What I would give for a Sea Dog Wild Blueberry Wheat Ale and some macaroni and cheese. A girl can dream.
December 9, 2013
© Aliscia Pulito
Etta Bond is truly incredible.
These lyrics are amazing:
Spend my last ten on weed,
like its growing on a fruit tree,
masking my thoughts till im blind,
so im sorry for,
flies in the eyes and equality,
signing on pretending that i job seek,
when across seas,
6 years olds are digging through the rubbish
just to support their own mothers,
to think of all the days I missed at college,
while 3rd world children,
they drench for the thirst for hidden knowledge
give un to me,
I’m acting like it wasnt at my feet,
but walking like the world is on my shoulders,
cursing English weather,
like the homeless man ain’t colder,
and i still aint got enough change for him,
but he can hear the coppers in my pocket,
yet I ignore it,
excuse me my friend,
I think I might have hit my head
excuse me my friend,
I dont remember who I am.
cos I’m holding on,
tryina be somebody
but it wont be long,
before I need somebody
asking for forgiveness
asking for forgiveness,
loving couples desperate for children„
and due to my shitty time I decided on abortion
but I hope for this,
and one day I’ll be a better mother
let me say im sorry for any pain that you may have suffered
I want a family with a home,
with a father that they know
dad I wonder if you think of me,
and I guess we’ll never know
cos you don’t pick up the phone but nor do I so..
should i be sorry that i dont try?
mum I should have told you that I loved you more
kate I wonder sometimes why we’re fighting for
got mother cancer in her lungs,
but I’m smoking more each day
cos I’m afraid to say
we aint forever young
I’m sorry for anything i might have done
tryina be somebody
but it wont be long
before i need somebody
asking for forgiveness
Cue the sinking sadness that dawns with the rising eastern sun
Cue the dusk which lies me carefully to sleep after bedtime stories that form elicit nightmares in my head,
One on the impending doom humans cause to our oceans
I can’t remember the others
Cue the morning coffee, bagels with locks, carefully organizing my own locks, lock the door, unlock the car.
Locks of tragedy, locks of love, throwing keys into oceans or watching them drop from sweaty palms.
Cue the future, the inevitable passing of time, sliding rings onto shaking fingers, unrequited love from spouse to child.
Cue the right hemisphere, the side of the world where I was whole, the half of my brain which connects me to the surrounding beauty of this planet, joining me with the molecules of bacteria and heaven.
Pause the moments, rewinding and intertwining rapid thoughts in my brain, what am I missing?
Play, keep moving forward, connect the full circle.
Curtain drops, newly born, surrounded by human chains, connectedness, unable to communicate.
Sadness is so loud, it doesn’t need a microphone, it echoes through imaginary loud speakers that everyone can hear.
I just got off the phone with my dad. We had a nice conversation about Marxism, theories of government, Google, the terrifying advances in technology, while I then picked his brain about communication. I told him I know I will have a difficult time reentering the United States, but I’m unaware as to what the specific struggles are that I will have to face. Adjusting to Spanish society, in reality, wasn’t all that difficult for me. I had a similar upbringing in a bicultural family, and there were periods of adjustment where I was rather emotional, but once I got a grasp on my place in this society, Spain instantly felt like home. I told my dad how enlightening growing up in a bicultural family had been for me, and that I learned that communication is entirely more about nonverbal, rather than verbal communication. He told me he learned the same thing when he first came to the States and could not speak English. He said, word for word, “I learned to laugh when other people were laughing, or to fein sadness when other people appeared to be sad.”
It nearly brought tears to my eyes as I quickly shuffled through my writing to read a passage I had written just last week which I read aloud to him,
"Growing up I never thought of language barriers to be a significant problem. Perhaps it’s because I grew up in a family where nobody spoke English, or perhaps it’s because my dad always translated the important parts. He left the rest of the work for me. That is when I learned that you don’t need to share a language to form a relationship. By making this widely perceived impossible task possible in my mind, I was able to find things much greater to share than spoken language. Ever since I was a little girl, I always paid special attention to the unspoken truths people possess. I learned to laugh when others laugh, to cry when others cry. I learned that sharing any single emotion in a specific, or fleeting, instant is the most powerful action one can make. I learned that a smile contains more power than a gun and holds more possibilities than a newborn baby. The deafening truth is that we are all human, we all bleed red, and we all feel the same things. Human connectedness is less dependent upon the language of the mouth and more dependent upon the shared sentiment in our souls. "
I am my father’s daughter. I am a product of a man who has such a kind soul and big heart. I am forever thankful for the life I’ve been given, the family that has loved me and helped create a compassionate young woman. I trust myself because I trust my parents’ love.
I think everything is going to be okay.
Remember when we used to send each other “funnies?” That’s what you would call those emails we would laugh at, instead of working, while the jokes traveled one story, from your desk to me in the office above. I’d laugh and send one back and come downstairs to make sure you got it. You frequently needed help with your technology, but not when it came to funnies. My mailbox would be full for weeks before I could get through them. We’d then head out for an early lunch at Joe’s and see Beanie, and spend an hour and a half shooting the shit while you would tell me about war, marriage, motorcycles, and life. When we’d return to the office we would get everyone distracted and our days would end in jokes as we’d both excuse ourself from work and head home to watch the movies we exchanged with each other.
Well the other day I asked my parents for your address so I could send some postcards from Spain. They gladly obliged and told me you were doing well. My dad said you and your friend Mary from Florida were planning to get married and you asked him to be his best man! I insisted on video footage. An 84 year old like you getting married..AGAIN!? I also asked them to send me tons pictures and how I wished I could be there myself! You always spoke so fondly of Mary, I remember your spontaneous trips down to Florida..I always knew she was more than a “friend.” My mom and I talked about how excited we were and that we were happy to see you receiving the love you’ve always wanted. It was no surprise to me though, I suppose you always got the ladies, and yourself in trouble.
I remember when the doctors told you they had to take your eye. You said you weren’t concerned and that you’d get to wear a “a sexy pirate patch” and who wouldn’t want a sexy pirate patch? You then made a joke about how a band of people coming through town are craftsmen and have made beautiful wooden eyes and I asked if you wanted one and your reply, of course, “WOOD EYE?!” I laughed as you preceded to tell me that you wish you could still drink, because you knew a guy who had a glass eye and would sit at the bar, but when he had to go to the bathroom he would take his eye out, set it on the bar and say, “watch my drink.” I begin to realize where I got my sense of humor more and more every time I think of you and my dad.
You still came into the office once you healed, on your chariot of choice: the Harley Davidson, naturally. I still heard all your crazy stories. Time still passed by quickly, from 9-5, from then until now. The last time I saw you, we ate a cake.
Today I got a text message from my parents: the bearers of all bad news. They said that you fell into a coma on Saturday and left us on Sunday. Sunday was the day I told my mom, “variety is the spice of life, that’s what Ernie always told me!” which led her into the conversation of your marriage and what crazy thing you’d do next.
I will always hold our lunch dates close to my heart, you were the man who made me realize what a real date should be like one day, with your chivalry in tact, though you’d always be a rebel. You were one of the only men who told me I was beautiful every day that you saw me, apart from my dad and brother, through my ugliest days. I even thought about you today, prior to the grim discovery. We were watching some video clip in Spanish about tattoos and Angelina Jolie was in it, who you had such a crush on! And I remember the tattoo you had gotten removed from your thigh of a cherry with the words written “here’s mine, where’s yours?” Your first wife wasn’t too fond of that. And when you went through your heavy drinking days you’d always tell the story about how you got locked out after closing time at a bar and you had to knock to get in, and when your wife said, “So nice you decided to come home,” you said something along the lines of “it’s the only place still open.” Needless to say, your second wife wasn’t too fond of that one, but we sure thought it was funny.
I wish I could have sent the postcard to get to you on time, but I understand things like this just can’t wait. And if I could have told you one last thing it would have been that of over the 30,000 days, and memory packed life you got to live, I feel so blessed to have been any part of those days. And I’m even more blessed that until today, I’ve never had to live a day of my life without you, and it is clear to me that every day forward, you have left an impact on my life from all the love and happiness in your kind soul.
Rest well Ern.
Until we meet again,