Sunday, February 2, 2014

Came So Far For Beauty

I wrote this all for you, Mother. My apologies to my readers for being so self-indulgent.

Then new paths...places I thought I had mapped out well, turned up in the night, and I fell. I only write now to save myself; you're on your own. I cling to the keyboard like a prisoner of war holding a piece of bread that must sustain him somehow. There isn't much to go around.

My dearest Mother, how did you go on living? How did you shake off the hangover of love and hope and carry on, vowing simply to never drink such a spirit again? I have determined that I will not walk a zombie on this earth. I am dying now as I write. I will not carry my corpse around any longer than I have to.

For all of the solutions I hurled at you, so fiercely certain that we could turn this game around, my last chip just hit the table and the dealer drew a bad card. I have to vacate now; I am out of money.

For all of the alliteration I so cleverly cloaked over deep matters that did not possess rhyme or reason, I stand now a fool. 

For every last wish and hope and rainbow I swore to you was just over our horizon, I am afraid no such things exist for us, beloved woman. Such luxuries belong to the sane, not us. Had I found one trace of any such a thing, I would have delivered it to your door, and we both would feast. 

I hadn't intended or imagined such a course. It was a storm out of nowhere. It took all of 1 drink to wander from the path, and twenty more to numb me as I fell. I grabbed hold of those around me, trying to balance myself. They shook loose. The damage is something that more years than I have will not afford me to repair. 
I took care of self-pity- I drowned it in bar shots and cheap beer... then self-pity took care of me. What a worthy opponent she is, Mother.

I will continue to write you, my dearest woman, when the words allow me; I will not leave my masterpiece unsigned. It's a cold day on the lake front. I am going to secure more poison and try to sleep.

*"Came so far for beauty" and "my masterpiece unsigned" are the property of Leonard Cohen All credit belongs to him.


  1. You must keep writing. Perhaps we are selfish too, but my husband and I have followed this blog from the start. We don't comment often, but be assured that we read! Blesses.

  2. You are very gracious, and thank you!

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