The dog-cat, the left and right road, the fight (forgotten), the eating-emptying and his voice

I’d been standing around a party, this one for kids but regardless the anxiety had settled in the pit of my stomach as I pasted a fake smile on my face while the kids were led in circles for goat rides.  I was half listening to the circle of Mom chatter I’d apparently been standing in for fifteen minutes and I only knew this because I’d set my timer to buzz every 15 minutes.  I’d read somewhere that this was a socially acceptable time frame to participate in senseless chatter before excusing oneself from a group and not appearing to be a stuck up asshole.

So, off I went to sit in a stall to read my mail in the bathroom.  The pristine bathroom. The pristine bathroom where a waitress handed me a menu upon entering.  The pristine bathroom where a waitress handed me a menu upon entering and then seated me on a stool facing the mirror of the lavatory.  Normally I would have – scratch that, this was not normal…

Without a word I took a seat next to a young woman who’d ordered soggy Cheerios with whip cream on top. She was staring at herself in the mirror, her face was scrunched up, red and she let out a huge grunt which was followed by a loud PLOP. Looking down I realized she’d just pooped into the bucket below her stool. Immediately I looked back at the mirror and she was smiling at me as the waitress that had seated me approached for my order…

Back at the party I’m sipping my canteen of calgon-induced wishes as a woman being pulled by a sheepdog approaches to ask if my daughter can come to her house for a few hours to play with her cat.  Normally I would have – scratch that, this was not normal…

Without a word in response she began to explain that the sheepdog I thought was a sheepdog was her cat.  She talked non-stop until I received my fifteen minute cue, at which point I explained that my daughter was allergic to cats…

My step-brother and father were pretending they lived in Fiji even though we’d never been outside of Bruce’s Farm, Gibraltar in all my life. Dad was driving.  Dad was race car driving. Dad was race car driving a 1975 Bobcat. Dad was pretending to drive a pinto bean car but his hands were steeped in stutter and prayer. We ended up in the middle of a pickle-picking field. Instead of admitting the steering had failed we got out and he gave us each a fifty-gallon hefty bag and told us to pick the pickles best for churning butter.  Normally I would have – scratch that, this was not normal.

Without a word, I took the mini-pitch fork he handed me and began picking pickles. When my bag was full I found myself on Capitol Hill standing next to a Hollywood replica hand print of John Wayne as Thomas Paine began explaining the difference between olive and Ollive, grammer and Grammar.  Normally I would have – scratch that, this was not normal.

I thanked Mr. Paine for his clarity and since I knew he didn’t know of Mr. Wayne, I told him it was might right coincidental that we happened upon a hand that once said,
“Words are what men live by… words they say and mean.”

Then everything went still, dark and silent.  I felt a buzz, a cue but it wasn’t mine. Though I never answer the phone I picked up anyways,

 “Hi, it’s me. How are you?”

It was then that I woke up. Literally and figuratively. Upon the sound of his voice. I ’bout teared up at the sight of a new day mingled to the sound of his voice. I knew I’d missed him in a suffocating way but his voice made it all the more palpable. I never thought I’d hear that voice again, never thought he’d let me hear his words in the way meant to be heard. I’ve begun letting go of the words cause it hurts, the space I been living in – wanting to believe and believing. They’re not the same, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise.

I don’t count what makes sense anymore, cause there’s nothing to count after I reach number one.  In all my life he’s the only one that’s walked with me through mazes of mental cacophony and played soft instrumentals along the way. You know that feeling when you run by a bush and it scratches you but it’s not till you get home and look down at your arms that you notice the blood?  I call that absence of pain an instrumental, those healing songs of life that get you through the harsh heavy metal realities.

He’s part of who I am in ways I may not ever be clear about. I can wish till the cows come home and probably will but I’d like to hand it off to my subconscious cause my conscious wishing is sowing tears. Never will I give up on him or on me and never will I stop loving us as we.

I suspect he’s one of those folks that’s always followed the call of his heart and lived as an instrumental yet I think he may call it something else.  I also suspect he’s been a constant victim of pirating so restructuring is a necessary part of determining who you end up letting in and keeping out. I do understand that much.

So how do you permanently fix piracy? I haven’t a fuckin’ clue. Best I can do is upload love.  Maybe one day it will override all the theft and support reinforced hinges.

I suppose I’ve stopped making sense by now. Before now. After now. I tell you what though, hearing his voice felt like salve on my heart cause in my world, he’s the only nonsensical thing that on my soul makes perfect sense and keeps me believing in true love.