Learn From It

It turned out to be this amazing day. A little chilly this morning, a bit blustery this afternoon, but here I sit in my little back yard—correction: our little yard. I feel like I've simply arrived ahead of him here, even though I've lived here nearly eleven years, and for two of those with Allen. It's an odd juxtaposition, Sam and Allen. The Bourgeoise and others generally lacking and/or appreciating creative thought will insist on misunderstanding my seeming lack of regard for Allen in stating that he was part of some waiting-for-Sam game that started while he was still alive.

If there's anything I did learn from Allen's death Of the myriad things I learned from Allen's death, among the most compelling is that no particular religion or philosophy has anything to offer in terms of making sense of the end of existence. Society and social tradition offer even less: in this less-than-zero case, society goes so far as to dictate and edit and attempt to channel grief into ways that make the grieving even more tenebrous for the begrieved.

So fuck 'em all, I said, at some point. I've got a big brain and a reasonable creative faculty, so why not just feel what I feel and let the Jesus freaks tell me I'm going to hell or let polite society tell me I'm a crude rube who's desultorily insulting a dead man? The ones who insist on abject respect the dead will also provide instruction on how to respect, all the while happily and guilelessly and cluelessly disrespecting you, a living, breathing person.

Ironically, all it really takes to start a new religion/church is general disgust of current religious options and a broad brush with which to paint a new worldview (two things I'm trafficking in, you might think—perhaps I should consider forming the First Church of the God of the Biscuits).

But no, as I sit here in the lovely weather, in our little back yard, with my iLife continuing, iPod mini and gi-normous PowerBook blessing my world with music and a frictionless path to creativity, I remember conversations I've had with friends here in this yard. With Dave and Judy and Allen, over Happy Donuts and the Sunday papers. With others in drunken messes (the first-ever Booze Hag was crowned right here during a 4th of July party 7 or 8 years ago [Hi John!]). With the yard so overgrown with neglect that no one could sit here. With a flashlight, grilling a steak in the wintertime on a rare rainless evening.

I was a lad of 29 then, when this backyard first became mine, existed as a different "ours". And it's now an 'our' back yard again. Dark hallways of the heart and neglected rooms of the mind illuminate by the flick of the my-vs-ours switch. And sure, perhaps it's a trade off....the lights go dim in other rooms, other hallways, but hell, I'd rather eat my cake than have it. I'd rather have rooms filled with people and laughter and living than rooms whose thick walls provide silent guarantees of safety. Living en garde to the world without leaves you in a world Without. Put it on a bumpersticker, so long as you give me royalties.

So here I sit, today. Now. In our backyard. The empty chair near mine is a placeholder for when he finally gets here. Forty years of waiting for a moment...you'd think I could endure the next two months patiently.

Perhaps I should start that Church after all, to teach me patience. I can see it now, a church with lots of sex, lots of cookies. Nothing is a sin except being unkind, especially to a stranger.

Oh, and by God (of Biscuits), there will be bumperstickers.