bracelets of fingers
Sleep isn't finding me even though I have work so early in the morning, so I started reading his old journal and found this and it made me incredibly happy, or just made me feel pleasant:
"I love you all. That's a strange feeling. It's true though, I don't understand what love is, but as far as I can tell, I am deeply in love with everyone I know."- Johnny Colón (Dino King)
Thinking about writing, the act of it in general leads me to think of this wonderful friend I had who within his bones had an amazing writing talent. Even when speaking of suicide or his intense ailments, he said things with a natural precise beauty that was truly a gift. When I miss him I can look back on these and know the world is rarely but unmistakeably blessed with great minds sometimes, and if we are as fortunate as I, we have the pleasure of accompanying them for some small path of their lives.
Apparently he enjoyed the Pretty Things as much as I. The night I was standing alone on the sidewalk scared and crying and found out he was gone, my friend bought me a cheap CD on a complete whim. It had the first track of S.F. Sorrow on it, which lead me many months later to buy and revel in the music of the album. Only recently this month I found out it was one of his favorite albums. Something tells me I heard that song for the first time that night, the night he left for something. Coincidence? Oh yes. Ironic? Certainly not. But things as simple as these have the ability to tap me on the shoulder and as I turn around and gaze up at the warmth, the light of my refreshment in humanity shines on. Everything seems cyclical, and not everything is good. But there is bad for purpose, and I'm just starting to chart that indelible pattern in my brain. Everything I'm headed for could be a flaming ball of hell and shit, but I don't really know that, and the tingle of the uncertainty, like the after wake of a sneeze, makes me run towards it with a grin.
I didn't write about any of my feelings about this at the time, I sort of just cried them out. I still read, and I still care. I still look up as I'm brushing my teeth, washing the dishes, walking along the road and think, I miss you, good friend.
Like I said, a lot of bad things have happened. But I'm still sitting here against a comforting pillow with food in my belly and a general sense that not everything is going to be alright--but that's still alright. I don't know what we can categorize this as: being naive, ambivalence, easygoing, stupidity, immaturity, I'm feeling hopeful.
Here I am again, that worn out, stained sheet flapping against the steady wind, doing my thing, and holding on to the threads by the rusty metal hooks of sanity, undulating with the air, anywhere the wind blows.
"I love you all. That's a strange feeling. It's true though, I don't understand what love is, but as far as I can tell, I am deeply in love with everyone I know."- Johnny Colón (Dino King)
Thinking about writing, the act of it in general leads me to think of this wonderful friend I had who within his bones had an amazing writing talent. Even when speaking of suicide or his intense ailments, he said things with a natural precise beauty that was truly a gift. When I miss him I can look back on these and know the world is rarely but unmistakeably blessed with great minds sometimes, and if we are as fortunate as I, we have the pleasure of accompanying them for some small path of their lives.
Apparently he enjoyed the Pretty Things as much as I. The night I was standing alone on the sidewalk scared and crying and found out he was gone, my friend bought me a cheap CD on a complete whim. It had the first track of S.F. Sorrow on it, which lead me many months later to buy and revel in the music of the album. Only recently this month I found out it was one of his favorite albums. Something tells me I heard that song for the first time that night, the night he left for something. Coincidence? Oh yes. Ironic? Certainly not. But things as simple as these have the ability to tap me on the shoulder and as I turn around and gaze up at the warmth, the light of my refreshment in humanity shines on. Everything seems cyclical, and not everything is good. But there is bad for purpose, and I'm just starting to chart that indelible pattern in my brain. Everything I'm headed for could be a flaming ball of hell and shit, but I don't really know that, and the tingle of the uncertainty, like the after wake of a sneeze, makes me run towards it with a grin.
I didn't write about any of my feelings about this at the time, I sort of just cried them out. I still read, and I still care. I still look up as I'm brushing my teeth, washing the dishes, walking along the road and think, I miss you, good friend.
Like I said, a lot of bad things have happened. But I'm still sitting here against a comforting pillow with food in my belly and a general sense that not everything is going to be alright--but that's still alright. I don't know what we can categorize this as: being naive, ambivalence, easygoing, stupidity, immaturity, I'm feeling hopeful.
Here I am again, that worn out, stained sheet flapping against the steady wind, doing my thing, and holding on to the threads by the rusty metal hooks of sanity, undulating with the air, anywhere the wind blows.