Concerning my absence

My grandfather died Saturday morning. He had Alzheimer's and, as with all of those that suffer from that ailment, he was long gone in mind before in body. He was a good man, now dead. I don't feel incredibly sad about it, but for this reason I have been out of town, without means or desire to post much. With this in mind, here is a recycled story written about Moby's album, Play, and my brother's death (8 years ago).

Moby's Album Play

I was in my second semester of University. My first had been a disaster of inane proportions. My grades, as follows: C, D, F, F, DP. GPA: .75. I was unmotivated, struggling with a sleeping disorder (sleep apnea), without direction. I had found writing poetry as a means to expression, but, in the process, had also discovered gin rummy (yes, the old ladies card game) with my poet friends. I was expanding and reverting at the same time. One part growing, another part dying. Regardless, this semester would be the single most important and influential in my college career.

I met a new girl, Adri. She was a college girl, a junior, and very bright and funny. She would date me throughout my college experience and eventually be the exwife. Our relationship began with one of those awkward, “Uh, will you go out with me?” moments. This one a little less standard because it was from her to me, through a mutual friend. I was not really into the idea, due to an impending move (which didn’t happen). But I gave in with a little peer pressure.

So I began a long term relationship (5 years), and, in the process, righted my listing educational ship. Adri was pretty pushy about class, so I ended up attending more often, spending less time playing cards. That semester my grades began to climb, to their eventual peak at graduation. I really renewed my focus at this point. I decided to stop slacking and make an effort to pass my classes, and I did. I didn’t fail another class from that point on.

I also began to be more outspoken in my local art scene. I began writing and participating in local spoken word shows. It was weird. I was writing, reading, performing in front of people, and my work was loved by all sorts of audiences. That experience inspired my future writing career. No doubt, this very work is a direct result of praise and support garnered at this period of my life.

So good was beginning to take root in my life. Looking back, the timing of good things happening to me should have, in a pessimistic sort of way, warned me that something terrible was about to happen. It did.

My best friend, from the age of 2 to 21, was my brother, Dave. He was everything that I was not. He was dependable, workmanlike, normal, inclined to tools and workshops, while shying away from the pen and stage. I know that the past always glorifies memories, making them better or brighter. I know that no one is as good-looking or as smart as I remember them. But I am pretty sure my brother was everything that comes to my mind about him. He was a good man. He died that year, 19 years old.

One night he came in from community college (studying to become a lathe operator) complaining that his stomach didn’t feel well. My mother took him to the doctor and he assumed it was nothing more than a flu bug. He recommended rest. By 8 that night, my brother was delirious. My father out of town, my mother unsure what to do, I carried him to the truck. I write carry, but, to be honest, my brother outweighed me. I sort of draped him over my shoulders and half-dragged him to the cab of the truck.

On the way to the emergency room, I kept wondering what was going on. My brothers and I had never suffered any major ailment. We were healthy. None of us broke bones. None of us were ever hospitalized. It was surreal to be in the back of the truck, weaving in and out of traffic, wondering if my brother was going to live or die. At the time, I wrote it off as being melodramatic. How little did I know.

In two days, he went from well to dead. My last conversation with him was that night, in the ER. I told him to get better and put a blanket over his feet. I walked out, figuring he would be fine. 48 hours later, I rushed from his ICU bed side, too afraid to watch his heartbeat stop. I cry even now, 6 years later, when I write, speak, or even think about my brother’s death. It seemed senseless, almost unfair, to take someone so young, so full of promise, someone who wanted nothing more than to be normal, average.

In all the tumult, in all the clamor, one album supplied peace. Moby’s Play. Listening to “Porcelain,” as I write this, I remember how calming it was to listen to an album full of predictable beats, gospel samples, and Moby’s gentle voice. As a genre, dance music or whatever people call his style of music, is low on my hierarchy of taste. However, this album is well-done, well-polished, and contains some of my favorite “calming” tracks. “Everloving” was that first breath after I had sobbed for an hour. “Natural Blues” and “Bodyrock” pushed me to put aside the pillow and pick up my textbooks. Play was a bed to sleep in, a trainer to push one more rep, a friend to listen to.