by pushing in the clutch...
After closing out my letter to Blake, I closed my laptop and tucked it under my arm. I just sat looking at his grave. What passed by like a breeze in a previous life, time just sat still. It was like one of those heavy fogs on a morning you gotta get somewhere, but it just clung to every part of me.
What I needed to do was to rediscover who I was, am, need to be, I really wasn't sure. What I did know was that I was broken and in every sense of what society deemed needed, fixed. I've learned that when something is broken, it's easy to see that it needs fixed. However, when broken isyour own self worth, the perspective leaves it almost impossible to see.
Doing what I was about to do was literally forcing myself beyond my own skin, stepping out of what I've been living within for four plus decades was not the moving day I had ever planned on. Layered on top of this was the fact that I was a man, and men arn't supposed to be weak.
When a women cries, we move to console. When a man cries, there's this separation of space that begins to form. The exposed weakness becomes a festering wound that immediatly leaves self damaged, a desire to run or I guess the stubborness to fight back. I'd run long enough and out of pure desperation, I laid in it.
Since my first divorce, so much of my time had been spent trying to be what I wasn't. The impurity of that makes me gag, but again, when you're in the valley it's hard to see the valley. I'm sure others tried to drag me to the top of the hill to show me, but I can't see what you see. Change is so easy to see when you see it, but when it rests on the other side of a steel wall, you gotta move.
As I sit back in my chair this morning and think about all this, I'm honestly humbled by how simple yet chaotically complex change is. All my things in storage and I'm about to drive off in my car to seek different. This must have been the moment in the movie where the camera pans in on a broken man, crumbled in an old wooden chair, head down and pools of tears on the worn wooden floor.
As the camera comes closer, it slowly circles, 360 degrees of pure pain. It draws closer and the audience slowly begins to feel his pain, it begins to touch thier own souls as they may have been in this place before or even more complex, there in this moment. They see themselves, nothing moves, not a soul grabs another kernel as they wait for the answer.
That was me, sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for the climatic moment where the camera comes full circle and meets the man as his head begins to lift, eyes go from sunken to wide and alive and the camera zooms closer and closer until you see the reflection of soul in the pupil. The screen goes blank and the lights turn on, exposing those within the room who were waiting, they wanted to know where to begin.
More importantly, they wanted to know how it ended. It has to end beautifully, right. NO!! "Turn the fucking movie back on" I screamed in my head. My hands gripped my steering wheel tighter and tighter and, and, and... I fell back into my seat as the fog moved back in on a clear July 4th day. The only way I'll ever see how this movie ends is to live it.
As much as I wanted to write a fairy tale ending, that shit was only in my head. I had to stop prentending. My sons lifeless body, cold, wrapped in plastic because he was so broken from the horrific impact of the accident. In an appologetic tone, the mortician told me he had to wrap his chest in plastic to keep what fluids they pumped in from coming out. No father should experience this.
The words, touching my son, to feel and hear the crinkle under his shirt. It honestly hurts to even type them, but it's reality and a choice I've made to no longer look at things from the valley. Slowly, I did lift my head, release the death grip I had on my steering wheel and the camera that was inside, slowly panned out wide.
I had to step outside of me to find me. I lifted my leg and what seemed like hardest step I've ever taken, I began again, by pushing in the clutch...