A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 13, 2002 || 4:21 pm

Reading this over at kd’s today dredged up a memory that I had not dismissed on purpose, but had lost touch with nonetheless. Reading this over at Rossi’s just kind of washed it all down.

When I was working in Honolulu, my department was located near the top of one of the buildings downtown. The office was full of good karma and just had an open, fun vibe to it, although everyone was verrrry businesslike and professional. Everyone had their own desks and their own ’space’, but there were no office walls and no cubicles and no bullshit…not even for/from management. There were floor-to-ceiling windows, letting in lots of natural light and scenery, which I dig; some part of me requires that.

It was a pretty happy place with an understated symbiosis.

One afternoon just after I came back from a casual meeting at a nearby patisserie, I was headed toward the fax machine to zip some paperwork around the planet. The unit was in the center of the bank of windows that made up the exterior wall. I happened to glance up from the sheaf of papers that I was shuffling through as I walked when I saw something large and charcoal gray zip by the window. It happened so fast and so startlingly that I didn’t know what to make of it, but when I got five feet from the window I stumbled and let out a little choked sound.

Because, you see, that’s when my brain actually comprehended what I saw. I said something along the lines of, “No way.” as my co-workers giggled over what they thought was a personal goof. I turned to them, unsure of how to word it, then blurted out, “Y’all, a guy just sailed down past the window.”

“Fuck you,” said Rob, but Marilyn’s jaw just dropped. I heard Adrienne, the office bitch, excuse herself from a call and before I knew it I was turning back around, moving woodenly across the few feet to confirm what I already knew I saw.

There was a large stone planter by the building’s entrace, and from my vantage point on high I could see that there was indeed a man in a charcoal-gray suit lying on the sidewalk, and he had obviously cracked his head on the planter a scant few inches from his destination. I wondered dumbly if he had planned it that way, if he had taken wind direction and velocity into account, if he had calculated speed and vector doggedly before he ever sailed off the edge of the building so as to make sure he accomplished his mission in right and round fashion.

All I could do was stand there and breathe, fingertips resting lightly on the glass, as I noted that while his legs were akimbo, they appeared normal. One of his arms, however, jutted crazily behind him, resting on the edge of the planter.

They said later that his head was pretty much mush. I don’t recall being able to observe that little tidbit. I could quite clearly see the puddle of crimson leaking over the pebbly stone of the walkway and down towards the curb.

And one thought rang clear, “Where did all those people come from so damned quickly?” Yet nobody was touching him. Nobody was hysterical. They just seemed fixatedly perplexed.

Turned out that he was a gentleman of Chinese descent and he worked two floors above my own. Apparently about 25 minutes before he jumped he found out that a big deal that he was brokering had fallen through. Rumor was that he had done some simple, mindless something that botched the whole thing a he felt deep shame. Who knows?

A big stain remained on the walk that afternoon as I exited the building, briefcase and umbrella in tow. I remember thinking, “Why hasn’t somebody cleaned this up?”

It was gone the next morning when I arrived. Mostly.

::: :: ::: :: :::

So now I am thinking about that thing I mentioned the other day (or night, whatever).

I received word that someone I once loved (and perhaps, in a way, still do) died recently. I don’t know whether or not to believe the news. Part of me looks on it as dubious at best, another part is gibbering and shaking and believes. That part is gaining ground in my oh-so-heavy heart.

We haven’t spoken in so long, that boy and I, but I carry him as a part of me still, his art-filled hands and soul-drenched eyes only a blink away, his voice a clear echo in my head…

That’s the trouble with conciously choosing to love so few, especially when you are an extremely passionate person: You hang a lot on them, emotionally speaking.

I drove around for a bit in the stifling heat, windows down, blaring Method Man; we used to ape Meth in the too-small apartment, using the matress and box springs on the floor (covered with two-hundred dollar sheets, what a riot) as a makeshift stage for our rapsynching talents.

I pulled into Piggly Wiggly’s parking lot, tangled and windblown hair scorched, skin parched, with a Pepsi in mind. I wafted into the cool air and was slapped in the face with ‘Amie‘….not related in any way except for the one that matters, the Big Cosmic Way. My body threatened to fold at that point, and it took great resolve not to succumb, not to crumple into a heap and wash the cold tiles there with my hot tears.

I walked blankly on, guided by rote to the floor coolers, something deep inside of me going ‘hiccup-hiccup-hiccup‘ all the way.

I got my journal for the 1000 journals project some six months ago. I had planned on doing a matched set of collages entitled, “The Dichotomy That Is Me” with one collage centered on the raucous “FUCK YOU” part of myself and the other on the more tender, soulful side. In between the two I wanted to place something I’d written.

I’ve had the bits and pieces for the collages gathered in a little red beach pail made of metal for some time, now. The journal rests atop it, accusing me. Occasionally Maxim will fuss at me about it: “Somebody’s gonna be mad at you.”

*sigh* someguy (the project coordinator) has written me about it TWICE now. I suck. I couldn’t seem to help it; I was simply devoid of inspiration for those center pages.

I think I know what’s going there now, though.

I wrote this for Cris not too very long ago. It wasn’t the first thing I’d written for him, but so far it is the last. I’m copying it to the journal, in between the ‘Dichotomy’ collages. It feels appropriate. It feels necessary.

The world should know that I love(d) him. It’s important, for fucksakes.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)