Mourning the Loss

I have this friend. His name is Cody. Cody and I became friends in a strange, round about way that started with dating. There are more, sad details to that story that I would love to share interpersonally, but they are not so much for the internet. We dated at a strange turning point in both of our lives. We were both unhealthy, mentally and physically, and we really trying to turn things around for ourselves. Or maybe, just I was. We fell in love. Not so much romantically as within a friendship. And when things ended, they just ended. I wasn't really injured and neither was he. Our friendship ceased for awhile as we both did other things.

We got back in touch after I had really turned my life around and Cody, well, he hadn't. You see, Cody is a douche. Do not mistake me, I love him more than there are words, but that doesn't make him any less of a douche. He is that guy that women date because they believe that with them? It will be different! They can change him, save him, be the one to bring him out of the darkness. I think the reason Cody and my relationship never imploded was because I thought none of those things. I didn't expect our relationship would be one for the ages, it just was. Cody gets involved with these beautiful, independent, loving, caring women who want the best for him - and he messes them up. Pretty badly. I don't think it is intentional, but it always happens. Cody enters, ruins friendships and self esteems, and then is gone. And to ask him, it is always his exgirlfriends' fault. But it isn't. It is because Cody doesn't love himself and doesn't understand why anyone else would love him. So he treats them as he treats himself, badly.

Cody came to visit me in Cusco during a very messy break of a very messy marriage to a very wonderful woman. The mess was entirely Cody's. When I picked him up from the airport, he hadn't eaten or slept in days. We went back to my flat, got him fed and tucked him into my bed until we could check him into the hostel downstairs. He let me gush about the man I had fallen in love with and fell quiet when I warned him not to say one bad word about his wife. I'm not sure why Cody ever listened to me, but he always did. Because while he is a horrible boyfriend and husband to just about every other woman on the face of the earth, he is a good friend. He listens and gives excellent hugs. He is always willing to try new things and loves freedom of any and every kind. He lives by his own set of rules and often forgets to follow them. He is a beautiful, beautiful mess.

I remember asking him to live his life and not to settle for convenience. We were on a plane to Toronto and the flight attendant mentioned he may have had too much to drink. I settled him down and got him another drink - of water, but he didn't need to know that. I told him that sometimes we choose happiness over sorrow, even when we don't feel it. He laughed, "You're probably right, Mal." That was something he said to me a lot, always while laughing. He is the only person in the world I ever let call me Mal. And only because he won't not.

The next time I saw Cody, we were in JFK and we took NYC and Washington DC by storm. We spent the four hour bus ride to DC speaking and laughing loudly in British accents and making up stories about our lives in the UK. We laughed so hard we cried. Cody had been sober for over a month. He was headed back to the midwest and I was headed to Italy. We had a hilarious week of wandering. Before Cody, I had never really met anyone else who wanted to see the world like I did. We tried to touch base when he moved to Germany, but I was already back in the US. So we made plans to potentially buy a sail boat and do a stint around the world in the next year or so if we could save up the money. We couldn't. And by then, I was engaged and Cody was living in Chicago. Our lives were so different! And yet, somehow, still the same.

Right before I got married, Cody and I talked on the phone and he told me he was proud of me. When Rory was born, Cody was on the list of people who received that very first picture and update. "He's so beautiful, Mal. I can't wait to meet him." I think we talked on the phone once since then. And last week we chatted on Facebook about Mark and Rory and I possibly being in Jamaica, so he should try and come visit. It's hard to keep track of Cody, his life is transient. He typically has a girlfriend who reaches out and we become friends, he has wonderful taste in women even if he isn't the best boyfriend. I try to keep in touch with him as much as I can and I always remember to tell him to be nice to people on his birthday, even if they give him gifts. I remind him that the girl he is dating is not the enemy and he should be better. I tell him he looks like crap and to cut his hair, that MCR is coming out with new stuff and that travel is the best thing for a hurting soul.

I asked him how he was last week. He didn't respond, but I know he saw it because Facebook is creepy like that. I probably should have known that meant he wasn't doing well. I found out this morning that Cody will never meet Rory. And words cannot express how heart broken I am. Cody was not the greatest human being, but he was a wonderful and profound friend that I love - loved. I can't help but wonder if there was something that I could have done or said even though I know there isn't. Cody lived life on his terms, freedom was what he lived and died for. I mourn for the loss of such a vibrant and free spirit in the world and I mourn the loss of my friend.

Codybear, I love you. You are missed. 1988-2012

Four Funerals And One Hundred Engagements

"Bom dia, minha estrela." Every morning is the same and I can hear your smile. It sounds tired but determined, you don't want to let me down. I'm afraid of never hearing that voice again. Scared this might be the last time you make me laugh, the last time I hear your soft Portuguese kiss my ears. There are diamonds in these eyelashes, easily wiped away if I were strong enough to pick up my hand. I love you, I love you, te amo tanto. This is the moment.

You ask about my night, I tell you how happy I am. It's the greatest dichotomy ever handed to me, I always loved the beauty of contradiction. It's bittersweet now - how appropriate. I've never talked so much about God in one sitting and still felt the need to further discuss the issue. I tell you I'm working and it makes you laugh. You tell me that you think I've found the one, whatever that means. I don't know that you're right, but I won't disagree with you now. My heart is in so many pieces. There are worse things than romantic heartbreak.

"You are my church, estrela." I smile. And you are mine, most beautiful man whom I love, and you are mine. I have everything I need right here, on the other end of this phone. Your voice is the only thing I need now. I am so tired of counting funerals. Just another excuse for a pretty dress and so I won't let you have one. This is my celebration of life, your life. I demand it be celebrated. I'm determined to smile. "Always so full. Full of joy, full of light. You are the best person, estrela." Only, I'm not. You are.

There is something in the way you say my name, "Estrela," that makes me believe in tomorrow. You are so sure of who I am and I think it makes me into that person a little more each morning when I wake up to your voice. I love you, I love you, te amo. You're so kind, so sincere. You say what you mean and mean what you say. And with each morning of frenchpress, I feel myself holding you closer and closer to my heart. It's only half true, absence isn't the only thing that makes the heart grow fonder. I'm not sure of the other half, but you have it.

You were named for the Saint, Mateo. But I don't remember ever calling you that. I don't remember you once being that name. You have always been Maddyfeijao to me, Mads on affectionate occasion... Your name moves so smoothly off my lips. I know exactly how to form it, where to place the emphasis for every emotion I have with you. What will I do without it? It's hard to explain how names go out of use once you lose the one they belong to. I am afraid of it happening to yours. So soon, too soon. There is so much more and less to say. All of it begins with your name on my lips.

This morning you ask if I will do you a favor. I tell you anything because I mean it. I would do anything, anything at all. I can hear the strain in your voice, I can hear the discomfort. You're fading. I've heard this same malaise and I never wanted to again. But it's here in front of me and I'll do anything, anything you ask. There is a moment of silence. Only breathing. The clouds are so beautiful today. We used to watch them together. And then you ask, "Write this down, it's important."

"Please be happy. Please live your life. Please take advantage of every moment. Please fall in love and allow yourself to be loved. Please get married and have children. Please love God and humanity without regret. Please continue to be exactly who you are. Do none of these things because I tell you, but because you realize you deserve them." I can hear you smiling and I smile back. We're quiet for a moment and you tell me how much you love me. I've never believed anyone as much as I believe you in this moment.

"So many engagements this spring, I feel strange and out of the loop." You tell me not to. That it'll come soon enough, probably sooner than I imagine. And that mine will be just as, if not more full of love and joy. You think I've already found who God's created for me. "A perfect set," you say. And you have only one request, the same one he had of me. "I don't know that I'll be there, estrela. But I will be there with you. Write out our love. Small, just for you. A liberdade, unicamente liberdade, estrela." I know, I've made this promise before. It's my most precious promise, my most precious secret. And I'll keep it. Close to my heart, where I keep you.

"To this I search for,

a keeper of the heart

that does not fall before the wind falls.

My life, my love,

described as infinite,

without compromise my sacrifice knows no bounds."

Six Years Later

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,


Day of grief and ineffable sorrow.

You steal the days of my Spring

And the sweet of plum blossoms he once held so dear.

Lacking where my heart would be,

You further my injury year by year

No possibility for reclamation of delight,

No prospect of salvaged happiness,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March!

Oh day of impossible affliction!

Already have you come for my light,

Larcenous and rapacious in the blackberry winter!

Are you not shamed by your actions?

Are you not disgraced by the impetus of them?

I am for you, oh day,

As you have taken those precious to me,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,

Oh you day, anguish of my soul.

Yet, I aver there will be a time when I reclaim you for myself.

No longer pusillanimous nor enigmatic,

But confident and sure in the power of my joy.

The flowers of plums will be mine to hold dear

Each bud bursting forth with greater vigor,

Greater vehemence than ever before,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,

Day of soft violence against my soul.

What you have stolen, you may not keep

Each blossom I will countermand.

Restored my heart shall be,

My mourning melted from its chambers.

Joy trace evident amongst those restored,

Small light still on the horizon,

On this, oh you of days.

Like The P In Philosophy

And so twothousandeleven begins. One year, one word. New endings, new beginnings. There is a lot I could say about the year that has passed. All the things, places, people I miss - or perhaps don't. It appears my favorite Dr Seuss book has been truer to my life than anything else. And Oh! The Places I've Been. There is magic in the things you don't expect. It captures and enraptures you. Wrapping you in... well, find your own magic. And yes, I believe in magic. It might not be your typical black swamp voodoo, but I believe in the kind of magic we create in ourselves, through our actions, by ((wait for the scandal)) God. I can already hear the sacrelige calls, Jesus ain't magic! Dude, Jesus was totally magic. Divine is just another word for magical. But not all magic is divine, kind of like squares and rectangles...

And The CH In Psychology

My paternal grandmother passed away this fall ((in case you don't know what paternal grandmother means, it means she was my fathers mother)). I have the memorial service pamphlet in the mirror on my wall. It's weird to lose a grandparent. Especially when they have always lived far away. Because sometimes it can feel like they are just not around and then the pain of losing them becomes a reality once more and you would rather not get out of bed. It's one sick rollercoaster. I find I miss her more and more as time goes on, rather than less. If you know me and you've heard me talk about my grandmother, I have probably used a single consistent word to describe her: Bitch. Wild, rampant, absolute bitch. And oddly, I mean that in the most respectful way. The woman took crap from no man, woman, or child. She was the most hard working, devoted woman I have ever met. Her happiness never came before anyone elses and she loved fiercely. She always supported me and my craziness. Telling me I would work it out in the end and if I couldn't figure it out? There was no hope for the rest of humanity because I was the smartest girl that ever did live. She was so proud of me. It radiated from her. When I graduated High School, I had double the amount of credits needed and I mentioned it to my grandmother while she was on my living room floor, making me lei's for graduation, and the look on her face wasn't the typical shock but rather reassurance. "Of course you do, baby, you're probably the smartest girl at the public school, certainly the prettiest." That was my granma, no crap, just truth. I get that from her. I'm the only one of her grankids to ever tell her she was being stupid. I threw away her cigarettes when I was there for a Summer and told her she'd have to stop if she wanted to live long enough to see any of us do anything. Two years later she was in the hospital. We thought that was the end of the road. My daddy played the guitar and I sang in the ICU, totally not allowed but they made an exception. I'm the first thing she remembered. My voice, me holding her hand. I had never seen her take a sick day in her life before that. She was at my cousins wedding a month later, at my graduation half a year later, and lived 4 more years.

Like The Truth In Theology

I'm only who I am because of where I've been. Despite the dark that lies therein, light shines through to where I stand. I could never cover up or pretend that the past did not exist. I'm better for it, love and freedom in one resounding echo across everything that I am. Never stop, never stop, never stop.

Peace.

I'm Over Getting Older

Wednesday morning, three weeks ago: I wake up to the phone ringing - I hate that. Who calls the house phone at 6am? Really? I put it out of my mind and let my mind wander back to my dreams. It's 7:20 and the home phone is ringing, again. I can hear the shower running. There is no one else to answer the phone. This better be life or death because I am about to verbally break someone over the phone, I do not appreciate home phone wake up calls. My father tells me he bought a plane ticket. Gee, thats quaint - wtf for?! He then realizes who he is talking to. He tells me my younger brother is in the hospital, he's on the next flight to Chicago. I am dumbfounded. This is one of the few instances in my life where I am rendered speechless. My sarcastic wit and sharp tongue are stripped of their super powers and I am starring at our white cordless like it has leperosy. I'm sorry, what just happened? There are people running around me at a pace I can't understand because I can't seem to move. I wonder vaguely if they are speaking the same language as me, perhaps I should slip into a different one. My mother doesn't do crisis. She survives it well enough, but she doesn't live in it well. I take control of the situation. I think this is how cruise directors feel. I can't feel anything. Everyone is offering me food and I kind of want to hit them. Nothing is happening. With the major exception that my brother is coding somewhere 4 hours by fricken jet engine. I bury my heart beneath about three layers of old fashioned malia.

[Sidenote: In case you don't know, if you were to rewind the VHS that is my life to even a year ago - you would encounter a young woman who lived purely off adrenaline somewhere between joy and anger. During those years, I lived constantly under around ten layers of old fashioned malia. Now, to bury oneself under ever one level of old fashioned malia is to secure your well being from all forms of basic humiliation and human cruelty, from there it only increases exponentially. Two layers of old fashioned malia will protect you from most military weaponry, while three will protect you entirely from direct nuclear contact. With four levels you could very comfortably inhabit extreme climates, such as those Venus offers, and by the time you've hit five, you make Super Man look eggshell breakable. Any more than that? I'll leave you to the imagining.]

My brain whispers quietly, "This is the fallout. Prepare for the worst." By the time the dust settles, I am doing what I do best. Living under constant fire. I was built for extremes. Put me in an overstressful environment and I will thrive. My calm will shock and amaze the most qualified marine. I am never clearer than when the whole world has gone to hell. I am truly under the belief that when I am in crisis-mode, there is nothing I can't handle, so perhaps it is only my ego that is infallible. But, of course, all things come with a price. I am running at full sped keeping the rest of the world informed as to the nuclear fallout my family is experiencing and attempting to maintain normalcy. I don't even notice that layers of old fashioned malia are creeping in to tuck me goodnight, wraping me in the comfortable warmth and numbness they provide. We hit four layers - five. Then Friday, the second bombshell. My grandmother, my fathers mother, died. Ironically, about the same time my brother regained minor consciousness. Miracle? Sure, why not. I prefer the term "bitchslap" - but to each their own, right?

It's Friday one week later and I can taste the air. There is limitless sunshine and rainstorms that are the equivalent of luke warm showers. The colour palatte is blue and green with red dirt and coral sand. Those are the only colours I even bother to absorb. English is broken and no one will ever bother to fix it. I have freckles and my heart beat is in time with the tide. I can't sleep. I haven't slept in two and a half weeks. I close my eyes and lose track of the time, but it's not the same thing. My brother is headed back to Seattle with "extensive recovery" waiting for him. My grandmother is a pile of ashes that no one will make a decision about. I feel exactly two things: Joy and Anger. Laughter can pull me from my negativity, but it seems to be the only thing. I'm not sad, I'm not upset, I'm not broken, I'm just pissed off. The crisis stage is over and now the healing begins - or whatever. That just pisses me off even more. Why yes, there is something wrong with me. I have my grandmother's ashes and an attitude problem, swell.

I'd like to apologize in advance for my behaviour because I can go ahead and predict it. My sarcasm has returned with a vengence and my music selection says all you really need to know about me. I keep laughing out loud at myself and glaring at people who dont understand my dark humour. I don't think I've taken my headphones off for more than 45 minutes consecutively. I've done nothing all day. Nothing. My brain feels like it might explode at any moment and the weather is making me nauseous. What's worse? Is I can't even think of anything to do. I'm broke and can't seem to find a job to hang myself with, living at home which is okay but not okay [everyone over the age of 18 should know what I mean by this], and I have no friends. Now, I don't mean I'm friendless What I mean is there aren't people in this Suburban Hell to hangout with. No one to grab a beer, rent movies and throw popcorn at the television, go for hikes, or even just sit around and bs with. Maple Valley is the black hole of the Milky Way, people get sucked in and end up in an alternate universe - if they aren't destroyed completely.

[Second Sidenote: When people experience some kind of crisis? Don't offer them food. Odds are, they aren't hungry and are completely numb to everything that is going on around them. Plus, they don't need a refridgerator full of nonsense they won't eat until it goes bad and they have to throw it out and then try and remember to whom each set of tupperware goes! And then they have to remember to get it back to you! Offer them cash, to buy gasoline and their own damn groceries, or your company. That's what people in crisis really need. Everyone backs off so that people can have "space" and whatnot and leave those going through stuff alone to ponder their thoughts - jinkies, swell thought process. If they want you out of their house, they'll kick you out. Until that point, pester them.]

Nothing personal.

I can't check my email, it pisses me off. Why, you ask? I have no idea. It just does. So does facebook but that is attached directly to my ridiculous cell phone with it's genocide condoning technology - so I can't help but check it redundantly. There were women in the bathroom of the Maui airport discussing how men are pigs - these women happened to be wearing short shorts and shirts that cut so low, I'm pretty sure were meant to be lingerie. I had to laugh at them. Ladies, you don't deserve respect - you demand it. If you play into what a guy wants from you, you are going to be treated poorly. Demand respect and you'll get it, or he'll leave. It's that simple. Yes, men are pigs, but who are you to throw stones dressed like that? You all piss me off too.

While I'm laying the frosting on thick, why is it that there are Help Wanted signs all over Hawaii - aka paradise - and I can't find a mothertrucking job in the center of rainy version of the artic circle?! Seriously, someone buy me a plane ticket. I'll spend the rest of my life as a surf rat sleeping under palm trees on the beach and stealing pineapple, bananas, and mango off the plantations. Ha. Gracious, I'm funny. Better yet, anyone want to invest in purchasing Malia a sail boat? I'd have time, so I promise to actually write the book I've been teasing you all with and split the profit. Or maybe I should just start now, seeing as I have no life, and finance myself. Not that the book would have a plot - but, of course, neither does Tucker Max's and that fool made money off exploiting his own life as the pop culture equivalent of a man whore. Would publicizing my own life be as profitable? Hard to say...

Well now! I'm thrilled to say that this short episode of Malia ranting, brought to you by the accumulation of bull shit going on in my life currently, has short circuted my lifeless anger issues. That is exciting. Let's hope it lasts, shall we?