Song lyric for an early morning

'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life

Today's writing

Jax shrugged, his demeanor returned to its typically mild way. I would almost have preferred a continuation of the shit-fit, an elongation of the anger. I could have handled that, maybe. The departure from his previous self proved jarring, but maybe I could have switched gears quickly. I don’t know because he just went back to who he was: someone who would never punch anything, animate or not.

 

What precipitates that? Where does that 180-degree twist come in? It must be something in the brain, some sort of flip of the switch, a flick, a flight of fancy. All I knew was that it scared the shit out of me. Like, serial-killer type of fear. I’d birthed him but still I didn’t understand what went on in that head. That’s because we were always two separate beings, even when connected. Close as two creatures can get and yet still – two. Not one. I am not he and he is not me and we were not destined to always be together. Something like that.

 

I should mention that he was a gorgeous kid. I mean, seriously. Amazing-looking. Bangs that fell to just above his eyes, which were wide and blue and expressive. Redhead. He got his coloring from somewhere deep in our lineages, but I couldn’t tell you where to save my life. Genetics were always beyond me, both conceptually and in execution. I only knew that we existed because someone placed us here, and that that being had some loose handle on design.

 

I see you everywhere

Trotting across the bedroom floor. By the fireplace. In the trees where the wind rustles, telling me it's going to be okay.

Today's writing

Climbing through the depression, trying to tap away at my work in progress:

The store is a clutch of cutesy accessories of all stripes: shoes, jewelry, mugs, knickknacks that would take only one swipe of Po’s paw to break.

 

Then there is the doll.

 

Somehow I find it in my hands and I’m not letting it go. It’s not that it looks a little like Jax’s beloved Mr. Bear; it’s exactly the same. I don’t know how that’s possible. Mr. Bear came from some uncle or cousin and if it had made its way from Red Stella, I didn’t know about it. Yet here he is, soft again, young, untrammeled. Jax Velveteen Rabbit-ed the shit out of that bear. Eventually it lost an eye, an ear, found its arm permanently raised from Jax’s brutal grasp.

 

He never really got over Mr. Bear. He just grew a little more embarrassed, as kids do once they begin to grow up. They don’t want their youthful loves in evidence, but they do want them at the ready. Disloyal? Unfaithful? Certainly. The truth? You bet.

 

I wanted to bury him with Mr. Bear. Rob said that was morbid. Sweetheart, I’ll give you morbid: burying your teenage son to begin with. All the rest is sour, tangy icing.

This is how I will remember you

 

Because

The vet held her stethoscope to his chest. "Gone?" I asked.

"Faint heartbeat."

I pictured it as the ash glowing from the cigarette I borrowed from Adam tonight. One minute alive and pulsing, the next dead and dull. Crossed that line, just like that. 

Random writing tips

1) Readers love to be fucked with. Surprise them. Delight them. Break their hearts. They'll thank you for it.

2) Don't bother kicking the editor out of the room. Make friends with the bitch and maybe she'll shut up.

3) Muses are good. Mine come in the form of black Lab mixes and chocolate (not combined). Your mileage may vary.

The Berkeley special

There's a certain Berkeley type who doesn't know how to mind their own business. We ran into one of these at PETS Referral Center, where we took Jack when we were struggling and failing to save his life. As we sat on the floor with him -- with him unable to walk -- a woman came up to us and started talking to us.

"That's nice," I said. "We don't want to hear it."

She'd bothered us once or twice before, making empathetic noises as she walked by. Fuck her. All I wanted was to be alone with my baby.

So I flipped her off on the way out. It felt good. 

My sweetheart

A cruel week left us without our Jack. Hemangiosarcoma is an ugly, ugly word. 

I can't write much more because I'm going to break into tears, and I'm in a cafe in San Diego awaiting my 30th high-school reunion. But maybe I can. He is an amazing dog. Beautiful, sweet, kind, the whole package. He isn't perfect. But he is (and no, I won't use the past tense) ours. 

We miss and love you, sweet boy. 

My Mr. Baba

God damn I love my Jack dog. I mean, the guy is nuts. Loony tunes. Shrieks at squirrels. Barks at just about everyone. Twists and wiggles and loses his shit all the time. Always in motion.

So when he stopped being able to walk, we were stymied and scared as hell. Yesterday we got X-rays and bloodwork and I'm starting to suspect FCE -- also known as a spinal stroke. While we're waiting for results, I'm looking into rehab as well as slings and wheelchairs. 

Look, this is our baby. We're in his corner. He's always been in ours.

Through the dark what do I see

Toad the Wet Sprocket was playing the day my mother dropped me off at UCSB. It was fall 1992. The summer was brutal. Hot in Poway, true, but that was honestly the least of it. I would later write and rewrite, struggling to make sense of the insensible, heal from the insensitive, find the higher themes in what was just genuinely beyond fucked up.

Today she is in rehab recovering from a fall. I will see her when I'm down in San Diego next weekend. Mixed feelings? You think?

And it feels so good

Next weekend will be my 30-year high school reunion. I'm bummed that Adam won't be able to come with me as he did for my 20th, but I'm excited. Why? Well, other than having a book coming out, I've achieved so many of my dreams. Is life perfect? Does it need to be?

BEARDED LADY cover reveal!

 

Yesterday's writing

None of them knew, of course. That’s the whole point. Were there a way to predict what was to come, it still wouldn’t have rested with them, been dust on their shoulders, grit along their boots. They would have entered the morning as they entered every morning: a birth of sorts, a resurgence of life into the day. Shrugs, sighs, the occasional shit, awakening a path we each travel at our own pace. Yet somehow it all ends the same: fall of cloth upon body, assault of brush on hair and teeth. By the time the shoes encase the feet it’s almost too late for them.

 

There would be others, of course, but this story is not theirs. They would once again see daylight, whatever that meant to them. Not all got away unscathed. No one does in the end.

 

Erica, James, Fiona, Cheryl. Four people laced together by that fucker named fate and little else. Sure, it was predetermined. What isn’t?

 

What isn’t? 

From my seventh-grade best friend

I just saw your FB post and wanted to let you know that if you ever need an extra set of eyes for your manuscript, I'm here for you! And let me take this opportunity to say that I'm so happy for you, so excited for you, and so proud of you. I knew you were a good writer back when we were writing notes in Mr. Lanthorne's class so I'm not at all surprised that your book is getting published, but it's still worth saying that this is an amazing accomplishment. Soon the whole world will know what a great writer you are too!

PJs Day