Hi. How the fuck are you?
Mid-September, eh? Friday, thirteenth, even. the moon – full above the clouds.
the house – a mess and a sanctuary for Rumbly’s giggles. Trashed and a museum of the hard journey we’ve taken to get her. Filled with love, overflowing in fear. Funny how this living thing goes, eh?
U2 completely turned around John’s arc. Good on ya boys. Good his friends. Good on my friends – so kind, so patient.
I’m tired, in case you wondered, worried. So very very tired.
bit of a hacking cough too. weeee – parenting with a low-grade fever – rock star level achieved!!!
Reach out to get help. Reach out to check in. How does that work anyways? A path I’ve followed has given me too many moments re-assessing, re-judging, re-classifying my past self. Seems the one time in my life I am actually not an imposter – Dad – and it’s all been crap and who can I trust myself? how can I lean on myself? how do I not question the fine folk who are near both recent and past, longtime and short? don’t you see?? don’t you see who I am? ’cause wow – I missed it but I was looking away.
These are times that are hard. I find myself amused by that sentiment – did I expect different? No – I wasn’t expecting anything at all.
See all this re-visitation, re-categorizing/classifying my life, plus a “music heals” mental health special, plus sleeping half-buns up, wrapped around a sofa cushion in the middle room trying to get the fire dagger to stop making my behind eye place hurting soooo bad – plus no sleep – allowed a few certain thoughts to percolate into focus.
Westmoreland road elementary – perhaps a Striped Tomato episode where the blond one was junkied-up – what, my impressionable 5th grain bucket of brains thought, could I do if someone did that to me? Drugs were bad, I’d die. That was perhaps my first rememorable moment of ‘depression’ – it was a slide at a playground I eagerly jumped down… though now I recall a moment over at the house next to Gordy’s in which I ripped pieces of the family bible out to put them in a safe box to grab when the house caught fire. Odd, in that dad was a firefighter. Odd in deed.
So imagine perhaps a life where the slopes of anxiety and depression were actually the bedrock foundation all your outbursts were built upon. imagine being lucky enough to have smarts and love and support and getting through just fine (fine? well, never convicted, as they like to joke) – and many many many lifes, lifetimes, and years later you finally understand. you finally realize – perhaps the peachy life you had was more pear shaped; perhaps your smarts was just good test taking and a somewhat dismal track-record of pushing students to excel to their most capable achievement (looking at you 2 pullups in 7th grade scouts thing) … yeah. yup. all. fucking. night. long. it’s easy for me – I held onto lots of these snippets; I’ve bored you with the millionth time I shared … let’s see – not drinking around the campfire due to puking – recall that one? I got something out of it, driving at 14, but – much like my lovelife at 14, certain decisions about ‘who I am’ probably could have waited until a few years later. Though the whole motorcycle thing was a) a good choice, and b) sooooo much earlier.
and now it’s later.
I have a think in the morning.
I’m tired. I have brillance in my skull that fizzles on the way through the fingers… couldn’t find the pic of me on my plastic trike motorcycle circa Hayes road and the beginning of time.
Blood has different recollections, different takes on the situations, and perhaps has hit the key area that I was loved and still lived a life with more high-stress energy/emotions that one should. I don’t know – it was my life, all pretty good – no convictions, right?
right. keep pursuing the answers I guess? gah…
:: s :: | vivere militare est |
//|| 256 : 13 Sep 2019 @22:50 ||’into my arms, oh lord’ sings good sir Nick Cave, as played by John for a listener who traded up from her ladybug portable record player to a Walkman, from this past week’s Music Heals – Mental Health show//