Incense clouds and Cocteau Twins.
For 18 years, I've tried to write a poem for David, and for 18 years, I've been unable to. Yesterday marked 18 years since the day he passed away. I don't know what made yesterday different than the previous 17. It could be the state of things in the world that already have me filled with grief. Maybe it's after years of shutting down all emotions I can feel again. It may be that time has never healed wounds. Or maybe I know now how precious our friendship and connection was. Either way, the sadness was intense. I texted his old best friend, Nicholas, who was feeling many of the same emotions, so we talked late into the night about how rare and unique of a person he was. He was such an old, gentle soul-- so wise beyond his years. I can't remember him raising his voice angrily or saying something horrible about someone. He was sweet, and I miss him. I miss the comfort of our conversations and how he looked at me. I miss being in love with him and having people roll their eyes when I said his name because they were tired of hearing about him. When life takes something away from you, it's hard. But, you move on. You find more love, more friends. What happens when life takes but doesn't give again? Life has taken half a dozen of my best friends and confidantes. Life has offered me doors, and I've stood in the doorways with my foot there, holding them open, until it got too cold out, and then I let them shut. I don't want just any "love" or "friendship." I have casual friends. I miss having deep connections with people. I'm grateful I have close friendships with Eric, Lance, Lori, and Dan C.. Still, I miss something different. I'm talking about the muse, the spark, the extra something that propels people to write poems or look forward to the next day. I remember the feeling of sitting with a person who you get and who gets you. I crave that connection again. The opposite? I've seen what happens when people settle. I've seen exciting, fun, or interesting people get married and settle into lives that made me no longer recognize them. Worse yet, I've heard them justify their decisions and make excuses for letting relationships and choices suck the passion, interests and spark out of them. If you pick the wrong relationship, it changes you. I've learned that all too well. You become a shadow, a sidekick. If you choose the right one, you write poems, have adventures, and wake up happy. Right now, I'd rather be discontent and not writing many poems than faking a life with someone who makes me feel nothing. It's not living in the past. It's not a refusal to move on. It's waiting for something that may or may not ever come again and realizing that if it doesn't, that only makes the original thing more precious.
So, I attempt to write a poem every year. Every year, nothing comes. This year, I wrote four lines and closed the notebook.
To times that were and might have been, to incense clouds and Cocteau Twins.
To Bukowski poems at 2am, I'll miss you until we meet again .
October is hard for me. In different years, within a ten-day time span, I lost my Dad and grandma on the same day, a pregnancy/baby, two beloved dogs, and David. The month feels bleak and heavy with grief, as it should.