A Year Later

My dad reminded me around April 1st or so that it was one year since my uncle passed away. And then I remembered I started this blog a year ago. So I thought I need to write an entry since it's a year later, but technically it's not a year later yet for this journal. April 17th will be the anniversary of this blog and I have to say things are fuckin' awesome. It's unbelievable but I made it. I had one hell of a year and I can't say too much specifically what happened, but those who know me personally will know. Like MJ knows. She's been so supportive of my bad year. It's strange. Well, it's not really strange because I know when someone you care about dies, it does affect you. But when it really happens, you don't realize it. The world looks so morbid, and I guess it becomes morbid or sad or listless or mean, and cruel like one of Mr. Burns's hounds from The Simpsons cartoon. Maybe you hear something in my voice now that tells you things are better because I do feel a lot better.

They had a special poetry reading this past Saturday and I went to it, despite my boss being away for vacation. Funny thing is around the same time last year he had a vacation. So I guess we've come full circle. I'm really happy. But it just didn't happen. It was a journey, a hard journey. I could not have done it without my friends though and God of course. I hadn't been to a poetry reading since that one time where I read that one poem and the whole night just didn't feel exciting. Being at that special poetry reading was different. It was a party, a celebration, a re-birth maybe. A lot of my outlook though has been more positive, it was like I knew I had to go in that direction. It made me realize that I had to make the choice to be happy. I mean there are things to feel miserable about, and things to feel happy about. They're both there, you just have to take your pick. Sometimes it's hard to feel happy, it really is, and that's when you write, or you hold on to your friends. And I mean your friends. Not those idiots who don't want to listen to you whine anymore or have better things to do, or wonder why you don't get over your grief already. Who the fuck cares whether it's been one day, one week, or one year? Everyone has their grieving process. I mean, okay if you're stuck in your room, with the walls painted black for a whole year, then yes, something's obviously wrong, but if you're still doing shit but you're still sad then that's alright because you're still trying to get through the world, and some people just don't understand that. It's like they don't want to be reminded that the other person's dead. But sometimes, people need someone to talk to about their grief. They don't want you to fix their grief, just they just want to talk. It's how they express themselves. Sometimes it's hard to write. I have those times that it's hard to write. So I can understand that. Sometimes the griever just wants to talk or have a drink with you. I mean nothing big, just listen or just keep the griever company. Okay too creepy, MJ just showed up. Maybe she needs to talk? Time for me to blow this post and see how she is. Later.

Gloomy Day

It's a nice gloomy day outside and I wonder if they'll be out there. The mothers with their baby carriages. Hogging up the sidewalk, with 2 or 3 other kids with her. All of them smiling at me as I walk past, excited at the wonderful season yet to come. Why do they smile at me? Why do they care? Another place, another time, I would probably get a frown. Maybe it's because they are out in the open and having a relaxing walk. I can't begrudge them that. They have their freedom. Mine is within the confines of my place.

I was walking home last night and there was this guy in front of me on the sidewalk, walking slow. They walk slow when the weather's nice, it's kind of irritating. I just want to get home, but this guy's walking slow. I could pass him hurriedly, but I don't want to be rude, so just hang back and walk at his pace too. It's so slow, I think I might fall down and die, that's why I have to keep moving because if I stop I might as well be dead, like an old person in a retirement home playing shuffleboard and having their pee emptied out by an orderly. It's a sickening thought, though one I will have to face eventually I suppose. Maybe when I'm 71 like my uncle? I don't think he had it that bad, but he still had it bad. He took it stride though, I know he did. Which is why he didn't opt for the Chemo. That was brave of him. He knew he lived a full life though. And he did. Kids, grandkids. What more could you ask for? Sure the family had some turbulent times in the early years, but everything worked out for all of them. The kids are all successful: One's a banker, the other a teacher, and the third manages a meat plant. They're pretty up there. Not sure if that is the measure of success, but it is one of those readily seen successes. They have professions.

Of course, my success is not seen. My profession is the writer profession. That's only seen when I'm like Stephen King or someone of that caliber. There is a debate on his quality in literary circles, but the mainstream loves him and he's loaded. My point isn't the quality of his fiction, but in that amount of money he makes. After that, people start thinking you're cool, that your profession is cool. Not the people who want to be writers, just the others; the 9 to fivers, the wage-slaves I suppose or the big CEO's or the stuck-ups, suits. Once you make that big fat cash, it's all of a sudden "Wow, you're a writer, that's awesome!"

So I'm walking home, and eventually the guy keeps walking when I have to turn to go into my place. So thank god for that. Finally I'm in and safe. My meatloaf dinner is waiting for me, and it's good to be sitting down having a salad and meatloaf. A proper dinner for what seems like ages. Not that spaghetti is bad, but I never have time to do a salad or vegetable. I should do that more often.

Today is a busy day. I can't go to the poetry reading. Too much on my mind. So I plan to stay home, but I have bills to pay which means I have to go outside. It's my day off. Wish I had two, but I just had one. Wage-slave life is all I can say to that. I'm hoping they won't be there, the mothers with their baby carriages and they're whiny kids.

The best thing to do is just to do it and not think about it. I can't wait to get back home though. Back to my place, back to my space. Life doesn't suck, just some of the people I bump into that I don't know. Faceless people. "The apparation of the faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black, bough."