O what now, what now my friends? And I do hereby anoint you friends for reading this trapestravestragedy. How can I say this? Four letter words seem apropos, yet I do not feel like password protecting this and I think kids get enough four letter words from the culture without my work, unprotected as this is, contributing. Words fail... I'm reading HPL ATM, words fail for him to convey the horror. Well, he's more interesting than that if you can give him the chance, see past his racism and sexism (both of which subjects I hesitate to broach). If you care to attempt the dream cycle, there are times when he admits that words fail to describe the beauty too. As words fail for me to try to explain to you how the light breaks into three dimensional shadows when it rides the mist through the trees, or how it dances across the water, the simple way it creates complexitity in an aurora around a street lamp while the leaves fall in their splendor and death. Yes, death. Words really fail when it comes time to express the love, the loss, the horror.
Why so dark? Because I read HPL in grade school? Perhaps, perhaps; but do you think I'm kidding that my brother was shot in the head? Twice? My beautiful, terrible brother, that ruined and sublime spirit who chased me through a window where I sliced my wrist, losing one and a half tendons, giving me an excuse for never being the great bass player I might have been. The absolute horror he survived before coming to us, unimaginable to me; if my parents were ever abusive they were certainly not very good at it. The mess his life was, and yet how much better than what it might have been, but due to that damnable suffering how less than it could be. So tough, so strong, whoever found it necessary to shoot him needed to do it twice? And even that didn't do it? He hung on with life support, might have hung on to this day, for all we know recovered something? And who's fault is it? I could have gone out with him that night. Of course that's far fetched, we didn't go out, I didn't go out much in Tucson. But imagine the possibilities... what if? What if? Why so dark?
My own petty travails pale. Perhaps. What's worse than death? Living? My absolutely insane ex-wife? My lying best friend? Our idiotic marriage counselor? It's a joke. How can I care about this with my crippled mother, my cancer-survivor father, my JRA battling cousin? But my sister has beautiful, intelligent children. Words fail the good things too. Yet we really are built to remember the hard knocks better. I certainly learn from positive reinforcement, but I am formed by the tragedies. And yet so blessed. Sleeping through the end of the six line in the Bronx? Wandering through Harlem in the early morning? Why me? Why this sun, this moon, these stars? Ride on fool, I will. Every word here begets a thousand more I would explain to you, but I'd better turn in as I have to get up tomorrow morning. Why so dark? I know I have friends who can sing and dance circles around me. We have tried to work together, I don't suppose it's actually impossible, but I would like to see the pain respected. Are you afraid to die? Why? I'm finally digitizing the pictures of my grandmother's ninetieth birthday; they'll be published here soon, tomorrow probably. One of the most positive people you could imagine, nonetheless meet. So I'll ask her rhetorically and so ask all of you through her; given what she's seen, what she's been through, the senseless war, starvation, injustice and murder: -Why so light?