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2000-11-03 || 9.45p An entry just for Sarah Anne Oh baby, I hope you're okay to-night. I never expected to read what I did on your page about six minutes ago, and I hate what I saw there. I also wish I'd never felt what you're probably feeling right now. But I have. Too many times to count. The first time was when I was 15, and my buddy malcolm killed himself with a cigaret. I thought it was so unfair, tonnes of kids do stupid things and only suffer later, or not at all. Malcolm wasn't like other kids, though. He didn't curse his parents or run as wild and stupid as he could. Malcolm loved everyone he met. He had instigated the custom of the Group Hug among our little clique in Ottawa (I spent so much on busses and long-distance calls back then-- I lived, as now, in Montr�al). It didn't save him, though. Once one person died on me, it seemed to start an endless flow, friends and family dropping out of my life like they were disposable people or sommething. The cousin who taught me to paint and taught my mother to live. The grandfather who'd kept our family together, The schoolfriend who couldn't handle adolescence. Sometimes it'd be a neighbour, a kid I was used to seeing coming out of our building way back when I lived in the ghetto. One in particular was beaten to death at a party for looking at another kid's girlfriend. I became friends with death, I suppose. I began to wish for Death to visit some of the bad people for once. I tried to make a deal: 'Just take my paedophiliac uncle. Please.' 'Take the rat that stole my Maman's wallet....' When I tripped over the corpse of the drug dealer who'd been shot in the face, a cold feeling crawled about my spine-- death was standing beside me that night, looking down past me at the red pool on the ground. I became more comfortable at funerals than at weddings. When my doctor told me that I could be dead soon, I didn't even care. But I never lost the bleak feeling that settles just below my heart everytime someone leaves me. Or once, when someone left her daughter sitting in Toronto. Her daughter was strong for her family, but I always wondered who'd been strong for her. You haven't always been charitable about your father on your pages, and I know you sometimes had negative feelings for him, but I also know what a father means. And who, my sweet, is being strong for you, now? |
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shite One last little note... - 09.21.2006 de-stressing, biking and terrorism - 06.06.2006 Mildly stressed... - 05.29.2006 More crime stupidity - 05.28.2006 Scary stuff - 05.25.2006
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