but my god it's so beautiful when the boy smiles

When I was a kid we stayed at this place, the Farm. It was not exactly a farm, but it was called the Farm. I suppose it was a farm because all the food that was served was grown there, but its primary function was not agricultural. It was a religious hippie commune nuthouse.

You can't find that place, as huge as it is, unless you know exactly where you are going. Off the main road is this path, it winds a bit through some trees and bushes, it's impossible to tell how far you are going. Then up a small hill, then over this rope bridge that would give anything in Indiana Jones a run for its money. That thing was fucking insane. I remember when it wasn't there, though, and you had to stand on the piece of wood and pull yourself across from the bottom. That, man, that was something else. So we were very excited when the bridge went in, especially given the tendency of the river to rise unexpectedly. And quickly.

You walk across the bridge and come out just below the top of the river bank. So there is a slight scramble, then over the hill, and there. There, in front of you, the Farm. It was huge. It was enormous. There was a table in one of the eating areas that could seat thirty people, maybe more. The property itself was amazing, not only in its magnitude but in the fact that it even existed, such a beautiful piece of land and no poles, no wires, no concrete or asphalt or gravel, nothing but two giant houses and a cornfield and a massive garden, and a clothesline. Later on we built outhouses, the best time was before those came. That seemed very modern, and strange. Wood burning stoves so dinner always smelled like the forest, houses in a constant state of building, building bigger, building up, building out. There were no doors, only tapestries hung over the entrance to the rooms of the married couples. No doors.

There were two families that were constant the whole time we lived there, and every time we lived there, because we came and went like, well, like hippie nutjobs. There was a Thomas. A father, named Thomas, and his wife that I think was Kim. And another set of parents whose names I do not remember because it took me a long time to discover that they were two different families. It wasn't until my teens that I realized that all those kids were not my cousins. So many kids, oh my goodness, and always three new babies, there was never not a baby. A boy my age named Jesse, and his older brother Kevin, their ten or twelve brothers and sisters. It is interesting to realize now that Jesse was the first boy that I was ever in love with. I loved Jesse. I loved that boy. He would play a harmonica, badly, and I would pretend not to listen, even though we were sitting right next to each other on the same log, a hundred yards from the house. Jesse and I would swim in the river when we were supposed to be washing our hair. Jesse had Legos, oh my God he had a set of Legos hidden in the wall and they were not carved out of wood. And batteries. Stacks and stacks of batteries and nothing to put them in, the tragedy. Too many batteries and not enough outlet. Jesse would have conversations with the dogs, and they would listen raptly, waiting for the punchline or the happily ever after which was always happy but never ever after. Jesse. Brown hair and blue eyes and perfect in every way.

Once when we went back Jesse was gone. Kevin was still there, but Jesse was gone. Because of the way we lived, I assumed that I had mistakenly lumped Jesse in with Thomas and Kim's children when he obviously belonged to someone else, because Thomas and Kim were there but he was not. That was too bad. I missed him, but not for long, because after a while you condition yourself to let things go. Let that home go. Let that box of books go. Let that boy go, because you never know who is going to be there when you come back. And he wasn't. Go, Jesse, play your harmonica for someone else and I will take care of the dogs.

When I was fourteen I learned that Jesse had died of juvenile arthritis when we were eleven, about a month after the last time I saw him. That he had been dying, effectively, since the moment I met him. That all that time, all those days and months and seasons and swims, that Jesse had a clock winding down inside of him and I did not know, we did not know, no one told and no one counseled and no one prepared. Maybe the dogs knew, maybe that is why they listened to him. Maybe they thought he had a head start on all the answers. Who knows. I know that the knowledge, maybe not as young as we were, but the knowledge might have made things different. Bittersweet instead of sweet. Tragic instead of nostalgic. Would it have been different, had we known? I missed Jesse, but was conditioned to let him go, but secretly wished I could see him again. I did not know that I never would.

As an adult I am keenly aware that I do not know that I will ever see anyone again. I do not know when I close the door that she will be on the other side of it one day. I do not know when I log off that he will ever be ONLINE NOW!! again. I do not know that I will ever have the opportunity to be exasperated with his total arrogance again. Every work day I meet three or four people, and get to know them very well, who did not show up and did not log on and did not brag. And their friends and family know that they will never see them again. And they deal with it, but it doesn't really matter, because they are gone.

And every day I watch someone I know, people I know, friends or not friends or strangers or passersby but mostly myself, take everything around them for granted. I assume that they will always be there, even though I should know more than anyone that that is not true at all, at all at all. What would they give, these other people, what would they give for the opportunity to fight with their sister once more? What would he give to hear her throwing his shit about in the middle of the night, one more time? Is there anything that he would not give to spend five more minutes listening to that same girl bitch about that same thing for the nine hundred thousandth time, if that meant that he could have five more minutes with her? Why not give it now? Why not make that decision, immediately, to let it go if it does not matter? Because really, really it does not matter.

Jesse kept me up all night, more than once, playing that fucking harmonica. I really wished he would stop, sometimes.

I don't know how much it's gonna cost you

probably everything


When you read things in the paper, or you hear the news or see the footage from the tragedy or calamity or nightmare of smaller proportion, there is a phrase that is commonly used to describe the reaction of the response personnel. His training kicked in. The plane was on fire, the car was sinking, the river was rising but his training kicked in and...and he knew what to do and did it, and damage control comes later but at the time, when faced with an immediate situation, his training kicked in and he did what needed to be done.

I do not know what to do in situations where my training kicks in. I do not want to relegate my friends, my family, the people that I care about to the category of situation. I don't want to access my files and pull out page ten paragraph four line eight and tell him exactly what he needs to hear. Cause I can. I do it all the time. I do it all the time and I'm very, very good at it. I'm spot on and lightning fast. I have a card with my name on it that says that I am the only one in this building allowed to do it. Laminated, even. Laminated card that says that I can tell you what you need to hear to get you through the next few minutes and hours and days. But I don't want to tell you those things, and I don't want you to be that thing, to me, to yourself, to anyone. I want you to be you and hear the things that your friend would tell you, the things that are not perfect and have not been run by a committee and in retrospect may do more harm than good but right now, right now while you are dying, they are honest and real. I want to stop your heart, I want to shield you from what's coming because I know what it is, and I know that nothing will help, nothing, and all your anger and all your rage and all of your hurt, it has nowhere to go. There is nothing for it. That is not in the books. The books don't go into how we feel the next time I see you, where you pick up and how you rediscover yourself and your friends as this person that you are now, which is not the person that you were last week. The catwalk of your absent flippance, your quick irritation, your distracted answer. The curious question of what is that look on your face, and how would you leave him when you find him.

I don't know what to say, and I always know what to say. It has been allowed that saying the right thing at the right time is my superpower. It is possible that you are my kryptonite. I am lost, and it is not mine to be lost, it is yours to be hurt and wandering and possibly completely alone. I do not know how to help you, except to not force the help on you, because I do not know.

what have you found

the same old fear


It's so effortless on his part. It's nothing. A phrase, a few words tossed out in space, and gone. Gone, gone, to sit in my head and undo all my work. Cause it's not effortless, on my end, to let them go. It's not so easy, even though it should be, because I should know better. Because yes, I know it's easy.

It's weird, how I can tell myself anything I want and convince myself of anything I want and put myself anywhere I want until some thing, some one, some boy on a skateboard mohawks his way into my skull and wrecks all of that and makes me wonder. Could he possibly, possibly mean any of the things that he says? He couldn't possibly. Because I know him, and I know that the weight of the things that he says is not something that he is interested in carrying. Ever. In fact he specifically avoids situations in which that weight could present itself. He carries the bags for himself, sorry, can't carry that for you, got these bags. And flees.

And then says these things, these little things, these small, telling things that are like glass. He drops them and I catch them before they break and while I know that really, it is only sand, I look at it and it is something else. And I hate that. And I try to drop it, to let it break the way it should, the way it was meant to, but sometimes I don't want to. Sometimes, these times, I want to keep it and put it on my shelf and take it down every once in a while and look at it and go That, that is a souvenir, that was a gift from that boy that I really should have not kept. Cause then I'm afraid that something is going to happen to it. There's going to be an earthquake. An errant broom handle. Something, something is going to hit that and it is going to fall off when I am not ready and I'm going to be standing there, staring at the bits, wondering why I kept it in the first place when really, it was nothing to him.

And there is the rub. There's the trouble. Cause I make that assumption, but I don't really know. He kisses me every time I see him, and every time I leave, and in between. My neck. He holds my back when we walk. He tells me things about myself that I know I did not tell him, so how does he know? Could he really be looking that closely, and if he is, is it because he means it? Ever? And if he does, how long will it take before he stops for lack of reciprocation? And if I give it back, how fast, how super fast, how superhumanly fast will it become clear that I got the wrong idea, that I misinterpreted, and he just thinks I'm really, really cool?

for what it's worth

it was worth all the while


I had a really strange experience recently. Two, really, two strange experiences. Separate but similar experiences. They both involved a television, which if you know me at all tells you that it was unusual from the get go. I watched two things, two shows, one movie, one television. Silly, fun, ridiculous bits of fluff. Thirteen Going On Thirty. Season One, Episode Seven of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

There is a scene in the movie, the Thirteen movie. It is not even a scene, really, more of an exchange. The girl says to the boy, after discovering that he is engaged to be married to someone else, she says Is she your soul mate? And he states that he does not believe in soul mates. And she says But you get the fluttery stomach and the, you know, when you're with her? And he says No, I haven't gotten that way over a girl since high school, thank God.

Thank God. I do not feel that way, thank God. He is happy, relieved, that he has not had to go through this thing in how many years. And I watched this movie, and as light as it was, that hit me very hard. Because, why wouldn't you want that? Why wouldn't you want to feel that? I cannot imagine anything less. That feeling. That, that feeling. That knowledge, that sense. I know where you are, and where you are is in my head, and I can feel you in my stomach and it's nice to see you. That sometime desperation, where you just, feel. And I was thinking how much I miss that. Because that's how it's always been, and it's probably been that way far too often, but that's how it always is. That's how it was for five years last time, and it did not occur to me until I watched this thing that that is not how it always is, and that perhaps that is not even desirable. Because why wouldn't you want that?

And I got the answer while watching this other thing, Buffy. A very specific episode. I have not seen the show before. I rented it and enjoyed it very much. Then after everyone else was gone I watched another episode, one which I imagine will come to be somewhat pivotal in the series. It is the episode in which the boy confesses to the girl that he is a vampire and she is a vampire slayer but all that aside he loves her and cannot be without her and she is in HIS head and in HIS belly and you can see it, you can see him tormented by this thing, by the weight of his feeling for her, and that it is eating him and will make him insane. And she is the same for him and they are mad for each other but can't have it, and the point at which I started fucking sobbing was when she walked off after their last kiss and he is watching her and she has left a mark on him, seared into his skin, the evidence that no matter how we burn for one another and how it seems that we cannot breathe unless we are breathing each other, that sometimes the heat of that burns everything but you and leaves you standing there, the lone survivor of this nuclear blast that we call love. And really, why wouldn't you want that.

Why wouldn't I want that? I would love that. I would love to have that. I would love to feel that for someone, to even just know that I could. Except that I already have, and I have the marks of it burned into my skin, too. I have the heat of that smoking its way through the brains of every boy I've met since, every single one who went How the fuck did you get like that, and who did that to you? Because it's like a forest fire, you know? For a long time it is ugly and it is black and you can smell the ashes for years, but eventually, eventually it comes back. It turns green, bits at a time. But if the forest behind my house burned down and I narrowly escaped with my life, I don't know that I'm going to be lighting campfires in it when it finally starts growing back. I think that I may sit out at the edge of the woods with some flame retardant and a fire extinguisher and even if I never sleep I am going to sit there and make sure that I put out every fucking wisp of flame that I see. And I feel for the arsonist, the camper, the poor boy that is simply trying to warm his hands because after I hose him down with that extinguisher I think that I may just sink it into the back of his skull, for good measure. Just to be sure. And then leave him there on the ground while I go back to my house and freeze to death because I am so, so afraid to turn the heat on.

you're an accident

waiting to happen

I remember, now, what this is like. Just today, I remember what this was like. It's that thing that's like good but in its goodness it's a lot like bad. Cause the fluttery and the skip, that's good but it also tells the tale of a heart condition. That feeling, that one where I'm talking and you're laughing and then it's still and hard as a rock? I almost wish it were an uncomfortable silence. Because it isn't, and then later I wonder why anyone would let that go. Every day, letting that go and walking around separately looking for it. But you are not looking for it. I forgot that part.

I forget a lot of things. I forget that I am important until they tell me. I forget that I am funny until I can see your fillings. I forget that sometimes you cancel what you are doing to come sit with me on a very, very uncomfortable bench and ask me not to go back in. I forget that sometimes it can be just, good. Just very good. I forget that I am happy, except that I know that I am, I just forget.

Today that other one said that he had never seen that before. Seen what? That look. Which look? The one that I wish I could see on my wife's face just once, and I have got to see the guy that did that to you.

Oh, that look. Cause I don't know what that look is like from the outside, but I know what's it's like on the inside, and I think that I have seen it on your face and I wonder if it's for me, now and then. Because I imagine that a lot of us wish you wore that for us, but maybe you wear it for you because you remember that you are happy. I know what that's like on the inside, and it's the same thing that is a lot like good but maybe a lot more like bad, because when you feel that, when you get hold of it and it's sitting in your chest and your belly and presenting itself to the world in the way you walk and talk and even the look on your face, when you get hold of that it is hard to let it go. A piece of glass left out on the beach. Waiting, waiting to be a piece of glass covered in blood, confused as I stumble off to the first aid tent. Because I want that to be for me, and I know that it is not, that it is simply you and that is why this, this is simply you. Why you make me feel this when no one else can. It's a warning sign, yeah? Cause I know, and I know and I know and I know where it goes and I know that where it it takes me is not where it takes you, and even if we are still sitting on this bench in two years, and even if we are both wearing our selves in public, I know that what it feels like on the inside is not necessarily what it looks like to you. It is something, but not everything. It is something different, something rare, but still something that I would risk for a shot at synching our respective obviousness. Because you, you, you make me feel the part like good and forget that the flip side is bbbbbbbad. You make me forget that ANYthing, ever, is bad. Because really, walking around with that feeling, it seems, for those moments, that no matter how bad things are and have been and could be, it is all right. Because I have the remedy, and it is in my head and in my hands and people can see it from a mile away and it is happiness. Eventually, I am sure, I will reach a point where I can make myself that happy, that I can be that and feel that without an outside influence, and when I get there I will know, a little, what it feels like to be where you are. And I hope that the people that I love, the people that I care about, I hope that they are as happy with me as I am with you. And when I see that on them I will remember what it feels like, and what you feel like, and I will be that much happier myself.