Some words

Things I wish I said

Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. (Janis, the homeliest woman I ever loved from afar.)

A word is not a crystal, transparent and unchanged; it is the skin of a living thought and may vary greatly in color and content according to the circumstances and time in which it is used. (U.S. Supreme Court Associate Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. – or “Wendy” on the drag queen circuit. Exceptional writer. But should avoid heels, his butt just wasn’t high and tight enough.)

No. Fu— you. Leave me alone. (Instead, I said, “yes, let’s go for it.” And the rest is now a part of the National Crime Information Center database associated with my name. Felony – 3 years, 4 months, 14 days, SCI Mahanoy.)

Absence of proof is not proof of absence. (I could never find the right place to stick this in a conversation. I fear I never will. It will be one of my great disappointments in life.)

You were always a good friend to me. Thank you. (To Sam Johnson, Nicholson, PA. Died a bunch of years ago. While I’m at it, although she died during or around 1973, I still think about Kim Rolla, Scranton, PA. I can still see her face from the last time we met. We are 14.)

In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. But, in practice, there is. (Jan L.A. van de Snepscheut, computer professor. Killed too young. I am presently stressed at work because the academicians are telling us how to teach. They have no clue how clueless they are; yes, a purposeful redundancy to reinforce the concept.)

Bodies of Water for $1,000. Then, What are the Finger Lakes, Alex? (Instead, I got a postcard that read, “After a careful review of your qualifications, Jeopardy! has decided that our viewers would be best served presenting contestants that are not functionally illiterate (For $200, What are You?). Thank you for your interest in Jeopardy! As a consolation, we’ve included some fun stickers with pictures of duckies on them for you!” BTW, I just got a consolation prize in another aspect of my life. No stickers. I was deeply disappointed at the latter.)

Hold you in his armchair, you can feel his disease. (JOL/Macca. Apparently, there is some Beatles-lore controversy over the line. It may be – “…in his arm, yeah you can …” I don’t really care. I always pictured an old man, crippled and covered with dark age spots. A brown sweater with buttons and pockets. A fedora-type hat more visible than his face. Plaid, muted blanket covering his legs that you bought out of desperation because you didn’t know what else to get. He can’t look up too well, but sees you as best he can through a cataract haze. His breathing is shallow but steady. You bend down to hug him and say, “father.” His core temperature is low. It takes a long time for him to raise his arms to touch you – nothing at first, then his fingers move onto your forearms. You are not sure if he is doing it because it seems you won’t pull back and his response is only proper. You are patient and disgusted at the same time; love is not warming at this stage of life. You can feel his sickness as his arms rise to hold you. His embrace not just lingers but deepens. The sweat covering your body dries; you feel as if the desert has come to you. Every bit of your flesh feels parched as the moisture seems to leave your body cell by cell. The sensation and its wake moves from your skin to your veins to your bones. Your lungs expand less, and the beat of your heart now has an unnatural repose. You are filled with weight and fragility. Your vision blurs slightly and the life leaves his body. I’m probably wrong – that’s just what I think of as I hear this line.)

In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends. (Martin Luther King Jr. (1929-1968). The liberal voice in this country used to have depth, a conscious, and meaning. Four deaths – JFK, Malcom, Martin, and Bobby – also killed that voice.)

You can’t do that. I know my rights. Get a warrant. (Instead, I consented to a search of my vehicle. Three seeds and useless roach. C’mon. Thirty days for possession of a small amount? What a joke! I don’t fully understand “prior record scores.”)

Things I wish I didn’t say

You can’t do that. I know my rights. Get a warrant. (I didn’t know warrants are so easy and quick to get. Is it illegal for them to strip search me and use that glow-stick thing up my butt before they get a warrant and find my stash?)

No, as a matter of fact. I do not think you are some kind of clown. I think you are the chief clown – the clown that all of the other clowns look up to. Why? (It’s funny. You don’t realize how many deep breaths you take until you have four broken ribs.)

Putz. I said, putz. You deaf or stupid? (Wow. Man, that guy was quick. I remember thinking that I could still hear the lilt in my voice designating the inquisitive nature of my statement at the same time that I heard the beer mug shattering on my forehead. Technically, I was thereafter in a coma, but it was of the minimally conscious variety. That meant that I had a lot of time to think and people mostly left me alone. Lilt … smash, lilt .. smash, lilt . smash, list smash, liltsmash, litstmash, lislmtash, lsimlatsh. Yes, I am certain they overlapped.)

I wonder where this road goes? (I never thought the ad would apply to me until that day: “KY Jelly, because no one should have to squeal like a pig!”)