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    Run For Your Life, Black Hockey Jesus!
    « Shuffling | Main | Where Were You When Hiroshima Exploded? »

    Where Fiction Meets Non


    You’ve been dead 5 years. How’s being dead? My best guess is that it’s endlessly blue with no contrast to this nor that—or maybe it’s a black hat from which no white rabbit will ever emerge, the magic long gone.

    What could it possibly mean to not be? Tell me. I’ve washed down fistfuls of pills with half-fifths of vodka, sat perfectly still and lined up my chakras, had the wall fall between my self and the other—I ran all night until I forgot my own name.

    And yet I’m so fucking persistently, consistently, endlessly, relentlessly… this. Tenaciously me. Trapped inside be. Sentenced to the prison of is.

    But not you. You’re dead. Isn’t it merely being turned inside-out, like a removed t-shirt tossed through the air, just hanging there, perhaps forever? Or maybe you simply play the that to my this, inhaling my exhalations, exhaling my inhalations—are you the white static between radio stations?

    Ashes. Buried beneath a tree. Who once so laughed.

    Sometimes, when I’m being very still and quiet, there’s a little tear in what is usually the seamless march of moments—a tiny little slit between now and the impatient future banging on the present’s door. And for a split second—through that slit—I see, smiling at me once again, your shit eating mischievous fuck the world grin.

    Back then. But then now? Here how? Then again.

    And the question about what being dead means changes to remembering that I’m far from an irrefutable fact. We are in this together. This stew of fantasies. Simmering in the wilds of what dares to be imagined.

    The stones know best. The stones know best. The stones hold the place where death hangs with fiction.

    Reader Comments (14)

    My Best Friend Of All Time caught a bad case of the Cancer and died. This was seven years ago.

    She knew stuff I didn't and didn't get a chance to tell me all of it before she got gone.

    It's like an itch between my shoulder blades.

    January 26, 2011 at 10:13 PM | Unregistered CommenterJett

    "Sentenced to the prison of is."

    fucking A.

    January 26, 2011 at 11:03 PM | Unregistered Commentera work in progress

    My thoughts. But you pulled out the words.

    January 27, 2011 at 5:34 AM | Unregistered CommenterJeannie

    "inhaling my exhalations, exhaling my inhalations..."

    Oh, gosh.

    January 27, 2011 at 6:17 AM | Unregistered Commentersweetsalty kate

    "This stew of fantasies." "Where fiction meets non." -- these are life. For all of us. Jett's comment resonates with me, too. That "itch between the shoulder blades" -- when a person is gone, sometimes taking my secrets to the grave, sometimes taking hers/his. Where's that book? And, I can't believe how fast you run. I used to be fast... now I'm old.

    January 27, 2011 at 6:23 AM | Unregistered CommenterChris

    When I think that death is un-defineable, you are able to define it, eloquently.
    I truly fear death, I had an anxiety attack on a city bus once, thinking how could I never see any of this again, How could there be NOTHING in its most extreme, black nothingness.

    I am so sorry that you feel a constant pain of this loss in your heart.

    January 27, 2011 at 7:07 AM | Unregistered Commentertee

    Emotions are meant to be felt and then pass. Few are able to capture their essence with such eloquence. I appreciate you my friend.

    January 27, 2011 at 8:58 AM | Unregistered CommenterOut-Numbered

    I've held onto a pair of holy underpants for the past 8 years because they were bought for me by a girl who's now dead.

    January 27, 2011 at 5:44 PM | Unregistered Commentermuskrat

    Thanks for that. The persistence of grief. My sis is buried in the Pacific. So. Every time I wade out I don't know if I should be feeling better or worse. It never works the way it is spozed to.

    January 27, 2011 at 8:39 PM | Unregistered CommenterSuebob

    i'd like this read at my funeral.

    January 28, 2011 at 7:46 AM | Unregistered CommenterBon


    January 29, 2011 at 4:55 PM | Unregistered CommenterErin

    You never cease to amaze me. Never.

    February 1, 2011 at 12:29 PM | Unregistered CommenterForgotten

    The release of "the prison of is" is a nice way of perceiving ceasing to exist. If in some afterlife we had to watch our lives all over again, like eternal reruns of a crappy reality show, that would kind of suck, no? Blurry, crappy, fiction.

    Finish your book. You'll live forever.

    February 1, 2011 at 8:28 PM | Unregistered CommenterJo Paperfairies

    I have been looking for you, BHJ...and the unicorn at mamapop wasn't talking so I sent out my ring wraiths (google) to find you. And then I spent the last hour catching up on your life, and I shed a few tears and shuddered. Anger is a gift, death, recovery, running to stand heart hurts for you and the divorce you are meandering through. Sick at my delight reading your DMV post...Thank you for the post about your son and the sex talk. I have 3 of them (boys), and no clue how to break it down and remain a mysterious female with a shred of dignity as their mother...once they learn the awful truth of what really goes down. Thank you for a glimpse into that wonderful male brain, developing.
    Thank you. I found a purpose to pull out a few more miles and love that pain/weakness leaving my body.

    February 2, 2011 at 11:42 PM | Unregistered Commenterfrecklefacehockeymom

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