murky water

"I stood there in the dark,
a king without a castle; a cloud without a sky.
Goodbye the coldest word of all;
My one regret: goodbye."
[Eric John Peltz, "Regret"]

I awoke knowing I must write today; it's become a necessary part of this day every year. I've wavered to and fro from both dreading this to looking forward to it eagerly, and from having no idea what to write to feeling like it was all coming together in my head. But as I sit to write just now, in what might actually be the first of several sessions today, it's more from the sense of obligation than from desire. And so, plodding through it, I don't expect to churn out anything inspiring, or memorable, or even much palatable for that matter.

To anyone who's not up to speed, today is the anniversary of my mother's death. I take this day, every year, as a sort of "day of reflection". For many years, when it was all still fresh in my mind and I missed her dearly, it was often a day of great sadness and grief. These past few years, since the pain has sank so far away from the surface, it is usually just a day of contemplation. It's like my very own new year's day, in which I look back at a year of my life and scrutinize it.

My living arrow is still aloft and looking to strike home, but it's rattling through the trees now, and feels like it may be off course. My life this past year has been... murky water. My life right now is murky water. All day I've tried to come up with a way to describe how I feel about my life right now, about where I've been the past year and where I'm going, and all that comes to mind is an image of murky water. No clever analogy, no long-winded treatise, no illustrative explanation... just... murky water. So if "murky water" doesn't convey to you the sense of where I feel my life is right now, then sadly, today, I can do little to make things clearer.

Early on, as I sat before the computer, wondering whether to begin writing or not, Geoff contacted me to see if I had any ideas or plans for today. We got together to see the movie Twisted out at the mall, and I've just returned home to sit here once more. I vow never to see another suspense-thriller with Ashley Judd again. She's acted her way (poorly) through the same film so many times now, albeit this time without Morgan Freeman to accompany her, but it gets yet more predictable every time, no matter how clever they try to make it. If they'd paused the film 10 minutes in, I could have written a plot summary - complete with all the "twists" - before the first body ever turned up. Does anyone ever not see this stuff coming from a mile away? What a waste of our time and money. Put her back in comedies, please.

The quote above is from a poem on page 20 of "The Colors of Life", published by The International Library of Poetry. A poem I wrote shortly after my mother's death, A Day More, was published in this book. I'm proud to say I was selected for page one. To look at, the book seems a little cheap, but nonetheless, it means I am published, and on page one at that. The white dot in the black it is, for something good like being recognized for poetic talent, to rise from the morbidity of grief over my mother's death. It took a decade for this flower to bloom, but it did.

So I've bounced from escape to escape today, just wanting the day to be over. I don't want to reflect. I don't want to think or talk about my past, my present, or my future. Today, I'm just not in the mood. Today, I just want for tomorrow to come, so that it won't be today, so I won't have to think about it, so I can go back to being myself for the other 364 days of the year. I've tried to pass the time, but I've not the energy for much. I've buried myself in my usual, most-effective escape (one of which my mother would certainly not be proud), but today even that is just not able to hold my focus for long. I feel like "Laura" in "High Fidelity", when she wanted to have sex with her ex-boyfriend, just to feel 'something else'. I wonder, sometimes, how many people really understood that scene in the movie; I did perfectly. Shortly after mom died, when my girlfriend came to visit, I had a lot of wanting to 'feel something else'. But then, like any escape, I suppose, when it's over, reality is still waiting for you to return. I've love to waste away my day today in a carnal way, but that's not an opportunity really open to me.

Well, I guess I should say what I have to say, and then perhaps I'll give this up for a while, and go back to my escapes. There's still almost 8 hours left in this day.

---

Dear Mom,

It's been a little over 11 years since we've spoken, and I must admit that honestly, after so long, you don't cross my mind from day to day like you once did. When you do, it's no longer painful for me to reflect back on when you were alive. Rather, what does come to mind when I think of you nowadays is basically two things: one uplifting, the other a little saddening.

In thinking of you, I'm reminded of who you were, and how that is, in no small part, a large factor in who I am. I'm proud of how you struggled against such adversity to do the best you could for us, and how long after fate had dealt you its cruel hand, you pressed on bravely, for our sake as much as your own. No, I don't hold some childhood image in my mind of you as saint - you were just a woman, just a mother, and there were things about you that drove me crazy too - but you were a good mother and a good person, and I'm proud to call myself your son. In troubled times, I sometimes still reflect on what advice you might give me if you were still alive, or I kiss your signet ring as a reminder to myself of just how much can be accomplished through sheer determination. I don't pray, because I don't believe in god, but if there was something I do close to prayer, I guess that would be it. I also still wonder from time to time if there really might be some sort of afterlife, and if, perhaps despite all my cynicism and calculated logic, you could actually be looking down on me from some other place, and whether you'd feel pride or shame to see me. I imagine it would be a bit of both. I've done much you'd approve of, and much you wouldn't. I know you'd still love me regardless, just for being your son. This I find comforting.

I have few regrets in life, but one of those few comes to mind when I think of you: that I didn't tell you there on your deathbed how much you meant to me. I tell myself that words were not necessary, as surely you knew. I remind myself that I still look on myself as a child back then, and I forgive myself for it. And by way of an apology, I do my damndest to never allow that to happen again: I try to be forthright with my friends and lovers, letting them know how I feel, ensuring they understand just what incredible and wonderful and beautiful and important people they are. Finding the strength to tell them is easy, but being to late to tell you, this I find a little saddening.

I'm having a more difficult time this past year than I've had in a while, and I know it was your only real wish in the last years of your life to raise your children right and send them on their way, knowing that you'd given them all the tools they needed to be alright. Things are a little shakey for me right now, I admit. The water is murky. But somewhere within me, I will find the strength you have given me, that spirit of determination that comes from being your son and having witnessed your struggle, and I will find the will to press on and turn things around.

Until next year,

Your loving son,

Patrick

---

I don't want to be at home tonight, but I don't really want to be anywhere else either. I don't want to game, or to watch movies, or to read. I don't want to surf or to cook or to stew in the murky waters of my own confused head.

Today, I'd just like to feel 'something else'.

Seven hours.