February 10, 2005
My very first Diaryland entry was filled with him and, in nearly a year's worth of writing, he has made up a great portion of my words. There have been hastily written narratives while I was at work, cryptic and fervent poems and overly dramatic epics of lust coupled with confusion - all dedicated to the one man who, although he has moved on, will not quit my heart. These inexorable acts of consistent, quiet musings have followed me from sheets upon bundled sheets of loose leaf paper, to colorfully assorted Mead spiral notebooks, to carefully aligned scribblings on a last resort of computer paper. With a myriad of $.65 candles lighting the space about me, my favorite Precise rollerball pen in hand and a concoction of reminiscent lyrics slowly infiltrating my senses, I would write about that Gorgeous life. It's simply what I do.A binder full of passionate, unsent letters, which I had written over the course of four years, has been painfully discarded. Five of the twenty five packets of pictures with doubles taken strictly of him have been cast away. I discontinued the once necessary obsession of portraying at least one picture of him on every single wall in my apartment living room, along with the plethora of trinkets that were concomitant to our adventures. A rare photo us of taken in 2001, smiling and holding onto one another, which occupied the center of my refrigerator, that he insisted I never remove, has been agonizingly removed. I've only written to him seven times in my red spiral notebook; late at night, by candle light and with the tears of unyielding adoration.
I've only folded two or three times from my resolution of abstinence in dialing his number and leaving a message to wish him well or congratulate him upon his new job. I've only buckled three or four times in sending him e-mails which contained some of the pictures I was about to discard. I've only had to pass him in my car fifteen or twenty times while he walked down the street toward the motorcycle shop we were once both employed and I've only had one single confrontation with him since our separation in September...
I slugged him, not hard, and walked away. I exited the building with a great sigh, walked into the drizzling rain and ran right into the back of Adam, an ex employee of Lake Country and a mutual friend. We hugged and chatted for a little while before I hopped into my car sitting on the side of the road. I looked up at the Warehouse garage door and...
There he was.
His face barely showing through the small, dirty square of a window. I watched him until he disappeared, most likely greeted by Adam at that very moment. I know not if he was simply looking out the window from habit, as I've seen him do a million times before, or if he was looking out after me. I suppose that I shall never know, but I'll always think back on it and hope for the latter. -- December 30th, 2004
Only two or three people still inquire after him; asking if I know how he is doing. They ask about the condition of his Leukemia and the new house that I have not seen or of his fantastic new job and his new little puppy. They ask about the shop we worked at and if he's going to race Supermotard this year. They ask about the bikes he owns, the one he's rebuilding and the one or two that he's sold. They have always asked me about these things. They ask now and I do not know the answers.
They ask and I smile, trying to keep the tambour of my heart at bay...
And all at once, I am taken back to the fireflies, surrounding the seclusion of our evening sky and skipping about the dense line of trees in massive form, more than three years ago. It was a warm June evening and the motorcycles secured on the trailer behind us were our only company. The silence between us accompanied by the discordant hum of the engine in his van as pushed the stick in park and turned to me with the tickle of a nervous gaze. He pushed the door beside him open with ease and quietly spilled out of the opening and onto the gravel filled road below him. The crunch of the sand and rocks beneath his boots seemed to echo in my ears as I watched him pass the front of the van through that bug splattered windshield. He opened my door and my heart began to pound. He smiled and I gently imparted a visage of equal expression. He took both of my hands in his own and held them tightly together.
"I just wanted to have you all to myself for a moment, before we join the group, and perhaps receive a kiss."
All I have I are the memories. The hopes and the dreams and the potential that once were - they all came crashing down as though they were merely an idyllic fairy tale filled with artificial passions and fabricated characters. As though it were all caught in a gripping novel that tragically ended without satisfaction or genuine completion. Swept away with the swift motions of a wand, disappeared in the blink of an eye, passed by with a quick snap of the fingers and lost for all eternity. Yet the memories remain so entirely intact and the moments of their revival strike upon me with an unforeseeable eruption of intensity, that I am disabled in their presence. And, I wonder, where do I put all of these years?
Shall I chronicle them in the spiral notebook with the red tattered cover? Might I record them onto a few pieces of loose leaf paper that will surely be discarded? Perhaps in the scrapbook I dedicated to him or with the assemblage of pictures I cannot let go of. Maybe, someday, they will be portrayed in a book - the fairy tale that did not come true, the fireflies that he waded through, the most unforgettable years and all my sideline cheers, the passion, the pain, the adoration in vain, the big and the small, the everything and all...