The Story Of My Fucking Life


Posted by ilbebe on December 17, 2008

13. My friend Nino has the heart of a lion, because he has to. To have possibly endured the tribulations of his life, he must have the heart of a lion, and perhaps even the hair of one. I say this to illustrate the fact that my friend Nino has been through some serious shit, as we all have, and has rarely flinched. The Legos and Lincoln Logs that have built his life are filled with more pain than most, and for that, I hold Nino up to be a lion amongst men, a man who must have a birthright to aspire to greatness, an unavoidable reason to accept the shit life has dumped on his doorstep and soldier on. I am lucky to number amongst his friends, who are many. People like Nino spend many nights in darkness and emerge as souls so bright, the rest of us are drawn to them like literal moths to a flame.

I am working on having the heart of a lion, but at this point, I’m closer to having the gallbladder of a goat. My heart is weak. I cry all the time. I am crying now, and typing on a unfamiliar keyboard, and this is impeding my progress. I wish I could stop crying, but sometimes I can’t. I saw the Arcade Fire in concert on June 1, 2007, and the song Cold Wind Blows (?) made me cry. I didn’t stop, might not have, until the line in the next song, Wake Up, “stop your crying”. If only it were that simple all the time; the person who made you cry telling you to stop. Remember when we were kids, and when we started crying? Our parents would start off trying to make us stop in either a commanding tone or a sympathetic one, and switch to the other if the first tactic failed? If I ever have kids, I swear it will be hugs and hugs only. No words. Feelings alone, naked and honest feelings. Maybe I have the arms of a bear, a big loving one. I hope so. I’m optimistic.

I’m getting tired of words. Typing is exhausting and doesn’t ever communicate exactly what I want to say. Talking is better, but rare is the moment is the moment when I am convinced someone is listening with a their full and undivided attention. A good clue that someone is not giving you their full and undivided attention is when they say Sorry, now you have my full and undivided attention. Sometimes you thought you had it before, but hey, we’re all young. Someone, somewhere, may have left a light on.

On my mother’s fifty-fifth birthday, a week ago today, I had the unfortunate pleasure of telling her that my parents’ divorce really fucked me up. It took me a week and a hundred plus cigarettes to reckon with that feeling. I love you Mom. Love. Unequivocally. I never stopped, but I thought I did. We all go through some shit, as my friend Casey says, and he would know perhaps better than I. His Dad has one eye, and his mother died because an insurance company let her. I think I might be smoking for her. I want to be smoking so that no one has to anymore. None of us are factories, we are all just people, and the animals are just animals. I am typing this at my sister’s boyfriend’s house and I am smoking inside his apartment because he said it was okay. He is a good guy, and I am happy for my sister.

None of have the hearts of lions, that wouldn’t work. I hope that we all reach a point that we remember that we have only the hearts and minds we are born with, the hearts given to us by our ancestors. We are people, and will never be anything more, but as we all look to the night sky, we can dream of being great warriors and lovers. Orion is viewed the most clearly under the autumn sky in the place of my birth, and it is October Seventh. I’m still crying.

The next chapter will be funny, I swear.


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