I'm not sure what it is, but something in my self-conscious has been making me relive parts of my senior year. For no apparent reason, I've been listening to the pop-punk that littered the eighteenth year of my life. Random thoughts have brought out of no where the memories of the red-haired kid I called love in that year. And today, today reminded me of a college campus visit in 2005. That's because that day was exactly three years ago today. That was the day my hero died.
President's Day,ironically enough, was the day I woke up in a Columbia hotel with a U.S. News at my door and the words on the front of the paper. Writer Hunter Stockton Thompson had killed himself. It was a surprise at first, then I realized it really wasn't. And here I was visiting Mizzou to become a journalist. Something I wanted to do because of Thompson. Three years have passed, and I've given up on that shell of a dream.But not a day goes by where he doesn't affect me.
I won't kid myself and pretend that Thompson didn't affect my curiosity with drug usage. The Robo-trip, the ecstasy, the acid: non of these were taken without thinking about him first. Back in that year it happened, in 2005, I got my Thompson-based nickname "Raoul Duchess" from a man involved in the local drug culture scene.The word "Duchess" is now on me forever in the handwriting of Ralph Steadman on my left arm.
I admire admiration for Thompson in other people. When I meet another fan, one who almost meets my level of adoration, it's instant attraction. A man once called me gonzo, and for Christ's sake I dated him for three months! Mutual love for HST has even given me the strangest attraction to an older man. But I know that a shared fascination isn't enough for him to leave her and cross state lines for a silly little girl. But with gonzo, anything is fucking possible, right?
The subject of Thompson's death is a hard on for me. Some call it murder, a government conspiracy cover-up due to Thompson's discussion of Sept. 11 and the involvement of the current administration. But Thompson has begun winding down his life before that final day. He gave his prized possession, a gift he had recieved from "Dr. Gonzo," to his son Juan. Thompson wasnever quiet about his feelings on suicide; he would never want to die slowly and out of his control. After watching my Grandpa slowly waste away, I am of the same belief, but I think I will be too cowardice to do anything.
Most people fall back on religion to comfort them in the wake of death, but how does the idea of Heaven and Hell soften the blow of Thompson killing himself after the life he lived? I find comfort in celebrating his life and all the good he has done for me (with heavy drinking!) But even if judgment is someday passed, I will show up to his heavenly trial, full of praise for his soul. This day always brings death to my attention. Like relationships, I will miss the good times when life is gone, but it will be for the best because of all the pain.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
here's what I think about today.
Is it really the day? There isn't anything to say about Valentine's Day that hasn't been said so many times. We've all heard the argument that it's just a greeting card holiday, it's a singles awareness day, that love should be proclaimed anyways and not just once a year. We've heard the complaints that our society places too much importance on romantic relationships. We've heard the moans and groans of singles on this day, and I call for a change in perspective on this day.
The February fourteenths of childhood are really ideal. You give a small card and candy to everyone in your class; everyone is equally loved! Maybe you save the best cards for your best friends, maybe you give them two candies or stickers. Your daddy gives you a card and a little token of his love. He's the most important man in your life. But by middle school, things have become complicated.
Most of my Valentine's are forgettable. In fact, it took me dozens of minutes to remember the V-day picnic my senior year boyfriend surprised me with. Maybe other years I got a flower, but more than likely I just let it pass. Junior year was a big one though. The week leading up to it, I left notes and poems on the car and in the locker of my hardcore crush, a senior we'll call Lank. I was the props master and set worker for a play he was acting in. Finally, on the big Fourteenth, I placed a box of chocolate and another love note in his costume box. I couldn't talk to the man, so a few days later I left a note in his coat pocket revealing myself as the admirer. He later told me he was flattered, and we never spoke again. Imagine my horror when we ran into each other almost four years later at a house party.
The point is, that Valentine's Day felt like it had the potential to be life-changing, but the memory of it, like the memories of the Valentine's before and since, will pass out of my memory banks (I had actually completely forgotten about him until the aforementioned house party.) These Valentine's Days may feel important on this day, but in a week, no one's going to care what you did (including you!)
In my personal opinion, Valentine's Day should be shared with the people you love. Yes, it might remind you that you're single, but hopefully you will also realize that you're not alone. Give a token to your best friend, call your mother and grandmother, remind yourself of the other loves of your life. Do something you love. Send a card to an old friend or invite some fellow singles over for dinner. Valentine's Day should be spent loving youself, spent with the people you love, and doing something good, full of love, for the rest of the world.
The February fourteenths of childhood are really ideal. You give a small card and candy to everyone in your class; everyone is equally loved! Maybe you save the best cards for your best friends, maybe you give them two candies or stickers. Your daddy gives you a card and a little token of his love. He's the most important man in your life. But by middle school, things have become complicated.
Most of my Valentine's are forgettable. In fact, it took me dozens of minutes to remember the V-day picnic my senior year boyfriend surprised me with. Maybe other years I got a flower, but more than likely I just let it pass. Junior year was a big one though. The week leading up to it, I left notes and poems on the car and in the locker of my hardcore crush, a senior we'll call Lank. I was the props master and set worker for a play he was acting in. Finally, on the big Fourteenth, I placed a box of chocolate and another love note in his costume box. I couldn't talk to the man, so a few days later I left a note in his coat pocket revealing myself as the admirer. He later told me he was flattered, and we never spoke again. Imagine my horror when we ran into each other almost four years later at a house party.
The point is, that Valentine's Day felt like it had the potential to be life-changing, but the memory of it, like the memories of the Valentine's before and since, will pass out of my memory banks (I had actually completely forgotten about him until the aforementioned house party.) These Valentine's Days may feel important on this day, but in a week, no one's going to care what you did (including you!)
In my personal opinion, Valentine's Day should be shared with the people you love. Yes, it might remind you that you're single, but hopefully you will also realize that you're not alone. Give a token to your best friend, call your mother and grandmother, remind yourself of the other loves of your life. Do something you love. Send a card to an old friend or invite some fellow singles over for dinner. Valentine's Day should be spent loving youself, spent with the people you love, and doing something good, full of love, for the rest of the world.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
shit where i eat.
The weather outside reflects the cloud over her thoughts. The poor vision on the roads, like her inability to see in her mind's eye the actions of Saturday night. It's such a pity, she would have liked to remember what it was like to be with him. She tried as hard as she could to picture in her mind him on top of her, tugging at each other's clothes, pinning one another down. She tried to conjure up the memories of the kisses she had dreamed about before. Nothing. All she could remember was the moments she was beckoning him into her bedroom, and his entrance.
"Hey you," she had said. After that, everything goes black. Her memories start up again a few hours later, where she is crying about something else with two other friends on her couch. But the time spent with him on her bed is lost forever. All that remains in her mind from their tryst is a split second of dominance. He's on top. She has one arm above her head, the other below his belt. She'd trade all the tequila in the world to get the memory of this one-time pleasure back.
It was especially upsetting that her memories were gone, because so was he. They had talked, and he was uninterested in making this a recurring event. So her old memories were lost, and there was no chance for new ones. Now, lost in the fog of her mind, she continued to search. She pictured his face, she pictured her bedroom. She could see him standing in the doorway, walking towards her. What happened after that? Did they talk for a bit, or get straight to her obvious intentions? Was she any good? Too drunk to function, but still amazing in the sack? She sincerely doubted it. Damn.
Later that night, she told a good friend the details of what had happened, after he had fled from her bedroom, leaving her topless, confused, and drunkenly hurt. Although her close friend told her the next day what she had said that night, she still couldn't conjure the memories. The bite mark he left could have been like a string tied around a finger, a sign to remind her of what happened. But it couldn't do its job. It remained on her body as useless as her feelings for him. The feelings that made her wish she had a second chance with him and a clear head. She would never be clear on what happened that night, what events came to pass or if he did. She would live confused until she accepted it and let go of the importance of these memories. Now all she needed was time, and a tall, cold glass of water.
"Hey you," she had said. After that, everything goes black. Her memories start up again a few hours later, where she is crying about something else with two other friends on her couch. But the time spent with him on her bed is lost forever. All that remains in her mind from their tryst is a split second of dominance. He's on top. She has one arm above her head, the other below his belt. She'd trade all the tequila in the world to get the memory of this one-time pleasure back.
It was especially upsetting that her memories were gone, because so was he. They had talked, and he was uninterested in making this a recurring event. So her old memories were lost, and there was no chance for new ones. Now, lost in the fog of her mind, she continued to search. She pictured his face, she pictured her bedroom. She could see him standing in the doorway, walking towards her. What happened after that? Did they talk for a bit, or get straight to her obvious intentions? Was she any good? Too drunk to function, but still amazing in the sack? She sincerely doubted it. Damn.
Later that night, she told a good friend the details of what had happened, after he had fled from her bedroom, leaving her topless, confused, and drunkenly hurt. Although her close friend told her the next day what she had said that night, she still couldn't conjure the memories. The bite mark he left could have been like a string tied around a finger, a sign to remind her of what happened. But it couldn't do its job. It remained on her body as useless as her feelings for him. The feelings that made her wish she had a second chance with him and a clear head. She would never be clear on what happened that night, what events came to pass or if he did. She would live confused until she accepted it and let go of the importance of these memories. Now all she needed was time, and a tall, cold glass of water.
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