Three years ago today, a friend of mine passed away from cancer.

Today, a handful of us went to visit his resting place. We don’t usually see each other, much less all at once, but we got together at a local coffee shop to visit him, to remember what he was like. We met happily, conversing about present events and what we now do with ourselves.

We drove over to the cemetery, and walked in. Before we got to the cemetery, we were lively and talkative. Upon entering, conversation ceased completely. We knew that nothing needed to be said.

Nothing was said.


We stood there for a quarter of an hour, completely silent.

Justin was cremated, and in the cemetery that his remains are kept, there is a wall with a number of glass boxes, all with remains of the dead, pictures, and engravings.

While we were standing, simply staring at his box, I tried to concentrate on his photograph behind the glass and think of memories of my friend.

What I could concentrate on, however, was the reflection of the five of us, side by side, standing silently. The photograph in his glass box was at eye level, right in between my face and my friend’s. All I could see was the group of us, including the deceased, standing against a wall.

A fly buzzed throughout the room. I could hear the sound of construction in the background. My phone went off. I could hear a friend’s phone vibrating in the background.

All of these things kept drawing my attention to the present, and to the reflection in the glass in front of the boxes containing the remains of the dead. All I could think about was the present moment.

What struck me as odd, however, was the juxtaposition of the photograph of my dead friend alongside my face in the reflection, standing next to four other friends of ours.

I was overcome with the feeling that life has to continue, and has to move on. The fact that we are still here is representative of the idea that the deceased are in fact, with us. We feel we cannot move forward without them, yet we continue to live without them in our lives physically, but they remain ever-present in our thoughts and actions. In our memories, no matter how often we really stop to think about them.

The fly kept buzzing around the room, reminding me that we were there, in the present moment, continuing to live, reminding me of where I was, taking my thoughts away from the past.

Reminding me, that the past, in fact, is the past. Something that is gone and will never be, and not something that one needs to worry about. The only thing I could consider was where we were, who we were, and who we will one day continue to be. The past is not to be forgotten, but not to be held on to as if it was all that is real, and all that will ever be.

All of the sounds and emotions, the mere shifting of our bodies in the silence that we attempted to maintain, but the silence that was broken by reality, continually reminding me that we were there. We remain in the present, with only one way to go. We are all still here. Again, the juxtaposition of his photograph with our reflection reminded me that our departed friend remains with us, through us, and will never be gone, despite the fact that we continue.

This instance gave me confidence for the future, that no matter what transpires, the only thing there is is the tangible present, and the possibility of what can come. This instance made me feel that everything is possible.

I went there to remember fondly, and all it took was the buzzing of a fly to remind me of where I was, and where I want to be.

It was too fast to capture, but I'd like to describe this scene for all of you.

He's on a dilapidated Harley-Davidson,, clearly not well maintained, but well loved. It has seen thousands upon thousands of sun-beaten miles.

Despite his speed, which isn't all that fast now that I really think about it, I can see the grease stains on his t-shirt, the kind that you get from piling grease upon grease..., never washing the shirt that you gorge yourself in on many mcdonald's delights, continuing to wear it until your black shirt loses any opacity that it may have once possessed.

The thing that truly caught my eye, however, was the fact that this man, riding a motorcycle, was wearing a kneepad for a helmet.

A kneepad for a helmet.

I find it discomforting that urinating needs to be done in set places other than outside, under penalty of fines, yet the internet is available anywhere and everywhere.

Two cents.

sreeeeep

In the midst of an incredibly aggressive alien attack, when all hope is lost, I do a few things.

1) I kiss my grandmother goodbye, I'm clearly never going to see her again.

2) I take some pictures of these incredibly crazy space ships that are destroying everything in sight.

3) I remain (incredibly unreasonably) calm

4) I call a few people and tell them they were cool.

5) I call more than that and tell them they sucked.

6) I proceed to buy a rattlesnake, and name him buffersford waffles. He comes already trained do to cool little snake tricks. I put him in my pocket where he happily hangs out.

7) There are a shitload of people playing drums. I think this might have been the influence of the music store that opens early on Sundays that I live directly above.

Everything remains 'all good.'

Dreams are rad.

Now, I tried to be nice, I tried to put my two weeks in.
Trying for civility only goes so far. You try to be humble and understanding, and do things the right way, but it doesn't quite work out. When an 'executive' refuses to listen and goes out of his way to make you uncomfortable during your last three days of employment, its time to walk.

Walking out mid-shift was incredibly gratifying.

Bike n' roll, fuck you. Most of all, fuck you, Colin the executive. Nobody cares about the fact that you were in special services, help me unload the truck or get out of the way if you're going to talk about the military on your cellphone for forty-five minutes.

Goodbye, bureaucracy bike, and all of your excessive paperwork.

Freedom is grand.

Perfection perfection perfection.

Every day, he wakes up. He turns, either to the left or the right.

This all depends on which side of the pier he slept on the previous evening.

Be it left or right, he heads for Rosie the Riveter. Rosie the Riveter, in this scenario, is a sign, pointing to a retired warship.
As he approaches the sign, he assesses the placement. It has to be perfect.

He makes sure it is lined up directly with the "Keep" portion of the "Keep Clear" painted on the ground. It has to be perfect.

He repeats this obsessively, every day. After all, it has to be perfect.
He stares down, along the sign. He moves it an inch to the right, an inch to the left, half an inch back to the right, all to make it perfect.

He spends anywhere from three minutes to close to half an hour, perfecting the placement of the sign. Perfection, for this man, knows no time limit. Not within about half an hour at least.
He stands back, surveys his work, and makes sure that it is perfect, as it has to be.

Some people call this insanity, but to this man, his home is the pier. The forty-third-and-a-half pier, and he will keep it perfect for the rest of his days.

He'll keep it perfect for the rest of his days, or until the manager of the retired warship tour finally gets sick of denying him 'his rightful paycheck.'

Some people call this obsession, but it seems to be all he has.
That, and cigarette butts he picks up on the ground.

Few things are more appealing than doing laundry right before bed, so I can climb into warm sheets.

Chyeah.