I dream in parallelograms, layer upon layer with cross hatches and ruptures, breaks and unsteady balance. concordances and sharp edges.
i dream in rivers and of drowning. i dream of a vast everything that blows apart the void and withers my skin.
i dream of her voice beside me, below my ear, breath on my neck. i dream her gone. i dream myself alive and wretched.
I dream in rage and sorrow and remorse, of lost causes and scar issue.
a life, which life, this one. endlessly
a life, which life, this one. endlessly. they just don’t get it. like broken windows that whistle for days between hurricanes and thunderstorms. not one and the same. different. the fear has nothing to do with children. there’s is nothing terrifying about a children. no. everything about a child or raising children or loving your children is terrifying and wonderful and painful and tremendous but not fear striking. not terror. this is what he does not understand: it’s real. it’s the realest thing i have ever known. or will know. i know exactly how it will be. one day there, then not. that’s what we’d all like to be believe. in our sleep, in a pseudo womb and we’re gone. but all that is missing the point. the error lies in the time between: the growing old, the hair loss, the decay, the wearing down, the wearing out, the beaten leather and loss of youth. the point of no return.
but it’s stupid: the point of no return is everyday, every hour, every minute, every second: you plow on relentlessly, driven and without respite or cause. you just go because there is no stopping.
“there was a fly in your coffee and i was terrified of waking you
-but you stopped.”
lucky fucking bastard.
spinesnapsaw
o little boy i almost snapped you back in half, you pitched forward with such glee, such abandon, such wild joy and up up into my hands i held you aloft but you wanted to keep going, kept pitching forward and i couldn’t hold onto you my son, i couldn’t, i couldn’t stop your momentum and i tried so very hard, i tried with such determination, but your body folded in completely the wrong direction and i heard the softest of cracks, so soft and sharp and the world froze and you yelped like an animal and barely muttered for your mother and i held you close, held you tight, maybe it would all go back together if i held you and i tested your feet, made you stand while you cried gobs of tears and made you wiggle your fingers, your toes, i made you stand further away and asked you to walk to me and when it appeared you were alright i held you tighter still and finally wept and sobbed and you told me it was okay, you were okay, i didn’t have to cry, you were alright, you were alright.
more behind me than ahead
more behind me than ahead. there’s your life you see? out there before you, and you rush. you rush like mad. there’s no need sweet child, slow down. it’s not a race, it’s not even a marathon. you’ll get there, eventually.
it will all come to you: good things and bad. loose teeth and growth spurts. hand holding and first kisses. shallow breaths and long sighs. skinned knees and acne. rough lousy mornings and secret late nights.
slow down. take it from me who has less ahead than behind. and the end, the end comes soon enough to all things: the end of childhood, the end of firsts, the end of youth, the end of hope, the end of innocence, the end of pride.
then it all begins again: but not for you, never again for you. never, ever again.
listen: time, time is a relentless and ruthless beast.
tap n tap
write like this, drean like this, at a pace, slowly, like kneading bread, all muscle snd torque and anguish. impossible.
age and wine
drink this. wine. i hate wine. it reminds me of churches and old people. people waiting to die. people wistful of times long gone. people that stare at you in villages in faraway homelands when you visit. people who once knew better, think they know better, but know nothing at all because the world they once lived in, grew in, loved in, is long gone. people who marvel over toasters and think the bread tastes funny. people who believe in bakeries and gossip. people who shook their heads slowly form side to side and reminisce of better behaving children, better dressed men, better behaved women. people who no longer drink wine, who never even had a taste for it.
live work breathe despair
live work breathe despair
rough night, torn towels, a razor blade caught in the grout
eyes worked over twice and thin, hollow, teeth set at odd angles from grinding
slow grind, from the stretch, just before it all begins again and leaves you weeping
there is no hope, only this, over and over, slow molasses roiling, thickening out
and if the bones weren’t so strong, the meat so thick
a noose would be so much handier
or a very very long journey into the void
ted at 40
To say I have never met anyone like you is an understatement. You are driven and resourceful, curious sand intuitive.
Your doggedness at times can be unnerving.
But you are also loyal and unwavering, committed and thoughtful.
Twenty years ago you noticed my name on a sheet of paper and sat beside me. Introduced yourself and made me your friend. We had some unforgettable times, dark times, and long nights that shine so brightly that strip away everything else.
We’ve built families out of nothing, we’ve found happiness and yet we still long for more. I should say, you do. You’ve never stopped wanting more: for yourself, for your friends, for your family.
This is perhaps the most important lesson you’ve taught me: never be complacent, never stop.
So keep going Ted, keep striving. Look at what you’ve accomplished at 40.
Imagine how much more you can still do.
Happy birthday my dear friend.