i found this poem in the notebook of my journal from last year...i showed it to rt and he liked it, so i guess i'll share it with the universe now...this was written the day before my dad died, while i was with him in the hospital...


i am on my hands and knees
digging furiously through
the dirt in which my
childhood is buried.
when did this garden get
so overgrown with
flowers and vines i
don't even remember
planting?

this is how i've been feeling lately...that whole catcher in the rye motif...i don't want to let go of my childhood...that's when things were safe, my dad was superman, and everything was new and fresh and full of wonder...i don't want to lose that connection to childhood, to that place of purity and wonderment...is that too much to ask??

rt made an interesting distinction between the "flowers" and the "vines", like the flowers are the good experiences, and the vines are the tight and constricting experiences...i didn't even think of it that way when i wrote it, but it makes sense...

well, i'm not sore this morning...not really...thank god for advil...rt is coming to pickup my carless sorry ass, and after breakfast he's gonna take me up to his old haunts where he grew up in the burbs. at least i have some one to keep me company today...

this morning i listened to 1991-1998 by the smoking popes.

p.s. if i DO die, my last will and testament is that caleb j d maskell gets all my instruments to disperse of as he wishes. but he must play the gibson at my funeral. the gibson is currently at the chicago music exchange, so he'll need to bail it out. there, caleb. that should work, right?