I
AM Corybantic
pg.2
Down Washington Street, Peter lugubriously
lamented, words of loss and anguish, depression
and loneliness, anger and frustration. Helplessness.
“So hard to move on. Still loving what’s
gone. They say life carries on.” I
repeated the words Dad didn’t catch, driving
home the point, that this is a song about the
loss of a loved one, about the process we go through.
Denial - “nothing yet has really sunk
in” Anger - “final rattle
rocks its empty cage, and I can’t handle
this” Grief - “Let it out
and move on” and finally, after turning
onto Pacific Highway, the healing began, when
the beat picks up and Peter sings of the many
ways in which life DOES carry on. And the last
words, “Did I dream this belief? Or
did I believe this dream? Now I will find relief.
I grieve.”
The song ended just as I was pulling
up at the terminal, and I peripherally watched
my father wipe the tears from his face, touch
the cloth of his sleeve to his eyes to soak up
any residual moisture that may be gathering. He
mentioned wanting to share the song with his sister,
all of our family back east, all who are drowning
in grief, gasping for relief but every time it
shows up, in one form or another, some choose
to dip their heads back under the water. Something
comforting in sadness, I guess. I can understand
that, to a point. Sometimes, it feels so good
to hurt, to touch raw emotion, whether it be overwhelming
joy, or gut-wrenching pain.
I got out of the car to give Dad
a proper hug, to hold love for a moment.
He told me, as he always does, to tell my sisters
that he loves them (he always wants that to be
the last thing he says, should anything, God forbid,
ever happen to him). Then, walking back to the
car, I smiled as I called out, “oh, fuck
off… What, don’t you know that means
– I love you and I’ll miss you? But
really… have a safe trip, Daddy,”
hopped in the car and drove away, leaving him
to stack his many bags on his little-wheely-carry
thing. I’m going to miss him while he’s
gone.
Coffee Talk – 16 October
2002
Someone found my site here by typing,
“I have a wedgie” into their search
engine. Gotta love it.
Okay, this is the deal – the
water cooler/coffee station is outside my office.
Not close enough for anyone standing near it to
be right by my door, but close enough so that
sitting between my two desks, I can HEAR EVERYTHING
that is said in the coffee corner. Sometimes,
like this morning, for example, I arrive very
early to the office, in hopes of organizing my
To Do’s, settling in slowly into my work
mindset, catching up on emails, writing this,
etc. Not many people come in early. So, not thinking
anyone is around, the things that these catty,
small-minded ladies say at that coffee spot are
outrageously petty, and I get to listen
to all of it.
I always thought that age, where
a woman is concerned, is just about synonymous
with “grace.” Holy shit, are these
people bad examples of that. Psst! Psst! MEOW!
No wonder they call their half of the upstairs
floor the Cat Box. I must say, though, I can’t
help but be amused, and I tend to stop typing,
fuck, stop BREATHING, when they’re out there.
I listen to it all.
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