it goes without saying.

2010-05-24T11:12:00.001-07:00

August 30th, 2008 - For Posterity

2010-04-07T23:16:00.000-07:00

One wedding and a funeral.
Grandma passed away without alarm the day after her 78th birthday. The surrounding family said The Lord's Prayer over her bed before the hospice nurse dressed her in a lavender sweater, powdered her nose, and slicked a coat of color over her lips. The Cremation Society arrived shortly thereafter to feed her to the fire.

The funeral was tasteful, filled with meatballs and sensible shoes, just as I knew it would be. The programs I made, complete with removable photo-quality pictures, were a huge success. The pastor made a lot of vague references and, as they always do, reached and reached to make sense of the senseless for the grieving. He likened her life to the tiny boxes she made and sold at the craft store to help supplement their meager means. I was uncomfortable with such a long life being reduced to arts and crafts, but no one else seemed to be, so I suppose it doesn't matter.

Grandma's friend DeeDee, or, as she legally renamed herself, Butterfly Christian, took to the stage to sing us a few cuts from the gospel album she recorded against all odds. Even losing her children in process, the judge declaring "illusions of grandeur", DeeDee never stopped demanding to be a country superstar. Even after losing a lifelong friend and probably her biggest, most sincere fan, Butterfly Christian clucked and twanged through "Amazing Grace" and "A Closer Walk With Thee", wearing her best TimeLife Country Gold smile and platinum wig.

Though seated at a babygrand piano, hands poised to play, mic drawn near to her frosted pastel mouth, no sound came from either. Instead, when the music began, it came from the surround sound and boasted those prerecorded '70s gospel gems she had so lovingly referred. DeeDee lipsynced. Not only did she lipsync, she lipsyned to a projected video background of baby woodland creatures nestled in the dewy grass. In a lot of ways, DeeDee saved us from ourselves. The subdued Lutheran laughter and still, somehow, geniune appreciation, bled through the stained glass and forced me to take a deep breath for the first time in days. How sweet the sound, indeed.

Benjamin Harris and Kelly Connely joined together in holy matrimony August 23rd, 2008, at 3:30pm in the Lyndale Rose Gardens. The programs had that much correct, anyway. If they were to be redone by say, me, they would have read, "Come join Harris and Kelly at the Lyndale Rose Gardens as they exhange vows no one can hear over the jet takeoff, strike symbolic singing bowls to the revving of a large bus, see the precious flower girl throw down roses to a Jeep blasting Usher, and be surrounded by randomsters riding their bikes and tanning in the background. 3:30 PM, if you found a place to park, that is."

All kidding aside to save my own skin, the wedding was very nice. It was everything a Fridley boy and and Anoka girl could ever want. The reception, however, was the heavy-hitter in terms of memorable merriment.

Standing in dollar store sunglasses and ill-fitting suit, Dan was not only completely in the bag by the time I arrived the reception hall, he was having a hell of a time finding his way out of it. Apparently a large quantity of bottom-shelf rum, beer, and whatever else novelty wedding liquor was consumed in the wedding party limo. Dan, being everso thrifty, chugged what no one else could endure as to let it not go to waste. And go to waste it didn't.

As much as I'd like to say the reception was about Harris and Kelly, all the stories are about Dan. From his incessant complimenting of my pretty hair and tastefully chosen Target apparel, to his severe wedding/baby want. He went so far as to drunkenly perform a Jedi mind trick on me in which he was impregnating me from across the table, over the tiny boxes of candy and ham buns. His obsession with wanting to be a father only grew as the night went on. Kristina managed to take an amazing video of Dan hassling the baby sitting next to him in which he keeps touching its head and trying to feed it things. When told to stop touching people's babies, Dan replied with the Quote of the Night:

"DON'T.............EVER.......TELL ME WHAT BABIES I CAN TOUCH."

From then on the highlights included Noah and Monique demonstrating their swing dancing skills to Bill Haley and the Commets and other such long-forgotten relics of black and white TVs and sock hops. It was only then that I truly admitted to myself that we have friends who swing dance. I always assumed they were just going out every Tuesday night to get trashed and go to Lookout Point in the Fairlane. But no. They were on. In full swing.

Stu chose to spend the evening talking to Elder Harris about some chemical compound and the rest of us spent the evening tapping out the free beer and making people do the Macerena. At some point near the end of the evening, Dan asked me to marry him, placing his size 15 beer-opening ring over two of my fingers, and promptly forgetting where his ring went.

I don't know if starting out brand new makes any more sense to me than dying. If anything, it seems about the same. It's uncertain just when and how and why, but we all know we're going to get through it. Some of us buckle down and prepare for the worst, enduring the turbulance white-knuckled, while some of us chose to go balls-out and laugh at how silly everyone's problems really are. I've always admired those kinds of people more. I'm pretty into the fact that those people are now my people, and I, theirs. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, as long as we all shall live. Let's party.

November 26, 2008 - Revisited

2010-04-07T23:15:00.001-07:00

Superior, indeed.
Something about this time of year makes me ache for the North Shore. The smell up there is incredible. Brisk, sandy breeze blowing frosty sea glass and agates against my cheeks. Monsters of Superior bellowing their belly steam and moaning with satisfaction along the early morning fog. The lighthouse perched on its sandstone branch, a finger extending toward any captain or crew, cross and forgiving. Yes, we'll never be the same again. We admit it.

At the kitchen table, smashed up against the wall, under the red Spanish glass casting yellow light onto my toast plate, I see grandpa in his boots, feeding the rabbits. Handfuls of carrot scraps from our dinner are strewn about the fresh downy snow. They come out for him around this time, waiting patiently for the man in the red hunting cap with the ear flaps tied up onto his head. The man with the matching red nose, small, but pointed and severe, softened only by a gentle snaggletooth grin. And I wait for him, too.

She comes by with a mug of tea. Too sweet, of course. I pick at my toast and, for a minute, understand that this is what people mean when they say they just want to be happy. It creeps in, unannounced, and, if you're me, uninvited. It nestles itself into the corners of your mouth without celebration. It doesn't feel much different than anything else, just that you can't really think of anything to complain about. I try not to think about it too hard. I always feel ripped off when I think about it too hard.

He helps me in that way, the boy. His content breath, slow and even, radiates through my body and never lets me think too hard about much of anything at all. We make a breakfast of all the usual stuff, but it tastes better. It tastes clean. Free of the need to impress, which always tastes burned and makes the orange juice too sour. He is Split Rock, guiding me home without sound. Without celebration. Unannounced, but this time, welcome. When we finish eating, he does the dishes right away, just like grandpa. I put my arms around him and his shirt smells like home. Like tea that's too sweet and toast and red hunting caps. Like coffee made from iron-laden tap water, brewed in her percolator. Like meatballs and wicker-backed chairs with crushed gold velvet seats and the ironed linens in the guest room with all the weird stuffed animals on the bed.

And, for a moment, I don't have anything to complain about. And that, for me, is rare.

Generous Donations of Someone Else's Money

2010-04-07T23:12:00.000-07:00

Smashing her computer closed, she pinched her colorless lips together and eyed my mother with a practiced filth. It’s hard to say how long she’d known about the two of them. There are 10 years worth of pictures in our coffee table drawers, and more if you count the ‘70s, but Christ. Who would ever do that? Anyway, I don’t know what they keep in their coffee table at home, but I’d be willing to bet it was stupid and un-heartwarming.

My mother stood in the doorway, shrieking down the sterilized walls to her about being conscious in an unconscious world. About smashing your face between two Bibles, about stuffing sage under your fingernails, about burning incense into your retinas. But she had disappeared into the background of industrial fabrics and janitor’s keys, so I motioned her back into the room. Let it go.

His skin was a hymnal. Death had settled into his eyes, which were wet and agonizing. “We’re way, way off base,” and he pushed the meat off his bun and reached for my mother’s hands. I backed up to better observe. His face is a eulogy. No, no, much too removed. I should be more in the moment. I should say something about how there just isn’t any time or how yellow it is to act so hurt when someone is literally breathing their last breaths right in front of you. I can’t, though. I really just wanted him to have a nicer hamburger. I really just wished he could have had salt, instead of that Mrs. Dash bullshit.

We could have buried three Lutherans in the time it took for High Mass. There were no ham buns in the basement. No assortment of bereavement bars, and I didn’t really get all the kneeling and shit. The 21-gun salute was flaccid, but she and my mother stood over the casket, whimpering and shivering in the fur coats he had bought them years earlier.

The ground opened beneath him, to lower him to his eternal resting place, America’s biggest mall gleaming like the gates of St. Peter behind us. I shoved my hands in my pockets and mumbled along when the Catholics spoke in unison. Amen. Peace be with you. And also with you. And where might I get a nice hamburger around here?

The juice ran down the side of my hand and several napkins were required. I balled them up on my empty plate, satisfied. My mother swallowed two Xanax without water before paying the check. We drove without the radio. We imagined ourselves as priests, singing hymns off the faces of corpses and carving Eucharist from their soft inner arms and placing it on our tongues. We were removed and we were conscious. I pushed sage under the skin and she lit the incense, carefully packing the ash into his mouth. I covered the casket with my robe and stood naked in the colored light of a stained glass saint. Peace be with you. And also with you.

We're all embarrassed; let's go to Dairy Queen.

2009-09-12T00:16:00.000-07:00

This woman at work, I thought she was Indian (dots), but she's really Mexican (tortillas). She teeters on these bowed ham hocks, waddling just so to keep from presumably having a great fall (kings and horses don't come cheap). Her tiny loaves stuffed into puckering, filthy Keds, clearly working overtime. Well, she whistles. She whistles with her big pursed lips over her gap-toothed grin, oblivious to my RAGE. She whistles over songs on the radio, tunelessly, mindlessly. Oh, except for when "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" comes on. Then she has to crank the volume up and do a nauseating seated Jitterbug.

Her enthusiasm is lovely and endearing, I'm sure. But keep me the fuck out of it.

Alanis Morrisette Jr.

2009-08-04T12:47:00.001-07:00

I have to shit. I have to clench my teeth and run. I have to kill you in the face. You were pretty boring. I'm glad I'm a lot smarter than you. Boring people know how to leave it alone because they've already forgotten. I will follow you through hell and I don't even like you. I don't. Even. Like you.

I tried to play guitar, but I remembered that you tuned it weird and broke some strings. I haven't played in six months. I picked it up and had to shit. After I flushed the can, your voice played out the shower head.

"I just need to cleanse myself, " you said. You said we'd have to stop having sex for that to happen. I'm filthy. Made of rotting wood, like a budget blow-up doll.

I don't. Even. LIKE you.

I'm just waiting for work to start. I'm just waiting for another you to start. I'm just waiting to tape over your voice in the shower, in my passenger seat, sliding off my kitchen knives, calling to me from my bedside table.

You gave me a journal and then told me to fuck off. I liked that.

That. Not YOU.

Stop showing up when I'm finally done remembering you. Jesus Christ.

Step 1: Learn to say no.

2009-07-01T19:31:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be a regular person soon. I'm going to go to bed at a reasonable hour. I'm going to get daily exercise and hydrate often. I won't drink. I'll eat a high-fiber diet and take long, luxurious dumps three times a day. I'm going to get a subscription to the New York Times and recite interesting tidbits to the simpletons who only get the local news. I'm going to pay my bills on time because I'm going to have a good job. Maybe something to do with helping people or real estate. I'll wash my sheets every Sunday. I'll start watching CBS sitcoms while I cross stitch. I'm going to tell everyone what their problem is by setting the example. I'm going to lose weight not to be more attractive, but to reduce the risk of type 2 diabetes. I will learn to love bran. I'm going to take up working crossword puzzles while I stab a grapefruit in my breakfast nook. I will have at least two tubes of Ben Gay. I will train myself to be disgusted by both smoking and bacon. I will save for a house and when I have enough, I'll mow the lawn within an inch of its life every other day, at exactly 5:45pm. I'll own a weed-whacker. I'm going to buy my first box of adult wipes. I'll tell you a joke I heard at work. I'll forward you the email that has been floating around the office. You'll laugh your fucking head off because you're the type of friend I have now. And we'll both be so good for having it all.

To all those who aren't at my feet

2009-06-02T18:58:00.000-07:00

You self-absorbed idiots. You shallow, absurd motherfuckers. You with your frozen, packaged meals and your spiritual guidance books. Today, I hate you.

I saw him there, tense. Mouth dry. Begging his nurse for pillows and pills. A man unable. A man able, then unable, then able, now unable again. And I wonder what kind of world this is. I wonder like everyone wonders and I feel bad about myself because I'm as small as they are.

Riding the elevator and sanitizing my hands like everyone. Knocking over brochures and sodas like everyone. Rummaging through the cupboards when the doctor leaves the room. Upsetting the nurses. Just like everyone.

But I walk with purpose down the halls with the plastic railings. I walk with conviction. My head held high because I know I'm the only one in the world who feels anything worth feeling.

And all of you who go about your daily business. Swilling your wine and rubbing your corns and temples from a long day on the job. All of you who park your cars in your garage and turn on the television without looking at me. Without ever seeing me. All those who have long conversations against a truck with a father still standing. And all those who choose to save themselves for other nights.

Of course you would not smash your glass against the sky with me tonight. You must save your energy for those more worth it.

Tonight, the joke is on you. I'm it. I'm everything. And here I am, passing you by.

Things I Wanted That Are Gone Now

2009-04-28T23:38:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that a bronzed woman, tall and firm, held me to her. She was naked, and it seemed to be that she was not usually, and that this was a rare moment to be savored. Her skin was left on my cheeks and the lily-white undersides of my arms, like gold leaf. It smelled of wine and felt good, like I was healing, though I didn't know I was hurt.

When I woke from it, my shirt stuck to me and the sheets had to be peeled off. My panties lay limp against my hips and I felt myself warm and desirous of more. I imagined her again, but she wasn't what I wanted. And so I stared at her until she was.

I pulled in his face, bearded, always warm. His eyes were blank and a color that doesn't really exist. I moved down and rested my head on his chest, as I had been imagining since he left me. He inhaled the warmth and generosity I wanted to give him, but his breath always returned flat, like fog, except there was no meaning. In later days, I would be angry about this.

His movements were mechanical and passionless. He didn't smile, nor did he wince. I closed my eyes and smelled him deeply, instantly forgetting that I was alone. I am in love with him, but part of him hates me. I'm not sure why. I think he says nothing because he isn't either. But I don't mind, as long as he can still get it up, and as long as I have a place to go on weekends. I think to myself how horrible it sounds when put like that. And so I came, and went back to sleep, long past the afternoon bells, and much too late to be angry at anyone.

tradition.

2007-12-25T18:29:00.001-08:00

and i in my cap

2007-12-24T22:25:00.000-08:00

The dark in northern Minnesota can swallow you whole. Iron beasts loom across foggy water, steaming and bellowing low from their full bellies. Even deeper are the lines that frame the husky chuckle of diner captains, dreamy with sea spray and condiments.

The low moan of an oxygen machine soothes the harsh quiet. My grandfather says he just doesn't want to smother when he goes.

Merry Christmas.