I'm sitting in the basement at my mom's house out in the fields near stars. Its so dark out you can see the milk way as a slight haze & the birthday party of people backyarded with our eyes up watching for the meteor shower. We were celebrating Hudson's birthday & we lit the paper lantern and watched it fly away. I was trying to send thoughts of Michael along with it, but couldn't measure them enough to place them there with it. So I am writing now, trying to find him in myself. I've been with him all day. I've cried all day. I can't stop listening to Michael's songs on the CD he made for me a million years ago, can't stop missing him and wondering what it would be like if things had gone differently between us. This night marks the 8th anniversary of his death, of me finding him gone, his body still and cold. The blood in his mouth.
I made this song for him: https://soundcloud.com/spirit-kazoo/contraption.
Listen to it loud.
I walked past his house today, the one he lived in for most of the time we knew each other, but not the one we met in. That house is further South, down near the train tracks kind of, 26th street, I think. I miss him so much. I yell "sometimes" at the stars. I found a notebook that he gave me back then, after he'd gone to Louisiana to visit his ex girlfriend. He kept a running dialog for me to read when he returned in the pages of the book. In the book he wrote that he loved me, and signed it "from bobby." He was always doing that kind of thing; revealing a sweetness and earnestness, and then quickly cementing over it with some dry humor, a dismantling angular return swipe of armor. He'd been through a lot, so much that I never understood how he felt, how disconnected from people, how confounded by the cruelty in the world. He felt that he was dead while living, that he was born to die, that his existence was meaningless. But through all of that, had a totally moral relationship to actions. He held people to their word, had high expectations of his friends. He talked so often of friendships that had foundered, missed his friends. Loving them. Made music in his bedroom. He really taught me how to make songs. I never made anything like a song until I knew him, and we'd just sit in his bedroom writing these sad, dreamy things. Recording them.
I think we were in love then.
When he died his brother took all of the tapes. But I still have this CD. I am listening to him sing;
"years from now, as i'm looking back on all the wasted wonder years. its a common effect, one that i would protect, and keep it all so close to me."
Staring at the stars, thinking about Michael and thinking about how I disappointed him so much when he came back from Louisiana. How I finally let him go in my loveheart as a romance, as he'd always been so dismissive. He'd tried breaking up with me twice but I didn't let him. His trip to see Lauren was the thing that finally made me realize that it wouldn't work, he didn't want me... And then we started seeing other people in Omaha, and I moved into Dewey Manor and partially lost my mind. And he was totally over it, so it seemed.
But one summer day he came over and we just jumped on the bed in my room with the windows open and no screens in them, because that felt good. And we drank some big beers and started being friends again, and made some new songs together. I wonder what they were about.
I was so sad and scared, so horrified really when he died, that I put most reminders away after a while. It hurt so much just to hear his voice, to see a photo, or hold something that he made.
This CD is one of those things I packed so carefully, like nothing I have ever had before. I wrapped it up, never to be scratched. Never to be played? I am listening to it now.
When he first gave it to me I would listen to it in the bathtub when I was supposed to be in World History. He's singing;
"and i'd like to see you in the morning, when you look like shit, and you've got bad breath. and i'd like to see you in the morning, when you look like shit, and you feel like dying."
We used to drink so much, smoke so much, be such rebels.
"i can see you in my rearview mirror, you're chasing me to go faster now."
Once when he told me over breakfast at the Leavenworth cafe, that we should break up, I drove home recklessly, spinning my car out in the pouring rain, crying hard. Because I didn't want to let him go. There was a time when I clung to him. I'd clung then, and I do now. Back then I painted a mural on his wall. I made him endless packages and sent them to the house that he died in.
"your well trained eyes can see through my mushy brain is bleeding smash up our insides and throw out the tvs. your mouth formed words i'm repeating, tree branch arms are holding, my bones broken anvils, my mind is melting. bird songs you tell me someday we'll all be dust and blowing, the dust is choking your house is falling on me. your mom my mom our lives get crushed up by the dense fog. i'm escaping time can kill you if you wait for it. i will tell you this you're my lover, and i will leave again. i will tell you this you're my lover and i will leave again."
I wish I knew what to with this missing, this regret, this feeling of no comfort, no exit from the pain that lingers. I always dread this day, every year, knowing that it will bring a sense of isolation.
He just sang; "can we face ourselves like we face each other? we never felt anything on our own."
I just want to sit with him and write a little song. We could go for a walk down the alleyway. His voice is here with me, singing over top itself; "cigarette smoke junkie. nothing matters except how much i don't care." And then he overdubbed himself singing with the classic recording of 'Stand By Me.' I bet he did it in his underwear, in total earnestness. He would have.
One Thanksgiving we made a turkey. I think he said it was the first one he'd ever made, and it was definitely mine. We did the whole traditional thing, and listened to a recording of David Sedaris reading from 'Holidays on Ice' the whole time. Then we packed up the food and took it to this gas station where his brother was working at the time, to eat it with him. Bryon never seemed to really like me and I don't remember much about the gas station Thanksgiving besides bringing the food to him and being surprised at how nonchalant he was about it. But I guess that's just how they were with each other. Bryon used to have a pretty cool band that I liked, they would play in basements and ice cream shops. They were called "Kids of the Atomic Age." All the songs were always so sad, but sung in this funny childlike way, with sweet, simple melodies. The kind of songs that make you nostalgic for the moment you are standing in, listening to them. They are almost impossible to listen to now, they implode with their own sweetness. Michael's songs do that in a way, but are so fucking sad sometimes. So clear about the feeling of abandonment by the world.
I think he just wanted his mom to love him. He had 2 moms because he was adopted.
I wish he'd gotten that love, those loves. All of the love. He needed a lot more love than was going around at any time when I knew him.
"what's the status at all? staring at the wall. fall asleep in your car. winona rider is dreaming of barbie dolls. movie stars. fall asleep in your car."
I wrote about the Thanksgiving Kum & Go in a different blog, seven years ago:
one year ago i stood in michael's kitchen, in charge of cooking the thanksgiving turkey and making potatoes stuffing and a pie. he sat on a chair in the middle of the floor and read santaland diaries (david sedaris) to me as i worked. he drank whiskey from a cup. we ran out of coke, and ice. so just the whiskey. when all the food was done we put it in tupperware and drove to the kum + go where he and bryon worked. we locked up the gas station and had thanksgiving dinner at the counter, under the surveillance cameras.
I am going to sleep now.
I made this song for him: https://soundcloud.com/spirit-kazoo/contraption.
Listen to it loud.
I walked past his house today, the one he lived in for most of the time we knew each other, but not the one we met in. That house is further South, down near the train tracks kind of, 26th street, I think. I miss him so much. I yell "sometimes" at the stars. I found a notebook that he gave me back then, after he'd gone to Louisiana to visit his ex girlfriend. He kept a running dialog for me to read when he returned in the pages of the book. In the book he wrote that he loved me, and signed it "from bobby." He was always doing that kind of thing; revealing a sweetness and earnestness, and then quickly cementing over it with some dry humor, a dismantling angular return swipe of armor. He'd been through a lot, so much that I never understood how he felt, how disconnected from people, how confounded by the cruelty in the world. He felt that he was dead while living, that he was born to die, that his existence was meaningless. But through all of that, had a totally moral relationship to actions. He held people to their word, had high expectations of his friends. He talked so often of friendships that had foundered, missed his friends. Loving them. Made music in his bedroom. He really taught me how to make songs. I never made anything like a song until I knew him, and we'd just sit in his bedroom writing these sad, dreamy things. Recording them.
I think we were in love then.
When he died his brother took all of the tapes. But I still have this CD. I am listening to him sing;
"years from now, as i'm looking back on all the wasted wonder years. its a common effect, one that i would protect, and keep it all so close to me."
Staring at the stars, thinking about Michael and thinking about how I disappointed him so much when he came back from Louisiana. How I finally let him go in my loveheart as a romance, as he'd always been so dismissive. He'd tried breaking up with me twice but I didn't let him. His trip to see Lauren was the thing that finally made me realize that it wouldn't work, he didn't want me... And then we started seeing other people in Omaha, and I moved into Dewey Manor and partially lost my mind. And he was totally over it, so it seemed.
But one summer day he came over and we just jumped on the bed in my room with the windows open and no screens in them, because that felt good. And we drank some big beers and started being friends again, and made some new songs together. I wonder what they were about.
I was so sad and scared, so horrified really when he died, that I put most reminders away after a while. It hurt so much just to hear his voice, to see a photo, or hold something that he made.
This CD is one of those things I packed so carefully, like nothing I have ever had before. I wrapped it up, never to be scratched. Never to be played? I am listening to it now.
When he first gave it to me I would listen to it in the bathtub when I was supposed to be in World History. He's singing;
"and i'd like to see you in the morning, when you look like shit, and you've got bad breath. and i'd like to see you in the morning, when you look like shit, and you feel like dying."
We used to drink so much, smoke so much, be such rebels.
"i can see you in my rearview mirror, you're chasing me to go faster now."
Once when he told me over breakfast at the Leavenworth cafe, that we should break up, I drove home recklessly, spinning my car out in the pouring rain, crying hard. Because I didn't want to let him go. There was a time when I clung to him. I'd clung then, and I do now. Back then I painted a mural on his wall. I made him endless packages and sent them to the house that he died in.
"your well trained eyes can see through my mushy brain is bleeding smash up our insides and throw out the tvs. your mouth formed words i'm repeating, tree branch arms are holding, my bones broken anvils, my mind is melting. bird songs you tell me someday we'll all be dust and blowing, the dust is choking your house is falling on me. your mom my mom our lives get crushed up by the dense fog. i'm escaping time can kill you if you wait for it. i will tell you this you're my lover, and i will leave again. i will tell you this you're my lover and i will leave again."
I wish I knew what to with this missing, this regret, this feeling of no comfort, no exit from the pain that lingers. I always dread this day, every year, knowing that it will bring a sense of isolation.
He just sang; "can we face ourselves like we face each other? we never felt anything on our own."
I just want to sit with him and write a little song. We could go for a walk down the alleyway. His voice is here with me, singing over top itself; "cigarette smoke junkie. nothing matters except how much i don't care." And then he overdubbed himself singing with the classic recording of 'Stand By Me.' I bet he did it in his underwear, in total earnestness. He would have.
One Thanksgiving we made a turkey. I think he said it was the first one he'd ever made, and it was definitely mine. We did the whole traditional thing, and listened to a recording of David Sedaris reading from 'Holidays on Ice' the whole time. Then we packed up the food and took it to this gas station where his brother was working at the time, to eat it with him. Bryon never seemed to really like me and I don't remember much about the gas station Thanksgiving besides bringing the food to him and being surprised at how nonchalant he was about it. But I guess that's just how they were with each other. Bryon used to have a pretty cool band that I liked, they would play in basements and ice cream shops. They were called "Kids of the Atomic Age." All the songs were always so sad, but sung in this funny childlike way, with sweet, simple melodies. The kind of songs that make you nostalgic for the moment you are standing in, listening to them. They are almost impossible to listen to now, they implode with their own sweetness. Michael's songs do that in a way, but are so fucking sad sometimes. So clear about the feeling of abandonment by the world.
I think he just wanted his mom to love him. He had 2 moms because he was adopted.
I wish he'd gotten that love, those loves. All of the love. He needed a lot more love than was going around at any time when I knew him.
"what's the status at all? staring at the wall. fall asleep in your car. winona rider is dreaming of barbie dolls. movie stars. fall asleep in your car."
I wrote about the Thanksgiving Kum & Go in a different blog, seven years ago:
one year ago i stood in michael's kitchen, in charge of cooking the thanksgiving turkey and making potatoes stuffing and a pie. he sat on a chair in the middle of the floor and read santaland diaries (david sedaris) to me as i worked. he drank whiskey from a cup. we ran out of coke, and ice. so just the whiskey. when all the food was done we put it in tupperware and drove to the kum + go where he and bryon worked. we locked up the gas station and had thanksgiving dinner at the counter, under the surveillance cameras.
I am going to sleep now.
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