Carry On Wayward Son

What is tomorrow? Tomorrow is the day that I was going to call my dad. Tomorrow, a long, bright hallway stretching out in to forever. Tomorrow is the thing that happens after the facts, undone but unfolded no matter how much my feet drag. Eye to eye with the yellow light of tomorrow there is me, a fatherless daughter and there is him, a father still. But what kind of father is he now that it’s a day too late to make a phone call?

The big question is “where does one go when one dies?” Such an obtuse thing to think about, death. The dying part has been documented but death, a mystery. Someone who is dying can communicate still. Bright light, illuminated being in the corner, a beckoning gesture of the hand; carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done, lay your weary head to rest, don’t you cry no more. A walk, long enough for ample reflection, down a bright hallway and then…

I’m trapped in my body. Not figuratively, though the poetry of that tastes good in my mouth, but literally. A knee surgery, no driving, working or anything beyond the most simple of tasks, keeps me tethered to my bedroom. I keep reaching for the reactions that have served me before and they’re not there. Nothing is there but my bed, the window to outside, cream walls and my feet sticking out from under the blanket. So that’s it for me right now. A grown woman who never really had a dad to speak of is now unpacking not having a dad to speak to.

My first instinct is to talk about him, to keep it fresh in my mind. To tell you all of the things, even the things that I don’t remember right now but that come to me as I type this. Like the way that he spritzed his wild hair with water in the morning to get the sleep out of it and how much it looked like a jheri curl. A white dude jheri curl dripping onto the shoulders of his Hawaiian shirt in winter. If I keep writing then I’ll keep remembering and the last moments won’t be the last moments. They’ll just be things done out of sequence. A life can’t be over when there are still stories being told.

A psychic told me today that he is with me. Behind me and to the right. I went to her because I’ve been having dreams that he can’t cross over and it rattled me. He was such a restless human, narcissistic but scared of life. The great comfort of this sudden death was that there was peace for him, its residue settling on those who loved him and wanted more for his life. Until my dreams told me otherwise, I surprisingly felt good. Softly good and quietly good, but good. She told me that he was sorry, they always say that first I guess. We die sorry. Something I know about death now. He wanted to be a better father but didn’t know how, he thought I was better off without him so he left me alone. I told her/him that I wasn’t better off, that I loved him, that I forgave him. That I would always find him in old rock lyrics and in the memories that remain. He asked me if he could stick around to help out for a bit and be the dad now that he wasn’t before, if he could just join the council of spirits that are always with me. She told me that there is no purgatory, that if he stuck around there would be peace for him still. As long as I needed him, he could stay. I said yes. Please stay. I still need you.

So what is tomorrow and what is death? Tomorrow is the day after today, a place for all of the things you haven’t done yet but are destined to do. Tomorrow isn’t a indictment for what has not been done or an escape from what has. It is just a long, bright hallway to somewhere else. And death? That I don’t know. Let me ask my dad.



Battle Cry

I have been meaning to do a little something on here about our political scene at the moment.  Every time I log on with the intention to do so I realize that I really don’t have anything new or unique to say on the topic.  The outlandish amount of ‘memes’ and the like concerning our presidential candidates are suffocating.   The Romney/Ryan ticket is, well, a one way ticket back in time.  The Obama/Biden ticket is weather worn and riddled with disenfranchised head bowing.  Neither have much a leg to stand on at best and at worst, both have a nearly insurmountable pile shit waiting like a bloated dead body in the oval office.  I am at the point where I just hope that I don’t loose my right to choose what I do with my vagina.  The bar on our civil liberties is so low at this point that I can only hope to be able to slip one unruly pubic hair underneath it.   It is an alien feeling, this hemming in of collective social and intellectual growth.  The country that I was raised in was racing towards racial and sexual equality, higher education, and freedoms aplenty.  And though I am loathe to hop on the fear bandwagon, I won’t deny an icky feeling of worry is setting in.  I know how powerful our country is when united on a topic.  I also know that we are being fed so many tasty bits of distraction so as to prevent any kind of oneness amongst us.  It is hard to not think that there is a bigger animal orchestrating a coup of not only our government proper but of our humanity as well.  It used to be live and let live.  Now we feast on each others differences, using the carnage as a reason to withdraw further in the splinter cells of ignorance.  Why in this day do we even speak of marriage as some sacred union under god?  It was a shame that our parents barely suffered through, like theirs before them.  My generation is trying to take a broken, empty hearted institution and give it some new life.  Shake off all of the detritus of yore and marry the person you love.  What a miracle of life that this crusty, almost meaningless idea has been given a second chance by a group of people who are willing to fight for the right to marry?  It is this battle that has reminded me why someday I want to walk the isle.  Because god knows I wasn’t inspired to marriage by the lack luster shams that I grew up witness to.

We go forward with technologies that cleave us from our fellow man, we rocket untold monies into space while the future cosmonauts sit in stuffed classrooms with ancient books and one harried teacher, we sit by while talking puppets convince us to hate the hillbillies in the south or the liberal faggots in the north,  we turn off our compassion because we are told it will do no good.  When I close my eyes and the veil falls I way I am reminded that through us runs a common thread.  We as women fought for our freedoms, we as men armed ourselves and died to preserve our freedoms, we as the young generations pushed and pushed until our music rang out, our sexuality ran sweetly through the streets, our dreams were allowed to burn so bright that the sound of freedom heated up every breath.  I am tired of fighting but that doesn’t mean that the battle is won.  We are all tired.  But this is when it matters the most.  We have got to keep pushing or every inch will be taken by back by the angry lonely souls who see nothing but silver and gold.  This is our battlefield, this is our fucking house, and I will not sit by, sedated by rhetoric, and watch it burn.  You don’t need to grab a pitchfork and march on city hall, though the sight would bring me joy.  What you need to do is pick a fight with any motherfucker out there that even thinks of messing with your humanity or the humanity of your neighbor.  We have been fighting for our rights since the first ship hit the shores of America.  Nothing has changed.  And we will keep fighting.  Because our freedoms were, are, and always will be worth it.  Get off your computers, go outside, and show some kindness to someone who needs it.  Especially if that someone is not like you.