From the attic to the grave

2002-10-07 2:40 p.m.

Later, I’ll consider that later.

Instead, piano. I have a Fender Rhodes and it was my memes. I tried to research the history of it, find out it’s worth in dollars and what year it was made, and she told me that she had bought it in the late 60’s to play in a band with my grandfather. Before their marriage and 7 kids, they were high school sweethearts in a quartet, she on drums, he on sax. I also hear they had a pink Cadillac. I’ve never seen evidence, but I’m a believer. I found a website that could tell me the year and specifics of the piano by the number branded inside. Come to find out, it was made in 1974. My grandfather died at 42 in 1973. I hear, in passing, sometimes from my aunts that meme kind of “lost it” or “gave up” after he died. That’s the most I’ve gotten. Now her story puzzles me. She’s not senile, so I don’t know why she would tell me she bought a piano to play in a band with my grandfather when she bought it a year after he passed. I keep thinking about her mental state then. Of her creating elaborate fantasies based upon late night conversations in the dark. Did she go straight into denial and then psychosis? One that would allow her to purchase an expensive electric piano. Before she had her heart attack, I remember her being drunk and climbing into bed with me very distraught, mumbling something about my grandfather.

Now I have the piano. It was almost thrown out by my aunt Carol because it was in her attic for nearly ten years. I rescued it. My family is all goof balls and they really suck when it comes to honoring tradition (or even recognizing when a new one has started). That was my damn meme’s piano that she bought as some sort of a testament to her true love. For chrissakes you put it in an attic and forget about it? I feel that it is my duty to learn to play that piano, and play it well. It’s like my secret unwritten duty to my dead pepe. He and I would’ve been best of friends is all anyone ever tells me. I’d rather had not heard that. I can do the C,D, and E scale. Rock on, pepe.

And then I found you in the corner all black and pink and warm and sparlking

2002-10-07 10:37 a.m.

I’m feeling a little funny. A lot funny. I’m starting to experience work as a mirage and it might very well be. My pants are falling off, and the only belt I have is studded with a monster truck buckle. Hence, I roll down the waist of my chinos. As if I were a child. AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! And, again, considering everything is relative, I’m not sure why or how to proceed.

I’ll be back, but I can’t guarantee in what condition.

I’m sorry I can’t make heads or tails out of words. Oops and all.

I don’t want to come to terms with anything. I don’t want to have experiences that people describe as “sobering.” I don’t want everything to be explainable or coherent or sensible. I don’t want it all to fit neatly in my dresser. I don’t want to be contained in an anecdote for a stranger’s easy consumption. And I don’t want to settle for fear.

What would be left then?

last - next