Posts Tagged ‘Jerry Wick’

January 10th.

January 12, 2020

There is quiet devastation that comes with depression, it is insidious and even the word depression brings about a plethora of connotations, most of which can cause others to recoil, roll their inner eyes and sigh. Sometimes the other person will recognize this feeling but at this point of meeting on the subject both may quickly change the subject as two depressives are always going to try to feel better so humor is the most frequent response.  Melancholy is a much more beautiful word, and perhaps is giving more leeway for acceptance.  Two depressives will laugh together more than they will ever cry together. The tears they birth will come from joy not from pain. Those they will hold for when they are alone.

There is a park near where my ex-in-laws live in Tilburg, a medium sized city in the Netherlands. It is situated just a block or so from their house, behind a large apartment building and it has llamas, deer, and horses. There are ducks and swans, who all swim around a pond that extends the length of the park, a few small bridges and a fishing area. They paddle and shake their wings, walk awkwardly around the bank of the pond, dip their heads deep into the green water and slide back in. I could watch them for hours. Every trip we took I would do a daily run, which started with me running out into the country, through a small village, past a farm that raised miniature horses and then into the park where I would circle the pond and maybe stop and stare at the llamas. In the summer the Dutch heat can be overwhelming, and it has gotten hotter over the past twenty years with the temperature rising into the 90s and over 100 degrees the past few summers. These runs would leave me drained and covered in sweat but always revitalized, there is something about the Dutch air and light that is invigorating. There are theories on how this inspired many artists and great thinkers of the Enlightenment. For myself, the runs pulled off layers of sadness that I had not known were there, with periods of my life spent with the silent attachment of sorrow surrounding me although I was one was unaware of it. Drinking, music and the cast of characters I hung around with helped deflect any feelings of bleakness I may have had.

We collect things, comics, records, books are all a part of my culture, insular as it is. Others collect different things, stamp collecting is dying—killed by progress, Longaberger baskets—perhaps too killed by progress in the form of tote bags, Matchbox cars, vintage postcards, trinkets. Every trinket tells a story. Some collect memories, the cobble them together, splay them out in textures, a fabric of the past in the form of stories. I am guilty of this, and my memories have holes like a well-worn tee-shirt. Every missing piece has its untold story. In some ways, there must be a reason to collect the past, to make the present easier—to lessen the impact of now, the present. But in looking back, there are memories that are built in stones constructed of suffering. I see this in my job, when I am talking with someone, trying hard to listen—to be present to their story, a story for many of them they have never shared. They have kept the past at bay, from their earliest days of living, when childhood should have been filled with riding bicycles, forming friendships, they were instead, succumbing to horrendous abuse of (until they tell me) that lay dormant for decades. Some memories are deadly.

I plan memories for the future, simple ones of making someone dinner, of feeling white sand under my toes and my children as adults. These things, in some ways could otherwise be described as hope but I like to feel, although they have not happened yet, they are the seeds of future reality.

My friend Jerry died nineteen years ago this past week, left for dead on the side of the road just a block from my house he would die shortly after arrival at the hospital. Sometimes I think of him, silent on the cold asphalt, unable to move or yell, staring up at the cold January sky, waiting for the sirens to help him. Waiting for help. The moon and fuzziness of the city lights, frozen above him. Was he in pain? His neck was broken so was his pain knowing he was dying; he could not cry out. He was helpless. These are some of the things I think of on January 10th. The adult me, the father in me, the lover in me wants to go back in time, get up out of my deep sleep and run to him and hold him in my arms. I want to comfort my dying friend Jerry and let him know he is not alone dying on the side of Hudson and Summit streets, that even if he dies, he will be thought of every day by many people, that his cackle and his pointy teeth and the utter ridiculous of him, of Jerry Wick will last for so long after this miserable moment of his slipping life. It seems every January 10th, I am offset emotionally, and this one was no different. I had, for the most part a terrible day, I was anxious, cranky and it wasn’t until someone sent me a message reminding me of what the day was did, I realize. Trauma changes people on a cellular level, in fact people who suffer from depression and addiction tend to feel the environment around then much more acutely than others, which makes someone explaining depression or even unexplained sadness difficult. Once I realized what the day was, I was able to regroup, and eventually get what I needed.

There are two photos I have in my small apartment, one of Bruno aged three, walking on a broken pier, where the sea reclaimed the audacity of fisherman leaving only wooden poles sticking out of the sand and water. He is naked, a bag of chips in one hand and his other arm outstretched. Bruno Swallowing the Sea. On the same trip, I have a photo of him, naked staring straight into the camera, folding a piece of pizza in his mouth. What Every Man Wants. The other photo is of Saskia, head wrapped in a scarf, staring out into the Dutch countryside, she is beautiful. The Dutch Girl. My memories of the Netherlands, built over years, are perhaps my favorite memories of all. If I could only remember them.

Laughter is the sunshine, although it only peeks out at times, some of us seek the absurd because it is the only way to manage the inner and outer environment around us. And we give, until the feeling of giving is replaced by the nature of us, our brittleness. Constructed by doubt, shhhhhh, we say to ourselves. And we laugh. And we dance.

Christmas 2019.

December 21, 2019

The sound from the boiling water pot has the same tone as the violin playing, they combine and for a few moments I sit and listen to them meld together, a small hymn of sadness—one announcing it is ready to be added to the coffee and, the other a mournful ache of sound that was birthed from the mind of the Georgian composer Giya Kancheli. After a minute, the music moves on, more instruments come and chime in while I rouse myself up, walk slowly into the kitchen, a kitchen that smells of burnt toast and departed smoke and pour the water into the French press. If anything, I drink coffee like I used to drink beer, or whiskey or wine if that’s what was available, that is, I drink in in mass quantities in spite of an insomnia that has choked the sleep out of me over the past year. As I pour, I think of my friend Liz in New York describing to me the intricacies of making a cup of coffee while she was in fact, making me the best cup of coffee I ever had. Maybe it was the knowledge she was imparting on my while she made the coffee, slowly grinding the beans, explaining the importance of the correct temperature of the water (I believe it is 207 degrees) and that if the water is too hot it can burn the coffee beans or it could be that the cup of coffee is so memorable as I had not seen her in several years, and she is such a lovely person—to be in her house and meeting her friend old friend Derek that elevated a great cup of coffee to the best cup of coffee. Nevertheless, it is a fond memory, one I always think about when I make my French-press coffee, and I just pour the boiling water in—it’s ok as I know I will never make the perfect cup of coffee. It is similar to when I make a meal, someone may say that it tastes wonderful, but all my cooking tastes the same to me, a bit like my Hungarian grandmother’s with some of my own ADHD thrown in.

I took the last of my things from the house I had lived in about a month or so ago, well except for my bicycle which for some reason has becoming difficult to pull out of the garage. Perhaps it is the memory behind it as she had bought me the bike when she was poor, a grad student and was horrified that the one I was using was stolen off her porch one night as we slept. I had drunkenly leaned it against her porch, and she thought it would be safe, it wasn’t and soon she had sacrificed a part of her meager salary on buying me a new bike. Yet, another memory that comes up whenever I have the physical act of engaging the item that stems from the remembering. The move out took over a year, in small phases where I may take a load here or a load there, the big move came with me hiring movers nearly a year ago, the bed, books, records, two small couches, more records. Then the rest, some months were more difficult than others and the wall of depression that engulfed me during the spring was, in hindsight, much thicker and deeper than anything I had known. If there is a fear of anything it is a fear of knowing that one’s owns feelings are trying to kill them. It was brutal and left me reluctant to do much of anything regarding retrieving belongings I had very little concern with.

Last month I finished the garage that was filled mostly with my dead grandmother’s mementos, they had been untouched for nearly thirteen years, some were damp and dusty much like they were when they were in her basement for thirty years. From one unforgotten place to another. And there were records and compact discs, all made with the hope of being listened to, a gamble intended not for money but for people to hear something that is important. At least important in my ears, an investment made by many that sat in cardboard boxes, the compact discs now relics of sound not unlike 78” records or cassette tapes. And there were boxes of fanzines and photos, I have very few photos from the 90’s—some but not many. These boxes were carried to my apartment and put in my basement. There is a photo of Jerry that curls up from the side of one of the boxes, I eye it every time I bring up my laundry, and he is wearing a white shirt, the rest of the photo is covered up but I remember where it was taken. It was taken at Christmas time, at Jenny Mae’s house, there were a lot of people there and Mark Eitzel showed up with his sister. Jenny was floored he was in her apartment as she loved him especially his “60-Watt Silver Lining” record that had come out that year. She kept saying “Fucking Mark Eitzel is in my house” later she turned on her fog machine for some reason. Her green painted house, filled with smoke, choking out the conversation of the partygoers, and Mark would flee the house as the smell of vanilla smoke became too much for everybody but Jenny. She could tolerate a lot of herself.  But the photo will stay in the box, unmoved as I enjoy this memory and I would easily forget it if it wasn’t for that picture of Jerry peeking out of the box.

She had wanted to make sure I got everything out of the garage, and when I asked her to look and see she wept, “just get it all out, you know what’s yours!” Which, in fact I didn’t know. How does one split up something that grew together? Everything Flows as the song goes. She went out to the garage after some coaxing, and looked at the large yellow wooden shoes, “Why aren’t you taking them?! My parents bought them for you!” A part of me died, I had forgotten, I thought they were our daughter’s and then I remembered one-time drunking-ly modeling them for her parents out on our old patio. A wave of loss and guilt enveloped me, “I’m sorry, of course I want them.” They now sit out in the open, Bruno clogs around my dinky apartment with them, small clonky-thuds followed by his laughter.

Christmas is just around the bend, just days away and alongside it, the holiday lugs around not just personal memories but generational memories and customs. There are memories from my childhood that were not mine but those of my ancestors, who carried them from Germany, to Hungary to Venezuela, to Columbus, and then I added my own—like a box of ornaments that continuously, somehow, has more every year. A lot to unpack. I talk Christmas trees with the kids, Saskia says “dad, you don’t need one, mom is getting one,” Bruno on the other hand says, “Dad, just get a Charlie Brown tree.” In fact, all my apartment could handle is a very small-ish tree or more like an evergreen branch. It can barely handle the Charlie Brown angst that shudders around the creaky wooden floors. “Maybe, let me see how this weekend goes.” Christmas is just a few days away.

The kids are older, much of the magic has gone out of their lives as shifting priorities and the understanding that miracles are things that are as simple as the smell of a homemade meal, a sudden instantaneous smile, or the pull of a melody but don’t come from fairly-tales or the myths passed from generation to generation.  Soon the miracle of their lives will be first loves and true friendships. This has made the loss of having the family they have known for all their lives into something else, something more organic, something that has in some ways pushed them towards adulthood or into the reality of the world.  In the car I hear them snickering, playfully teasing one another about supposed crushes, perceived slights and who gets to ride shotgun; the one status of teenage years the displays coolness. Their worlds are impenetrable to adults, with aps, websites and even music that is constructed for be foreign for adults, and yet they wear my old punk and indie-rock shirts. I operate on the periphery, by choice-this is their world, the memories for them to make for themselves, my role as a parent is to help lay the fabric out for their future to be filled with a past that is full of love, joy and laughter and the harder lessons to be something that fuels growth and have eyes wide-open to the reality of the world.

“Dad, can you take me skating?” Bruno asks just as I tell him not to ride the skateboard in the apartment, “yeah, let me finish up” I answer as I send an email thinking how the internet has robbed so much time from my life.  Outside small bits of snow flutter down, they swirl in little circles, the wind pushing them to and fro, “hey, are you sure you wanna skate, it’s fucking cold outside” I ask as we make our way to the car. “Yeah dad, it’s not bad. Besides it will stop when we get there.” And it does, he skates with his best friend, they talk amongst one another and with a few older skaters who offer tips. I look at my phone, tuck it away feeling a bit of guilt as I don’t want him to look up and see me on it. It goes back in my pocket, I realize that my own father missed out on much of what my brother and I did throughout our childhood, especially as we moved into our adolescence years. He just never gave a shit. I don’t wanna be that guy. After 40 minutes it’s cold outside, there is no denying it, “Five minutes buddy,” he flashes me a thumb’s up, and soon climbs back into the car. After I start the car, the snow starts again. “I told you it was cold.” “We aren’t cold, dad, we just went skating.” He then asks me for a Dinosaur Jr. skateboard for Christmas.

The other day I played “Johnny Come Home” by the Fine Young Cannibals that I first heard as a senior in high school, was shimming across the floor and Saskia came down and danced with me. I realized that I probably got that first FYC record on cassette for Christmas in 1985. Saskia and I glided across the slanting dining room floor of my apartment. I should dance more.

Cardboard.

November 10, 2019

There are routines and holes to fill, one by one, or in some cases trying to flood all the holes with certain behaviors only to find that underneath the holes is a subterranean canyon that is waiting to swallow you whole. I have been in my apartment nearly a year, but for the first three months I was a ghost trying to unpack boxes that should have been tossed away fifteen years ago or even longer. Some had grown damp over the years of sitting, it was if all the memories that were stuffed inside the cardboard boxes had slowly started to weep over the years, encased in dust the must and yellowing of the pages of the magazines, the fading photographs were dying from neglect. Hidden in the garage and basement after being hauled a thousand miles from Florida, and prior to that a thousand miles from Ohio to Florida, all the while never being looked at. Given the attention they were once thought to have deserved. This time, years later as the boxes sat in an old-new living room I sorted them out, a keep, a giveaway and a throwaway pile. Knowing that all three piles would most likely be forgotten about and as such there was a need to be planful, I kept repeating “somebody must want some of these.” But who really wants to hold onto someone else’s memories?

Over the past eleven months parts of me have died while other parts have pushed themselves up from the parched soil of myself, small growths that without care could be crushed to death with neglect. Recently, I pulled the rest of the boxes from the garage, a garage that rarely ever held cars but was only used as storage for an old unvarnished life. Some never made it to the apartment, I dragged them out to the dumpster, pitching them in and not really knowing what old memories, what old successes or failures were being tossed into the garbage. Many of these boxes contain old fanzines, magazine, flyers and photographs. Some are of bands and musicians I knew and worked with over the years, I would get these things in the mail, and toss them in a box. They were rarely read, and the plan would be to give them to the bands and artists who were in them, but going through them I realize that many of them have died and others have moved on with their lives, the days of huddling together once a week with friends to pluck songs out of their lives and minds while smoking weed and drinking beer had long been replaced by taxiing children to soccer, to school and minding the responsibilities  of work. The inspiration of newfound love had grown into something, hopefully, deeper and more meaningful than scribble words on a folded bar napkin but in many cases these electrical relationships had turned brittle over the years. Neglected like the boxes of memories. Jenny died and all the magazines and photographs I have of her don’t really have a home to go to, nor do the ones of Jerry, or Jim Shepard or Jack Taylor, so what to do with them?

Some things are best not kept, and a loyalty to the past can be toxic although it seems that the past we carry existed before us, that this loyalty ends up being a lodestone just because parents or family or whomever says we must carry it on for the next generation. For myself this went unquestioned, the stories I was told as a child and even later held no ground for who I should be, they were stories and as such held a fascination for who I should or shouldn’t be. As I gaze backward, over the mountaintop of fifty the realization that some of these ideas of tradition of holding on did nothing except offer cement to a life that strove in many ways to move forward. Glued to a time already lived, sometimes by somebody else, a father, a grandmother, is not always the most productive way to live a life in the present, in the future. It’s ok to toss them out but still honor whatever is needed to be honored but there is a truth in looking backwards with clear eyes, that the craziness and sadness and the pain of trauma can be used as fertilizer to move forward but not to clutch at my ankles preventing me from dancing forward.

For many years I drank to find that oh-so-perfect buzz that I had encountered so much in my late teens and early twenties but eventually, that buzz had grown so elusive it was just a myth, growing so faded in my cells and brain that it was just a foggy mist of a fable. It was as if they never happened, but they did because I could almost feel that excitement of the buzz-y feeling of swaying in front of a speaker, hands clutching a bottle of Black Label, coyly eyeing someway also swaying to the waves of feedback just a few feet away. The cool shock of autumn air at 3 am while clutching hands and sideways smiles shook the very leaves at our feet. But to pretend that can be replaced is a fool’s exercise.

The other day I asked my daughter, aged 14 how her coffee date went, and she laughed as an old soul would, “Jesus dad, we are fourteen what do you expect? We just laughed and had fun.” She talks to me in teenager code, and giggles at my perplexed responses, at twenty-first linguistic teenager play on words, the equivalent of ‘hey hey, Daddy-O” from the nineteen fifties, I don’t even try to pretend I know—this is her space, her memories, her future cardboard boxes so to speak. She doesn’t need mine to poke holes in hers, I grab another box, sort the piles and think if it would just be best to carry them out into the cold.  More than anything though, it’s not that I want to burden her future with the memories of my past, I don’t want her to encounter the canyon underneath it all, to protect her from that is of upmost importance.

 

July 2019.

July 7, 2019

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Rain was coming down as if the sky had a mission to coat the world with wetness, the droplets smacked into my tee-shirt, splattered on my skin and because of the Ohio summer, caused my glasses to fog over. “Hey, hey man!” the tall neighbor yelled from his back porch, which sits at the end of my apartment building. I was on my way to my car, doing a sort of half-jog/half-I-don’t-give-a fuck and turned towards him apparently giving him the cue to bound off the porch. Suddenly he was standing in front me, trying to blink away the rain making no progress, the rain just rained away. “Hi, you just moved in huh?” His eyes were blue, and I noticed his ruddy teeth which made me think of addicts and alcoholics, the rain continued to ping against us. “Well, kinda…I don’t know if it’s that soon, I moved in sometime in December.” “What do you think of it” looking towards the brick apartment building, is it a townhouse, a row house, a what is it exactly. He was beaming at the old building as if he had just built it.  I saw the busted screen door, with the plastic window that won’t get clean no matter how much Windex its coated with, because well, it’s plastic, the small dented bottom that I “fixed” with sticky silver electrical tape. “Hey dad, you better get some heavy tape, there’s a lot of broken stuff in your apartment” Bruno mentioned while we were at the giant boxed hardware store. The one where every aisle pumps out masculinity and I’m reminded that I fix things with tape, own a single hammer and some left over Ikea silver-y screw things. If it wasn’t for tape nothing would be fixed in my life. Bruno loves the hardware store; I hate the mother fuckers.

“Yeah, I guess I like it enough. It works for me” nodding as the rain continued on its single mindedness of soaking the world over. “Yeah, I love it. Been here eleven years” he leaned back on his heels and rocked forward, I looked down at his shoes which were filled with water. “Wow, that’s a long time, ummm…I haven’t rented a place in over fourteen years, I was a homeowner, so I was used to, well having stuff kinda normal in the house. My floor is slanted, everything is crooked, it’s weird” I try to shut out the thought that one day all my records are going to break through the floor. “Yours too? My kitchen floor just dropped four inches! They had to jack up the floor” he stares at me. I think “we basically have the same floor” but just smile back at him. He stares some more, almost like a puppy, I keep smiling. Seconds tick past. Rain does its rain thing, howling down on us. “Well, I need to get to the gym” I finally say. “O.K., good luck. See you around!” and he runs back to his porch. In the car, I turn on the air conditioner and wipe my glasses clean.

Sometimes I go to the gym at ten or eleven p.m., it just depends on what I’m feeling but with that freedom there is the sigh of loss the permeates everything I do, pulling on something so deep and old within me that it doesn’t have a name. It was birthed before language but it’s there, underneath it all—clutching upwards like roots growing in reverse. It shudders inside me with every errant thought, a growling dragon asleep but so close to awakening. Slumber away cocksucker. The house is tidy, mostly, organization was never something I was blessed with, I must work at it and in the work, I lose focus, half-finished books being put away, boxes in the corner filled with old fanzines, photos and just memories that should have been tossed aside many years ago. They are in stacks, expecting to be put on shelves. Bills in separate drawers, two backpacks filled with gym clothes, and some notebooks that I scribble in. This is what like living with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder looks like as an adult. When I was a kid I was just known as excited, my nickname in 4th grade was Spazz, and for the prickly teachers who had little patience for my twisting in my seat, blurting out wise-cracks and losing track of my homework, I was the pain in the ass who spent a lot of time in the hallway and at the principal’s office.  Kicked out again. But I was funny, clever to a fault and smart enough to get by and be charming for most of my educators. But those other ones, boy did they hate me, but I hated them back just as much. The shitheads. I need reminders for everything, I ask people I work with to send my calendar invites, it’s the only way I will remember to go, I look at it every morning and try to plan my day in my head knowing full well I will have to look at it hourly. Google calendar has been a godsend. Having ADHD isn’t easy although it has its pros, I can compartmentalize very easy, carry on many projects at the same time, and it has spurred my creativity and honed my humor. The choice is either to be charming or be filled with shame, mostly because of school related shortcomings and a current of anxiety that was the norm from when I was in kid. Much of the shame can continue well into adulthood, because simple tasks are not always easy but big ideas flow like a river inside my mind. In the end, I learned to work hard and be focused as much as I could and continue to work until the projects came to fruition. It aslo isn’t easy to love an adult with mental health issues, I can become aloof without knowing, pulling back from hugs in the middle of one, zoning out in conversations suddenly sidetracked by a thought of something I missed or must do. I’m late. Always. Since I could walk, I suppose, most likely I was even late for nursing on my mother’s breasts.  There is a long line of disappointed women in my past whom once I let inside, tried to temper the storm of my brain, my life and be my partner. My mind has broke things in half in its torrent.

Imagine the mind as an escalator instead of a stairwell, always moving, each thought a step moving towards a behavior, the stairwell is concrete-solid, not changing whereas the escalator is moving always moving into action, always in motion and finally it gets swallowed instead of left behind where the stairs do so perfectly on the stairwell. This is what ADHD is like, now imagine if your mind is the stairwell and the way you go about your day is organized, systematic and predictable. And then you fall in love with someone with an escalator mind, who then has escalator behaviors, combined with depression and addiction. Everything gets swallowed. Burp. When I quit drinking many years ago, a cloud lifted and some behaviors stopped while new ones began, I learned how to hone my mind—mostly through practice, 12-Step groups helped me to listen and to be more on time, the 12-Steps helped me to understand much of the motives I had and helped me to take ownership of my actions, and finally meditation helped me to not get swallowed by the escalator mind. Underneath much of it though, was the hard nugget of depression that works like a radioactive element, coloring much of my life but, at times, barely perceptible. After some years of meditation, much of the depression had lifted and the daily thought of suicide and death had subsided for years. Of course, like anything radioactive it never quite goes away and it continues to need gauged. It has glowed more often than in the days of prolonged meditation. Answers are abundant but not always as simple as they appear to be.

Past propels the future and in the end the past can devour you whole, with a million miniature bites from the inside out. The future is always there, down the road never arriving, flickers of thought, bursts of moments, like an escalator itself, never quite arriving and suddenly folding underneath itself and heading to the bottom to climb back again. How does one wrestle with the past? A mind can’t fight itself with arms, legs, or bombs, only by replacing thoughts with other ones or learning to ignore the armies of thoughts that can come in waves, disrupting life as if it were an unpaved road. Bumpity-bump. Somethings don’t live in moderation, the glass full of beer, the pangs of desire, eating one potato chip—and a mind that doesn’t stop engulfs everything in its path.

I see addicts every day of my life, ones who wear the scars of their consumption on arms that are littered with the markings of self-destruction, where needles have sucked the life out of veins, and blistering skin is pleading in its own way for a break. Their eyes are nervous, full of anxiety as the hustle of everyday living chews bits of their soul away, the hope for refuge dwindles with the oncoming dread of sickness and of whatever it is they need to do to stave off the pain of being dope sick. I am the calm one in the room, moving deliberately to help slow their world down, into increments that guides them to some semblance of solace, a lighting, a kernel of hope in an otherwise dust storm of shit. I’m trained to do it and I relish offering this hope or even some sense of order in their lives as they sit in front of me. At some point people offered it to me, at the end of the long road of liquid hopelessness there was no-where else to turn but to peer over the cliff inside my mind into the darkness that lay below.

Cracked glass is always cracked until it finally splinters and breaks apart, which is what life does to us every day, hold onto your life for dear life. Lines edge from the corner of my eyes like a spiderweb made of skin, gravity, frailty and experience pull their invisible ropes across my face and down into my arms, there is nary a thing to do about it. Watch what I eat, go to the gym, take care but in the end the ropes win it’s only a matter of when. When-win.

 

 

 

Update on Updates, new writing and book

July 14, 2018

A few updates as I have received some emails and questions about the slow going of new writing. There is actually a lot of writing and re-writing going on this past year as I have been working on a book which contains some of the writing in the blog, I have some great help from Lisa Carver and the book should be out in 2019. It is slow going, I have posted to small rewrites/additions on this update. I have also been working on a short story compilation that I may or may not post, basically finished an adventure story for Saskia (that she has now outgrown) and am in the midst of writing an adventure story for Bruno (not sure if I will post either of these).  Here are the additions from the book:

Relationship:

After Jenny got out of the hospital, she and I hovered around one another not face to face more like we were at the same party but never in the same room. This went on for a year or so, and as Jenny’s life became more precarious, a slow-motion tidal wave that just grew and grew over the years, collecting and casting off everything in its path until finally it obliterates itself, I would step back from her, my ability to converse became more strained over the years. The relationship had completely changed by the time she became homeless, I became the caretaker or even the older sibling, the protector but the job came with a toll. Jenny became defensive, like I would peel her open and discover her innards were built with lies, like a down pillow made of soft untruths. When she was drunk, during these years, it felt as if my skin was sweating on the inside. People would ask if there was temptation to drink as I had quit drinking, but it did the opposite, nobody eats a full meal after someone vomits. I felt cured of alcoholism around her, scared straight every time the smell of alcohol heaved and shuddered from her mouth. At times when the hospitalizations became routine, they had ceased being an event in the last seven years of her life, they were just normal—it was as she became a convict that keeps getting arrested, but she was in the hospital instead of jail, I would see her, talking to her and offering encouragement. “Don’t judge me, Bela” she would sneer, IV’s dangling next to her, tubes hanging from her yellowed face, “you may have turned your life around but it doesn’t mean I have to live the way you do.” These comments would spew out of her mouth, years after I had tried to get her sober and the anger had dissipated to a sense of love the was smothered in dread of what was to come. Jenny felt threatened by the secrets we held together, the truths we experienced and the hope that had burnt up like a poorly rolled cigarette. All that was left was the smoke.

 

The hesitancy Jenny held around me was palatable after I left, she was guarded and anxious, there was a part of her that was still dumbstruck that I left her and that I was able to survive with our her and in fact, that despite her predictions and even some inner belief of my own, I would find new lovers and eventually fall in love. My presence felt like Kryptonite to her, also for me as well, what an awful realization that something that helps create you, that is very much a part of the very essence of you, causes such pain. The apprehension was volatile, it came out in glares and quick exits when I was in the same space as she, “Bela, I can’t see you—just let me know when you are going to be there. I hate seeing you, maybe some day I can but you just hurt me too much” she spoke into the phone one night, I could almost feel the wetness of her tears through the twisted telephone line, it had felt like a sucker punch, “don’t say that Jenny, I want to see you—I still need you in my life.” “No, not while you are fucking some other girl.” Exasperated, “what the fuck are you talking about, you are with guys all the time.” Her voice was cold and sharp, “you know its different with me, I can’t be alone. Ever. I fuck them for a reason. You are ok to be alone, you deserve it.” She hung up the phone. Things would get said that were intentionally incomplete, like a punch-line to a joke that never came, and the joke just hung in the air until is floated into the back of a person’s mind. Confused. Annoyed. “God-damnit, Jenny.” And then I hung up the phone.

 

Jenny’s Voice:

Western Ohio is an area of transplants, perhaps the forgotten transplants of the Midwest, whereas the German and Eastern European immigrants that flooded Cleveland, the industrial complexes of Youngstown and Toledo and to the southeast the poison air of the coal mines of Appalachia. But Western Ohio, the forgotten and silent step-child is created from the steely-hard persoonia of Protestant immigrants, what-goes-on-here-stays-here, God-and-Country and a generally feeling of distrust of the outside, of difference. The accent of this area is more southern than the Norwegian cadence of say, Minnesota, or the distinct Cleveland accent where vowels are drawn out—where a person’s voice is closer to person from Buffalo or Pittsburgh than say, Dayton.

Moving from Athens and having spent a childhood rocketing from one part of the country to another, I was most startled by the southern lilt of my friends in Newport News, Virginia when I was in third grade. Where they all sounded like Hee-Haw singers, with slow drawls and language that we were taught never to speak, most specifically nigger and terms such as coon, faggot and so forth. Here the racism sat front and center, it was not subliminal as I would later discover in Columbus. So, I was alarmed to hear these terms again when I started high school in Springfield. Jenny spoke with an almost southern accent; her voice was hard—not just from her personal childhood experience, but the area of South Vienna and Springfield is hard. A struggle for survival, where scuffed knuckles and the anxiety of the next paycheck are ever present. She did not speak delicately although her knowledge of language came out in the written word, a lovely writer-her short stories were things of beauty as was her indelible handwriting, one would be surprised to learn that her course voice would blanket such beauty. As such, in Columbus, this may have affected her standing among many of the northern Ohioans and college bound academics that dotted her life. Perhaps, only the subtle West Virginian accent of Scrawl’s Marcy Mays was overlooked because of over arching power of Marcy, and Jenny always spoke of Marcy in reverenced terms.

Jenny’s singing voice could slide from a simple innocence, almost child-like in delivery to a husky pillow drenched in Maker’s Mark from one song to another. She could have easily had some of her records on K records, with it’s simplistic and bare-bones aesthetic-where Beat Happening carved a niche for anybody to parlay songs and art into words without the angst and vitriol of punk rock while some could land safely on the corner of 4AD with layered guitar and keyboards shrouding the pain she was able to slip out in an ethereal gasp. In the end, though her’s was a voice that fit nowhere, as she lacked the sophistication or polish that would provide so many female artists an avenue that may have allowed the man’s world of indie-rock provide acceptance. She was a victim of her own circumstances, to bold and outrageous in personality for those who wanted their female singers to provide solace—to not only sound pretty but to be pretty and much to pop and sing-song-y to attract the punks-she slipped on her own being, in a sexist and classist world. She sang without misgivings, at times, depending on her alcohol intake she could go tragically off-key, not unlike Bob Pollard whose vocal stylings can fall flat-footed in concert and he drowns his throat with another Budweiser, while at other times, her breathy voice could crush as evidence on her song “Ho Bitch” which could be perhaps one of the greatest songs on living with mental illness that I have ever heard.

Jenny Mae & Jerry Wick comic + 7″ coming out via NIX Comics

March 28, 2018

Roughly ten years ago I started this blog to process some feelings and sort memories out pertaining to Jenny Mae Leffel and Jerry Wick. There was nothing more or less to it except that I wanted to have an outlet and share their stories and how they impacted me. It has been a very rewarding experience and I have been humbled by the response over the years (over 80,000 reads covering over 120 countries around the globe). As Jenny passed this past year and I am continuing to work on a much larger project pertaining to the writing. Over the past few years I have been able to partner with Nix Comics to produce two graphic comics based off several of the stories in the blog (both have been reprinted and both are available via Nix: “Do You Remember Rock and Roll Record Stores” and “Negotiate Nothing: Jim Shepard”). Nix is planning on releasing a final graphic in the comic based on Jerry and Jenny meeting as well as exploring Jenny’s struggles with homelessness. There is also a planned 7″ (limited to 300 copies) of an unreleased Jenny Mae song recorded in 2006, and the only vinyl version of the Jerry Wick song “Love, Death and Photosynthesis” from the CD compilation “I Stayed Up All Night Listening to Records”. There is nice easy method to pre-order the comic and/or the 7″ through the Nix Kickstarter for this (follow link). There is also other comics and projects planned as part of the Kickstarter. I have reposted the first entry of the blog below.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/nixcomics/nix-comics-2018-comic-book-and-records-subscriptio

 

Jerry Wick and Jenny Mae

August 12, 2009

I sat in the corner booth, with a brown haired girl with muddy blonde streaks and when she laughed the whole world stopped for a moment.  Beer shot out of my nose and down the front of my t-shirt.  The t-shirt had a picture of a monkey riding a bike and said “R.E.M.” on the back.  She, the girl that is was telling a story about work.  Apparently she worked in a private dining club with a Chinese woman who once played for the Chinese National Basketball team; she was tall especially for a Chinese woman.  The woman spoke very little English, and my friend named Jenny had used her lack of English for a practical joke that went a bit wrong.  An older gentleman had asked the former basketball player what desserts were they serving today, the basketball player stuck her head in the kitchen and asked “Ah, Yinny, what is desert today?”  Jenny, whose wit was quicker than her mind replied, “We have pecan pie, chocolate pie and hair pie.”  The ball player turned around and answered “We have ah pecan pie, ah chocolate pie and ah haar pie.”  Jenny quickly ran to the cooler and hid for the next ten minutes while the manager looked all over the kitchen and dining room for the culprit who played the poor immigrant.  Jenny said as soon as the manager went on break she clocked out and was thankful she had the next few days off.  It was a Wednesday and we were celebrating the late afternoon in the best way we knew how, with an evening of cheap bottleneck beer and keeping one another company.

In the table just off our booth a man with a weathered thin US Army backpack laughed along with me, he turned and smiling with crooked teeth said “God-damn, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in forever.”  He had hair just past his shoulder and smelled of pizza sauce and patchouli, not the most pleasant smell in the world.  He was drinking coffee.  I always managed to check what a person was drinking back then (I still do this today) as a way of measuring them up. I noticed him; I’d seen him in the record store I worked at part-time.  I worked in several stores at that point, I worked as a manager of a mostly classical and jazz store that catered to the University professors and grad students and on a few days a week I had the opportunity to settle behind the splinter giving worn counter of the used record store just down the block and under the sidewalk from the classical store.  I could drink beer and listen to the glories of underground and brit-rock in the safe confines of the used store. Here as I guzzled beer and coffee I would secretly plan my escape from the classical store where I wore a tie and uncomfortable poly-cotton Dockers that did not dispel any pretense that I worked as a manager in a chain record store.

I also remembered this man from some of the independent rock and punk shows I had started attending with my friend Jenny over the past six months.  I had seen him with his coffee cup at the basement bar down the street where we would watch local music for free and piss tip-toed as a way not to let the overflowing toilets flood our tennis shoes. He had a notebook in front of him with a page filled with scribbles and a small doodle of a skinny man screaming into a ball of larger scribble.  He had on a black tee-shirt.  The tee-shirt said “Mudhoney” above four half naked men, it was a take-off of a Slits album cover.  I was impressed.  He pulled his chair over just as I was rising to go get a few more drinks.  I asked him if he wanted one. He asked if I could get him some more coffee.  He was still laughing from Jenny’s story.  As he handed me his cup his slightly bent shoulders shook with laughter and I noticed his thin hands and arms; he was as skinny as a flagpole and his long hair draped over his bony shoulders like spaghetti over a mop handle.  His entire being was like caffeine come to life.  “Really, if you want a beer I’ll get you one” I offered.  “No thanks, I don’t drink.”  I was shocked and somewhat suspicious.  I didn’t know anyone who didn’t drink.  Jenny said “really, are you sick?”  “No, I just don’t drink.”

I had an immediate kinship with Jerry.  From the moment we spoke to one another my entire world opened up ten-fold.  Prior to that point much of my world revolved around Jenny and I getting drunk, playing practical jokes on strangers and pretending we were people who we obviously weren’t.  My circle would go from two people (me being one) to several hundred in a matter of months in part of my new friend.  Jerry told us he worked at the chain pizza place down the street and had moved to Columbus recently from Kent Ohio.  He claimed that Kent “grew stale, it’s a small college hippie-town filled by pretentious rich kids who wore tie-died clothes to hide from their mommies and daddies.”  I made no mention of his patchouli scent to him.  When he spoke of the things he didn’t like, his voice rose and his intensity was surgical.  I could absolutely relate to this aspect of him.  We bonded over our distaste over college kids, our hate of shitty music and our ability to laugh over the telling of events that were at most two years old but in the haze of Jenny’s and my own drunkenness and Jerry’s caffeinated hyperness appeared to be at least a decade in passing.

Jerry lived just two blocks from us on Indiana, in a three bedroom house where he happened to be an outsider.  For his distaste for hippies and all manner of pretentious rock and roll music he chose an odd place to live.  His roommates were a band that played every Tuesday evening in the basement bathroom overflowing bar, their sets were filled with ten minutes plus songs-“jams” complete with fog machine and noodly keyboard solos and they wore enough hair to get part-time jobs at a petting zoo.  A roommate of mine and Jenny’s went to go see them every week and she had managed to drag us to see them on a few occasions.  I had a complete revulsion for anything considered “art” and rock and roll which meant I wrote off a large swath of music that emanated from the late 1960’s and the 1970’s from the laborious epic song cycles of Yes and Emerson, Lake and Palmer to the shrill hard rock of later day Rush.  Anything with a concept and keyboard was cause for utter derision.  This was yet another belief that we bonded over, Jerry told us he couldn’t stand his roommates and fled the house whenever they practiced.  He was shocked and pleased when we mentioned that Jenny wrote short little songs on a small Casio keyboard she had borrowed from one of our other roommates.  He told us he would love to hear them and when we said that we didn’t have any recordings he offered to record her on his tiny tascam portable recorder which was just a fancy cassette recorder.  We ended up back at his house; his room was just a mattress with a bookshelf crammed next to it.  The bookshelf was crammed with whatever remaining clothes were not scattered on the floor, cassettes and a paperback books by Philip K. Dick, Kurt Vonnegut and music related tales such as “Please Kill Me.”  He pulled out a shoebox a played us what sounded like the solo from “Down by the River” speeded up and muffled under a pillow.  I was amazed.  There were no vocals.  He said it was him playing a one-string guitar and that he was still working on it.  He told us he was in a band called Black JuJu.  Like the candy.

It was late and I had to work in the morning.  Jenny supposedly had school but unbeknownst to me she had already dropped out at this point and had been keeping up the charade of a full-time college student for a while now, she would continue to do this for at least six more months.  We wobbled home on liquid legs and twisted grins.  When we got in the house I boiled a couple of hot dogs and drank three glasses of water to help stave off the headache that may or not arrive. We went to sleep in the closet that Jenny had managed to convert to a bed.  She had a fear of people out to get her, a paranoia that seemed innocent in those early twenties days but would later manifest itself in far more dire behaviors.

Jan 2018, sitting at the stop light.

January 28, 2018

Jan 2018.

 

The boy sits on the couch, the one with the split seams that is bandaged with a gray throw blanket to hide the years of use, rubbing his head with his colored fingers, black, red and green from scribbling in notebooks, these are the scars of a Saturday afternoon. He’s watching a show, the sounds of pre-recorded laughter over an unfunny television show bleeds through the music I’m listening to. But, its ok, I don’t mind some of these interferences any more, the music will always be there and besides I’ve listened to this record about a million times—I know every note although I don’t really know any notes. 1,000,001. Outside, beyond the houses across the street a brown-gray tree reaches into the clouds, gray marrying gray while the chill in the air makes itself comfortable for the next few months, it will overstay its welcome again this year. No doubt about that. Looking up at me, for reassurance a sliver of a smile slips out when I smile back, giving him a thumb up. He returns to his toy, a flat white piece of technology that literally puts the universe at his fingertips, sliding his nimble fingers across the screen he can pull up live satellite images of Jupiter or watch the ten worst skateboard accidents of the previous year. Fetching coffee from the kitchen, the fence outside needs replacing, the wood buckling and bowing after years of soaking in the sun and absorbing winters filled with snow and sub-zero temperature. To be a wooden fence in Ohio is a lonely life.

There are moments when a person feels nothing, no thought, no worry, no anticipation, no anxiety, no pleasure—nothing just the softness of the occasion. These come in small crashes, as if they were encased in feathers, in the middle of chaos comes a blunted bomb of nothingness. When they are noticed, it feels like the unraveling of a secret and then it dissipates as soon as the mind notices it, I think then about how this never happened for you. The quietness. You were a rattling rattle, it felt like you were ten feet high and twenty feet long, lungs pushing out words as if you would have choked on them otherwise, waving above the world—the energy shooting like sparks from your electric body and the mind that never switched off.

He gets up, goes to the kitchen, I hear the refrigerator door open, and the sound of the milk carton on the table, the clinking of glasses and his sing-song voice, mumbling over the words of a pop song that you would have taught yourself to play. He sits at the table, sketchbook in hand and draws, the noise from his toy is not song and it forms a peculiar dance of sound as it seeps into my headphones. Eyeing him, I think backwards, flipping through memories as if they were being unpeeled in microseconds, and then I get stuck in the middle of them. It is then that I wish you were here, that you would tell me what memory it was that I was trying to recall about you, if you were a ghost you could try to point the way in the silence haze of whatever world that ghosts hover in. In the end this would annoy you, not being able to talk, to only float about in the background. There was this one time, when you were sleeping in our garage, after I had laid down a rule that was as foolish as telling the sea not to be salty, that said you could not drink if you were to stay in our garage. As if this gesture alone would give you the motivation to finally, once-and-for-all, quit drinking. It was hot, the house was roasting, cooking in its own peeling paint and 19th Century wood, and I noticed the front and back doors were open—you had used the kitchen or bathroom or both, in hindsight it didn’t matter but in the moment, it did and the anger that grew as suddenly as a flash-fire engulfed me. You were on the floor upstairs in the garage, an old green portable CD player, flecked with white paint and dust listening to The Whiles. The same song over and over, turning your head, you looked at me,

“Bela, you have got to hear this song—it’s amazing. I can’t stop listening to it. Its genius.”

She started the song, “Emily”, again.

“God-damnit, Jenny!”

With eyes half open, “just listen.”

“I know the song, I put it out, Jesus fucking Christ. Jenny.”

“shhhhhh.” Putting a hand in the air, one finger extended. The international sign of “hold your horses.”

And I waited. I listened. And when it got to the chorus, when three voices blended into one, “there’s no way to say…..goodbye, bye, bye, bye, lalalalala”

For a few spaces of time, there was no anger just being lost for that chorus.

“This song is perfect, fucking fuck.” She took a drink from a large plastic bottle, vodka and juice. The pint was on a box of old photos and notebooks.

 

“You left the front and back door open. What the fuck, and your drinking.”

Not only were her words slurring it appeared as if her entire essence was slurring, her shoulders, her eyes and her mouth, “of course I’m driinnkkkingg…what the fuck doo you actually think I do? I drink. When will you get used to it?”

Of course, I drink. Some words go together as if they were birthed at the same time, Siamese words. Ofcourseidrink. “You can’t stay here if you’re drinking, I can’t have it. I can’t have it around me.” When panicked and disappointed, words come out in force, with the energy of frustration and feelings that have laid themselves off to the side. It wasn’t the drinking just now, it was the prospect of sending her back out to the streets, even if they were the same streets we had walked and slobbered down for years. They were still streets, concrete canvases for both wonderment and danger, that could open its cement jaws and grab a person and chew them up by slow degrees. That was where the anger came from, “You have to leave.”

“Fine, I’ll come see you when I feel like it.” She grabbed a handful of her clothes, and stuffed them into a brown bag, in the corner was her trumpet, and an old electronic keyboard that she had been playing earlier in the day. She gestured to it, “I was writing a song earlier,” she pushed some shirts in the bag, “I’m going to try to get the boys back together and start making a record.” Bewilderment sat in the corner, it’s oafish face looking skyward, I looked at it and it looked back, and we shrugged our shoulders. Taking a sip from her red cup, she waltzed past me. “Where will you?” As you bounded out the door, “what do you care, Bela? I have places I can go” and you disappeared.

I sit at traffic lights, there are those moments that come up, when work isn’t crowding me, or the kids aren’t worrying me, when there is nothing and they you fold back the curtain of my mind. “Peekaboo” you appear as the light waits to turn green, hear your laugh from 30 years ago, as scampered across memories as if you were dancing atop water, fluttering for a moment and I smile, I look at the kid in the back and the young woman sitting next to me, both of them singing to a different song and I wish you could see them grow, to discover but I also have the worry about what yet may be for them. Nodding it away, flecking them off, the memories and drive home. Finding myself listening to one of the songs you loved, “till I die”. And this as if on cue, maybe it is your ghost stuck in the machine, the next three songs that appeared at random on my Spotify,  as I wrote this: ‘Silly Love Songs”, “This Will Be Our Year” and “Working Class Hero.”

 

 

 

 

 

One Month Later, more or less (not edited, sorrynotsorry)

October 28, 2017

A Month Later-2017

 

A little over a month later, the leaves are turning, millions every night go from green to red or orange,  some even straight to brown. Instant ghosts, dropping and floating their slow-motion dance to the ground. Autumn weather is an unpredictable guessing game, where one day the sun floats humidity down like moist blanket and the next day the October wind bites bare legs that were fooled into wearing shorts just the day before. On Friday nights, marching bands stand in lines, blowing on cold fingers, cracking jokes to split the awkwardness of teenage sexuality in half, they bleat out pop hits, odes to the gridiron and dream of life after high school. Meanwhile young men slip on shoulder pads, long socks, form fitting pants with laces to make help tie in this perfect American male package and slap each other in locker rooms, waiting to smack another kid across the grass as bright lights illuminate the field. In kitchens, onions are diced carefully, to be added to simmering pots of chili. Young women take to stores of all types, Macy’s, boutiques, thrift stores, buying sweaters, scarves, leggings all for the coming months. We all prepare our nesting in certain ways.

Jenny used to decorate the apartment with whatever season or holiday it was, at Halloween she would tack up pictures of jack-o-lanterns, sinister witches and tape up the crinkly fallen leaves. It was not uncommon to come home in the early evening and be welcomed with a spinning Halloween record on the stereo blaring the spooky sounds of Halloween.

Insomnia has settled in my bed, a thin invisible itch that pesters while trying to drift off to sleep, and when slumber finally arrives, the itch comes back I am shaken awake only to face the dread of not being able to sleep. In some ways, due to the long-term nature of Jenny’s death, the grief process has happened by degrees over the years. As her alcoholism and mental illness carved out small parts of me with every crisis or every worry stacked upon another as if they were made of a million tongue depressors stacked on top of one another over a twenty-year period. Her life spread out over the years like a sinkhole, swallowing everybody who ever loved her, and if the hole could talk it would have been screaming with every inch it widened. She had become invisible in her own life, an apparition at the end where those of us who could still muster the energy to care for her, would huddle together outside of hospital rooms or over the phone and repeat the same script we had honed for years. “If only she got away from _____(insert any man she was currently living with), she could quit drinking”, “if only she’d quit drinking, then she could be herself again”, “if she could just stay in the nursing home, she could walk again” or “I can’t understand why she drinks like she does if she knows she’s going to die.” Although she had always drank, the only sober times she experienced was when she was in the hospital, jail or nursing homes—the reality of her mind was too much to handle without numbing it. Towards the end, these conversations came with the resignation someone feels after their football team went down by four touchdowns with seven minutes left, it was all over but the time ticking off the clock.

Numbness isn’t a feeling but a state, as is the resignation of being helpless as an event happens, no matter how long the event may last, whether it is the eventual separation of California from the west coast as the San Andres Fault finally, cracks, shivers and splits in two, or as quick as a glass of milk being spilt. Age tends to temper the feeling of invincibility, logic reminds a person of the interconnects of everything comes the realization that despite this truth it is also truer that one has very little control over anything, including thoughts, emotions, and triggers that are made bolder, scarier and taller by addiction. It is as if anxiety were a giant looming over a city, swooping in and smacking cars and punching holes in the asphalt of the mind.

Some are born more sensitive than others, the ability to feel, to feel alive or sad or dead is amplified into something grotesque or even sterling beauty. Leaving all the other mere humans, left to be enthralled or disgusted with mouth agape. We would talk long into the night, as the morning light peaked through windows covered with sheets, towels and tee-shirts, “I’m going to go to Italy in the spring whether you go with me or not, then I’m going to Spain and drink on the beach. You can go if you want or you can stay here.” Staring at the ceiling, playing all the scenarios in my mind, “of course she’s going to go, and of course she’s going to fuck some guy(s) over there, and of course she needs someone to babysit her…. And I’m really fucking sick of this shit.” Eventually, she did leave, multiple times she saved her money purchased a ticket and left for Europe. She always called me to help bail her out, one night sometime around 1992 I answered the phone. “Bela, listen I just left Jeff in Germany, he doesn’t drink, and I can’t stand it. Fucking people need to lighten up anyway, I needed to get away. I was mean to him, you know how I get. I feel bad but not really because I HAD. TO. GET. AWAY.” Even though I was 3,000 miles away she knew I was shaking my head, “Don’t shake your head at me, if you are going to be an asshole then I will just hang up and I won’t talk to you.” Even though she had called me, the emotional pull of her predicament overrode all semblance of logic, ‘who will fucking help her then” went the thought in my head, it might have well been on a lite up billboard, “Who Will Fucking Help Her?” “What the fuck do you want me to do?” and just a few inches from me, a voice from the other side of the bed whispered, “Bela who is on the phone, is everything ok?” “yeah, it’s Jenny calling from Germany….” The resigned woman breathed out, “of course it is.” They never knew that they got her in the bargain when they dated me.

“Here’s the thing, I met this guy in the Netherlands, at the Vero, this awesome bar–you’dloveit.  We saw the Turks there, anyway he and I made out so I’m going to go stay with him. I met back up with the Mummies guys, they are really cool, and I’ll go with them to Belgium, then Peet will come and get me, his name is Peet, like Peter I always want to call him Uncle Peter and have to stop myself. Can you imagine if I said that shit while we were fucking?! Me screaming out “Fuck me Uncle Peter! Fuck Me! Hahahaha.” Her speech was rapid, one word sliding into another, almost lapping the word spoken before it, like they were racing one another  Some people can stand rock solid while the winds of the hurricane swirls around them, the waves of life crashing against them, trying in vain to pull them into the murky depths of their own depths (or should that read deaths?), they appear to be oblivious to the violence that pounds every aspect of their lives. This was Jenny in Germany, and later in Spain where she had went on a whim and quickly ran out of money until she charmed a wealthy Spanish woman who took care of her for nearly two months until the woman, undoubtedly, exhausted by this funny and outlandish American from Ohio purchased her a plane ticket back. My head was heavy in my hands, the sheets bunched up around my thighs, I stared outside the bedroom window as the streetlight glowed yellow against the row of dormant cars—patiently waiting to be driven in a few hours, and replied,

“what do you want me to do? I have no money, what the fuck Jenny, why do you do this shit?!”

“I didn’t call you to be judged by you, you are always fucking judging me! Your life isn’t fucking perfect Bela, quit acting like it is. I thought you would want to know where I was, plus I told the guys from the Mummies about you, I knew you like them. They are really fucking funny. I told them they should come to Columbus and you could make it happen. But they stink, that shit they put on to play, it smells like ass.” She was off on a tangent.

One moment vindictive, and defensive the next excited about something that gushed out of one neuropathways in her ever-moving brain, “oh, cool” thinking to myself, “why would she mention me to the Mummies, just cause I like them?” although I was excited about maybe bringing them to Columbus to play.

“So, you are going to the Pits to meet some guy named Peet?” The woman got up from the other side of the bed, and crossed the room, I followed her hips as she walked out of the room, she was beautiful, my next thought, “god-damnit Jenny, don’t ruin this for me.”

“No, the Pits is in Belgium, I’m going to the Vera—that’s in Holland, you’d like those guys—the Turks loved it and they know Jerry Wick, I asked them if he was an asshole to them as well.” She cackled.

Yawning, “ok, great—be careful, let me know if you need anything when you get there. When are you coming back?”

“I dunno, soon, maybe call my mom and tell her I’m ok. Poor Jeff, I’m an asshole.” She hung up.

Sitting at the end of the bed, I stood up and looked out the window, the glowing red numbers on the digital clock read 2:20 a.m., and the ache in my stomach grew around the rest of me and settled in my head. “What did she want?” said my friend with the perfect hips and she climbed back into bed, “Ah, she left Jeff and is hanging out with Supercharger and the Mummies, she met some guy in Holland, I guess she’s going to go stay with him….” “Why are you friends with her, it seems like all you do is bail her out of trouble?” I didn’t turn around but felt my neck grow red, this was hard to explain, impossible even—why do people care for others when there appears little in return?

Choosing the words carefully, “I dunno, she’s really a terrific person. Oh well, there is nothing to be done now” I slide under the sheets as she allowed me to intertwine my legs with her, I pulled her close and let me self be held.

When the gray sky spits the first cold rain of the fall, and the wind touches through skin into a body’s bones, I am always transformed backwards, to 1991 or so. Maybe 1992, at this point these are just numbers, signposts on a backward highway that really leads to the abyss, fading into the vanishing point on our own inner canvasses. The memory is New Year’s Day, the night before I spent with another woman named Jennifer, and our friend Haynes. A farmhouse on the edge of Athens County, Ohio, the house straddled a hill, with a small winding road that curved up and around the old farm the house sat on. An old fence, faded from years of neglect was broken in spots, the wood an almost gray-black as the white paint had long been rained and burnt out by time, a small pond with a dilapidated dock half submerged in the brown water gave one the thought of a once more prosperous and happy time. It wasn’t used to grow anything anymore, just memories and junk in the yard, the land gone fallow with weeds sprouting around abandoned tires, an old truck sat bare in tall grass that was holding tight to the carcass as if the metal hulk was a savoir in a sea of desperation. It had once been a proud farm, and now it was a backdrop built for my faded memory. The night before we had listened to music on a small boombox, shuffling cassettes as the mood suggested, “Nevermind” had come out in the fall, and I was infatuated with “Loveless’ by My Bloody Valentine and Superchunk’s “No Pocky  for Kitty” and as the new year turned over, I put on “Flyin’ Shoes” by Townes van Zandt whom they women had never heard. As we listened and relistend, I succumbed to the pressure of the wine bottle, having gone mostly four months without a drink the atmosphere of the evening called for it. At one point, I knew this would be my last night with Jennifer, I knew this was not going to work—we were too different, she was much more organic than me, more Athens county than I desired, she was a stark contrast to the cosmopolitan-New York Sharon, Jennifer wore poncho’s, sandals and oils—and while conversations went into the deepest part of the night, I felt no spark-I felt incapable of love in any sense. We made love that night, with me knowing this would be the last time and as we spoke in hushed tones afterwards, she confessed her love for me and my reply was silence, my skin getting hot as I knew I was incapable of the same. The next morning, I arose early, made coffee on the stove for all of us and ventured outside. It was New Year’s Day, and everything was fragile as I ventured across the road to a field that slopped down into a small thatch of woods. It was cold, with dried corn stalks crunching and snapping under leather boots, barren trees looking painted on against the forever gray sky. There was nothing there but thoughts and the wind, that was kept at bay by a thin brown jacket, a revelation happened as I walked along into the woods, listening to the crunch of my boots, that in the end I was destined to be alone regardless of what I had in my life, whether it was the bottle, friends or a lover. The thought wasn’t frightening, it was as if a riddle that had been clawing in the back of my mind had suddenly been solved—and it was ok.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jenny Mae Leffel 1968-2017

September 4, 2017

Jenny Mae (Leffel) 1968-2017.

“Why are you so angry?” She asked me that, repeatedly over and over through the years. Perhaps it was some of the unease that grew up around me when I was near her, as the jungle of her life, crowded everything out, grew wild around her and eventually choking the life out of her, but I would challenge her on this statement, in the end though—there was no agreement. Perhaps the anger came from frustration, of witnessing a slow motion house fire, a home being torched one item at a time. The flurry of flames to one book, one shoe, one chair at time, small embers that glowed red, then ashen white-perhaps that was what upset me so, the bit-by-bit destruction of a life by slow degree. The elephant in the room was not so much an elephant but it was the room itself, a sense of sadness as well as a flickering modicum of hope that offset the creepy feeling that something was not going to end well. Death is that ending, and for most this great unknown is the not-ending-well that pervades everything a person does, watching a child from a distance, death is unspoken the silent care a parent puts in others-the trust that is given to others who are caring for their child.

She didn’t want to talk about it, the drinking, the poverty, the violence she endured—by the ones who were in her life to protect her, men, neighbors and others who in the end betrayed the trust by fists, insults and of forcing themselves upon her. These were the upspoken experiences that drove her, the memories that tended to visit her when she was alone, at times with some of the voices in her head—there was no wonder that she gravitated towards anyone, no matter how unsafe to make her feel not-so-alone. Sometimes the demons in front of us are safer than the ones in our minds.

She cackled when she laughed, a laugh that could lift a room up and transport it elsewhere, to a place of bliss with just one line, one comment that dove out of her mouth as if it were propelled by jet fuel. Soft eruptions that would murmur from her lips, asides that would leave tears of laughter cascading down anyone within earshot. For myself and a few others, we played off one another, a small circle of suffering outsiders who kept our sanity by laughter, the pushing of the envelope and also, of course music which poured out of her like million different cloudbursts dotting a never ending sky.

 

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A sensitivity that was attuned to the pain around her, she comforted me, she held my head when I wept as a child of 19, when the world broke apart within me, she would wipe my tears and sing to me, just her voice and her hands upon my cheek. “Edelwiess”, “Greensleeves” and “Grow Old Along with Me”, she could trill her voice like a 1930’s Hollywood singer or turn it into a broken Billie Holiday, depending on what she felt was needed. Later, when she started writing her own music, she would pull lines from my notebooks of poetry to fit her melodies, she would sing songs to others from lines that were written for her. Turning our world inside out, and later, some of these maybe have been written for my current lover—she would say, “I just think you are brilliant” to me as I quickly changed the subject because in the end-I knew the answer, that I was as broken as she was.

Over the years the relationship changed, where once she comforted me, I became the caretaker, trying to save a sinking boat in the middle of the Pacific, all the kings men, horses, gold or prayers would not be enough to bale the water out of the crumbling floorboards of her boat. Creaky calls in the middle of the night, loaning her money that she would try in vain to pay back but at times, of course she never could. It’s hard pressed to survive on $700 a month regardless of how well a person budgets. At one point, she plead to me to help change a system that is so selfish and cruel it smashes the poor underneath it with the glee and quiet approval of an upper crust that is exactly that, crust. She is the main reason I work with the poor, the addicted, the mentally ill and how a sense of purpose to challenge the levers of power to quit stomping on the dis-enfranchised.

Sometimes it’s the mudane that sticks in the mind, a memory of the ordinary, maybe sharing a cup of coffee or a song that came on the radio while the windows were down; laughing and passing a bottle between seats as the Cars sang about a cheating with their best friend’s girl. They are cobbled together, on after another, to be mixed and mashed up as one moment flows into the next, soon a massive bleeding blur of colors in the mind’s eye—none exact, just an impression. One day we were walking across a barren field just across the street from her house, we had to cross the Old National Road, a staggeringly long strip of the pre-interstate highway system which was intended to connect Atlantic City, New Jersey to San Francisco but ended up petering out in the middle of Utah soon to be replaced by the faster US interstate system and Interstate 70 which could also be seen from Jenny’s front porch. Along the way, the rise and fall of American exceptionalism is pockmarked along this strip of history, old motels that are now hollowed out, small burgs that once catered to traveling salesmen, truckers and families moving west are now past dead, rotting in the shadows of Wal-Marts, box-stores and a drug epidemic that may just kill off the last vestiges of the great American Dream. It was not quite spring, those few weeks when winter still lay hard in the soil but with some afternoon days moistening the ground to stick at the bottom of one’s shoes. Senior year was hurtling towards and end, I had already had enough credits to graduate and only wanted to spend time with Jenny, read and listen to records. Dj’ing at the local college radio station was akin to opening up a box of 64 Crayola crayons after only having a number 2 lead pencil to color with, the world appeared as long and fantastical as route 40. Standing in her front yard it was hard to believe that if one went east, the vast Atlantic Ocean would be able to swallow this provincial and suffocating life while going west would lead to more adventures. The trees were still bare, skinny black and brown arms reaching skyward waiting for the sun to provide their green clothing, they swayed at the top, the wind making the tops dance in a slow motion action. I grabbed her hand, we had not an idea of where we would walk to, soon the field would end and after a small thatch of woods the starkness of I-70 would be an unpassable barricade. It didn’t matter, she laughed and held my tight, pulling herself against my shoulder, and looked up at me. I was turning into a man, by slow motion, one step, and one day at time. She was going to Ohio State, she swore to her grandfather that she would be in the Ohio State Marching Band, she would major in Spanish so she could travel and challenge the world, and of course she would leave her hometown which she knew in her mind could never contain her. Pockets of doubt rose up in me, wanting to attend Ohio University because Athens was the only place that felt like home, with the idea that I would become a journalist or writer, I realized that in the end I wanted to be where she was no matter the town. The dry cornstalks cracked against our feet, making a yellow rickety carpet all the way to the trees. When we arrived at the end of the field, the trees seemed to huddle together, if they could join branches, they would clasp themselves together and dance, bending themselves up and howling in whatever manner a tree can. Winding between the small forest was a creek that we had never known existed, hidden to the rest of world, she climbed down the muddy banks, “come on Bela” she coaxed me, in a matter of moments the sound of skipping stones splashed against the water until our fingers grew cold. “Let’s go back, I’m cold” she said and we trudged our way back across the field towards that small ranch house on the side of route 40.

https://pitchfork.com/news/singer-songwriter-jenny-mae-dead-at-49/

At one time, I thought I could not believe I could breathe without her, later I helped her breath and now there is no breath at all. I will miss you in everything I do Jenny. Jesus Christ were you brilliant.

 

 

Death and Almost Death

August 3, 2017

unedited because it just seems like a lot of work at this moment.

Death and Almost Death.

 

 

Ohio State University Hospital East, is an odd building for a hospital, it is 12 stories tall, with a round tower as the centerpiece, it has several buildings that have been attached to it over the years. Inside it is difficult to traverse, with connecting hallways between buildings, various mis-named floors and at the building furthest from the tower is Talbot Hall which is one of the busier detox units in Central Ohio. At one point, some years ago I would do a volunteer group amongst all the struggling addicts and alcoholics, and after that I did an internship there. OSU East is smack in the middle of the Near East Side, a high crime, extreme poverty and highly forgotten about area of Columbus. It’s an area, until recently, largely forgotten about by city planners, business outside the realm of convenient and check cashing stores. During the eighties and nineties, crack cocaine moved in like a cancer, decimating block after block, transferring many of the young African-American males from one corner or project into the various prisons that rose like wildflowers throughout rural Ohio. OSU East and Grant hospital just blocks away in the middle of downtown, are flashpoints for trauma and death in the city.

I walked the circular hallway, winding around, counting the numbers until I found hers, “Penn” was written in black sharpie on the small sign outside her door. Jenny’s mother came up and hugged me, I looked down at Jenny who was folded up in her bed, her unused legs jutting out from the bottom of crisp white sheets. She looked small, as if the past years of her life had not only sucked the life out of her but in doing so, made her limbs and torso shrivel. One arm was crossed over her chest and the other lay limp next to the remote control. It appeared as if she had tumbled down a canyon, as her head lay at the bottom of the raised part of the bed, her neck twisted downwards. The pillow lay mostly halfway up the slope and the rest under her face which was scrunched up as well. She was yellow, with a faint hint of green in her cheeks and neck, in her nose was a feeding tube, her eyes were closed. “Jenny, Jenny…..” I waited, “Jenny, it’s Bela.” Her eyes flickered, her mother spoke softly to her, “Jennifer…Nordy (her pet name from her mother), Bela’s here.” Leaning in, to her ear, “Jenny, hey, its me.” Her eyes opened and she peered sideways, too weak to lift her head towards me, she cast her look and made some grumbling noises. “mrrghmmbbghh”, her cracked lips creaked open like a rusted cellar door,  bits of dried blood were caked around the corner of her lips. “Do you hear me ok?” A soft nod and another stab at words, “urghhhe…berla..” She could hear us ok, but was unable to effectively communicate.

I walked over to the other side of the bed, “has she been like this all week?” Her mother stood next to me, “well, yeah mostly although the other day she was lucid and talking away, chattering about how she wants to move and how alone she is…but later she just sort of drifted into this.” Angling in again towards her ear, “Jenny I was just talking about some of the crazy stuff that we used to do, Bruno’s is really interested in all those stories.” A hint of a smile cracked her yellowed face, just a smidgen, her memory was still intact.

Years before, nearly ten miles down the street from this very hospital, my grandmother lay on her deathbed. One could say she took years to die, her body giving up in chunks over the years, a fall resulting in a broken hip, then breast cancer, then another fall resulting in another artificial hip, with the other one needing replaced as it had developed a crack. Another fall in the shower where she lay for fourteen hours on her 79th birthday. She always fought back, her appetite towards life was massive, it was a big as the sky swallowing up the clouds. Finally, after living in a nursing home for nearly a year, with a deep crack developing once again in one of the artificial hips, this time an operation was impossible, she was too old, too large and her heart too weak to sustain another operation. She lay in her bed for months as her body gasped away its core, small breaths counting down to the inevitable final exhale.

Her room was decorated in all the things she loved, pictures of her life, from her teenage years as a highly desired young woman, whom men nearly twice her age made their way to her father’s steps. Her wedding picture, surrounded by countless men and women, with a flowing white gown wrapped around her, a pool of silk. Next to her, my grandfather, with a handsome grin and a seriousness that his side of the family was known for. She could have been a princess in these photos, as the pageantry was that grand. Other photos of her and her three sons, black and white photos of the four of them on the streets of Caracas, others in Spain and Trinidad where she sent them to learn English which would be their path out of Venezuela. One could trace the progress of photography with these photos, later, faded color photos from the nine-teen sixties, with grandchildren wearing polyester striped pants, large collared shirts and bowl haircuts stood around her amidst a swamp of Christmas presents. And finally, newer photos of great-grandchildren taken with digital cameras and printed out at the local drug store.

On the dresser was a large television, sandwiched between stuffed animals and the ever-present vases of flowers, hundreds of dead flowers had passed through this room.

The final decline happened in spurts, and in the end, it was only her lungs that remained alive, it was as if they had not realized her mind had given up and took flight. Heavy breaths that gasped for air, her eye lids suddenly half opened. Her blue eyes, translucent and watery, the were like small blue pearls under the clearest water that has never existed, drifted towards her son and then to me, they closed softly as lungs strained against the force of nature. Finally, after nearly three minutes without a breath, we realized she was gone, she had wanted to see her parents and earlier that day she spoke quietly with a smile on her face. “I will see my daddy and my mommy soon,” proving that as we toddle towards quietus, we revert to childhood, she was almost ninety years old and pining to see her parents on the other side of whatever it is that is the other side.

Signs spring up everywhere, omens of the final doom everybody succumbs to, especially when people live skimming off the top of life as if it were the deepest most turbulent ocean that has ever existed. Some people can dance atop of life, barely touching it too deeply, not letting themselves sink but not yet being able to glide above the salty spray of existence. Others are pulled down by the ankles, they wade through life with their very essence held back by invisible cinder blocks holding them fast.

We were sleeping in a house I had never been in, a split level with green carpet and very little furniture, boxes placed against the walls, in the middle of the room and a small bed made of pillows and sleeping bags were made for my brother and myself. The house was somewhere in the middle of Newport News, a section I was unfamiliar that was not the house where I had lived in as recently as the beginning of the summer. It was Labor Day weekend, we were visiting our mother—spending the previous three months in Athens, Ohio with our father. Spending golden summer days, traipsing through barren fields, abandon houses and playing pickup football and baseball. It was a revelation after moving nearly every June since the age of five, Athens had provided an anchor that I had never experienced since living at the far end of Long Island where we lasted a year and half. Our father had driven us to Charleston, West Virginia where we boarded a smallish Piedmont Airlines prop plane. I always sat by the wing, marveling at the huge propellers that appeared to go backwards and forwards at the same time, a massive buzzing that shook the seat under me. We usually stopped in Roanoke, Virginia and then onto Richmond. Our mother picked us up, and instead of driving to the house I had called home the previous year we went to this other, strange Brady Bunch looking house. This was the home of her new boyfriend, a fellow named Bob Brushwood who looked uncannily like Andy Griffith.

Paneled wood walls, made to look like a forest cut in half, tree by tree with the innards sticking out, naked but, they were made of pressed wood, not one tree with its heartwood exposed but many crushed and pressed to make one facsimile of a real tree. Cheap, and an affront to all proud trees everywhere. In the 1970’s this was called fashionable. There was a dark green carpet in the living room and in what was the den, a few steps down from the living room and rough and thick multicolored shag carpet smelled of cat piss. My mother and Bob slept in the other room, nestled next to my brother, trying to understand the reasons why we were staying in this house that was a mystery to me, it was a foreign land on one I did not understand the language.

Shortly thereafter, as the shadows dipped and settled along the room, the trees outside providing a ballet against the walls, the sounds from the bedroom arose. Deep sounds, breathy sounds and unbeknownst to a child of nine they were the sounds of lovemaking. Leaning into my brother, whispering and asking questions, “shhh, just go to sleep” he advised but the sounds were relentless and frightening. My hair stood on end. Crying out, after a few minutes of unheeded bleating, my mother came into the room. She was followed by Bob, with broad shoulders, long sinewy arms, hairy chest and a cigarette dangling from his lips, he could have been summoned from a Marlboro ad. Patting my head she tried to explain what was happening but I was lost, submerged in my own mind, sinking like net into the sea, although this net was intended to release all my thoughts instead of gathering them like so many minnows.

A few years later, after they married, we were transplanted to Catawba, whose small-town secrets burbled like a percolator while everyone mowed lawns, hung American flags outside of their white washed houses, and proudly sang the “Star Spangled Banner” before every Friday night football game. The rumors were startling, and rubbed like sandpaper to the ears of whomever they tumbled into, alcoholic father, homosexuality, incest, adultery and rape. These were passed around like verbal talismans, bringing suspicion into the houses that on one level appeared so picture perfect. Bob was the minister of two small Methodist churches, one right in the middle of town and the other a few miles away, set down between two cornfields and winding country roads. He worked hard, trying to infuse the word of God to people who yearned for it but were adherently suspicious of outsiders. That he was a divorced to a woman who had teenage children didn’t seem to help, and perhaps when two of the boy stated they were proudly Catholic it just made his job worse.

It could not have been easy helping to raise two opinionated teenage boys who had been moved around the east coast as if they were swallows, migrating from season to season, year to year. We were baggage, plunked down in different schools every year, unpacking ourselves only to have to toss everything back into our emotional suitcases after the school year and finally, for me, I said “fuck-it” and decided that to be accepted would be on my terms. Using wit and humor with a very liberal background I challenged the norms of my small-town school, speaking out when the football coach used the term nigger in my sophomore biology class-resulting in a trip to the office where the principal asked me point blank, “why do you have a problem with the word nigger?” At home, my mother encouraged us to speak out, at one point she made her way to the very same principal’s office to challenge him on referring to the wrestling team as a bunch of “pussies.” After my freshman year, I quit going to church, another stain I had inadvertently flung on Bob’s aspiring career. Openly defiant at times, both my brother and I were headstrong, well-read but not frightened to speak our minds, in one sense I was a punk but I had a cause which was to speak out to injustice when I saw it. The oppression was thick, lathered on my life like a paint it dripped from me and in turn I resented my parents for plopping me down in the middle of what seemed like the corner of nowhere. I would have yearned for nowhere, from where I felt I was which as a vacuum. Zoltan, had it easier, much more affable than myself, he was bigger and handsome with a talent to blend in with the jocks and rednecks, we had a few nerds maybe five of which I was probably one. He played football, wrestled and was homecoming king while I planted verbal spitballs on my perceived enemies and pined to escape.

 

Bob would drink Natural Light, not much in hindsight but maybe a few every night but he was prone to darkness and the darkness lay upon him like a coat some weeks. After a year, our mother left, moving to Columbus where she got a job at a treatment center, and for a brief period she headed a treatment center in London, Ohio just down the road from us but the marriage was doomed even before they took their vows. They were different people, pulled together by who knows what but we bared the brunt of their mistake and while Bob tried to step into the role of a father it was an arduous task. Compassionate he, laced his sermons with stories of compassion and acceptance, he tried to balance the need for the community to be accepting with their ingrained suspicion of anything that was different from themselves. In the end it was for naught, as his depression gripped him like vines and pulled him into his darkness. Art helped, he went back to his first love, ceramics and drawing, making countless small bowls and religious drawings that soon covered our tables, mantle and desks.

At seventeen, I was living alone, my mother had left him and Bob struggled with a house that contained a disinterested teenager who had found his own escape in punk rock and underground music, and books with the rest of the house filled with unrealized memories that had never had the chance to hatch, smothered by a marriage that had no air to breath. Bob went to the state hospital in the fall of 1985, he stayed there on and off through the spring. I quit the wrestling team where I was named captain after the first practice, in favor of after school blow jobs and Pabst Blue Ribbon every weekend. It appeared, at the time a better trade off, in hindsight it still might have been. Bob was attending AA meetings where he met another woman, he would bring her home or stay at her house, a small bird-like lady who did not have the education neither he nor my mother had, but she was nice and tried to make small talk with me and Jenny. It is obvious now that he was planning his own escape from the ministry, some of the congregation were complaining to the Methodist church and he had several meetings about his future in the church. He was disillusioned by their lack of support, while I thought to myself this was the true nature of many of these people, the hypocrisy was obvious to my seventeen-year-old eyes.

In those between years, Bob was there, making dinner for my brother and I, driving us to wrestling practice, sitting through long tournaments and overlooking the drinking that went on over the weekend. He was encouraging to us, and with our passion for literature and finally over the summer of 1986, right after my high school graduation Bob left the church moving in with my maternal grandmother as he returned to school to get his Ohio teaching certificate. Separation made things easier although a resentment had made a stone in the middle of me, attending Otterbein College which at the time, mid-Ronald Reagan’s tenure was a fiercely conservative liberal art’s school. Not a good fit. I left after one quarter with my first real bout of depression, where I left school mid quarter and slept in Jenny Mae’s dorm room for two solid weeks, peeling a layer of parking tickets off the roof of my car and returning to school. My professors had thought I had left, my English professor pulled me aside telling me I had a future as a writer and suggesting counseling, she saw the signs. I dropped out in December and wanted to move in with my grandmother but Bob was living there, faced with the choice of living with my mother, going to a shelter or moving in with Jenny in her dorm room, I took everything I owned, records, tapes and clothing and moved into her dorm room for two months before I could get my own apartment.

Bob went and worked from Columbus public schools until he reached retirement, we stayed in periodic contact. The weight of adolescence was a lodestone on my relationship with him, I distanced myself from much of my family for several years and finally after many years he reached out to me via email. He had moved to North Carolina where he built a house with his own hands in the woods and made art, we spoke over the phone once, discussing his depression and he offered apologies for those years we were together. It was all ok, I was happy with who I was, and then there was nothing. At one point, I reached out to one of his sons, who wrote a curt email back and I never responded. Bob had suffered many losses in his life, two of his children passed, one from a drug overdose and another from cancer, while his own childhood was difficult as he had years of abuse by his grandparents, brutal abuse he told me about over coffee one day.

Recently while visiting my brother, he informed me that Bob passed away last year. His daughter had called my brother, he was 80. The last couple of years I had assumed he had died, but there was no way of finding out if he had. A google search revealed nothing. What does a person do when a past they have little connection to dies? In the end there is a space, like the space between two words on paper, that space is waiting for a meaning, an explanation that never comes. Wedged between black ink, it waits patiently forever.