In a fit of depression
25 or so years ago, while riding a bicycle to work,
I chose to find something beautiful, however small,
in each and every day.
This morning, Southbound, on
Pacific Coast Highway it was
the luminous fog, The sun to my left
like an angry gibbous moon.
Ghostly shrouded palm trees to my right.
The scent of the ocean embracing me
in the cab of
my truck.
In reality it is not the scent of the sea at all.
Instead it is the stench both of land and
death.
While driving past several accidents.
My mind started to wander towards
the foggy edges of pain. Straight towards
the place I try hard to
avoid.
The very first memory I have of of you or otherwise
is in schul. Likely Yom Kippur since the memory
seems so endless.
You davened. I fidgeted.
Passing by another accident just now,
surrendering to the somber manic glee of my thoughts.
I unlatched the door,
and let things go where they would.
The second memory I have of you is
camping in my beloved Sierra. I'm sure you thought
the rocks I threw while you were fishing were
unhelpful.
Still on my drive, suddenly laughing and crying all at once.
I put aside laughter and tears and put on my
warface instead. I rushed upstairs to write
it all down before losing the words.
A long time ago I also decided to embrace my
personal flock of demons and kiss them
soundly on the lips. I'm sorry if necking with
demons is not your thing.
One of your things, I recall, was to respond when pestered
about lunch at the beach, was to whip out your Zippo lighter
and threaten to put Zippo'd SandCrabs on the menu.
Up to the end you took good care of us.
Unable to write a single word. All morning work interfered.
People asking me if I was OK. My response always
"Fine just focused" The people at work thought
that was just great.
You would also tear the corners off of pages
of books and chew on them. I still have
a few of your well loved and well abused
books around.
People misunderstood my focus
thinking it was about work which
by that time was just a background process.
Still both jobs progressed well.
You remarried briefly.
That went awry. Her name was
Joy and she bought my brother and I
watercolours and seemed kind.
I was finally able to escape work. Bright sunlight
and the shortest way home - to capture these
words lest they escape forever or
be lost to me.
There is a photo-booth picture taken
maybe a few months before of my brother
and I. We look happily goofy in the photograph.
Thank you for the days at the museum of Science And Industry.
Still on the way home I stop at the market. Nothing speaks
to me there. Nothing looks good to me there.
Writing has become
imperative.
And let me tell you- those days
at the beach, zoo, or museum...
were well loved by
my brother and I.
Almost home, embraced by another
fog bank. Parking and hurried entry
into our house, finally able to put
pen to paper.
I remember the time you took us
to the snow on Mount Pinos. You taught
us to write our names in the snow with urine.
I've gotten pretty good at that since then.
Finally home. A glass of wine, a cigarette and
a blank page of my journal. With my lucky blue pen
in hand. Still I pause, hesitate.
This is going to hurt.
I remember your turquoise Ford Fairlane,
disintegrating headliner and ever present
camel in the ashtray along with a
smoldering cone of sandalwood incense.
Even now as I write this while smoking
I wonder if my tobacco problem
is in fact an attempt to rekindle
a connection to you.
You died one day in December, barbiturates -
and alcohol were your undoing. I did not understand
then but then again, I probably
did.
Remember when you were in the Navy, got drunk, got a misspelled tattoo dad?
I do or at least the story of it.
Your tattoos, however,
I remember vividly.
And as I write this, six handwritten pages in.
I feel unburdened. Really, Dad, we have been needing
to have this talk
for years now.
And your mother just died this year.
She never got over it you know.
I was in Venice when I heard.
Havana Club rum was helpful then- the hangover memorable.
Oh- And have I told you how hard it was for
me to turn thirty? That age unsurpassed by
you was difficult
for me.
If only I could write as fast as I can type.
Not near the end of things yet but
getting to the meat of things.
Rare and nearly raw.
So Dad- In cleaning out your dead mother's house.
Your brother, my brother, and I came across your
death certificate.
On page one the cause of death was deferred.
On my 30th birthday I got into an argument
with my ex wife and went on to play poker
for 36 hours straight. I don't remember
whether I won or lost.
The second page of your death certificate
mentioned acute ethanol and barbiturate poisoning,
and suicide.
There. I said it. Suicide.
Even in the bad years when I did not care one whit.
I did some, well a lot of, drugs.
Never ever once touched a single solitary
barbiturate.
So there it is. I always knew, really.
I think the choice you made was
unfortunate. I'm not angry anymore;
just saddened by this your choice.
I remember that day when the
Rabbi said a kind thing or two about
you. I, for my part, said my first mourner's
Kaddish, in earnest, for you at your funeral.
And hey Dad- I'm sorry about the rocks I threw
into your Trout stream one time. I also wish I could
show you how well I can pee into
the snow.
I miss you still Dad.
Amazed by what can arise
from a little 50km drive,
Glad also that we could talk.
__________________________
For my Father Michael Addison Savage
Who once was neither inscribed nor
sealed in the book of life g-d was
apparently unwilling or unable to do so that year.
Oh that's right my father killed himself.
I love him and cherish his memory anyway.
___________________________
