A perfect Sunday morning – silent, dark… there are times when alone is only solitude, and these are the times I love.
I force myself to write, as I know with practice it will begin to be a part of me again- the rusty hinges of the doors inside slowly worked open to reveal the things I hide from myself and you, the things that I have sealed up, not through want but from neglect, forgetting, as I do, that without these doors open and the things behind them allowed to be seen that more impossible doors are created, more walls to staunch what can not be neglected, cannot be stopped without losing myself again, and again, over and over.
Think I would have learned by now… but fuck, there were other things I needed to do, I told myself. Other things, work, and work, and work, and where the hell do I post it anymore, anyway? That was my excuse. Yeah, stupid, I know – but from LJ to Tribe.net to maybe I’ll post on the Magazine but then that stopped everything, because there are things I couldn’t say there. Then, WordPress – which I really dig, even more so now that it has let me import all my entries from LiveJournal.
The previous post – gods, I still can’t get over that. Something, somewhere, somehow, for some reason watching over me – there is still a reason I am here. Still. Here.
Well, guess it’s time to start getting on this again, and the writing is the first step, as always. Through it – when it flows, when I get this shit into gear again, it is here that I find the answers; the doors are opened, walls broken down, and things eventually will begin to make sense again… and yeah, it will also be much more fun to write, more entertaining to read. All I need to do is keep on going…
and go charge my battery again.
I keep thinking about it. This… well, this is nothing new, as it’s haunted me, sat there in the background of my thoughts, dictated my actions for now, half of my life. Twenty. One. Years. Twenty one years ago it was a death sentence, so I waited. And waited. Waited for the inevitable, waited for what one day would finally come… but it never did. It never did so of course I thought that the call I received from the random Dr. in San Diego while I was at work at Tower Video in Berkeley was nothing but bullshit, or a mistake, or something – something besides what it really was and I hoped and I did really stupid shit and I knew I would be dead by thirty so nothing really mattered and may as well just do it all, do it all and try not to kill anyone else if it was true because what if it was? Explore the twisted and dark romance I saw in being a Junky until that got old, meth, cocaine, living life walking through the avenues of death, just waiting, waiting, getting angrier and angrier because no matter how hard I tried my health was always juuuust fucking fine.
Then everything changed. I met a girl. I fell in love. I had a great job, made money, looked ahead to life with her… planned a future, put the past and the stupidity behind me. Everything was beautiful, I dared to hope again, dared to think that the past, that call, was a mistake. Of course it was, it couldn’t happen to me, not to her, not to us. We were so excited. Terrified. Got the books, and just to be sure went and got tested – the usual precautions, now fourteen years after that call, the call I only told one person about the day I got it. She came out first, out of the office. With apprehension I looked up at her from the magazine I was reading… and yeah, she’s fine. Perfect. Healthy. Gods… dear gods, thank you, thank you thank you thank youthankyouthankyou we’re going to name it Blue it will be fucking beautiful it will be ours it will be the only blood family I have and it will be brilliant it will be an artist a healer a GOD and it will be our child and it will be beautiful and then the doctor called me into his office and I had I had hope and all this time all this anger all of this shit seething inside of me was just a joke just a dumb mistake and he has a look on his face that I can’t read I sit down he takes a breath (what, just say it) just say it so we can go and we can continue to be terrified and raise Blue to be beautiful and of course we’re going to argue all the time because she’s so goddamn stubborn and so am I but c’mon doc tell me the good news tell me tell me tell me… what?
no. no… but……….
Blue is the tattoo on my right wrist, from a dream she had. Blue is a sonogram buried deep inside on of my journals. Blue is my angel, my son, who watches over me. We decided it would be the best (best? least of the worst) to terminate. How do you tell your child as soon as it can understand that daddy is dying? Could die? Might die? Only be there for part of its life, a small part, large enough to make a difference, maybe, but who knows? Blue…
Half my life, and then amplified to a point where no matter how much I write about it, the pain, anger, raw fucking anguish is always seething inside, but still I want him(?) to be proud of his father. It would have been a boy, she knew, and she knows these things and I trust her.
Somehow we’re still friends. She now has two beautiful children – I haven’t seen them, they’re hers and in New York, but they’re hers so they can’t be anything but beautiful.
But they aren’t Blue. And I shouldn’t be writing this, but I need to, need t keep trying to make sense of it, knowing that perhaps I never will.
Twenty One Years. Half of my life, half of my life and all of the dreams I had before. Half of my life, and the life of a child that could have been.
I write this because it is what makes me who I am and there is no escaping that. I write this although I know it won’t make it better, but maybe because I need to, because I need you to know me, because it is who I am. I am bitter, enraged, furious, impassioned, and it is the burning I hold so deep inside to fuel my need to bring as much beauty into the world as I possibly can, the fire and the passion that makes me a fucking force to be reckoned with, that gives me the strength, that gives me the need and the love to do what Blue could have done just simply if he had been able to exist.
I want Blue to be proud of his father, and I know that he’s watching – I know that he is helping, and cheering me on.