To Asheville and Back
My father was significantly late bringing us the car on Saturday. It's a nice car, though, compared to what we're used to, at least. A Blue '94 Pontiac Grand Am. We now have a car again for the first time since last July. I hadn't realized until now just how long it has been.
Dad had my grandmother and brother with him. My brother, whom I've not spoken to since he kicked Wyspurr and I out of his house twelve months ago, asked right off if I were mad at him. I asked him what I would be mad at him for, and he responded that he just hadn't heard from me in a long time. I said I haven't heard from him either and that ended the subject. The truth was that I wasn't mad at him, I merely didn't have anything to say to him. We were of different worlds, different philosophies, and we'd only met once before I moved to Atlanta last year. I'd tried to establish a familial bond with him when I first came to Atlanta, wanting to give him the opportunity to be a part of the lives of his nieces, and I never asked for his help. When Wyspurr and I came down seeking a place to live he insisted we stay with him while we house and job hunt. Then a few days later he tossed us out on the street because we'd stayed out late with some friends who were visiting from Asheville and Wyspurr had gotten so drunk that Joe had to help me get her to the house, the two of them making an awful racket. I'll grant that was a lousy thing for us to do as a guest and I was furious enough at Wyspurr for everyone, but still...I often take people in need in who are near strangers and I wouldn't have put them on the street for one mistake...much less my own brother. I'm not mad about it, but it does show me that he's not much of a brother...not as much of a brother as Daniel was, or that Belfazaar or holierthancow are to me without needing ties of blood.
The first thing my grandmother said upon seeing me for the first time in nearly a decade was that she missed my black hair. Oi. Family. You gotta love 'em.
Wyspurr and I made it into Asheville at about half past nine Saturday night, just in time to get me to Leigh's place pretty just a little after I'd planned to get there. Wyspurr was horribly disappointed that we didn't get to Asheville early enough to get out and about and visit with other people, but I really didn't care. The only people I was going to Asheville to see were Leigh and Daniel, the latter of which was a sack of ashes that I'd be seeing Sunday.
Staying with Leigh was very nice. I got there. We talked for a few hours, then snuggled up and went to sleep. In the morning, she made pancakes and biscuits. I got my copy of The Ethical Slut back from her. She went to work. It was all quite lovely. I left my favorite necklace on the floor next to her bed, though, completely forgetting about it until after I'd already left and locked up her apartment behind me.
Wyspurr picked me up at a little after Leigh left and we went to Malaprops to plan out the rest of the day. We quickly discovered two things. Asheville is a painfully pointless place to be awake on a Sunday morning and for some reason Asheville has apparantly decided to get rid of all of its payphones. We had to wander to hell and back to finally fine a payphone on Wall Street.
After making a few calls, we got rather bored so we ventured over to Books-A-Million. I killed an hour or so drooling over D&D books that I can't afford. Then we went back to Asheville where we met up with Tony at Rosetta's Kitchen. We hung out there briefly, talking about his month long stay in Seattle, which happens to both be a place I've always wanted to go and the place that Daniel died. Then we went to Malaprops, but decided that since we'd all been there earlier we weren't in the mood to hang out there. So we went to Beanstreets, where we found Gizmo, who is not working the kitchen there. We hung out there a while and I enjoyed some nice chai and Gizmo kept hugging us both over and over again, telling us he missed us.
After that, Wyspurr and I went off in search of Belfazaar and the others, but alas we found their house but no one was there. So we made our way to Alicia's house, where Sue had just moved into and to my surprise Brad was living there too. That's where everyone was meeting up before migrating out to Buzzard Rock. A lot of people were there, but sadly Belfazaar wasn't among them. On the flip side, though, neither was Joe, which I was happy about. All told there was about 20 people who can out. Mostly family members, ex-girlfriends, and former members of the infamous Oakley House...the people who were closest to him.
I got the ashes for my tattoo. That was a little emotionally unsettling, using a plastic spoon to scoop a couple of spoonfuls of my most beloved friend into a cheap tin I bought that day at Octopus Garden. I also put some in a little plastic vending machine bubble for his brother, Shawn. Holding the little clear bubble of ash and tiny bone fragments, I almost broke down, but I managed to keep it together. I really hope to get the tattoo as soon as possible so I can put any interactions with Daniel's remains behind me. I can't really afford it, but if I can find someone who'll do it in time for my next paycheck I'll get it in a couple of weeks.
Anyway, we convoyed out to Buzzard's Rock, where we nailed up a plaque on one of the trees, then we went rather briskly to the dumping of the ashes. Shawn and Daniel's sister Shannon performed the task together. Then Shannon recited the poem "Curiousity" by Alistair Reid in Daniel's honor, a poem that struck so true to the essense of Daniel's life and death that I had to again stifle my tears. Sue and Irish both spoke some words. I didn't say anything. I actually hardly spoke at all throughout the whole time we were at Buzzard Rock. I'd poured my heart out at the wake, being the only one of Daniel's friends and family besides his mother to take to the podium and talk of the void that Daniel's passing leaves in my heart and my life. At the scattering of his ashes, I hid my emotions behind the eyepiece of my video camera, taping to proceedings, internalizing the pain I was feeling.
Afterwards, a few of the attendees tried to set off some firework, but that was a comedy of errors. The first one spiralled off into the parking area and went off. Then the next two started several little brush fires. It was hilarious.
Then Sue took us back to our car and we went to Chris' house where we gathered up some of the things we left behind when we moved to Atlanta. After that, we picked up the kids from Wyspurr's grandmothers and hit the road heading for home. We left Asheville much later than we'd been hoping to, not reaching Atlanta until one this morning. It sure felt good to be home, though.
In summary, it was an okay trip. Not much really stands out as great about it except for face time and snuggles with Leigh and my amusement as my friends nearly torched the whole mountain side. I've got the ashes to use in my tattoo now. I'm reminded again of why I'm really glad I don't live in Asheville anymore and how little I miss it, but that I do miss some of the people there. Thanks to my time with Leigh I have a bit clearer focus on things, though some of the things I figured out I didn't process until the next day and I would have liked to have been able to share some of those thoughts with her. I still have a lot of emotional strings to untangle, but for now I'm a little less knotted up than I was.
Curiosity
by Alistair Reid
Curiosity
may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems,
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
does not endear him to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity
will not cause him to die --
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill,
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious
have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.
Dogs say he loves too much, is irresponsible,
is changeable, marries too many wives,
deserts his children, chills all dinner tables
with tales of his nine lives.
Well, he is lucky. Let him be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what he has to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that hell is where, to live, they have to go.
My father was significantly late bringing us the car on Saturday. It's a nice car, though, compared to what we're used to, at least. A Blue '94 Pontiac Grand Am. We now have a car again for the first time since last July. I hadn't realized until now just how long it has been.
Dad had my grandmother and brother with him. My brother, whom I've not spoken to since he kicked Wyspurr and I out of his house twelve months ago, asked right off if I were mad at him. I asked him what I would be mad at him for, and he responded that he just hadn't heard from me in a long time. I said I haven't heard from him either and that ended the subject. The truth was that I wasn't mad at him, I merely didn't have anything to say to him. We were of different worlds, different philosophies, and we'd only met once before I moved to Atlanta last year. I'd tried to establish a familial bond with him when I first came to Atlanta, wanting to give him the opportunity to be a part of the lives of his nieces, and I never asked for his help. When Wyspurr and I came down seeking a place to live he insisted we stay with him while we house and job hunt. Then a few days later he tossed us out on the street because we'd stayed out late with some friends who were visiting from Asheville and Wyspurr had gotten so drunk that Joe had to help me get her to the house, the two of them making an awful racket. I'll grant that was a lousy thing for us to do as a guest and I was furious enough at Wyspurr for everyone, but still...I often take people in need in who are near strangers and I wouldn't have put them on the street for one mistake...much less my own brother. I'm not mad about it, but it does show me that he's not much of a brother...not as much of a brother as Daniel was, or that Belfazaar or holierthancow are to me without needing ties of blood.
The first thing my grandmother said upon seeing me for the first time in nearly a decade was that she missed my black hair. Oi. Family. You gotta love 'em.
Wyspurr and I made it into Asheville at about half past nine Saturday night, just in time to get me to Leigh's place pretty just a little after I'd planned to get there. Wyspurr was horribly disappointed that we didn't get to Asheville early enough to get out and about and visit with other people, but I really didn't care. The only people I was going to Asheville to see were Leigh and Daniel, the latter of which was a sack of ashes that I'd be seeing Sunday.
Staying with Leigh was very nice. I got there. We talked for a few hours, then snuggled up and went to sleep. In the morning, she made pancakes and biscuits. I got my copy of The Ethical Slut back from her. She went to work. It was all quite lovely. I left my favorite necklace on the floor next to her bed, though, completely forgetting about it until after I'd already left and locked up her apartment behind me.
Wyspurr picked me up at a little after Leigh left and we went to Malaprops to plan out the rest of the day. We quickly discovered two things. Asheville is a painfully pointless place to be awake on a Sunday morning and for some reason Asheville has apparantly decided to get rid of all of its payphones. We had to wander to hell and back to finally fine a payphone on Wall Street.
After making a few calls, we got rather bored so we ventured over to Books-A-Million. I killed an hour or so drooling over D&D books that I can't afford. Then we went back to Asheville where we met up with Tony at Rosetta's Kitchen. We hung out there briefly, talking about his month long stay in Seattle, which happens to both be a place I've always wanted to go and the place that Daniel died. Then we went to Malaprops, but decided that since we'd all been there earlier we weren't in the mood to hang out there. So we went to Beanstreets, where we found Gizmo, who is not working the kitchen there. We hung out there a while and I enjoyed some nice chai and Gizmo kept hugging us both over and over again, telling us he missed us.
After that, Wyspurr and I went off in search of Belfazaar and the others, but alas we found their house but no one was there. So we made our way to Alicia's house, where Sue had just moved into and to my surprise Brad was living there too. That's where everyone was meeting up before migrating out to Buzzard Rock. A lot of people were there, but sadly Belfazaar wasn't among them. On the flip side, though, neither was Joe, which I was happy about. All told there was about 20 people who can out. Mostly family members, ex-girlfriends, and former members of the infamous Oakley House...the people who were closest to him.
I got the ashes for my tattoo. That was a little emotionally unsettling, using a plastic spoon to scoop a couple of spoonfuls of my most beloved friend into a cheap tin I bought that day at Octopus Garden. I also put some in a little plastic vending machine bubble for his brother, Shawn. Holding the little clear bubble of ash and tiny bone fragments, I almost broke down, but I managed to keep it together. I really hope to get the tattoo as soon as possible so I can put any interactions with Daniel's remains behind me. I can't really afford it, but if I can find someone who'll do it in time for my next paycheck I'll get it in a couple of weeks.
Anyway, we convoyed out to Buzzard's Rock, where we nailed up a plaque on one of the trees, then we went rather briskly to the dumping of the ashes. Shawn and Daniel's sister Shannon performed the task together. Then Shannon recited the poem "Curiousity" by Alistair Reid in Daniel's honor, a poem that struck so true to the essense of Daniel's life and death that I had to again stifle my tears. Sue and Irish both spoke some words. I didn't say anything. I actually hardly spoke at all throughout the whole time we were at Buzzard Rock. I'd poured my heart out at the wake, being the only one of Daniel's friends and family besides his mother to take to the podium and talk of the void that Daniel's passing leaves in my heart and my life. At the scattering of his ashes, I hid my emotions behind the eyepiece of my video camera, taping to proceedings, internalizing the pain I was feeling.
Afterwards, a few of the attendees tried to set off some firework, but that was a comedy of errors. The first one spiralled off into the parking area and went off. Then the next two started several little brush fires. It was hilarious.
Then Sue took us back to our car and we went to Chris' house where we gathered up some of the things we left behind when we moved to Atlanta. After that, we picked up the kids from Wyspurr's grandmothers and hit the road heading for home. We left Asheville much later than we'd been hoping to, not reaching Atlanta until one this morning. It sure felt good to be home, though.
In summary, it was an okay trip. Not much really stands out as great about it except for face time and snuggles with Leigh and my amusement as my friends nearly torched the whole mountain side. I've got the ashes to use in my tattoo now. I'm reminded again of why I'm really glad I don't live in Asheville anymore and how little I miss it, but that I do miss some of the people there. Thanks to my time with Leigh I have a bit clearer focus on things, though some of the things I figured out I didn't process until the next day and I would have liked to have been able to share some of those thoughts with her. I still have a lot of emotional strings to untangle, but for now I'm a little less knotted up than I was.
Curiosity
by Alistair Reid
Curiosity
may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems,
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
does not endear him to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity
will not cause him to die --
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill,
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious
have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.
Dogs say he loves too much, is irresponsible,
is changeable, marries too many wives,
deserts his children, chills all dinner tables
with tales of his nine lives.
Well, he is lucky. Let him be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what he has to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that hell is where, to live, they have to go.