactions that I’m still working through.

This passion strips potency to juice,

to drown distraction in the marinade of you.

What more can I do?

 

 

Eternity I Commit To Thee

 

I love you. Exit this world with me.

Eternity do I commit to thee.

A world thus tainted must be painted

with the blood of true lovers’ hearts.

Love is an ocean of tragic emotions,

lapping at the crags of empty bags.

 

 

Out Of Time

 

Time keeps failing us,

and time keeps impaling us

on timepieces fading out,

and time reeks of shame and doubt.

And where you are is not in time with the

spinning of the world that lied to me.

 

Teach me that graceful step,

and breach where my heart is kept,

revitalize the depth of dreams where

we both once slept at peace.

And where you are is not in time with the

nursery rhymes that never find resolve.

 

Time has finally given me

a heart I had long been seeking,

incredulous to destiny, you danced

with me as if no one was watching.

But time keeps jealous watch with

a close eye, for you and me

are out of time.

 

 

Our Day Will Come

 

I wish I could relay to you

just how much turbulence

you carried me through.

If I were granted a million years,

I’d never find a way to say

more than with these tears.

 

When you look this sad way you do,

I must insist this lull will be over soon.

 

Our day will come,

we will walk hand in hand

into the sun;

though your days may seem

overrun, take comfort—

our day will come.

 

I only wish that I could verbalize

a mere suggestion of

your profound effect in my life.

If the gates of heaven were to open up,

there could not descend

a more gentle and pure hearted love.

 

When you look at me like you do,

I am blatantly, utterly, hopelessly consumed.

 

Our day will come,

we will look back and say

that we have won;

though your passions may often

seem numb, take comfort—

our day will come.

 

 

I Can Only Repay With My Heart

 

All of these blessing prayed into my life,

a mother angelic and saintly a wife,

I owe to the tenderness grown in your hearts,

harnessed and harvested, rich to impart.

 

And all of this beauty to cradle me tight,

the passion and romance to flavor my nights,

is traced to the seeds you implanted in me,

that hunger for holiness and purity.

 

I get so overwhelmed when

I think of all you sacrifice,

when I think of my fortune,

and think of its price.

 

I can only repay with my heart,

I can only begin to start,

I can only repay with these words,

and embraces to last ‘til these

words can no longer be heard.

 

That much more indebted that I have been freed

from blinders that others incessantly need,

enraptured in trappings of absolute bliss,

I bask in contentment and whisper a kiss.

 

With all that’s inside me I burst at the seams,

succeeding to live the impossible dream, and

such is the pattern you’ve stitched with your souls,

my wife and my mother, in making me whole.

 

I get so overwhelmed just

to rest in our Lord’s providence,

to recount the goodness

in your innocence.

 

I can only repay with my heart,

I can only begin to start,

I can only repay with these words,

and memories to last ‘til these

words can no longer be heard.

 

 

Remain With Me

 

Let this love never fade,

this passion never be jaded.

Leave this power in your name;

let this purity never be tainted.

 

Remain with me through the darkest night.

Stay this devoted as long as there is light.

Let the embers never wink that final glimmer

of coal; never, no never let go.

 

Ignite this simmering glint,

engulf my soul with more than just a hint.

Let life reign supreme in this blood,

pour more wine with your touch.

 

Remain with me in the wildest fantasy;

stay this invoked on the liveliest flight of fancy.

Let the members level liquid in command;

revive me with your mystical hands.

 

 

All That Is In Me Is You

 

I have no blood without your kiss,

I need the flavor in your labor of spit.

I have no muscle if not tenderly exposed

to join your fingers in a sickening repose.

I am emotional for only when we lay

side by side against a colorful array.

 

All that is in me wants to be in you.

All that I think about is everything we do.

All of these nerves, alive

and sensitive to proof;

all that is in me is you.

 

I cannot function in the wake

of last night’s session on your waist.

I am powerless by the prowess of your claws,

you lock me in your coveted jaws.

I am filled with only stillness under poise,

your subtle motions stifle all my muted noise.

 

All that is in me wants to count by twos.

All I desire fits firmly in your grooves.

All this battery, plastered

by the way hands move,

all that is in me now is you.

 

 

I’m Married Now

 

Dear diary, it’s only me, I know

it’s been a while since we sat and waxed

nostalgic and we caught each others’ smiles.

In the other room, a woman who now

falls asleep beside me wears an arsenal

of jewelry for vows I am abiding by.

And diary, society meets every night the same

as when in history infancy calls another name.

And if she thinks of me in her wildest dreams

I proclaim,

 

I’m married now,

and I am completely happy

with who holds the vow,

and my poetry is sappy

and horrible, and I would not

trade it for the world.

 

I have always bled passion,

but never in this fashion.

I am tepid and livid

and so much more vivid.

 

Dear memory, it’s slipping and I will not

reach a hand out or extend an invitation to

what doesn’t even stand out as exceptional

or virtuous or vaguely entertaining,

or familiar or faintly even worthy of complaining.

And memory means less to me than living

in the present, where I currently am blissfully

immersed in only pleasantries, and if perchance

she thinks of happenstance, I maintain,

 

I’m married now;

I have everything I wanted

when I looked at you,

and I am no longer haunted

by the memory,

and I would not

trade it for the world.

 

 

Sex Is Fabulous

 

Look at the video

and tell me what is going on;

they’re making superstars of

teenage girls with nothing on.

They call it fashion, call it art, they call

it everything but what it really is—

I call it soft-core pornography.

A Christian just winced to hear

a word like that on radio,

but I must address that there are

those exploiting twelve year olds.

 

Sex is fabulous, but only

in a biblical context, baby;

youth is innocent, but only

if you leave it alone.

 

Consider me,

I was a virgin ‘til the day I was wed;

now I can’t count on one finger

all the girls I had in bed.

I never thought that I would ever

get a woman like that,

but in a couple hours more…

I’ll have her flat on her back.

 

Sex is fabulous when it is

no longer dangerous;

sex is wondrous

when it’s within the home.

 

Sex is fabulous,

faithfulness is marvelous;

don’t think any less of

getting your spouse alone.

 

 

I Have No Further Need

 

I have no need to be

the life of the party.

I have not been dreaming

of disheartening scheming.

There are no colors missing

from my tapestry of living.

As long as each morning sees

the greeting of your beaming.

I have no further need for mystery,

since you have given me your history.

And I have certainly no need for more;

all you have given me is

everything I ever needed for.

You’ve completed me.

 

Darling, now is not the time to dance,

there is so much more to romance.

Seasons of greeting step aside for a beating

chest, weaning the reasons for breathing

so close to your breast.

Under the covers I find peace,

still filled with wonder at all of this.

And I have certainly never seen

anything closely resembling

what you bring to me.

I have no further need.

 

Daylight come slow, grant me just an

hour more to hold her in the dark.

Daylight come fast, give me just an

hour more to bask in the glowing of her heart.

For since she was given me, I have no need.

 

 

I’m Sure She Hates You

 

I’m sure she hates you for taking me,

for I admit, I was taken in, taken in by your charm,

taken in from the cold and lonely nights with her,

taken into your arms.

And I’m sure she must hate you

for taking away her very best friend.

 

And this was apparent that dinner

when we had everyone over;

and it cackled like wild birds

when she saw you at that old café.

And I am very sorry, and

I make no excuse for her,

and I am offended that she

does not respect my marriage.

 

I’m sure she must hate you,

for she knows I love you, and she is not you;

and I’m sure that kind of thing must be hard to see,

when her life has not changed for a century,

and she is never any closer to finding intimacy.

It must drill holes in her heart.

 

I’m sure she hates you

every time she thinks of us making love,

when she gags and can’t breathe

and the walls close in and she’s

got to have a cigarette and drive,

blaring music with the windows down.

I’m sure it can’t be easy being her instead of you;

 

but to pour salt on her wounds,

I love you, I love you, I love you, I do.

Let’s go to bed and not pretend

we’re anybody but us.

I’m sure she hates you,

but there’s nothing I can do.

 

 

The Best Is Yet To Come

 

I opened my mouth and fifteen years

fell out sounding like catastrophe.

I raise my head and look about after fifteen years

of sympathy upon the likes of me.

 

I no longer speak of what it means to be mired in

the stew of what juices marinade me to gourmet.

Instead I pool my effort into hope and human

gestures, maintain my infant decency and grace.

 

The best is yet to come,

with my lover by my side

I finally testify to goodness and peace.

The rest is overdone, in all the artists’ early stages;

we have passed that point to finally see release.

And the best is yet to come.

 

Before I take my bow I have one final thought

to summer up the internship of all I had supposed.

It turns out everything I said means nothing when

I lie in bed beside my wife,

unworthy and unclothed,

and the refuge of her resting arm ensures that all the

ills are gone, cajoled into retirement and ease.

I close my eyes and smile as a tremor urges

teardrops down the moistened path on my cheek.

 

And the best is yet to come,

with hands no longer tied I find

love sanctified and recognized by God.

It turns out there is only one lover to walk

alongside life’s path into the great beyond.

And the best, dear, is yet to come.

 

 

© 2003 by Ryan Christian Hedegard