"A formula, a phrase remains"

So, here we are again left to the ups and downs of emotion. There is a lot going on, please be indulgent for what follows...

I am making an effort to be proactive. E-mailed and called media outlets, called city clerks, created Internet groups, posted pictures, retrieved little bits of the past and set them about to remind people.

This is hard, I was reminded while doing this of something "She who must not be named" once posted in her blog. When I first read the post I was shocked. Most of my readers by now know of the stupidity of this issue (read earlier post.) The following is taken from her blog, posted after she called the Del Ray Beach police department (an action, if done with the correct spirit, could have been amazingly kind given our recent past.)

Quote:

I did something for someone else that I would have done for myself. I knew that I could because I am relentless in my pursuit for anything I set my mind to. My intentions were not that of caring or compassion, but of the need to prove things are easily done when you choose to do them. Even if the result still remains questionable, at least I started it or it would have never happened.

When you make a decision about the importance of something or someone in your life and it goes away, you get it back. You don't whine or blog about it or sit on a pity pot. You go get it and you don't give up until you find it. I accomplished this feat in 3 days in the comfort of my own home and it was free. With the limited information I had and my only tool being a way with words and the Internet, I got further than anyone had in 2 years.

If my sister was ever missing there would be hell to pay and nothing or no one would ever discourage me from finding her. I would hope she would do the same for me. And yes I will try not to break my arm patting myself on the back.

Funny, not surprisingly much that was asserted in this statement is not true. Finding someone that is missing is not easy (a fact proved by all of the missing persons websites and support groups out there.)

It is apparently, very easy to disassociate yourself from the feelings of others.

I don't get it, I mean, the thing that is so odd about this is that the words listed above seem to be born of the same disregard for human feeling that seems to have been visited upon my sister.

I have a new mantra, taken from Edna St. Vincent Milay:

Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains,--but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love, --

They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled

Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave,

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Here is the deal, this isn't over. It will not be accomplished in the "comfort of my own home" that is not where things get done. It will likely cost some money, it will certainly hurt. I refuse to let stupid, lazy, frightened, ugliness, born of misplaced anger define me. I will never understand how someone can use the pain of another to preach moral superiority.

To continue, I had a conversation today with my mom, not directly related to the former blog writer quoted above, but in reference to others of the same mentality. It made me think about some of this in a new light.

Here is the deal, humanity may, for a short time, glorify brazen commercialism, violence, sloth and the like. Those things have been here for a long time.

At the same time there are also the qualities of kindness and love. The willingness to fight (truly, not just with rhetoric) for what is right.

The two are not entirely un-separated, we all fight for one side or the other from time to time. I am a hypocrite, I sit and bitch, I let anger be my motivating factor etc.

Here is the question, which set of these qualities is ultimately responsible for the loss of my sister?

Which qualities do I want to define me from now on?

From the 1 yr. old

Musings:

Had my review at work today, positive, raise insues! I have to say that in the recent happenings the job has been a highpoint.

Yesterday, I was reading a story to the kidlets, #2 sitting on my lap wrapped up in the newly re-discovered Boppy pillow, #1 to my snuggling left. Imagine my shock as I read Maurice Sendak's Swine Lake when #2 in her 16 month old reverie lifted her arm above her head and bitch slapped number one then gleafully announced "ouchie!" #1 yells "she hit me! That is not nice" (#2 giggles) the wife has to hide her head in the closet not to show her laughter. I tried to hold it in, really, but when a 16 month old bitch slaps a almost 4 year old, well, that shit is funny!

Auditioned for Pirates of Penzance, was last minute substitution in Carmen last week, all in all fulfilling. Keeping finger crossed about the former...

A note to the Hoyt's in the middle region, sell your houses and move here. The stinkle monkeys miss you.

That is all disperse...

The pills kicked in...

OK, dear 5 readers, after the feelings that inspired the last blog post, I decided to go on medicine. Not so much to not deal with the aforementioned "issues" but rather to be able to deal with the day-to-day stuff that requires the bulk of my brain.

In addition, I am visiting with a therapist (this action pre-dates, earlier crazy blog.) Funny thing about therapist, after visiting with her for about 2 months, she relayed that she is from KC, MO. Also of note, she is an alumna of St. Mary's College, Leavenworth, KS (the place where I spent the bulk of my high school years) odd... At any rate, the sessions are productive and enlightening. Slowly beginning to have a grasp on a few of the self destructive tendencies (visiting dietitian, dealing with anger, etc.)

On another productive note, the fam. is moving into a new level of domesticity. I painted our former guest room happy-ass pink and moved the kidlets into it. Then proceeded to paint over the yellow with red lady-bug former kidlet room so that wifelet and I could be nearer to said kidlets. Looks fabulous... Next, bought sleeper sofa for our former room and moved computer down there. Add TV left by she-who-shall-not-be- named and voila! Great office and guest-room. Next, paint kitchen cabinets, finish building girl's doll house and matching furniture, install granite counter tops, learn the role of Don Ramiro from Rossini's La Cenorentolla and figure out how to chant the Exultet... That is one hard chant!

On the Emillie front, not a lot to say. We are still waiting. There is really very little that can be done for missing adults. I can't believe how Byzantine the whole process is. Arghhhhh...

Cracks in the Facade

I am not feeling well, had a bad day at work and had some bad diabetes times. All and all not my favorite day. I like concrete things in my life, there are some very in-concrete issues that need to be squared up:

1. Diabetes: WTF... Insulin Pump = costs lots, ok results... blehhhhh!
2. Me: doldrums of Portland rain. Just not feeling it. I think it may be time to put down the bottle and pick up the light-therapy.
3. Finally: Emillie, come on... WHAT IS THIS? I am good at planning parties, weddings and book placement. Why is my mind always placed into the funeral mode? Why do you not just come back to us? If you don't come back soon, I am going to plan some hoop-dinger of a funeral that well lets just say, will make you rue the day that you left us. That's right, last rights as torture! Oh God, that is morbid... I just have no where else to go. My mind needs resolution, I can't handle this. Why the FUCK does a really wonderful cop have to do his job and post familial DNA? Why can't this be more like l'enfant prodigue? Still my head goes to planning. I work at a liturgical publisher, its like torture, really odd:

• place: NOT A FUNERAL HOME, I hate funeral homes. Maybe a church, I know, but just for the sake of beauty. I mean come on! What are we left with? Some boxes of stuff and a few pictures. How are we supposed to know what you were like, what you wanted? I was thinking that it would have to end up in St. Joe (I know, it is Satan's armpit but, well, you get it. All of those bastards should be allowed to grieve as well.) What do you think of First Presbyterian? It has that beautiful window of The Resurrection in the apse. I mean, I think it should be beautiful and, well, in St. Joe we are limited to a precious few lovely places, maybe the Cathedral? I don't know, can't be outside as the weather is always suspect.
• Music, well I am a traditionalist, not in the Hymn sense, I don't think it should be about congregational singing, I don't want to go to the funeral of a person that I love, and then be forced to sing. What do you think of the Mystical Songs? Of course we would omit the last one, "Anthem", too much for me. George Herbert.
• Readings, not sure... poetry, something uplifting. Herbert, e.e. cummings? Some Bible, maybe Revelation 14:13 , Psalm 121, I like those thoughts. What would you read?
• Presider, holy shit, I have no idea. The only person that comes to mind is Father Brendan. Sorry, I know, back to the religion, not sure if that was your thing. He was worried about you, he wanted me to help you. I think that in that little visit when Erin and I got married, he got you. I don't know.
• Flowers, beautiful, natural, like a summer, simple, no pretension, just beautiful.

There it is, motivation to come back, if you don't I will plan your funeral and it will be pretentious and overblown. Perhaps I will hire an Anglican choir. That aught to do it, you don't want that crap... I am serious, ANGLICANS, I will pull out the big guns... maybe even Brahms, 6th movement of the Requiem, the Soprano Solo. Not kidding, I will do it. Do not Fuck with me, we are talking major pretentious.

Jesus... Emillie, come on.

The Dream of Gerontius

I have become obsessed with Elgar's The Dream of Gerontius, based on the poem by John Henry Cardinal Newman . Go here to listen to some samples.

Sonnet # 89, Pablo Neruda from Cien Sonetos de Amor

When I die, I want your hands on my eyes

I want the light and wheat of your beloved hands to pass their freshness over me once more

I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny.

I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep.

I want your ears still to hear the wind, I want you

to sniff the sea's aroma that we loved together,to continue to walk on the sand we walk on.

I want what I love to continue to live,

and you whom I love and sang above everything else

to continue to flourish, full-flowered:

so that you can reach everything my love directs you to.

so that my shadow can travel along in your hair.

so that everything can learn the reason for my song.

Reconnect - Resolve - Meow, Meow...

I am pretty sure that this is incoherent...

So, I got an e-mail from an old friend a couple days ago.

Stacy was one of the people who "looked after" me when I was in high school. She termed me the "prodigal son" when I came to stay with her, her husband and her daughter upon graduating high school.

To be honest, I hadn't really given any of this much thought, well, really I have tried to block out most of the memories from 1992-2000. At any rate. the e-mail brought back a flood of memories. This friend dropped everything to help out, was the first person that knew about my diabetes, she really took care of me at times. I could assuredly say that she made sure that I didn't do myself severe bodily harm for most of my adolescence.

I haven't seen her for 10 years. Like I said, I tried to block out most of that period of my life. We parted amicably, I kind of just left. I think that she knew that I needed to get my shit straight and she let me do that.

So, here I am, unable to sleep, thinking of 1996.

Driving my ill-gotten (later abandoned) Dodge Aries station wagon.

Sitting, smoking after midnight in the middle of nowhere Kansas.

Chasing cows back into the pasture.

Selling my mom's stuff in Lawrence.

Working at A & W. Maggie, Jared, and that blond girl yeah, her name was Lindsey.

Sitting from 1 am until dawn in the campanile.

Drinking way to much with Maggie and falling down the basement stairs.

Going to court the next morning.

CFD Data Corp.

Stockton Gala Days.

The Java Break.

Smoking, Smoking, Smoking.

Alcohol poisoning.

The peach polo shirt, blue thin tie, khaki pants, braided belt and "kilti" loafers that I wore all over Lawrence looking for a job.

Jen and that crazy girl she was friends with.

The car accident.

Applemart.

Sleeping all day.

Staying awake all night.

Eating at Burrito King.

Not being able to afford a soda.

Putting $00.47 worth of gas in my car.

Binge and Insulin Purge.

Nervous breakdown ticket.

et. al.

17 was a bad age for me. It has been a steady upward climb hence...

I hold no delusions of grandeur. I was stupid, probably a pathological liar, selfish and most definitely an ass. Despite all of this, I am here (despite what it seems were my best efforts at self-destruction), I have a fantastic family, and holy shit, I think I actually can stand myself.

Fast forward 10 years, given recent events, I made the decision to seek professional help. After aforementioned friend's brief resurface I began to talk to the professional about this period. She asks: "what is the significance?" Me: "not sure." Not sure, hmmm... Not really sure...

This will surely prove interesting...