ramble

[recommended tunage before/during reading: Radiohead-any but I like "Videotape" ]

he was a twelve year old boy stuck in a body of a fifty year old man.  

man, call it what you will, this peter pan lived in a neverland away from responsibility, 

away from the never[s]- minus the lost boys.  

a viking without his ship.  

a nomad without a bear.  

translucent lava. 

he had no friends.

his friend was the bottle, the aluminum, the crinkle of a finished can being discarded on the carpet like some piece of lint.  

don't get me wrong, he had friends throughout his life.  actually he was one of the most charismatic people I've ever met.  people would swoon over his smile and giddy earnestness.  he left people comfortable, trusting, and laughing. people liked him. i compare my humor response to his humor. no one comes close. his jokes could always clear the clouds, pushing aside anger in coveted love and tenderness.  a baby for grins and smirks and he liked spongebob! i didn't think he even knew who spongebob was, but he did. he had like five thousand faces, each one practiced dutifully in the mirror. a patient actor. his dark brown locks wrapped around his triangular jaw and his smile always smelled like Marlboro reds and coffee with a mix of pine.  7/11 was the dominant aroma blend.  black, no additives for the sober Pan.  the pine complimented the often worn flannel jackets and fleeces.  always Patagonia.  his truck smelled like a carpenter on the run.  professional wooden brushes and white buckets clanked against paint cans and tools i had no idea how to use, but i knew they were important.  

there was never a question about high quality.  whether he could afford it or not, most often not, he would buy the most expensive rugs, the most gaudy-Brooklyn lamps, kayaks, and green tents.  his painting was surreal in a holistic way.  colors never ended as if he was painting his imagination, and it was always perfect.  the random pairing of gold and blue was decadent and made me think of cupcakes.  metallic walls and sponges created a home within a home. each room has their own design, vibe, and memory.

there was this time, in both our lives, where we had a blue foldable couch.

this couch came in handy in a lot of ways, mostly my play toy.

i used it to be a waitress, a secretary, a musician, a sleeper, a daughter, a candy-addict.

there was this one time the blue couch formed an obtuse dance hall. i was eating sprinkles out of the plastic Tupperware and he was blasting the opening song from Saved By The Bell. sometimes i poured maple syrup in a porcelain glass cup my grandma had and licked it off the equally tiny delicate silver spoon.  i couldn't keep up with his energy. we totally rocked. as my sugar rush increased, so did his state of mind. colors of candy, drunk rainbow skies. we swirled and dabbled and got yelled at, but we didn't care, we were both kids having fun after school. neither of us had jobs and while he wore green thermals i chose to opt for underwear, in a very innocent way- in the way an eight year old can be innocent and not realize what's happening in reality. my reality was sparkled with red and blue and alliterations with the letter B. B for bud, bitch, bro, beer. not really actually. i'm being a bit harsh. my reality was fantastic, but there was always a looming shadow. we were always trying to prepare to get rained on. there were no forecasters warning us to bring an umbrella. each time was a stab to the heart. each time was equally hard and frustrating and sad. however each recovery was even better. a victory we could relish in. we did relish in. we had to. each reunion smelled ten times better than hospitals and homes for the sick. each time there was a token of some sort, a little prize for waiting. i have them.

he painted stone faces like pirates and old literature masters.  the great hang adjacent to the piano and perpendicular to the dining room table.  he accentuated the brown in the cigar or the forest green of Blackbeard's cap.  he did Mick Jagger impressions to off-set his prior gloominess.  crouching in doorways and again playing escalator games with the blue bendable couch.  

he must've sang jailhouse rock over five hundred times in his life and could not stand for the TV to be lower than what you would hear in a concert arena.  

he sucked sauce like it was going out of style.  not just like the bottomless pit people associate with an empty coke can and a straw, but a loud slurping noise- the most obnoxious yet noticeable sign on the planet.  it tasted good.  we all knew it.  but we rolled our eyes anyway. my dinner table consisted of the game 'eye spy', a great memory. there was always something to be found, discovered, revealed, touched, announced. we were all winners and we all like steak. it made the kitchen a wonderland of hidden treasures. my fairy tale princess attic came to life with smells of pepper, garlic, and tuna. sauces of love. 

we threw the blue couch out. before it all happened. it became old, raggedy, used, dirty, and just unacceptable for living room standards. i don't miss it. rather, i think of it like a pearly gate into an old dimension before life rained a monsoon which will flood at any given moment.