I spent the first few hours of Christmas Day 2016 muzzily buzzed in a hotel bar overlooking the Santa Monica Pier.
"Very bougie," he said.
"The Ferris wheel is Christmas-themed," I repeated.
It lit up with a swirling red-nosed reindeer.
"Hah," he said, finishing off his second eighteen-dollar martini.
We spent the next few hours of Christmas Day 2016 in a 24-hour diner with cheap beer and some sort of food. He put his arm around me, and I leaned in because I felt like he needed it more than I did. I'm lying, of course.
"Stay over tonight," he said in the car between muttered ohgodshits and fuckfuckfucks.
"But all my stuff is already in your car," I said.
We stopped outside his apartment, and we didn't look at each other.
"I'll drop you off at your place," he said.
Ohgodshit. Fuckfuckfuck.
Outside my empty apartment building, I grabbed my guitar from the backseat, and he grabbed my bags from the trunk. We hugged.
"I love you," he said.
"I know," I said.
I started crying before I even got to my door. It's the first time I've been able to cry like that, loudly, and even then, I wondered at how strange I sounded, distant sobbing, choking breaths, just tears and tears in the worn family fabric that hadn't ever been whole to begin with.
Selfish tears.
It's still Christmas morning, though not for long.
Nothing much has changed.
I took my bike on a spin through Brentwood, and there was a little boy climbing onto a little red bike, his father carefully holding him steady.
"Nice bike," I said.
The father looked up, smiled. The boy, white knuckled, didn't.
I turned away.
Sunday, December 25, 2016
Thursday, December 8, 2016
Good Grief
What's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it?
It could have been a love song, Lucas thought as he crested the bridge, breathing ragged, wind gusting in his face.
He could feel the cord of his earphones sticking to his spine beneath his shirt, follow its cold lines splitting over the back of his neck to nestle in his ears. He usually ran without music, mind wandering, reaching out past the quiet strain of his lungs to a place of absent detachment.
But this morning, he'd awakened in an unfamiliar bed well before sunrise and lain awake, suffocating in the silence, and felt a crushing sense of loss that was as unsettling as the place of his birth.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
His solution, as always, had been to run. Pausing only to pull on a pair of socks and his trainers, he had, at the last moment, snatched his phone from the desk, threading the cord down his back in the grey light of the foyer before yanking the door open and sprinting out into a graveyard world.
The River Cam stretched out beside him, dark and silent, an unwanted reminder of just how far he'd come. There were no rowers this time of the day, no quiet whir of cyclists braving the chill.
He ran aimlessly, following the river north, gaining speed across the fields, nearly slipping at the footbridge over the tracks still standing only by the anger of its graffiti. Shadows loomed through the fog, foreboding monoliths before the sudden switch of a tail.
They'd come here often in the summer, gone for leisurely cycle rides up NCR 51 through Bottisham and Burwell and all the little villages on the way to Ely.
He gathered pace.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
They'd picked blackberries in the fall, stacked crates and crates of them on their bikes and sold them to the old man at Market Square for just enough to buy a pair of tickets to the latest festival. But they'd keep a small box for themselves, nick a couple of fizzy pops from Sainsbury's, and float down the river by moonlight in a stolen punt.
He crossed the river at the Green Dragon, ears pounding.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
He remembered how, in the winter, the sun would rise over the frosted scrub at Fen Ditton, scattering golden mist around his feet.
His trainers slipped on the dirt track, and he flung out a hand to steady himself.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
It was impossible to sum up their relationship. Then and now. Father? Best friend?
A sudden gust of wind rattled the houseboats in their moorings.
Either way, it was over now. Dead and buried like so many other things.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
But at the same time, he wanted to know.
Had that been family? Those four years of content? Was that family was? Contentment?
"I'm sorry," he gasped.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Gravel shuddered aside as he flew north past the lock, past the broad intersection to Milton, north and north and farther north he ran.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Not knowing was better.
He wished they'd never met.
Not knowing had always been better because not knowing had never come with this solid pain in his chest, this heaviness in his legs that would tug him back out across the sea.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
He couldn't get the track to change, stuck on endless repeat, tinny and small compared to the roaring fullness of his heart.
The truth was, he'd always known. Then and now.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
It probably was a love song, Lucas thought as he came to a stop, hands on hips, straining for breath.
It could have been a love song, Lucas thought as he crested the bridge, breathing ragged, wind gusting in his face.
He could feel the cord of his earphones sticking to his spine beneath his shirt, follow its cold lines splitting over the back of his neck to nestle in his ears. He usually ran without music, mind wandering, reaching out past the quiet strain of his lungs to a place of absent detachment.
But this morning, he'd awakened in an unfamiliar bed well before sunrise and lain awake, suffocating in the silence, and felt a crushing sense of loss that was as unsettling as the place of his birth.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
His solution, as always, had been to run. Pausing only to pull on a pair of socks and his trainers, he had, at the last moment, snatched his phone from the desk, threading the cord down his back in the grey light of the foyer before yanking the door open and sprinting out into a graveyard world.
The River Cam stretched out beside him, dark and silent, an unwanted reminder of just how far he'd come. There were no rowers this time of the day, no quiet whir of cyclists braving the chill.
He ran aimlessly, following the river north, gaining speed across the fields, nearly slipping at the footbridge over the tracks still standing only by the anger of its graffiti. Shadows loomed through the fog, foreboding monoliths before the sudden switch of a tail.
They'd come here often in the summer, gone for leisurely cycle rides up NCR 51 through Bottisham and Burwell and all the little villages on the way to Ely.
He gathered pace.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
They'd picked blackberries in the fall, stacked crates and crates of them on their bikes and sold them to the old man at Market Square for just enough to buy a pair of tickets to the latest festival. But they'd keep a small box for themselves, nick a couple of fizzy pops from Sainsbury's, and float down the river by moonlight in a stolen punt.
He crossed the river at the Green Dragon, ears pounding.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
He remembered how, in the winter, the sun would rise over the frosted scrub at Fen Ditton, scattering golden mist around his feet.
His trainers slipped on the dirt track, and he flung out a hand to steady himself.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
It was impossible to sum up their relationship. Then and now. Father? Best friend?
A sudden gust of wind rattled the houseboats in their moorings.
Either way, it was over now. Dead and buried like so many other things.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
But at the same time, he wanted to know.
Had that been family? Those four years of content? Was that family was? Contentment?
"I'm sorry," he gasped.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Gravel shuddered aside as he flew north past the lock, past the broad intersection to Milton, north and north and farther north he ran.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Not knowing was better.
He wished they'd never met.
Not knowing had always been better because not knowing had never come with this solid pain in his chest, this heaviness in his legs that would tug him back out across the sea.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
He couldn't get the track to change, stuck on endless repeat, tinny and small compared to the roaring fullness of his heart.
The truth was, he'd always known. Then and now.
Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
It probably was a love song, Lucas thought as he came to a stop, hands on hips, straining for breath.
Monday, December 5, 2016
Warmth
When I joined the Air Force, the world started ending.
I'm sitting here with my hot toddy, thinking back. Hot toddies tend to do that, you know. Send you back somewhere warm, somewhere sweet, with bite.
I can see how it could have been selfish of me.
To throw my hands up in the air and say, "I give up! I'm sorry, but I'm through trying to be better." To give up pretending that everything was alright, and in doing so, obliterate the fragile thing that might have been a home.
But that's not quite right, is it?
"We worked so hard for you, and this is what you've done."
I left the Air Force for a number of reasons. Some were true. Most were not. I still can't sort it out.
All I know is that it's left me with a gaping what-if the size of a B-52.
And for that, there is anger. A feeling of entitlement, that something I was had been stolen.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
Before the Air Force, things weren't great, and it's not as if I didn't know that. But I'd found safety in my little world of responsibility, dutifully straightening myself out, congratulating myself for my responsibility and dutiful straightening out. I was a good person. Everyone was good people.
I'd thought I'd made the right decision, absolving obligation.
"There's nothing for you here."
But I'd failed to realize that that obligation was the cornerstone upon which the house stood. With that gone, how then could I possibly make the house a home?
"Why?"
So I went, heaping burning coals.
"Who gave you the right to ask questions?"
Righteously, I kept to the straight and narrower because I knew that if I even paused to think about the hurt, I'd never start again. I'd set myself on this path. I had. Alone. This was mine, all mine.
But, of course, things never work out that way.
Over the course of a few days, everything and nothing had changed. I was just a college student, grafting for the grade, keeping my head down, avoiding the track on Tuesday and Friday mornings, looking away when I passed anyone in BDUs.
I still exist in this strange in-between. It's easy to convince myself that nothing's changed. I get up early, shake off melancholy, go run, do my sets at the gym to AFPFT standards, do my weights, come back, check my email, ignore some, respond to some, and then go about my day.
But at night, I sit here with my hot toddy and dream about other things as the whiskey burns its way past a thousand pinched mirrors. I'm still trying to repay a debt I never owed.
And so the world's ended, and I'm left sorting through the fragments of what's left, salvaging what I might once have been. I might have liked writing at one point. Had I been a writer? I consume music like I run, endlessly, for no reason, with an unapologetic disregard for everything else. Had I been a musician? A runner? Or am I just another drunk, weaving through yesterday's headlines?
I have a responsibility here. Duty. An obligation. Somewhere.
"My mother always told me that when you have children, they will grow up and stab you in the back. And she was right. That's exactly what you've done."
I'm sitting here with my hot toddy, thinking back. Hot toddies tend to do that, you know. Send you back somewhere warm, somewhere sweet, with bite.
I can see how it could have been selfish of me.
To throw my hands up in the air and say, "I give up! I'm sorry, but I'm through trying to be better." To give up pretending that everything was alright, and in doing so, obliterate the fragile thing that might have been a home.
But that's not quite right, is it?
"We worked so hard for you, and this is what you've done."
I left the Air Force for a number of reasons. Some were true. Most were not. I still can't sort it out.
All I know is that it's left me with a gaping what-if the size of a B-52.
And for that, there is anger. A feeling of entitlement, that something I was had been stolen.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
Before the Air Force, things weren't great, and it's not as if I didn't know that. But I'd found safety in my little world of responsibility, dutifully straightening myself out, congratulating myself for my responsibility and dutiful straightening out. I was a good person. Everyone was good people.
I'd thought I'd made the right decision, absolving obligation.
"There's nothing for you here."
But I'd failed to realize that that obligation was the cornerstone upon which the house stood. With that gone, how then could I possibly make the house a home?
"Why?"
So I went, heaping burning coals.
"Who gave you the right to ask questions?"
Righteously, I kept to the straight and narrower because I knew that if I even paused to think about the hurt, I'd never start again. I'd set myself on this path. I had. Alone. This was mine, all mine.
But, of course, things never work out that way.
Over the course of a few days, everything and nothing had changed. I was just a college student, grafting for the grade, keeping my head down, avoiding the track on Tuesday and Friday mornings, looking away when I passed anyone in BDUs.
I still exist in this strange in-between. It's easy to convince myself that nothing's changed. I get up early, shake off melancholy, go run, do my sets at the gym to AFPFT standards, do my weights, come back, check my email, ignore some, respond to some, and then go about my day.
But at night, I sit here with my hot toddy and dream about other things as the whiskey burns its way past a thousand pinched mirrors. I'm still trying to repay a debt I never owed.
And so the world's ended, and I'm left sorting through the fragments of what's left, salvaging what I might once have been. I might have liked writing at one point. Had I been a writer? I consume music like I run, endlessly, for no reason, with an unapologetic disregard for everything else. Had I been a musician? A runner? Or am I just another drunk, weaving through yesterday's headlines?
I have a responsibility here. Duty. An obligation. Somewhere.
"My mother always told me that when you have children, they will grow up and stab you in the back. And she was right. That's exactly what you've done."
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