|—||Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms|
i know it’s been forever, i know, but i can’t seem to handle this lately. that isn’t news. october felt impossible and then november felt the same. just one goddamn day after another, each one feeling worse than the one before. with today being the day after your birthday, there’s some optimism in me that i needed to get through that in order to feel a little better. i don’t know yet if that’s true. i hope so. i don’t know how we all get through any of them though, feeling so constantly broken.
we got to the two year anniversary of your accident and the day they pronounced you. i still can’t believe it’s been two years. i remember thinking at the time what it might feel like years from now and that maybe it’d all start getting easier, we’d have learned to cope by now, we’d miss you, but it wouldn’t be so hard. i was wrong about all of that. it’s actually worse. it’s so much worse. at least then we’d all just seen you and just talked to you. now it’s been two years and it all still feels so fucked up and unnatural.
on the day of your funeral, it rained. on the days of the calling hours, it rained. and every year on the anniversary, it rains. it’s just like that stevie ray vaughn song dad used to play for us. the sky is crying. i remembered thinking that the day of your service and i think that every year. it’s like the planet knows you should still be here.
here’s another one because the first got too long. this is going to sound really fucking stupid, but bear with me. when i was flying to las vegas, i met someone on the plane. his name was ron and he felt like one of those people you’re supposed to meet. he reminded me of sonny, probably just a bit younger, and so i liked him right off. he had a kind, familiar face and we talked for hours. we both ended up crying. him about his mom and me about you. we talked about so many things i’d never tell a stranger and he told me things i never thought i’d hear from one. also kind of hilariously, he’s a martial arts instructor who’s lived in nevada his whole life. at the end of the flight, he gave me his cell number and told me to call him if i got in trouble and he’d come get me. it wasn’t creepy like it probably sounds. it made me feel like someone was looking out for me, not about to put me in the trunk of his car. i actually wanted to give him my number so we could keep in touch, i guess people use facebook for that now but still.
new tumblr hates me so i barely use this anymore. most of the internet can suck my dick really. since i got back from las vegas and california everything seems boring and stagnant and the only real escape from that seems to be books lately. books and netflix. i read the best book a few weeks ago and it’s one i know you’d love and it’s fucking killing me because whenever we shared books we always called each other to talk about them and share quotes and “oh that part when!” and god i miss that so much. i remember when we did that for world war z and now the movie of that is coming out soon. i don’t know if it’s going to be any good, but i know i can’t call you and talk about it. it almost defeats the purpose of seeing it at all. i remember how this started, us and zombies, i called you up after seeing shaun of the dead. i was in the parking lot of the theater and screeching into my phone “RUN DON’T WALK, GO SEE IT NOW NOW NOW” and after you saw it, you called me and we dissected it like everything else. and that was the beginning of so many zombie things.
i posted a new blog/video
“hallelujah (live, for anthony)”
he’s the one who gave me my first ever leonard cohen CD and it changed my life…or at least my songwriting.
read/watch it at http://bit.ly/blog020913b
she played this on your birthday. while we were out in the cold, watching shooting stars and missing you, she played this song. it’s sad and it’s beautiful and i’ll always think it’s one of the best songs ever written, but she played it on your birthday and i feel like that has to mean something. i don’t know what, but i know i miss you.
The man who looks lost as he stands
in the sympathy card section at Hallmark
looks so sad with his bent umbrella
that you want to place a hand on his shoulder,
say, “It’ll be Okay.” But you don’t.
Because you also look like a crumbling statue
narrowed by rain, because you too have been abandoned
by language and what’s there to speak of or write
among so many words. There are not enough words
to say, Someone is gone and in their place
is a blue sound that only fits inside
an urn which you’ll drag to the mountains
or empty in an ocean with the hope
that the tide will deliver a message
that you never could. Because even those words
would end like a shipwreck at the bottom
of clear water. Someone would eventually look down,
notice the shattered hull, the mast
snapped in half, and believe those words
meant ruin, when they really meant,
starfish, iceberg, or scar tissue.
And even those words would fail. In this room
that smells like lemon candle wax and wild berry
potpourri, you pick up a card, set
it down again. Pick up a card, toss
it aside. In leaving, you take only an empty envelope.
Or you are an empty envelope. Or you’re the boat
searching for the glacier to gouge its side again.
You’re the door that opens to the sleet outside.
You’re the bell that bangs above the door as the door slams shut.
- Matthew Olzmann