The cloud

The end of August was lionesque. Not like sunbathing its mane on the high plains of Africa (well maybe a little) with the whole safari at its roar. But like the moments after the kill, with pups waiting hungry nearby, and hyenas festering, and no place to bring the dead, already-rotting antelope for the pups to eat in safety without being scooped up by one of many surprising predators, and in the end there is a tree to try to get the kill up, try to get the pups up, and it manages somehow and barely, relying on its own ladylion ways to survive yet another pitiful day. Maybe I'm projecting. Life is hard sometimes.



I didn't get the dreamy job I'd trying for since May (and of which I feel I'd been robbed, honestly and bitterly). My good, old friend Brian passed away. Was murdered. That seems like such a bad way to say it, but it's true so there's life. Brian and I had known each other since we were probably 14. A lot of my friends from Weymouth went to school at BC High and I met him through them, probably through the internet and then we met officially at a punk show at the 1st and 2nd church. He was a big guy with an honest heart and I never heard him say anything bad. We hadn't talked too, too much over the past few years because I've lived far away, but almost every time I came to visit, I saw him, even if only briefly, and life was good. So now, by contrast, its just that much worse. There's something missing from the world that not enough people feel. Like knowing a species has become extinct. Or like having that favorite mixtape with the only known copy of that song you woke up to every morning, not knowing who played it or knowing any of the words because it was in a different language, but it was the only song that could start the day, and one day the tape ripped and with it went the ability to sing the mornings through. Only, the hope with the species is that another one will be discovered, or that it's evolved into something more sustainable. The favorite song could be heard sung by some busker in the Harvard Square T terminal some Christmas Eve as you're finishing up shopping, and the singer knows who wrote the song and has a copy of the cd in her pocket. The thing with a murder is there's no chance for evolution, no hope for a carbon copy. It's just over. That thing in my life that I loved is just gone. Gone.