worlds are dropping like flies

when natasha richardson sustained a head injury and was dead two days later, boy oh boy, did i get the willies. you hit it just right and the eternity blastoff countdown commences. that’s about all you can say about that.
why her now and not me two years before she was born?
luck? timing?
well, it’s not because i was better looking.
there’s all that “what if” being thrown around, but you know where that kind of thinking can get you, buddy…..
in the period of time that i was a printer for the department of city planning, i guess when i was 19 years old, there was a guy named fred who was the supervisor of the map-sales room located next door. when he wasn’t saying “they’re reaming my ass,” something i was never sure was a rhetorical statement or a dream-based fact (i mean, he said this a lot), but he also said of, “if” –
if a frog had wings, he wouldn’t have to scratch his ass with his hind legs,
something else of questionable relevance, but i got the drift…..
this might have come to mind because of the actresses’ death or because of the other deaths in my own circle of experience. people have been dropping like flies lately, or maybe it’s because my father called to tell me that he’s had his first dream of his wife of forty-seven years after her being almost two-years gone. i asked him if it was a peaceful dream and he said it was.
he recounted how he would read the paper on sunday afternoons at home when dolores (that was my sainted-irish mother) and her most-special son would converse (whether in colorado, montana or wyoming) and he’d listen to one-half of a mother-son conversation, hearing the part of a mother’s assurance and concern because he was the one who needed that more often than me, maybe. this would be instrumental in my father’s decision to drive a few thousand miles with her ashes so he could join them to the land of the big sky where his son’s ashes were scattered seventeen years earlier and the feeling of peacefulness that settled upon him as an eagle drifted above at the moment this was happening. in the big math, seventeen years isn’t even the thought of “a drop in the bucket”
i only considered writing this because there are friends, some people very close to me in my heart, who are riding the moving sidewalk that grief puts us on when people die.
i find there’s a drift….a hushed air; a physical lightness. grief has an energy all its own.
i noticed it from both ends of the death-spectrum, expected or not. acceptance or disbelief. though i celebrated my mother’s release from these bonds, the wish she voiced to me for her god to take her just days before, i still drifted with my family’s sadness because i knew my own was nestled in there, too. it’s for this reason i relate to strangers who live uptown and know only from what they do with other people’s words and actions in movies. it’s the same – galactic showbizz. quote shakespeare for me, will you? if not, just play some kinks records.

that’s why the big math is the way i roll. and crash. and on occasions, burn.

with this information, i retreated with my dog to where i might be safe for an hour or two – where the lizards roam.

i have aneurysm fantasies.
i was told a long time ago that “something like that could happen with head injuries” and when it’s convenient, i play that card in my mind.
when miranda richardson slipped away, i thought to myself….it started out as a headache.

i remind myself constantly how unimportant everything is because of the information that death affords me.
maybe it’s a convenient out, a way to get away from the moment and feel like a nike-anti-ballistic-missile-missile or better yet, the speed of life itself.

i bundled everything that was in my metal-plated head and stood before the the loud, foamy-white ocean and watched the rapid sweep of the waves come in.
there was no other sound.
the ocean trumped it all.
it was a loud, gleeful ocean.
it beckoned me to give it all i got.
i took it all;
the news that i will stop watching, the debt that i’ve incurred and the stress of these moments, all of the regret that comes to visit, all of the love that is my life and all of the magic of each and every moment i slither along this ocean, this planet, like the stupid, greedy, scam-ridden investments proffered by those ex-douchebags and newly-suited, well-fed grifting lizards from mars who seem to have given me the day off – as i’ve only seen a few real humans cycling by today – all of this welled in my chest before exploding in one, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
from the utmost, top-of-my-lungs;
a wail that gathered momentum and would put against max bialystock’s three-second howl, anytime, five to one (something that i’ve linked to this note time and again).
after letting out this roar, the lightheaded sparks of me traveled from my hard drive to the future and greeted tony, phyl and miss richardson.

“welcome to the eighth electro plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension,” i may have or will say.

About stephen trimboli

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