Sunday, August 17, 2003

I've got a new hat. CAPE POND ICE, GLOUCESTER. It's the blue-tinged gray of the deep sea, frayed at the bill, sweated-into and molded, already, to a head that's not mine. And it makes me cry. And if you know why, then you know why. And if you don't, there's no point in telling you.

Goddamned emotions. I was a robot once; what happened to that?

I fly in four days, flinging myself west with great abandon to love Buttons, to live with her and see her in good & bad, all happy and sad and mad at me and cute as hell, all squealing over puppies and crying over destroyed children. I do love her so, over and over again, and I miss her always. So things are right, and well and as they should be, but I'm still all girly-tears and sick stomach. Another reason to give up on TV. This kind of shit doesn't show on the small screen. It doesn't show up via the pens of hacks. Another and another and another reason.

Sorry, rambling. Fantastic night, last night. A great show, as it had to be. CALLIN' OUT sounded better than ever. AMERICA came out right, THAT GIRL, QUITTIN' TIME & R-N-R were bang-on beautiful. A nice crowd, many pals. Josh and Roni and Steve and Mohommad. Good kids, all. Some missing faces, but missing in ways that I understand, and that's all right. The Deacons exist in one kinda place, and that place is kinda exclusive, although not so deliberately as it might seem. I dunno what I'm sayning. Never damned mind.

Dad's in the hospital, right now, somewhere in Jolly Olde, flat on his ass with gallstones. I've got a # that doesn't work, even with the help of many overseas operators, and another for Marian that's not ringing through. I'm halfway convinced that I'll be in England sometime next week, lugging overstuffed suitcases and telling Dad to eat his salad.

Which is to say that I'm worried fucking sick, and there's not a goddamned thing I can do. I hate impotency.

Ah, me. I'm gonna miss this joint, as much as I'm looking forward to the Emerald City. And I HATE fucking goodbyes. Too many hugs, too many "Get yer ass out and visit me on the West Coast," too many stiff and stumbling moments with the people I love. The Chief had the right idea. It's easier and saner to assume the final goodbye will come later, assume the ultimate is pen-, say goodbye to a friend without having to turn it into something so heavy that it cracks your spine. So, yeah, I miss Richie already. And Lori, Hannah, D, the little sis and the moms. Miss Dad and Marian. Miss more people than I feel like dredging up outta my soul. Missing and crying and trying to know that everything and everyone important will stay intact, just geographically fubar for the time being.


I love you, Buttons. I love you, Richie.

Goddamn crying.

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