Its times like these, these transitional days of sorrow and song and sympathetic symphonies of moral exultation, that I shake this mane of tousled hair from my eyes and face the past and the ghosts in my bones. I have learned that the gift of spreading myself thin has worn holes in my substance and left more zeroes in my bank account to cover a hundred debts a thousand times over and what credit I have left is tied up in the stock of human good will and the hope for it paying off. I love too much and not always well but the joy is in the sensation of all the firsts that come with it and later the comfort that comes from shared tragedy and mutual joy. Never let it be said that I didn't love you all, that I didn't want you all, that I didn't need what you offered no matter how paltry or frightening or humble and kind. Whatever pain comes with giving hasn't stopped me from my self-inflicted altruism and though I have indebted myself too much for your generosity I have paid the price more times than asked for something that never could last. I loved the beautiful boy who gave me these scars, the boys in the bands and the ones with the classic cars. The girls with their chains and the marks from whips, the ones who speak truth and those who demand proof. The boys from across the borders with their backhanded thanks, the boys from the cities with their metropolitan savvy. The one with the wife and two kids in a rambling Victorian, the one with the husband and the ache for her friend. The girl with the brown eyes and a wickedly gracious tongue, the mother who's eyes look back into her own, the girl with a heart too big for her town. The boys with the accents and the pugilist gaze, the boys who'd as soon hurt me as grant me some grace, the boys who send letters with words that sting, the ones who write poems and give me my name. The malcontents and disenfranchised, the harsh and the bitter and the maddeningly defiant, the just and the brave and your garden variety decent human being, the slapdash and extraordinary, the bland and insane, the repressed and the hidden, the blatant and exalted -all tied to me by tangible strains of invisible mutual agreement and we've all kept the bargain as best we all could and some still keep paying and others make new deals and the dice keep on rolling and the game never dies. I loved you all and in my loving, I have been to the funerals of many a sad affair and cried my widow's tears and moved on from there. I've drank and I've sung and I've been lusty and depraved and I've been quiet and thoughtful and I built my own cage. I have always been true no matter the lies and I write eulogies for all who have passed in my time and some I'd bury alive for the hurt that they cause but I'd pray for forgiveness for remembering their names. For others I make pedestals and struggle to land them on top of my standards cursing under the weight of their denial and benign self-satisfaction. But the ones that are left, I gather around me, for the joy of their faces, the new love and the old, the love just beginning and the kind that is comfort, the stories that are told and shared, the laughter that guarantees the deal being made, that I'll give you all everything - for some flowers on my grave.

03/19/2005

Author's Note: This was written one late night, when pondering all of the people I have loved, lost, cared for and admired, those who have come and gone, those who remain, whole or fragmented, as parts of the me that is. I was amazed at how much I retain as a reminder of what good there is to be gained from even the worst of situations. I am both proud and frightened of my capacity to love and yet, it is the one thing I know will never change. This is raw, rambling and random but it came from the heart and the head and as such, I am proud of it.

Posted on 10/10/2006
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