Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Recovering from the Bomb


As hard as it is to act like things aren’t ok when they are, it’s a lot harder to tell yourself things are ok when their not.

He has a beautiful day, laughing with friends, gardening with family, performing before an audience and everything is right in the world. He’s a person who has worked very hard to be able to cry when there’s nothing wrong. A friend once said he had a large back, large I tell you full of stab wounds, but it was beautiful. Like a sunset, and pictures couldn’t capture it’s beauty. But everything was fine now. After spending a wonderful night warming houses, seeing movies, laughing so hard that apple juice came out of every orifice on his face, he went to bed, and everything was right. They talk about the calm before the storm, just before everything is ripped up and destroyed, and it’s beautiful. In Pearl Harbor it was a beautiful it was a beautiful day, with people playing baseball and life was good, On September 11th it was a calm tranquil morning, with beautiful weather and a soft song playing on the radio.

Then the storm hit, the bomb was dropped, and the only way you can express yourself is that you crashed.

Right now he is the victims, the crater, ground zero. It’s dark, and the cloud of dust and debris blocks the warmth and comfort of the sun. He doesn’t cry, not usually, he can’t remember losing control. (he has this thing about control) He will when he wants to; in classes, on stage, making fun of overly dramatic productions. And he is good at it. But when he sat there, looking at the bomb come down, everything slowed, like sitting inside the cab of that car that was just smashed, clinging for something to hold on to.

No handle or belt will protect you, you’re spinning out of control and those are the facts.

Trying his hardest to be strong, to smile like everything’s ok at every positive thing that wizzes past him, but that’s all these positive things are doing, wizzing past him as he is staring at the oncoming bus of bitter reality. Tears stream down his face, but he’s not crying, he doesn’t cry, he won’t lose control. He focuses on everything but the morbid situation, the smell of a freshly cut lawn, the fact that one eye tears up more than the other, and that sick thing in his stomach that tells him this is really happening.

This is really happening.

Now the storm has moved on, the planes have left, and the news crews are nowhere to be seen. Now nothing is there but the sad reality, and that sick thing that keeps you from escaping it. This won’t be like this forever, one day there will be a beautiful monument in it’s place so that all will know how strong things are here now, but the monument is yet to come, and for now,

We’re still recovering from the bomb.

1 comment:

Boulevardier said...

Start blogging again, it's been way too long since your lost blog.