out of the dusts...

hey folks this is something I meant to post and never did... at least from what I've seen I never did *grins* so if I have and missed it let me know *grins* don't want to get redundent, but in any event here it is.

all the best,

Sol

have you heard Sage Francis "personal journal" for some reason i have that impulse with you right now, maybe it's a hands tied thing, perhaps i feel that if i share my own inner works with you something will shead a light on confusions otherwise un-resolved. my families scars run deep and I've no way of knowing how much you know this. you are clearly well known and truly loved by my brother and sister [sister1 and brother1] and quite well liked and enjoyed by my other brother and sister [i simply have the impression that brother2 and sister2 don't know you as well]. i know you're important for and too them so you must know something. but let me tell you (ha, "let" as if I'm somehow gaining your permission by saying that when here in text there is no mind but mine to guide these keys turned letters turned words turned sentences... gods sometimes it feels like a sentence) the story of our lives... the brief dark version, the story no one really hears.. not really. the story of our scars, and of how our parents indiscretions have hurt even the intimacy of we siblings... of my siblings who are the dearest things in this world to me... (well isn't that ironic, now *I'm* crying). It all started long before most of us were born, only sister1 brother1 and I were drawing in this lifes sweet air by then, and we weren't to know the truth still till years later when it all came apart. The short version is that my parents used to practice unorthodox relationship methods and that my mothers emotions have always been more exposed than my fathers. I'll tell you the whole story on our walk if you'd like, text takes more time than I wish too and there's almost something crude about it... almost as if I'm making it more perment by writing these things down.. the unorthodox isn't the problem, at least not of it's self and very much not for me I'm quite unorthodox myself especially when it comes to romance and relationships (hell I'd rather suffer and watch the end of a relationship have my heart served too me on a platter than to lie to a loved one... but that's another story and totally mine and not what this is about). The problem came when my mothers sense of neglect and my fathers sense of burden flared and clashed. In the midst of the oh so chaotic and torrid affair that followed (and I don't mean the sexual one that everyone so wrongly supposed was the key to it all) there were wounds left across the trust and love of this family, of my dear brothers and sisters that I don't know if we'll ever fully recover from. BOTH our parents forgot us entirely to be wrapped in their own personal drama and power struggle. I still remember watching as sister1 brother2 and sister2 all tried to talk to each other in over loud voices to drown out the screaming and the fighting that was happening below. Watched it like a knife in my intestines until I couldn't stand it any longer and in a despret despairing rage went down stairs and screamed at both my parents until they shut up and both left the house (my mother to her ... now brother1's, room downstairs actually but it makes no never mind). I remember watching my brothers and sisters get thinner from lack of food because we really didn't have appetites with all that was going on. And I remember myself for the first time in my life just fleeing from something, just moving and never wanting to stop, always PUSH PUSH PUSH so that I wouldn't have to think. It's when sister1 when away.. you didn't get to see her then and that is truly a sad thing, she was always similes and such innocent cheer.. she's never been the same since and it always breaks my heart. Sister2 has this edge about her have you notice it? when some things too soft she laughs, it can't be sensitive right away first it has to be funny or foolish. She's been so strong to get through all of this and I have no idea what it may cost her in the long run. And brother2, my dear, dear brother2, so much like me, so much like me it kills me because I know where he was, where he's been, and how hard this was on me when I was already older and (if you can be such a thing) more ready. He doesn't walk untouched through this world , he just looks it because the wounds run so deep they look like the belong there. When he attacks someone, pushes them away for being "ridiculous" or some close synonym, they show up clear as day. I've seen dispair in his eyes unmatched by anything I've seen in this world... and while I know that there's oh such hard and hurtful things that I've yet to see, and that he's stronger now, more healed, it's still there. You've never seen him angry, anger is pain that lives beneath the skin and won't go away, won't be let out, won't breach the surface... it smolders and burns until it erupts. He nearly tore a sink out of the wall by mistake once when he lost his temper, he didn't even know he was doing it. So he keeps his emotions away from the world that he might not let anything prick him too deep and thus get hurt so that he'd hurt in return.
His worst fear in this world is, just like mine, himself.
And Brother1, Brother1 was my only friend for years. My ONLY friend... even people who've become close now who were there then, and who are truly my friends.. it's different, they don't know. I was so excited to have a brother, I was nervous and a bit unsettled too because I'd been an only child but I loved him so much... and somewhere I lost him, somewhere in the years, during the time we came to Logan, I lost him. And I never got him back. He was my dearest friend and to this day I don't know fully what happened or even why. We drifted apart and I'm not sure how to talk to him anymore, not about the big stuff, not about the things that we both so often and so frantically wrestle with. You can see it in our writings, in our music. You're right about art and pain, but don't court pain enough of it will come to call on you without your throwing wide the doors. And sometimes art can be happy too. I don't know how to tell him, how to even bring it up. Gods he sleeps in the room next to mine now and feels worlds away and I miss him more than I can even try to say, and I can't bring it up. I know I hurt him somehow, I know because I can see that much, I know that's not all and I pray someday I might understand. I know he was gone when Mum and Pops destroyed something ireprable in our family and I know his feelings on it and experience with it has driving this wedge between us even deeper because of those views. I'm afraid, I wasn't afraid to walk down streets where I knew people got killed every year, not a wif of it. But my brother lays there in the other room sick and in pain and not know why or what to do and I can't help him... I don't know how to even be there for him, and I'm afraid I'll lose him without ever having the chance to understand or make it right. He might die and I might as well be trying to grab smoke with my hands for all that I can do about it. To have the core of what taught you love be broken and the fragments twisted in your guts is difficult. Not because of the pain of it, that I've long since come to grips with, but because of it's distortion casting it's self upon everything else. I know it, can taste it feel it, I'm deadened now compared to what I used to be, the same record is playing but the volume has dropped, like speakers that have been blown out, or the world the day after a concert when you forgot to take care of your ears. I remember when I felt sick and cried a little (alone after they'd all gone away) at some kids killing a bumblebee in my neighborhood. Now I carry around a smashed bullet (the one that missed) from a shooting that took place not fifteen feet from the bedroom in which I slept. Sometimes I wonder if something inside me is dead, and I hope that it's not gone beyond recall... I know that it all sounds melodramatic and I don't mean to imply that this is the whole of life, there are counter points elements of laughter and love. But there's a space where some things missing and it's nothing someone else took from or gave too me, it's tied up with other people but it's always been my own. And when there was too much pain to bear and I didn't know what to do I killed it, and I hope I'm able to undo some part of that.
My story's gotten mired in emotion, what do I expect when it's about the mire of emotion?
I hope we do get our walk, I honestly feel as if it matters weather or not this happens, tho to say why is beyond me just now. There's so much to say, so much more to be told, but the ground just now is muddy (tears will do that to dust of memory) and the story teller's spent (tears will do that too often as not).

Sol