process
I try not to edit too much when I write. Unlike when I speak I feel I have all the time I need to choose the correct words to convey the correct feelings. There is so much less pressure to “get it right” on the first go, as opposed to speaking where one tiny, misplaced, word can crumble even the most wonderful of phrases. So this mental sludge is, for better or worse, mostly my thoughts as I think them and present them to you.
Sometimes my thoughts come in torrents and in those times edits are necessary because so many words are misspelt or run together or left out entirely until I can think of the word I want. Writing in torrents is abominable. The mechanics of my hands will never be able to sufficiently keep up with my mind and as a result I cannot accurately capture the brilliance of the moment. I miss things every time.
And sometimes my thoughts are like this morning. Consistent swells of words, easy to scoop up and investigate and arrange. Gentle rolls of ideas coming together and waiting patiently to be transferred down my arms, to my fingers, to my keyboard, to you. Writing this way is a practice in patience as the pauses stretch out before me. A chance to sip coffee. A glance out the window. A re-reading of what has already been put down. Writing in swells is gratifying.
So if you spy a misplaced comma, a wonky sentence structure, or butchered spelling please be forgiving. Whether torrents of words or gently lapping thought patterns, none of this has been overly touched before reaching your eyes.
do you know me at all?
*from an iphone note circa 2016 (?)
Vengeance: or, when I'm gone react the way I would.
Book of Numbers, the last few chapters, the pastor was preaching so well and my mind caught ahold of a thought. "How will you treat others when I'm gone, especially if they are people who have hurt me badly"? There was something in there about vengeance, and how it belongs to God, not us; but there was also something about God instructing His people to go and take His vengeance on other people. And my mind started moving: If I were raped or beaten or killed, if someone thought fit to cut off my hand, or slice open my body, or permanently maim me. How would my loved ones react?
For some, I know, they would be filled with and fueled by anger and rage. The wrong-doing onto me would outweigh the right-doing of them. But I would still be dead, if someone killed me. I would still be raped, if someone raped me. I would still be less an arm or leg or hand, if someone took a knife to me. No amount of anger, veiled as justice, would restore me. So why do it?
What does your anger say about me? How does your anger honor my joy? How does your hatred reflect my kindness? How does any of your reactions to my untimely demise show the world the woman I am? The woman I was? The woman I wanted to be?
The answer is simple: IT DOESN'T.
When I am gone, no matter if I die an old, decrepit lady who complains about "kids these days" or a youthful woman with "so many years ahead of her" react to others, to everyone, with kindness. Be forgiving of the people that have hurt me. The hurt that drives them was likely handed to them in the same way your hurt was handed to you. Don't allow it to infect you the way it has infected them. I don't need vengeance if I am dead. I don't require the same amount of hurt or violence against another if hurt and violence was done to me. Irreparable damage does not come undone when done twice over.
If I am gone; love people. Hug people! Invite people over for dinner when your house is messy. Let the tired, worn-out man sitting next to you on the train rest on your shoulder. Plant flowers and remember to water them, even if I never remember myself. Go to the beach on New Years Day and let the mighty ocean wash away all the bad from the year before and leave behind a clean slate to start fresh with. Talk to the people that matter most to you in ways that honor their position in your life while also speaking truth into their day.
BE HONEST!
Be honest about your anger, be honest about your hurt. Give those emotions their due and then tell them to run along. I wouldn't have held on to either very long, neither should you. Our emotions are special and specific but they are like 4 year olds with too much sugar and no one to tell them when enough is enough. They get crazy! And they make us crazy! And we make bad decisions when we only account for our rage, or our hurt. Vengeance is nothing but an emotion with no check point. It's anger with all the Halloween candy and no Mom. Give your anger a Tootsie pop and some Resse's Pieces and call it a night.
Be angry for me because it means you love me. Be hurt for me because it means you value me. Do not be vengeful for me though because it means you don't know me at all.
Local’s Summer
There may not be a greater gift for me than a 70 degree day in October. The air is crisp and fresh, devoid of the humidity that just a few weeks ago made some of you reconsider going outside, but the sun is warm.
Warm warm!
Soul warming warm!
The kind of warm you feel in your bones and relaxes your muscles. The kind of warm that makes you just a touch sleepy but doesn’t suck away at your energy. The kind of warm that makes any amount of breeze cool. Too cool for just a bikini but just right for a bikini and light sweater.
We are quickly slipping into winter, but I would love just one more warm day.
you can bring almost anything on the train…
Glimpsing a couple saying goodbye in Wilmington, a bystander stares. He only sees one half of Affection puckering its lips, sending a kiss across a train window. Affection’s other half stands on the platform with arms outstretched, hands in a stop hold but teetering on their wrists like Weebles-wobbling-but-not-falling-down sending love and receiving love from her fish faced man. Our bystander seems unamused under his mask but I smile, I see the full picture. Our young lover has brought a paint can on the train.
Eulogy Me 1
You weren’t always kind. Most of the time you were selfish and borderline cruel. You had no real coping mechanisms for emotional safety and it became obvious in every argument, every missed communication point, every disappointment. It was uncomfortable to be you, and I can imagine uncomfortable to date you as well. I’d like to say you learned with every new relationship but the reality is you ended up with a broken heart a few times and those were the relationships that pushed you to change.
Eulogy 8
a note on why your name matters
Riding Side Saddle
We were sitting on the bottom of the stairs at the Stick House with big-balled Tully dog close by. You weren’t the man I was dating. Not the moppy haired guy who walked out of the bush across from the deli I worked at and took a full two weeks before he could say more than “hi” to me. He was up top getting high while we chatted about all the things people talk about when they live on opposite sides of the planet and will likely never talk again. Vulnerabilities, dreams, dashed hopes.
And while I have no idea where you ended up after that meeting, I’ll always appreciate our brief friendship if only because instead of calling me “Jersey” you insisted on calling me Hannah.
Eulogy 7
physical fitness matters?
Swiss
Why oh why did I think I, a pack-a-day smoker, could do a hike and not wheeze through the whole thing!? Fool! Hahaha, I wheezed hard and you heard it the whole time and when we got to the top you made a snarky remark as if I were the most out of shape person you had ever met.
And then, WHY OH WHY AGAIN did I think I, still a pack-a-day smoker, could rent a bike with no gears to pedal around an island with you? You, who happened to be a hobby cyclist back in Switzerland! Mountainous, glorious, Switzerland!
And yet, there we were, screwing our way around WA.
Eulogy 5
or thoughts on why kindness matters so much
High Five
In retrospect, the loss of my virginity culminating in a double high five instead of an orgasm wasn’t the worst thing to happen in bed.
There was nothing spectacular about it. I wasn’t in love. I wasn’t somewhere wonderful. The act itself, well, you read it, he double high fived me after! But, he was kind. He was kind that night. He was kind anytime our paths crossed after. And from what I can tell, he continues to be a kind man to this day.
If you are going to make questionable decisions I highly suggest you make them with kind people. You’ll have little to regret later in life.
Eulogy 4
or one of the reasons I am happy I did not lose my virginity in high school
I Love My Dog
You were a bit too much of dry humored snark for a 17-year-old who played the tuba in marching band. Why I thought you were dreamy is beyond me now but there I was 25 years ago, saying
“I love you”
and your response hasn’t left me since
“Oh, well look I love my family, and I love my sister. I mean, I love my dog. I like you.”
Eulogy 3
a note on agreements made after an alcohol fueled fight of pent up grievances
The Lover is Always the First Suspect
“You know if he goes missing they will suspect you first”
Oh the wise words of an older sister seeing the end of the relationship before me. I don’t know how you refer to that week in Bermuda but I affectionately call it “Breakup Cruise 2006”. It’s a recounting that has delighted many hearts along the way, they don’t so much laugh at your expense but more so blanche at my bluntness.
“You broke up with him on a cruise?!”
I couldn’t help it, we said we would discuss it all when we got back to Bayonne but you had to bring it up, your face so hopeful that this was the right thing to do! And my face, saying all the things that very quickly my mouth said as well. Did you so swiftly forget how we verbally berated and tore down one another six tiny nights ago? How so many people heard every word of disdain we tossed at each other?
How we both meant what we said ?
Euolgy 2
or how you never got to be an ex-lover
Town Gossip
Good people sometimes say terrible things. Even to people they value, or at least claim to value. You were easily the most obnoxious man to date, not dangerous, just sloppily annoying. Snide remarks passed as sarcasm and good fun. It wasn’t. You were mean. You so badly wanted the juicy story to be that I was a prude, but the real gossip was that your balls smelled like old dairy wrapped in a dirty gym sock.
Eulogy 1
or thoughts on all my ex-lovers
Duty
You were unremarkable in the way only young men can be. Confident, cocky, and wholly forgettable. We clumsily fucked until you were spent, and happy, and euphoric. I wish I could say you were charming or astonishingly handsome but I cannot. You were scared. The next morning your life would change in ways that cannot be specifically foreseen. I hope the collective always celebrates you on Veterans Day and not Memorial Day, but for me you will always only be a duty I served to my country.
Conrad. 7-9/2020.
Technically his last name, but no one knows his first name. Or is that just what he calls the feral cat in the back field, and in turn is what everyone has always called him? He enjoys philosophical debate, makes his money honorably even if no one actually knows how, and adores baking scratch muffins for visitors. He’s the best with new babies and always keen on listening to a child’s version of events. We love Conrad. He’s mysterious but not malicious. Good overseer. Even if he does only have one eye.
from 9.21.21
This isn’t it.
And I can’t even definitively say what is it. But it’s not this. I thought I had it figured out to at least within a generally large target and now I can’t ever wrap my head around any of that. Those dreams feel like they were birthed out of someone else’s tiny brain.