***
The Little Harbinger Brother was a tragedy. He was only nineteen years old and came from a wonderful Family. All of them good people in every sense. Our community's stomach dropped when we heard.
You could feel this Beautiful Person's death in the electricity of the winter weather. We all felt the planet Mercury stop in it's tracks as it turned retrograde.
We were reacting to a simultaneous lunar eclipse moving into position. An event so profound it blocked out the usual ebb and flow of our day in day out lives. Like the entire planet gasps for air. An eclipse in the sign of Cancer. The sign of the Moon. The sign of the mother.
A writer, having not experienced the event, could spend an entire career speculating on what goes on in the life of a mother when she loses her son. I can't hardly grasp the notion. I'll say one thing, though. It's a lot like an eclipse.
I sent Big Bro a C. Bukowski poem about suicide that had been posted on a writer’s site.
He wrote me back saying, in effect; 'He'd wished he had called me to ask how I was doing when he worried about me, the same way he wished someone had called his Little Brother and asked questions when they worried.'
His making mention to my personal struggles made me feel more comfortable to offer him insight using my own experience. This- among other omitted things- is what I had to say:
...on some level everyone knows that your Bro made a choice for Himself. And through his choice he took all of his sadness and pain and gave it to you and your family and everyone He ever touched. ...it was too much pain for one person to bear and now everybody has a piece of his pain, and your Brother has no pain at all.
Those words soon became important because they had actually helped Older Bro to cope some. He even shared them with his Mother. Which was what I was going for, I guess, helping, but still a goal I had no expectations of achieving.
Who am I in the darkness of their lives? Can they still hear condolences? Can they feel a comforting touch? The grief beat from this family like blood through the veins of our community. I wondered, why Older Brother?
Then I began to understand a certain mesmerizing notion: People experience death as a microcosmic event clouded by the unexpected.
Writing from our district's pineal gland.
I told Older Brother to call me up sometime and went back about my life.
But Little Brother stayed on my mind. When I met up with other local Friends He was on their minds, too. So many Friends have Brothers in this circle of people. It could have been any of theirs.
A Harbinger? How does it happen to the Harbingers?
I can tell you about this in the same way I first learned the sobering reality. What the drug scene will say is a wake up call. Like a loud rumor.
I had assumed Little Brother went away because he was depressed. That was my rationale speaking again; depressed people kill themselves. But assumptions don't know anything.
If I listened to the silent knowledge I would have remembered that there is an old secret out in our district: All the kids out here are on drugs.
I did drugs. I still do drugs. My friends do drugs. Not Older Bro, but my other friends. And just about anyone out here with a little brother has a little brother doing drugs.
But one person's life is not another person's life. Our lives out here are quiet. We are mysteries to each other. That's why older people spend wakes discussing each other.
As far as I knew, Little Brother was a Harbinger. If someone asked me about what He was doing the day before He died (Which was Christmas by the way. The day before? Follow?) I would have assumed He was in college or the military. Assumptions don't know anything.
How many of us turn to drugs? No one could count that kind of number. But why? Because we live on the edge of Hookville, is a reason. Heroin Town, USA. That's why.
When I go to catch up with old Friends they spend two hours searching for a vein. Clean or dirty, or clean then dirty. These are the rumors of our district. They are quiet perceptions hoping to be forgotten.
Luckily, I am not writing to talk about rumors. I am talking about a good Kid. One with good values, Friends and loved Ones. Someone who could have done so much more with his decidedly short life.
Seriously, the bad things he was doing prior to the worse things he did, toward the end, are practically a social norm out here depending on when you were born. It hits harder some years than others. We are. We live. We die. Everybody.
Don't blame dope on the dealers and the users, blame it on the lawmakers. Our land ain't free. In a free country this wouldn't happen. Prohibition causes this. Opium is just a poppy plant.
I talked to Older Brother about this. The useless drug wars? Maybe legalize everything is a better idea. These drugs pollute the cities because they are not controlled and taxed.
Trying out your options- where we live- and you are trying out your luck. It is not uncommon for somebody to get hooked on pain killers, is it? Some of those people hooked on pain killers are people like my Friends. The problem is pain killers are kept under lock and key and not always available. Which might not mean a lot to the average American, but for the user this situation becomes a very serious roadblock when they start getting sick.
Heroin does a few things well. It creates criminals for consumption by the prison industrial complex. And it kills people. It ruins lives. Like cocaine with other crowds, and crystal meth in the midwest.
Older Bro pointed out that going to prison is much better than being dead. In a way it is a second chance for some people.
However inhumane prison might be...
I never knew anyone going through serious grief until I started talking to Older Brother. Or I did, but I didn't recognize it until I saw the same features in someone I knew better. TV never gets it right.
He told me things I will remember forever and never repeat to another soul. That's all I can say about our conversation.
One thing that happened after we talked, I feel he would want me to include is this, bear with me: OB said the bullet had gone through the side of the head and Little Brother was alive for twenty minutes afterward.
On the street I heard a rumor, that the gun went in through the mouth and He was alive 20 minutes afterward. It seemed like the kind of little thing that should be corrected. So, with friends, I rearranged the story how it had been told to me by Older Brother.
I will never forget this period of time. A transformation happened. I'll bet it goes deep into humanity, too. News reports have to be covering, or covering up, some major events in the world. Maybe somewhere all hell is breaking out. Because this is the first major omen I've encountered in my life.
To get far out with it.
It was time for the wake.
I got picked up at home by two good Friends of mine. We were three good Friends of Older Brother. Three good mourners of Little Brother. We went to the wake.
It had snowed again. Like that song “Rain When I Die” by Alice In Chains. My job was plowing, and I caused a lot of mayhem just to get out of work and go with my Friends unified, instead of alone later.
We drank whiskey on the way, saddened by the loss of the Harbinger, and because of what Little Brother actually meant: He was a Little Brother to all of us. My Friends knew it. I was learning it.
The extensive parking lot was crammed with vehicles and we parked parallel to the back snow bank.
Then, on the way into the wake I saw about the funniest bumper sticker of my life, it read, “I Love Boobies.” And suddenly I was cracking up laughing with my other Friend that saw the sticker, thinking how inappropriate it was at the time. I look back at the amusing words like maybe that was Little Brother and the Great Spirit letting us know to smile, for we are still alive. This Kid was Smiles. I never knew a kid who smiled like I saw Him smiling.
I think I was lucky enough to know the Deceased at a really enjoyable time in his life, back in 2007 when maybe He was 16 or 17.
The last tim
e I saw him was about 5 seconds before being viciously attacked by about six guys at a party. I hope He liked witnessing that spectacle. Maybe I helped to create an exciting moment for Him, at that time.
There was a white haired door Man with some serious class. Homeboy didn't say anything to me when I thanked him, but later said, “Good Afternoon” to some old ladies. I have a lot of respect for a Man like that. The time he put in at that environment, in life in general, too; being surrounded by death long enough to be comfortable around it?
I had no idea.
Packed into the funeral home there was a rush of faces, known and unknown, but familiar in sadness. We shook hands and returned to quiet awe. I was struck by the images of Little Brother displayed. He was so very alive. I felt compelled to look into the picture and try to understand. My Friends were around me but I think we each felt somewhat more alone. I signed the guest book and then I had to find Older Brother.
Older Bro, is an equipment operator for a good company down South. I've known him for a long time and I can't speak highly enough of him. He is a phenomenal guitarist and taught me some fundamentals when we were really young. We all kind of learned guitar together but Older Bro took to the instrument in a spectacularly talented way and led the rest of us in many facets. He also had the sickest new model GTO I've ever encountered.
Older Bro was his Little Brother's hero and I completely understand why.
In a sea of suits and ties, dresses and gowns, I spotted him wearing a deep blue soccer jersey that shimmered. I wasn't even aware he was surrounded by his Family. He was grief stricken and his face showed it. I had to be close to him. To see him, to hold him, and try to understand.
I approached him and immediately became literally dizzied by their sadness, like standing in a crop circle, I didn't know what to say or what was happening around me. All I could think about was my friend. There was a vortex among his family. The sadness and loss of our entire community had a center in this very spot. I hugged Him twice, told him we'd talk some other time, and walked back to my Friends.
I oriented myself to the ceremony. At the head of the room were beautiful photos of Little Brother and a single white rose. I saw no casket nor urn.
I encountered the Mother and shook her hand, she may have hugged me, I said, “He was amazing.” She agreed, “He was amazing.”
There wasn't a lot of eyes meeting as far as my experience went. I could see how that might be a side effect. I shook the Father's hand, “Sorry for your loss.” The Oldest Daughter knew my name, which made me feel special. “Sorry for your loss.” Brother In Law, “Sorry for your loss.”
I know now why people use standard words and phrases in that situation: The words aren't there.
I gave Older Bro another hug, and said, “So sorry man.”
I met his pretty Girlfriend. They've got two daughters together, a baby and a toddler, if I remember correctly. “Nice to meet you, so sorry.”
The Little Sister was weary of me for any of about a dozen good reasons. But she has been dating this Goodfella I was in a few grades with. It was nice to see him and they were a beautiful match.
One could see that this Family- who are not, and never could be, a pseudonym- were operating on different wavelengths.
The greatest evidence of the Departed's life after death was what I witnessed happening within the Family. Death. A hole. You quite possibly, likely even, know better than I what I was experiencing.
I went toward a back doorway, past the filled seats, to stand in awe. I noticed the people, mostly the older people in the back, talking about new things in each other’s lives, and sure, why not?
Certain crowds were nearly silent. While everyone knew everyone.
Smoking a cigarette out front we cracked jokes about the Junky they just kicked out. That kid was walking across the parking lot. One inner voice was saying to go assail knowledge out of Him for Older Bro's peace of mind, but I wouldn't have known where to begin with that kind of project. There were about six of Us having the same dilemma of mind. After a cigarette I went back past the excellent Doorman.
I wish I could express, right now, here, disdain for this other old Friend I don't much appreciate, anymore… But life's too short.
Whatever, Everyone in that place was feeling the Wake in their own way.
If I had to guess, looking at it from the back of the room, I would say that if Little Brother were anywhere in this place He would be beyond the vortex of The Family. I watched the point where the expressions being taken in by them were going; they were going to the Darkness. I've heard of Shamans calling it the Dark Sea of Awareness.
The awareness they reference is what others mean when they say we live and die as a means of the Universe to perceive itself. Buddhists, say that, among others. Everything He ever was in this life was being pulled into and through The Family from across great distances. It was all going to the same place; wherever the Deceased is. He was the source of the profound emotional gravity.
The way that He was loved.
There was a wonderful poem on the card's they handed out. A particularly nice line was, “For Nothing Loved Is Ever Lost.”
Before I really knew what hit me, we were leaving. I was so dazed I would have walked right out of that place. But a Friend suggested goodbyes were in order. And I said goodbye to the Little Sister's Other and stood in line quickly to get to Older Brother. I hugged him again, and promised to get in touch. That was that. I haven't seen him yet, since. It's been a couple days. He's leaving the state about the same day I am going in a different direction for different reasons: Basic astrology.
I turned to leave and the Mother caught me by the hands. She knew my name, and that made me feel honored. She thanked me for the kind words I had written about her Son, and about his Death. She paraphrased what I'd said. I was speechless but managed to choke out that I couldn't imagine what She was going through. It's a tragedy. The Mother hugged me and I remembered the point I wanted to make, I said, “If this could happen to the Harbingers, it could happen to anybody.”
In her eyes I saw Little Brother as a Son, vaguely spinning, and nothing else. A droplet of water ran down her cheek and the grief was in her flesh.
I thought about the nature of her tears. Were they dehydrating her?
There is no way to describe how I noticed that her frailty was clearly the result of the Person missing. What medicine could ever help her?
Is She the reason why they call death The Great Equalizer? The Eclipsed Mother? After we go we become the same. Profound loss is too great of a force on a living mind.
I witnessed it. Then I went on my separate way. We left the Wake.
Afterward, my Friends and I talked fairly extensively about Little Brother.
We poured some nice Belgian beer for Him but I found myself wondering if He even liked beer.
I think doing things for the Dead is a good way to appreciate them. I like that People do that. He is going to have a bench in His memory on a trail in Steinbeck and I think it will be beautiful.
Birth, Beauty, Love, Death. Are these the seasons of our lives?
There was a lot of confusion about what happened to Him.
It's not my place to gossip. But I will say something: I assumed a sadness had done it, maybe a girl. I was wrong. Little Brother caught a sickness and it killed him. It pulled him down so hard he burst through the great divide and like that was gone.
Imagine what it must feel like to come to that point in your life. The lonesomeness of his Earthbound finality. There are rumors that shed light on His final moments. I won't repeat them. But they exist. I will say that as far as I have ascertained, I believe it was the intense pressure that pushed him through to the other side.
This has been about what I witnessed. What I felt from my proximity. All I really wanted to say is that no matter how much this experience touched me, the Family is all that matters. I cannot fathom the nature of that vortex among them.
I saw my Friend
searching for answers and I tried to write some. In my heart I know these words will go straight into that vortex where they belong. Maybe Our Gone Loved One will experience them in a different way than You and I.
I've learned that One Person's Little Brother can be so many things to so many people. This spiral of events and emotions emanates from, and returns to, the Family. We were touched by the effect.
The significant metaphysical statement to make is this: The most direct access point to that place where He is from this world is through his Mother. Though I could never say how accessible that place actually is. If you want to get close to Him, to best way is through his Family. I believe He will be with them for their entire lives. His gravity will be immense for quite some time but the power will subside eventually.
The effect of his absence will become a channel to his 'missing' essence in those sharing his blood. They will always have access to some incomprehensible aspect of him. Love can be delivered. Messages can be sent.
In His Mother there will be an epicenter of this other side activity. Always swirling and moving; right now very turbulent.
Emotional discomfort is a gateway to be moved through. There is much on the other side if only we don't turn away from our pain. Their strongest feelings are their strongest connections to Him. Direct links like sadness and love.
It was my privilege to write this.
You were a Little Brother to Us. Your Brother is still a Brother to Us. We all felt You go. You made it snow. We will all honor your memory and I am sorry You became a casualty of Our society. I'll never know You. But I still want to.
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
Giving in to the hives, or perhaps flea bites. About two weeks ago my skin condition was in remission and it occurred to me that I was no longer itchin’. Only then did the bites come back to harass me. Red dots that sometimes bleed, and other times never break through the skin, yet always seem to itch with the fury of a troop of army ants; appearing hourly on my hands, shins, calves, wrists, forearms, and one under my eye. There might be a turmoil in my life manifesting under my skin or there might be a mite infestation at my job. Either way, an itching screaming agony is existing. Something has gotten under my skin. Can I get worker's compensation for this? I've been dreaming of roaches, enormous ones. I've been dreaming of twisters throwing houses across the town. I have been dreaming of driving along and watching as the car in front of me swivels and swerves and skids and slides off the road. I keep driving, of course. But then the next car I see does the same thing. It's nighttime and the taillights leave trails in my vision as I see though a sort of dirty, sort of foggy, windshield. Soon another car tailspins off the side of the road. I think to put my seatbelt on but focus on driving instead. My steering wheel locks and the ass end of my car spins out. I am going into a tree and can do nothing to stop it. I wake myself up terrified and realizing I am alone and there is no girlfriend to comfort me. Never before had I realized how much I treasure human comfort after a nightmare. Whether it was my mother's comfort when I was younger or my lover's when I got older. Also, I can recall adolescence when neither applied and I was alone in the middle of the night. Last night felt a lot like that. Going to sleep at 1:00 PM, waking from a nightmare at 1:00 AM, and sleeping until 7:55 AM. When I wake up to festering thoughts about calling a beautiful clerk from Dakota Title Loans named Serenity. I don't know her. We made small talk about a month ago when I first took the loan out. Then two weeks ago when I paid it back there were four or five other people working there and I didn't get to talk to her. But the fellow that took my money was a young absentminded shmuck who gave me 17 Dollars change back instead of the 3 he owed me. I've been wondering if I should use the incident to make small talk over their company phone and then ask her for her personal number. I don't want to be chastised by strangers for acting on a basic human urge. She has green hair and dresses in black. Obviously, she is my type. If I don't take every chance to meet a girl then I have no chance at all. This is South Dakota. These girls are farmer's daughters. They like sports way too much. They like country music way too much. They are unrefined, boring, dull, awkward, simple, fat, butter-faced, and undesirable. Not all of them, but most of them. My love life cannot afford to pass up Serenity. A diamond in the ruff. You have never been as itchy as I am. If someone came through the door and shot me in the face, my only regret would be not being able to thank them for putting me out of my misery. This itching agony is the equivalent of a broken bone's pain, only spread out over my body rather than localized in one place. What was done to me was unacceptable; a certain betrayal mentioned in other pages. But the aftermath of her betrayal has been a deep, seething, throbbing, loneliness. I swore to never associate with her again. Not until I need something at least. Except I think that thing I would need is company. Fuck that. Fuck her. There is a dorky, Dungeons and Dragons type, guy from work I can hang out with tomorrow. He's alright. He is a good source of general information but probably not decent wingman material. If given enough free time, he would be dressing up like Napoleon and having sword fights in the park with other dorks. I hope the beer and Scotch will dull the itching some. If not, at least I'll pass out when I'm drunk enough. Alcohol helps me feel connected to people of antiquity. We humans have been intoxicating ourselves for centuries and millenniums. What is it about the human awareness that causes this habit? Spirits are in the spirits. For all of us. That's why alcoholism is in our blood. Down through the generations. Like vampires, we drink and cannot help what we become. Is my ex getting fucked by another man? How alone can one ever truly be? There are dozens of people within hundreds of feet of me. There is even a social event at my apartment complex this evening. The event is centered around food, of course. I don't want people seeing me eat. They will be old, anyhow. I can drink at one of two bars down the street, but they'll just take my money. It seems like words, music, a cat, and alcohol are all I have. This will change. I am simply at a low point and I intend to wait it out. How long will I be waiting for? Nobody knows. Nobody cares but me. Maybe you. Maybe not. I've hung CDs from the wall. 20 circular disks reflecting orange X-mas lights and misery. I would love some company. I wonder why harmonicas are so cheap. They seem complex in their design but must be simple enough to manufacture and distribute. Soon I will reach the point where there is nothing left to say. I hope to push through it and just keep writing. The alcohol is saturating my blood and dulling my person. I might be asleep soon. Maybe flowers would make my life better. Probably not. There is a girl I am in love with whom I have never met save for conversations on the internet. She is like me in ways no one has ever been. She even shares my birthday, though she is a year older. It is sad. There is someone out there for me. When people say that there is someone out there for you they are not lying. Just remind them that that person is 1500 miles away. And married. The walls are getting smaller in my wishes. They are crushing me to death in my wishes. But, in actuality, they are not moving at all. I am beginning to hate my free time in the same way I hate work. I need to go get a battery to tune my guitar with. I would do it right now, but I am drunk. Driving drunk is the reason I am in this mess. My whole life is a mess, or a disaster rather, caused by a drunken hurricane. There is no one to blame but myself and the law makers. Food, however, is fulfilling. I can order twice as much pizza and hot wings as I could ever eat. And gorge myself two times. Gorging myself somehow alleviates the pain of existing. There is a gun hanging on my wall, and I seldom forget that I could eat a bullet and be done with this. I used to slash tires and batter mailboxes with some kids I knew in Hartford. Reckless youth sounds good right about now. I should be working on a screenplay. Too bad my life is so chaotic. There is a depressing restlessness that will not allow me to write what I need to be writing. I can only write things like what you've just read. As I watch the blood flow from a million tiny itchy points on my forearm.