Monday, November 16, 2015

When The Writing Needs To Happen

It doesn't have to be meaningful, or text-filled, or brimming with symbolism and metaphoric wizardry.

Sometimes, the words just need to come. Simply. Easily. Without structure. We need to slow down and realize that the work will get done. We take a lot on, and we try and bear through and push ourselves to impossible heights. We stretch ourselves thin. Like not enough peanut butter over too much bread. We don't take the time to rest.

I think sometimes I feel anxious in order to become aware in a heightened fashion - and because I need to zone in, in such an intense and comfortable way, just to know that there is more shit happening on this globular mud mass than Matt's feelings and experiences. I feel bad for friends in need. Friends who are suffering. Family members with pain in their bodies. And in their hearts. Members of our communities who don't get to have a release point. People getting shot. By pieces of gunpowder and metal and glass.

Anxiety is a fickle bitch. It's never on time. It doesn't give you warning. It's like a flakey soul who shows up last minute and dominates a conversation.

As I sip a fresh brewed caffeinated beverage at my dad's office in Ottawa, I need to remember that I have a lot to be thankful for. I really do. I've lived a full life to this point, and like Olden, I have done the things. The sun cascades in and falls on the client chairs in my dad's chamber, and I realize that in a very real way, this life is not really mine. I can do what I want to do with the time that I have, but it will all end. It will all come down.

I can't leave this vessel, until I leave it in a way that no one has come back to write about.

The great beyond.

I'm somewhat scared, but I have to believe that it's pretty great. I think somedays that I'll be able to have a sticky bun with my Grandpa, and hear him chuckle so deeply, and ask him about the stories that involved his brother being involved with the Al Capone mafia. I also wonder if I can share a ginger ale with my grandma, and talk with her about all of the people she entertained at her beautiful canal-side Glebe, open-door house. Maybe I'll ask Jay about what songs he's been working on, and share a smoke and talk about our mutual friends from Halifax. And then I'd make sure to say hey to Tommy, even though I don't know him, to say hi for the many I know and love that miss him, and take a knee while he told me some wild detailed stories. And I can fill Dale in on all of the Beau's beers that have surfaced lately (as he was a big fan of his hometown brew) and all of the great movies that have come out since he's been gone, but how his choices are probably still the best. And I'll go find Farley. And Bukowski. And S. Thompson. And Candy. And Cash. And we'll have a steak dinner and some fine cognac. And we can laugh raspily through cigarette coughs.

Winter is on its way. May you and I and all of us take the time to look in, and to look out.

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