Down for the Count Up, 8

SOME DAYS, APRIL 24, 2014

some days will always be harder than others.

because they are made of memories,

– marking the time –

between now and then, and heaven.

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Sweet Pea: Let Me Explain….

I had the thought to nip this in the bud early this morning when it seemed that what I had sort of managed to not look at miserably, was well on its way to misinterpretation.

Birthdays, I’ve come to realize, are importantly more thankful than death days. If it weren’t for birthdays, we’d not have the pain of the other day. There has to be one before the other, and in life there will always be both.

Appreciate all the support and advice, and request you not be offended by how it made me giggle.

Of course, the cemetery would likely be safe. I’ve rarely run into another living soul, there. I’d not have to keep a 6-foot distance from the markers, although the markers are safely keeping at least a 5-foot distance from each other.

Irony. I always keep wipes in my car in case I get by to tend to Jeff and Sally and Nannee. And Poppa Vincze. Although I’d not met him, he’s the other half of Nannee’s package deal. Oddly, enough, I cart around disinfecting Lysol wipes, to be exact. They conveniently come in-bulk from Costco and can only be tolerated when not used in an enclosed, unventilated environment with no opening windows, aka outside.

So, yes, I could have. Easily. I chose not to for residuals. I’d have to get gasoline and avoid the growing temptation to shop for Sprite and chips. I’m sure that seems light to some folks.

I’ve managed to stay safe by not having a face-to-face or even remotely public experience for an official four weeks. By sheer coincidence, I haven’t marketed since March 7^th.

In addition to a life-long, silent, you-can’t see-it and would never know it, non-deadly auto-immune deficiency, I’ve been additionally warring with my body for control for thirteen months now. Finally, with correct medical intervention, I’m just beginning to feel progress in that battle.

The thing is, the deficiency won’t kill me. It can, however, heartily assist the Corona Virus in  accomplishing that.

So, I wasn’t any more lonely this morning than I ever am. I was thinking deeply about being thankful for the birthday and making the responsibly right choice for me.

I’m lonelier now in a lovely eye-opening way.

Thank you all for the love.

I miss you all who feel the same, today.

I know we keep saying it, but, damn it, we’ve really got to.

I’m thinking a grave-side Joke-Fest in July. Bring your best stupid joke, awful pun, long story.

I’ll buy out Lev’s and meet you there.

 

Less Than a Gig

Scientifically, you cannot stand next to me and see the exact same thing.

Your angle affects your impression: size, shape, color, shadows.

Your history affects your perception. That’s why memories can be deceiving.

I’m angularly prone; in constant search of surety.

Capturing the view, over and over; each purposefully and slightly askew.

You see, I know what I want to capture.

I also know there’s no point arguing with the glare.

I adjust: move, stretch, lean, bank, zoom-in, zoom-out, in increments, some miniscule.

It is, also, why my memory is usually less than a gig away from full.

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A Colder October

I don’t remember a colder October.

Nature’s real lessons – love and loss and longing – echoing yearly. Simple trees and simple leaves. Temporary slumbers; predictable, patterned, withdraw with a promise of likelihood. Coming back, coming back stronger, maybe reaching a little higher.

Occasionally, that’s not the case. Of course, majestics don’t worry about that. Perhaps affording optimism in squirrels and birds and other creatures. Although seeing fit to plan, return rote expecting rejuvenation. Coming from another season’s slumber, they lumber; sometimes dumbfounded when the memory is bare or barely there.

Much like those times you thought you were growing straight, turned twisted in time, searching for the sun. Vital pieces fall away, hacked, splintered, struck by lightning. How it happens; endless possibilities, all still no less of a shock.  

So, I welcome the colors, and I welcome the lack. It’s part of the process.

Lightly suffering through another falling season. It only seems ok because I’ve been here before. Somehow now it’s easier to see. There are no perfect trees.

I don’t remember a colder October, or colors that faded so fast.

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