Hate

This is my first posting via iPhone. It may be my last. We will see how that goes. This entry is titled hate because so much of it has been pouring through my veins lately. First of all, I am writing this while facing Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn. FL is fast asleep, yet she is the one prompting me to address this fucked up, pent up negative energy inside of me. And by prompting, I mean a good thing. One of the best and open conversations of my life took place with her a couple of nights ago.

First of all, I thought that all moved forward in life. The brain just moves on and you forget shit. These days, I feel like I'm in a backslide. Memories are boiling to the surface. Ones I had thought I had forgotten are simply reappearing like random ghosts and I don't even see myself clearly anymore.

There is no melodrama here. It is just hard to take inventory of your life at the age I've made it it to thus far and just remember things out of nowhere.

Guess this is an ambiguous post on an ambiguous platform. Let's leave it at that. More to come on hate part 2.

Pops

Father's Day came and went as it always does with very little celebration in the peanut shell mind of mine, but it is important none the less.  I always look at the tattoo on my arm and the memory/specter of my father flashes through my mind.  As a really young kid, maybe 6 or 7, I was deathly afraid of heights.  My dad, I guess you call him fearless or irresponsible, threw me on a roller coaster called the Jackrabbit at Kennywood park in West Mifflin, PA.  In my mind, West Mifflin is Pittsburgh, but in reality, it actually isn't.  Anyway, my dad tosses me, quite literally on this roller coaster that climbed 90 feet or so into the air.  The only thing holding me to my seat is a leather strap, much like a barber's sharpener, and my pop's arm.  He wore a smile the entire way.  I cried the entire way through the ride.  This coaster, not to sound super geeky here, included a double dip segment.  It was built in the 20s, I think and was made by John Miller....coaster god!  Anyway, it had this segment of track where the hill is interrupted by another hill, much like a rabbit hop.  My father, I swear, protected me from flying out of the car.  Therefore, I owe my dad my fear of "getting over heights" by force.  The ride ended.  I swear, tears in my eyes, balling from earlier, all I said was, "Let's do it again."

Thank you dad!

Win?

Cannot begin to state how great tonight was. Jud at Yankee stadium. Friends due. Nova pitching a gem.

Break Shit

All I wanna do is turn over the entire apartment.  I can't , but man how fun it would be to just pretend the entire apartment were bugged.  Every couch.  Every pillow.  Every tear.  Just gone.

Comanche

I have always lost something in my life, be it my parents when they got divorced, a dog I was given after my mom died and a cat, of which I chose on my own.  Comanche has seen me through so much.  Throughout my mother’s death and all.  He was the spirit who kept me going when I had little left to even think about hope for.  And, fucking hell, what do you think killed him?  The same thing that killed my mom.  Pancreatic Cancer.  He was misdiagnosed with Pancreatitis.  For most cats, that can be a death sentence if found too late, or a simple dietary change.  For Comanche, the evidence of his pain came from a simple belly rub.  He used to sleep with me with my arm draped over him.  I must have felt like a boa, but he loved it.  He settled in and got even closer until one night when he meowed when I touched his stomach.  Comanche was a pretty silent cat; he either purred or was quiet.  So, that meow meant something.  Off to the vet we go.  This is the same vet as the Comanche sagas of 2008.  Blah, blah, blah.  They said he was suffering from something, but they didn’t know what.  They gave him pain reliever, which worked, but at the same time he was starting to become reclusive.

.......And then a record skipped in my mind.  The above entry was written with careful words, poured over again and again.  They are a joke.  All I feel is anger.  Robbed twice in my life by some fucking disease no doctor can find.  By the time it is found, it is too late.  I am angry at myself for being in Florida dealing with family matters.  To return home and see your cat in exhaustive pain, ooze pouring out of his eyes due to dehydration, is just unbearable.  He was dying while I was gone and it makes me sick.  He had been there through it all with me in New York.  I got him in 1998 at the PetCo in Union Square.  His sister's story is something I will probably only write about when I'm near my own death, as I'm grappling with my own actions.  Yet, he saw me through many break ups, my mother's cancer, friends passing and going, a divorce, a new life in Ditmas Park.  

My hat always ends up on the couch.  These days, barely a week after putting him down, I keep imagining he is there.  But, no, it is just a hat.  

He was a perfect animal.