If time were a woman

It would go by real slow

She'd pause each moment

Afraid to let go

If time were a child

It would have busier hands

Though it still well may be

It already demands

No..time is a man

Because he rambles on

The same old direction

The sands even yawn

Hours unchanging

No numbers redrawn

Time's been a man

Since the Parthenon

He marches onward

Passing each dawn

Time is a man

But he's almost gone

My first love, a fellow swimmer

My mermaid sister in the sac

We floated together sharing

And exploring our wombed space

And nine months later we adventured

One shortly after the other

But, virtually, together

On a journey that's lasted

More than four decades- so

Far!

We've hugged and laughed

We've thrown stones

Called names

Teased and hurt each other

Others

Like magnetic poles, we

Are pulled to each other

Not opposites, but bound

By a womb-mate bond

A force, that can only be

Described as true love

Life's breathe

Before breathing air

Life's nourishment

Before latching

Love you womb-mate!!

Somehow I knew that whatever it was beyond the door needed my permission to come in.

The question was, how long could I stand the noise?

Admittedly, I was pretty calm, considering the situation. I'd been in this room, with this chair, and this door for a while now. It wasn't dark, despite there being no windows or visible light fixtures. Curious, but not especially alarming, all things considered.

Besides the muffled, hideously distorted screeching, I was pretty comfortable. No injuries, it wasn't too hot or too cold, and I wasn't bound by rope or chain, which was nice.

I frowned. I seemed to remember being bound once.

Oh, did I mention I didn't remember waking up? Or anything else for that matter?

So, it should make sense that I felt relief over any memory, even one hinting at something quite unpleasant. The first detail of my past, however vague, emboldened me.

Suddenly, I came to realize my second absolute:

I had the power in this situation, and I made the decisions. Only I could open that door.

But did I really want to?

The moment I thought that, the wailing rose to thunderous levels. Still, I wasn't afraid. It couldn't touch me. However, I feared for the integrity of the room. It shook, as if the thing had finally started to pound the door in earnest. Finally, a crack appeared in the wall next to me, and I wondered what would happen to me if it collapsed.

Yet, even as that thought occurred to me, I didn't intend to leave.

At the same time, I knew that if I wanted to live - even if I never left - I couldn't let this room be destroyed.

So I screamed back, with a strength I didn't know I had. Together, the cadence built with a horrifying resonance until suddenly, my opposition, with a final, ear-splitting shriek, faded away.

For the first time since I became aware, there was silence.

With the sounds of that almost-war echoing around me, I finally realized my biggest clue had been there all along, and my world narrowed around me until I could hear only the fading of those screams...

Our voices were the same.

Over the thundering of my heartbeat, my mind worked frantically. If it wasn't an it, if I wasn't being tricked, there was someone out there. And judging from the alarmingly warped sounds that had come from them, they were in untold pain.

Who...who was outside?

I thought of everything I had heard since the beginning. The little noises I had missed, lost in thought, only to recall now - the whimpers between roars, the desperate scratching between bangs, the low moans amidst the clamor.

This...this was a person.

And I'd cruelly left them in that state. Alone, suffering, and clearly in dire need of help.

All because I didn't want to leave the relative safety of this place.

I couldn't live with that. Even...even if this was all a sham, I felt as if I'd found my purpose.

I was going to protect them.

Whoever it was beyond the door.

Step by step, I walked forward, and turned the knob.

***

I understood now.

As I opened my eyes, I was real. I felt.

And I took in everything.

I was sitting in a chair.

I was naked.

The room was dim, and the only visible light seemed to leak in from under the walls. My ankles and wrists were terribly chafed from the chains that encircled them. My toes and fingers were numb with pain from pervasive cold.

The rest of me, however, felt like it was on fire. Shifting around, I felt the cracking of dried blood and the screaming pull of slices in my skin. I looked down. Most of me glistened wetly in the light, and I realized I was flayed in more places than I wasn't. As new blood trickled along my limbs, I took stock of what was around me. I couldn't see very well, but judging from the outline of various strings hanging in front of me, there were whips. And as a glint of sliver flashed at their ends, I realized they were barbed.

Wincing at one peculiar throb, I realized there was one embedded in my left thigh, if the inflamed bump meant anything in particular.

I pondered the odds of escape.

I sighed, and yanked my arms free.

My breath left me in a punch, and as blackness threatened to consume me, I wondered if I was too late.

No!

Consciousness was a decision, and I could make it.

I had to. For her.

Suddenly, I heard the distant rumble of what had to be a vehicle, and I struggled to free my legs.

The rendering of flesh sickened me, and my anger grew as I realized the legs of my chair were wrapped with barbed wire. Still, I pulled as my calves gave way to blood, taking comfort in the fact that even though the slickness and strange lightness meant further injury, it aided in slipping my feet free.

I couldn't tell you how I stood, only that I did.

I couldn't describe to you the agony of digging in my thigh for that shard of metal. The trauma of pus and blood spraying from around my fingers. The breaks I took between forcing my body to breathe through the hurt. It was tremendous, the pain.

I couldn't tell you how slowly the time passed as I waited behind that door, my fingers and toes warm now, my left hand pinched tightly around that tiny prong of steel.

I repeated a mantra to myself as I stood by:

Don't die.

She couldn't survive this. I remembered finding her in front of that door in our mind, crumpled, but otherwise unharmed. I remembered gathering her in my arms, and gently placing her in that chair. She couldn't deal with her reality, so unconsciously, she created me.

Multiple personality disorder, they called it.

Characterized by the presence of two or more distinct personality states, typically induced as a buffer by the original in response to extreme circumstances.

I would do what I was created to do.

Protect her. Forever.

But first, I would have to survive.

So when the footsteps in reality came and the physical door was opened, I felt her scream in the room she built to hide in, and for the second time I screamed with her. I felt her understand what I was, and she was grateful. I took my chance and I drove the piece into his eye, so far I felt a give and a splash of blood and thicker things. As he spluttered and both our legs gave, I rode him to the ground and I took his other eye with my right thumb with a pop! and an explosion of fluid.

She showed me how she suffered in panicked flashes - as if I needed motivation to do what I was made for. I felt every second of torment, marked in my skin. I shut her down hard.

No distractions, I thought. I was busy. I took him, passed out now, in my ravaged arms and placed him in that chair.

Needless to say, when I was finished, I locked the door. My work was done.

Suddenly, I heard a knock. She wanted out. I laughed.

You are weak, I told her, and locked that door, too.

Ultimately, I had the power here, and the me who was behind that door, in that room, didn't make the decisions anymore. And somehow she knew that she needed my permission to leave. That's when the screaming started. It didn't bother me.

After all, I was used to the noise.

Mind Riot...can't think of two better words to describe where I've been since hearing the shocking news of Chris Cornell's untimely passing. It keeps replaying in my head: "Candle's burning yesterday, somebody's best friend died, and I've been caught in a mind riot." Chris was inspired to write those words for his late friend, Andrew Wood, and they are sadly so relevant 26 years later.

I never knew Chris Cornell personally but it sure as heck felt like I did, considering he wrote the soundtrack to the best years of my life. He expressed what I was feeling in my twenties so eloquently with poetic imagery and edgy dark melodies, the likes of which we will never see or hear again. My Chris Cornell soundtrack to life played for well over a decade, with parties ending in the basement of 92 West Street in Albany, NY to Soundgarden's Spoonman and Rusty Cage and culminating in my wedding day first dance to Sunshower in Montreal, Canada. His loss is tragic and incomprehensible to me on so many levels. As the elder statesman of the Seattle rock scene, he had emerged from his darkest days of depression and substance abuse years ago, to become what we all aspire to achieve in life--a loving husband and father, a philanthropist, and yes, still a true rocker in his prime. His latest release so clearly articulating the hope he felt with the Promise, one "to survive, persevere and thrive." He spoke of an historic nation emerging from genocide just as he emerged from his personal struggles to become the man he is today.

Chris Cornell still is that man. We all share in the responsibility to celebrate that man and his legacy. Forget the medical examiner's report, which reeks of pharmaceutical industry interference and political coercion. This was a substance-induced momentary failure, a horribly clouded decision borne out of frustration and irrationality. Vicky knew him better than anyone in the world and her incredibly poignant open letter to her husband only confirms that this was not intentional nor premeditated. She and his children forgive him. Therefore I owe it to Chris for all he gave me to respect his memory in only the most positive of terms and refuse to call it suicide. I owe it to Chris to promote his prolific contribution to rock music as the greatest songwriter and vocalist of our generation. I owe it to Chris to work to create awareness around the severe side effects of benzos and other "legal" substances. I owe it to Chris to pick up my guitar and Blow Up the Outside World with every E and C chord I can muster. Only then perhaps can I somehow escape this Mind Riot...

If I've had one constant throughout my entire life you could ask anybody who knows me, and they will tell you, it's my love of music. A great song moves me like the beauty in nature, a love shared between two beating hearts, and the peace people find with their spirituality. Chris contributed a soundtrack to my life that followed me through adolescence into adulthood. If I had to pick one desert island artist for all of time, it would be Chris Cornell.

As a young musician my first instrument was the saxophone during the summer of 1991. A few years earlier the same school band my older cousins played in covered Billy Idol's "Mony Mony." I immediately knew I wanted in and couldn't wait to be old enough to join. I remember growing up listening to the Chicago radio stations Q101 and Rock 103.5 that have long since gone off the air. Sitting in my room writing down all the bands I loved on a folder that held my sheet music. Soundgarden was one of many names I would write, but each time I would wear my folder out and get a new one the following year, Soundgarden was one of the first to be penned onto it.

As I entered high school I was taken by the guitar and for the last twenty something years there has rarely been a day I've set it down. This was about the time Soundgarden broke up and released their A-sides record, a conglomeration of songs I could listen and play along to that remains timeless. During my college years Chris formed Audioslave and managed to sprinkle in a few solo albums. Like a fine wine he kept getting better with age. It wasn't until I graduated and started working a full time job that I could afford to go to all the shows I desired and always made sure to catch Chris when he came through Chicago or Indianapolis.

It wasn't until 2009 that I got to see Chris play for the first time with his touring band at The Vogue in Indianapolis. I signed up for Twitter around then just because he was on it engaging fans. I started following bands I liked and some pretty rad internet weirdos like myself. One night I sent Chris a message asking if he had read any good books lately after hearing him mention Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar" as a song inspiration during an interview. Instead of responding he decided to retweet something I said earlier in the day to millions of his followers when I joked about my single life. He then proceeded to follow me along with a few strangers who thought I was one of the cool kids.

When Chris, Kim, Ben, and Matt reunited Soundgarden at Lollapalooza in 2010, I was there, even though I had to drive 5 hours back home after the show just to make it into work the next day. That show was bittersweet because some new friends from Southern Indiana, that I found through twitter via Chris, gave me their VIP tickets for the day due to a misfortune. The death of their son's best friend from a car accident the night before pulled them away to console him through the tough time. It was the first time we met after months of making each other smile and laugh over the internet. We hugged and I made sure to take pictures for them, but I wish they could have seen the awesome show with me.

In 2011 Chris was on his acoustic songbook tour and came to Chicago's Vic Theater on April 22nd. It was the 5 year anniversary of a dreadful day when I totaled my Firebird while on vacation in Georgia and got a DUI that was later dismissed. I spent the night in the drunk tank even though I blew under the legal limit and some shady locals ended up chopping up my car that I never saw again. I was so glad to finally have something else to remember that day for and I took my dad to see Chris play that night. The only other show my dad had been to at that time was in the '70s to see The Who rock out when Keith Moon was still on drums. He loved every minute of the acoustic set, especially The Beatles and Led Zeppelin covers Chris did. I really wanted to get to the show early so I could be up front and possibly ask Chris to do a duet, but my dad was getting off work too late for that. A fan did end up getting on stage that night and I remember telling my dad I wanted to do that too. 

Later that year Chris came through Indianapolis and played to a sold out show of about 2,000 people at the Murat's Egyptian Room. I managed to get front row tickets and was driven to see if I could get up there with Chris and play a song with him. I nearly didn't make it out of town when I was pulled over running a red light, just minutes after picking up my friend from work to head down to Indianapolis. We were so excited, I was like a deer in headlights when the yellow traffic signal turned red and I sped up instead of slamming on my brakes, in front of a police car I didn't even notice until I blew the light. My friend was dressed in a suit for work, I had long hair, looked like a hippie, and they were suspicious of drugs after we said we were going to a concert. They searched my car and eventually let us go on our way.

Before the show started I met my Twitter friends who gave me the VIP tickets along with their son and a friend of his. I told them I was going to try and play Sunshower with Chris, coincidentally it was their wedding song, but if I could play it, the big man was going to kiss his little wife in public. They love to joke about public displays of affection. When Chris came out, I asked, and he took a chance and let me join him up there a few songs later. My friend's wife got her kiss and to this day the whole night still feels like a dream. I could pinch myself to wake up but the proof is right up there on YouTube, "Chris Cornell plays Sunshower with Eddie from Chicago." Even though the few thousand plays are probably just my dad watching it all the time, I can't help but feel humbled that Chris let it happen and multiple people I had never met before captured the moment on their phones. Once again the internet magic of Twitter struck and I found out the other guy I saw get up on stage in Chicago actually lives about 25 minutes away from me here in Muncie, Indiana. We've hung out and jammed a couple times since.

I never got to meet Chris again after that night or talk about our duet, but I think a friend said it best. "Just think, tonight Chris Cornell is talking about playing with you! How cool is that!" and he made the evening even more special, as if that were even possible. I did see Chris perform many times after that. The only show I missed was his last songbook stop through Indianapolis because my band was recording in the studio that weekend.

I have to say, my favorite performance was seeing Temple of the Dog reunite last year. While visiting a close college friend out in San Francisco we saw them play the most amazing set of songs. I can barely put into words how phenomenal that night was. There was an ambiance in the air that still gives goosebumps just thinking about it. I'm also grateful to attend one of the last shows Soundgarden played in Indianapolis, but the news of his passing a week later still has me in disbelief. My dad was the first to break the it to me with an e-mail as I woke up for work. I've rarely felt so much denial wishing it was some cruel internet hoax. The only other time that I felt this way was when a friend called me during my youth to tell me his dad died in a boating accident, when we had gone out on the water in it just a few days earlier with him. Soundgarden had just released "Down on the Upside" less than two months prior and Chris was there to help us cope together with his music. Even though it took hours just to download bootleg songs through a dial-up internet connection.

The music Chris shared with the world will always be a part of me. He was there through my first love, heartbreak, deaths, and celebrations. He will continue to be a soundtrack to my life and an inspiration to express myself musically. I'll always wonder if he got a kick out of my tweets over the years or if he dug my music when I would link it, but I can find closure in the fact his music has helped me through tough times before and it will continue to. I will forever miss him, his stories, the glimpses he would give in to his loving family life which he finally had after years of misfortune, his philanthropy, and the music he did not get a chance to grow old and make.

My heart goes out to his family, you have my deepest sympathies. Christopher, Toni, Lillian, your dad showed his love for you to the world and we'll all remember how much he cared about you. My dad was fourteen when he lost his father to a brain tumor. I felt even closer to Chris when he sang his friend Rory's lyrics about passing on to the other side in the song "I promise it's not goodbye." My Grandma raised four kids and became the glue that held four generations of our family together without her soulmate, before she joined him again decades later. There will be joy in the years ahead no matter how hard things may be right now. Go after your dreams, anything can happen if you believe in it. Vicky, thank you for entering his life when you did, I know you'll find the strength to get through this with your family. Toni K and brother Peter, my Grandma also lost a child, my dad a sister, to cancer before her time. Oddly enough she was the one in the family who loved music the most and encouraged all her kids, nieces, and nephews to take up instruments, me my saxophone. In a way, I can thank her for introducing me to radio, where I found Chris singing to me, as this circle of life continues. Death is a pain that's hard to bear and everyone's is unique. I only wish that you find peace. I want to hug you all.

To anyone else out there hearing my story, I want you to know I never planned on sharing this much of myself. It's just my way of coping with the loss of such a beautiful soul and what happened to pour out of me tonight. I can also speak from experience the type of vivid dreams medications can have on a person. I once woke up in the middle of the night trying to attack an intruder before realizing I was throwing pillows at shadows, trying to attack a lamp as I tripped over furniture, bruising and cutting myself up pretty bad. Had I not been alone or if I had my gun near me, I fear what could have happened. Since then I've stayed away from prescriptions and just try to surround myself with people and talk about what sets off my anxiety, even though it's strenuous as an introvert. Chris was a victim of his own mental health and he's not alone out there. If you or someone you know is having a rough time, talk it out, even if it feels like the walls are caving in.

Peace, Love, Rock and Roll

-Eddie Igras

Not to post back-to-back about it, but this is an exception:

We joined forces with Seattle Refined to commemorate & celebrate the life and lyrics of Soundgarden legend Chris Cornell with a new writing challenge. 

If Chris Cornell touched you, write about it. Share your story, poem, tribute, anything about him. We will be putting together a book for the Cornell family, of the posts entered. All proceeds from additional copies purchased will be donated to suicide prevention. The most shared post will be read on air and posted on seattlerefined.com

Go to Seattle Refined in Portals to enter and read. 

Thanks for stopping to read this. Go write.

-Prose.

The sea under a moon

A haunting open night

The highway for my

Rolling wheels to ride

Your words resounding of

The sweetest euphoria

A voice so strong

Oh how I long

To hear you sing your song

The day I tried to live

Your tune upon my head

To drown the fear and ease

A troubled heart to rest

A soul of the loudest love

You outshine a thousand suns

A voice so strong

Oh how I long

To hear you sing your song

And here we fall

On the blackest yet of days

Your time has come

But we will always know your name

I know your name

As riot leaves the mind

A burdened hand lets go

May you rest in peace and find

A higher truth to hold

Though your candle has burned out

You say hello to heaven now

A voice so strong

Oh how I long

To hear you sing your song

As seasons roll away

And body turns to dust

The man of golden words

Forever sings in us

Chris wasn't just a musician. He touched, saved, and shaped a lot of lives. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be doing the only thing, thanks to him, I found out I was good at. But how can a person have such an impact on your life through their music? Well, that's just how he was. He was my best friend. He would say what I wanted to hear. He would play what I wanted to learn to play. I'd go to sleep listening to his voice and his music, and wake up in the morning doing the same. I never met him, but he was always with me. I don't miss him because he'll always be with me. Like a part of my body, he'll always be a part of me. Goodbye, celestial being. Forever my Rock God, forever my all. I love you. Always will. You're my everything. Thank you for everything.

Ali.

     Rome. 2016, March. Hadn't seen him since the '90s. Drunk on being away from the States, drunk on red and white wine, and a stomach gorged with in-house pasta, bread, and anything else I could get my hands on. Alley, restaurant. Trevi fountain checked off. Young Italian girls waving Americans in to their restaurants. A brothel feel. I want to go into the story about the two Italians fighting over the check. The owner and a drunk patron. I want to go into the gelato after, the air of Rome, the bricks of the alleys. But I can't. Rare to see this profile written in first person, but this is different. Like Rome is different. Lost there. Must gaze upon the Pantheon during the first rays of moonlight. 

Lost there. Around a blind corner I nearly walked into Cornell. The man was tall. I'm 6'1 and he loomed over me. We glanced at each other, I registered the situation, and kept moving. GPS called me a moron in code, so I followed Cornell and his wife, and their little girl. I wasn't listening but I was. He was telling his girl about how life is in Italy. I heard, "In Italy..." then the crowd around us absorbed the rest. A few people took fast second looks, and then went back to their tables, their drinks, their own trips and lives.

     In Rome no one cares who you are. 

     Quite a beautiful feeling.    

     Rome is different.

    Crossing back toward where I had to go. Losing light. The Sun becoming the Moon, and I'm standing there then, staring at the street that I would cross to my hotel, to give up, but I'm feeling too fine, and I'm in Rome. I'm in fucking ROME. Not to sound incredulous. I put my phone to my ear to hear the directions, looked down the street. Cornell. Giving me a skeptical but not-so-sure stare, a sideways check. It would appear I was following them, but I wasn't. It didn't bother me. I laughed ahead. Rome is different. He disappeared down the street with his family, and I realized I'd been going the right way the whole time. Turned back, walked and thought about it. I could have had a conversation with him, I could have dropped one name. His parents lived next door to my friend's parents here in West Seattle. He'd skated with Cornell, and once told me he and his parents would watch Cornell mowing his parents' lawn from upstairs, even after Soundgarden took off. We could have had a conversation away from the music, the words, just two dudes from here laughing about the suddenness of meeting in Rome with such far-reaching connections to the past. What stopped me from shaking his hand? I would like to fall back on ego, but it was only ego in the sense that I didn't want to be a fan, a number, even with a rare connection. 

     But the truth is I am a fan. And though I don't believe in regretting something you've already done, I should have shaken his hand. I didn't have to tell him that his lyrics were brilliant, his voice one of the most distinctive in all remembered time, or any of that bullshit people like him, the few of them, hear and have to deflect or appropriate when they're out in the world. I also simply didn't want to interrupt him or his family while they walked in peace as the Moon rose over Rome. 

     I found the Pantheon, young moonlight. Breath stolen. 

     This morning I awoke to a text from my buddy, Dave. Four words and an abbreviation: Dude, Chris Cornell died. WTF?

     Tap google. 52. Suspected suicide. No matter, he's gone. They all go, they don't live long enough to see themselves shine like the rest see them. And they don't care. Sitting here now, blasting Louder Than Love, and sending my best thoughts to his family. 

     Bukowski once said in a letter, "Death isn't a problem for the deceased, it's a problem for the living." Or something like that. Looking back on the dead artists of the last few years, Cornell hits pretty hard. 52 years old.

     Much love to his people. Hands All Over just started. I need more coffee, and to kiss my dogs. 

     Outside it's grey and bright and warm.