For you, the dress code is casual.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Sunshine and Roses for Everybody!

(The other idea for a title was, "Again with The Flying Pigs!" It was a hard choice, and were it not for the chance to show off this rose I photographed in early July, the pigs would've won. I should really take a photo of the Save-On Meats flying neon pig for precisely this dilemma if it should ever arise again. Note taken.)

My brother's taking his depression by the horns and fighting it like the evil demon spawn it is. Some monumental times have befallen him, and he's kind of starting to get through it by making those lesser-of-evils choices we all hate to make. It is what it is. He's getting this year what I got this past year, the year of reckoning that knocks upon your door after you've come a little too close to eating death and remember the story that comes with.

I tell you, it fucks a girl up, and I bet it does the same for boys, too.

I'm still having days where it fucks me up. Coming so near putting home onto pavement like I did, whew, makes you wonder what's the fucking point of eating asphalt, living to tell, and then failing to achieve, you know?

There is a whopping fucking disparity between the dreams we nurture for ourselves and the realities we create, and those of us with balls, we can admit to the gaping chasm between the two. Lord knows mine gape.

And my brother, well, I suspect that sometime in the last few months my brother's reality cheque landed in his mailbox and the fool done gone and cashed that mofo.

So, here we be. The disillusioned and the dawned-upon, together at long last.

Y'know, what the fuck's there to say, huh? Life's rough. When you almost die and then you deal and you heal and you move the fuck on, it seems to come back on you, like overzealous cajun bbq, some months down the road, and whammo, down you go. Fo' tha count.

And, as far as boxing analogies go, my brother's some middling prize fighter with the balls to get up after taking a solid roundhouse from a cocky new guy on the scene. He's hangin' on the rope, adjusting his bit, wobbling, but, oh, oh, oh! There it is! That glint of defiance. And, no, this one ain't over yet, but, boy, that man's bone tired, so this'll be a toughie.

He's made an appointment to see a psychiatrist. I'm thrilled. He wants to talk about our mother's death -- he never has, never does, but now he wants to. Yippee! Good. I talk about it 'cos I've dealt with it, all right? Talking about it does me good, keeps me regular, just like fibre. I don't get all emotionally stopped up inside. He never, ever talks about it, and only ever brought it up when he woke up from his coma in the hospital she died in and said, "I got to get the fuck out of here. Now. She died here."

Talking ain't never hurt anyone, is what I've always felt. There's nothing that bothers me more than when the communication shuts down, and it's even worse when you can't communicate with yourself. My brother's sounding like I felt like, way back when I started these blogs. I was in a black fucking hole after damned near dying, and between the endless gratitude I was alive and the fucking anger I had that it was merely to live this. Whew. That can be a frustrating dichotomy to navigate.

He wants me to teach him to write. I do believe I'll enjoy that. There's a great gift to try and give someone, huh? The gift of putting down the words? I hope I can manage it.


Rockstar rocks. I love the vibe of support you get from those folks, like they're in it together until they're not? And who cares when "not" is?

Where in the fuck did Ryan Star come from, huh? I hate to state the obvious: Where'd that darkhorse come from, but fuck, man, where'd that darkhorse come from? What a wicked take on Paint it Black! The entrance, the reveal. Go, Ryan. Someone's cracked open a page in the Eddie Vedder appeal book, I think. This guy found his switch and flipped it. This is the fourth new fave singer I've had in this show, and there's eight weeks left. Woot. They keep changing it up. Fuck Idol, man. This is a program.

[My wrists are in the worst shape they have ever been in. Writing is starting to hurt. This, for some reason, deeply saddens me. Seriously. I can't have this hurting, you know? I never want to dread it for anything more than it is, a battle with my honesty. That may be changing. I need a better job, with medical, so I can get physio. Numbness bad.]

Oh, god. I just received notice: My 15-year high-school reunion looms. Oh, I don't fucking know 'bout that.

Pardon the cliches, but the rose was done by me at the start of July, as was the sunrise from Mount Cypress, on Canada Day.