It was the best of times…

It was the best of times…

Ok, who am I kidding? It’s the same old story of starting your life over that I’m certain that people getting this letter are sick of hearing about. People come and people go, often quicker than they came, and life assumes this surreal sequence of instability. Surges of association and experience; touching, talking, sharing food, all an explosion to the impermanence of nerve stimulation…

Sometimes, merely having your health is more of a bane than anything else. When Jessica had her brush with quick crawling skin cancer she seemed crazy and alive, unlike the middle aged angst we all stumble into. It drove her out of the house kicking and screaming, but I can’t say that was the wrong choice either. When Amanda sat in that chair to get her first pump of chemo; I wish I knew what she thought. Day by day, hour by hour... I’m sure we both tried to get the message, but it came through convoluted. When you said ouch, I’m sure it was a pain that was beyond your skin and bones; I knew that then too.

It’s not as though I envy chronic or incurable illness, or even the last minutes of life. It’s perhaps that as I watch the crowd around me fall to their ends, there deserves analysis of the freedom attained by instant recognition of the inevitable.

I look at my own life now; as a curious person must do; and add up the parts that I think need my remembering. Everything is a hiss and blur, like I never had time to clean up; to organize. Perhaps that’s why I like starting over; and over; and over… Maybe that’s the time cancer gave you, the moments to slim down your collection of half eaten and misplaced brain wrinkles.

Try writing seriously about chronic illness as “Shrek Two” gets funneled into the background in a surprisingly comical Spanish translation. Half of it is some footage of a little kid’s birthday party and lots of snippets of the energetic music tracks and enticing action animation. Gotta love the half breed called special occasion and event coverage; because these are the times I will cherish forever; funding my survival by helping the kind folks re-remember their lives in clear colors and perfect focus.

I’ve been awake too long, and everything on me stinks; even if I smell dryer sheets it’s all gotten old as my day draws on. I’m sleeping on couches and eating out of boxes. I’m reminded of a promise I made myself when I was younger and more naïve; I was going to find something to call home and stay there.

I pride myself of the fact that all of my earthly belongings fit in my car. Maybe that was shooting too big. Maybe feeding that is way too much responsibility and I should have only taken what fit on my back. Take a bus down, see the country…

Several explosive romances and a beautiful child later, I’m breaking my own promises by the day; and who’s not to say forever. People find me charming and mysterious enough to smile in front of and then curiously avoid. Love becomes a game of catch instead of hide and seek; and then love becomes freeze tag on a July morning when you run, run, run until all you can taste is the fog and your own snot. Nobody wins… but nobody cares. So physically deceptive…

Maybe my back is too much. Maybe I should have taken what fit in my pockets. Better get my best suit ready to make the journey, because I need to make a good impression when I get there. Tuck toothpaste in my lapel and call it good enough to go. Adventure, it’s like an instant grab bag of satisfaction, and there could be any amount of dollar store wonders waiting for you inside.

Still sleeping on couches, eating dry noodles like a candy bar and wondering why you feel so alive after all. That’s why I don’t believe that god is made for people like me. God is made for spiritual exhibitionists. God is made for the well off. God is made for people who don’t think about where bouillon comes from, just where it goes when the wife puts it in the water. God is made for those with enough extravagance to afford the weighty job of not needing to know a damn about what’s going on out there, on the battle front of reality.

So people come and people go, usually too late to save your thoughts on them. They pass like pinpricks in the lamp shade of night; just as you swing the whole thing around your head to drive the loneliness out of the room. “Get out” you scream, but even “it” doesn’t respond to you…