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pete
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antisocial discipline break down, they come around, they come around....
songs from a few years ago create the net of comfort which i can fall into with little effort when i need that support. they sing to a time when i had less cares, when i was propped up completely by my parents. those times are gone, but the songs still remain.
she wrote innnnnn finger paint, finger paint on the wall...
lying all alone i graps at these thoughts, i seek for their renewal in spirit, because i know they will never live again in form. i follow the paths that i was so accoustomed too. i remember the smells of my house, that single-seater near the window. i remember the hours since that year when we left us that i have spent staring out that window, with my chin over the back of the chair. twelve years, and i no longer have that comfort. soon thirteen.
and her smile, it makes my hair stand on end, onnn end. oh and she calls me uneasy, you gotta let me know should i let it go.....
but the days still pass and i find my own ways to rejoin with that comfort. like last night. i was high. i was on a fairly long walk. i took the river path on the north side first, then the south side after. i walked until lees transpo station, crossed over, and entered the forest. or i will call it a forest in the context of a city of a million people. i breathed with the trees. i saw a path on the river side of the trail. i followed it. it told me where to go. i listened to the wind through the leaves and was elevated. i slowly found my self facing a tree stretching over the water. it is completely hidden from the trail, a good 20 metres or so into the bush. i climbed it until i was sitting over the water. looking in the ripples and reflections carry the stories of so many lifes long gone. they called me out and greeted me. i was warmed and entered those thoughts that i had evaded for so long. which this city had stolen from me.
some day this place is goina burn....
the last time i cried in public was 6 years ago. it was spring, april. it was a wensday. i was in mr harvey's 5th period grade 7 science class. we had a test that day. i just put away my study notes, and rested my head on the desk. i closed my eyes. memories flooded in. the guilt of not realizing he was gone for almost a month. my actions at the funeral, even though i was 6 i should have known better. we hid behind the coach and played cards. i remember one of his class mates said: 'im only here because i have to be. i never knew the guy.' that hit me hard. or atleast the memory of it does. no one knew we were behind the coach hiding from the reality of the funeral. later memories came too. i lost his favourite stuffed animals. i lost them. i can't believe i lost them. 'no' my mother said 'no you didnt lose it, stop worrying, he was buried with digger.' no he wasnt. i lost him. the memories came more and more. never wanting to go to the grave yard. but then, once there, i never wanted to leave it. all those hours staring out the window in that seat hit me. and the tears came. i couldnt write the test. i was lost. i was crying so hard. they sent me to the office. they called my mom. she is a brevement councillor. she took the job after he died and after my little sister was old enough to go to mrs rattiz's house to be baby sat. that hit me to. gina never knew douglas. my favourite, lost brother. i talked to mr adams for about an hour. i composed my self. it was now sixth period. i took my books from where mr harvey put htem outside the class, went to my locker, and then went home and sat alone on that chair staring out side.
somewhere out there.... (fival goes west)
the time before that was similar. grade six. the last day of school. people where making fun of me because my brother had a memorial award. i dont know why anyone would do that. i was 11 at the time if i remember right. it hit me hard again. i ended up in the back room, in tears, alone. the teacher called my mom. i went home. i spent the day on that chair, crying and staring out the window. (as i write the tears feel like coming again.) it seems that the teachers at the school who remembered douglas thought i was the kid most like him. his little brother. i won the award. but why did they tease me about my brother having this award? those tears of memory and of guilt and of shame and of mourning came that day.
........
and now i am here. it has been a third of my life since i last cried in public. i only knew him for a third of my life. one third of having two older brothers. one third of silent mourning bursting into public tears at school and being made fun of for them. one third of repression of this grief and letting it boil. no one in my family has cried in public (in school i mean) because of this. my older brother did. my older sister did. i did. my younger brother didnt. my younger sister was born the same year he died, so she never knew him. i think that is why i am so close to her. he left 6 months after she came.
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040607
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