I Wanted All Things To Seem To Make Some Sense

It makes sense that my father should pass away the same year as Kurt Vonnegut. Maybe that's ridiculous to you, but it makes perfect sense to me. In the last couple of years, when our relationship waned, we found that we had Mr. Vonnegut in common. And of course we should. One absolute thing I inherited from my father was his sense of humor. I'm pretty certain that I was born with it. One time, I was seven or so, my father generously agreed to play hairdresser with me. As I wet the comb and ran it over his head, I noticed a bald spot. In my humorless innocence, I drew in a breath and let out a low, extended: Ohhh... He laughed and laughed. It's stuff like that I miss. I don't fabricate memories and feelings. I strongly oppose that notion. But man-- some memories are just so vibrant.

Back to Kurt Vonnegut. There's a lot about Vonnegut that reminds me of my father, besides the fact that he was a fan. Dry humor. Liberal, inventive thinking. Historical references up the wazoo. Thoughtful, weary eyes and a cigarette in hand.

There are obvious differences that I won't begin to name. I'm not saying they were long-lost brothers. It's just that the similarities are significant. At least to me.

My father met Kurt Vonnegut once. At a post office in Manhattan. He saw Kurt walk inside. Shocked and excited, he leaned to the security guard. "That's Kurt Vonnegut!" He got no more than a shrug from the guard. My father then approached the master of prose. "You're Kurt Vonnegut(?)" Kurt, I suppose retrieving mail or sending a letter, looked up. "Yes... I am." My father caught up with him at the door. What is it you say to a literary genius ready to flee down the street and out of your tangible existence forever? Certainly you want to say more than a five second: you're a swell writer. My father asked excitedly, "May I walk with you a while?" Kurt turned to face my father. "I'd prefer not."

Hah! Now-- to those of you who've never read a Vonnegut piece, you're probably thinking what an asshole he was. But if you're aware of his tone, the line is absolutely priceless.

My father and I laughed without breath when he told me of this brief rendezvous. I wonder if the tale is left only to me...

My father didn't have a will; didn't have many possessions to begin with. But I'll keep this one. And when a friend finishes his first Vonnegut and calls to tell me (this actually happens quite a lot,) or when I'm reading Welcome to the Monkey House to my children at bedtime (don't worry, I'll wait till they're four,) I'll pass this story along.

It's not much, but it's mine.

In times of silence on either end of the line, we could revert to Vonnegut. I know my father was impressed with the fact that this writer is one of my favorites. And I really like that.

I could go into how they left before their time and say all that pitiful crap that I'm suppose to say. But I'm not going to do that. I'm just thankful for the things my father involuntarily gave to me; elated at the prose Vonnegut voluntarily shoved at me.

I'm just happy that it happened at all.

Won't You Give a (Bug) a Home?

What's the point of being a bug? I knoooow that there is a purpose for bugs and all earthly creatures. But what is the point of being a bug? They don't have brains. They don't have feelings. So, that means they don't have thoughts and opinions and theories and love and disgust. They don't even know they're gross. They just float around and attract to my front door light and then they float somewhere else and then their life is over.

Fucking silly, if you ask me.


Yours Drunkly,
keeley

For Grandma...

In Rough Times:
You hold the hands of those around you;
Lean on the shoulders of those that surround you;
Speak out feelings to friends that have found you.

You hold your head up and hope for the light,
And for some strange reason, there are feelings you fight.

And when silence seeps into porous days,
You raise your head and look both ways.
And when there is no one, nor nothing in view,
You weep with a cry that is sold and true.

It's a tune that is stronger than any could be.
It's a song of hurt that you're meant to set free.
And when the last notes drip from your eyes,
You begin to sing life's hopeful reprise.

Dream a Little Dream

I just can't seem to get enough sleep. It doesn't matter if I sleep for 5 hours, or 12-- I'm just completely beat. And regardless of whether I'm asleep or awake, I'm constantly dreaming dreams of how my life should be. Not how my life was, or how it will be in the future... but how it's supposed to be now. That's so fucking sad. I'm happy in many respects. But there's a part of me stuck in a dream, because that's the only place I feel appropriate.

She Cried in the Kitchen / To Let You Go

And here it is. Another good friend off to the west coast. I've got all sorts of respect for possibilities and exploration, but that doesn't mean I want all my friends to pick up and leave. I know I'm not losing these guys, it just means they're harder to reach. But it does mean that I can't take a drive and hang out with them. And.... I don't want to make new friends!! Ugh. That sounds so ugly. But it's true. I'm not close-minded to meeting new people, it's just that I love my friends so much and I already know that no one is going to come into my life who is half as good to me as they already are. That goes for all of my friends, not only the ones out on the left side. Every one of them lends something so unique to the person that I am. I feel like everyone I meet from now on will just be decoration. Ornaments are pretty and all, but it's the foundation that really counts.

Dreams Are Bad / When All They Do is Leave the Truth Behind

So I have been having the craziest, most disturbing dreams about murder, and infidelity, and disappointment, and people who have passed away. Perhaps I spend so much of my time awake trying to be optimistic, that all the negativity is seeping into my subconscious. Hippie jargon. I know. It's really hard to snap out of it. I wake up pissed off, or scared, or angry with myself. But these feelings have to work themselves out somehow. And if that's the case, then I guess the best place would be in my dreams.

When I Wake Up in the Morning Time / I / Like to See You Sleeping by My Side

I've really had the greatest week. Despite the awful familial matters, of course. 311 and Matisyahu were so sick on Wednesday. And the ride down, just singing and laughing; the anticipation of the show and the night in Atlantic City... it was just all so positive. The shade took care of us as we tail-gated with some cold beers. Even though I was the only one dancing like a fool to Matisyahu, it felt really fucking good to move my body to some reggaerock. 311 played an amazing set. They always do, but they were especially tight, and pnc's sound is so on. AC was a little rough since we got there at 1am, but hey-- we're troopers. I only lost $3 at the slots and that 4am chicken sandwich was the most satisfying thing ever. Ocean City was such a neat little town, I didn't want to leave as soon as we got there. (Yes, I just said 'neat.') The beach was gorgeous, the water was warm (for me), and the waves were rough. But my outdoor shower takes the cake. And then Silverchair on Friday.... jeeeeze ...... I haven't felt that way at a show since the first time I saw Incubus. I wanted to take off my pants. But Jill didn't think that was a good idea. And even though work was long and boring on Saturday, I went to a birthday party and was up till all hours with friends I hadn't seen in a while. And when I woke up in the morning, I was in the best place I could possibly think of.

I had been waiting for this week for months. Even through everything that has been going on, I decided that I was going to splurge on positivity and actually enjoy myself, rather than just talk about how one day things will get better. I felt guilty. I really did. And I feel guilty now. But I can't let myself. The pain of others is upsetting, but you can't let it debilitate you. That probably sounds selfish to you, but if it gets me to feel hopeful, then fuck it.