This morning I got a “Facebook memory” from my long-ago high school friend. I wanted to reach out to her, but didn’t. Mind you, I graduated from high school almost fifteen years ago. Mind you, she’s dead.

When I imagine this friend now, I imagine her on the doctor’s inspection table, being told her ovarian cancer had a 20% survival rate. I only know that fact now (and isn’t everything we remember influenced by the future?) because my ballet teacher recently got diagnosed with the same stage of ovarian cancer. Her GoFundMe page relayed this brutal fact: by the time we feel any pain, it’s already too late.

By the time people become only Facebook memories, it’s hard to remember them except in their most glaring circumstances, in a doctor’s office where I wasn’t even present.

In her case, she lives on in this short piece of writing, my reflections of her now fact for the reader, when my memory of her is very much flawed, and only centered on my view of myself.

For, what else does a girl do in high school but relate the rest of the world to herself, first and foremost?

In high school, I didn’t know a thing about working memory, or death when we least expect it.

It’s not fair, perhaps, that this is what I think about when I think of her. She posted on Instagram two months before she died, saying: my body has changed so much because of chemo - “I don’t recognize myself in the mirror most days.” I thought of my lame attempts at diminishing my own bodily frame, even during the time in high school when I knew her. It’s like comparing apples and oranges. No: it’s like comparing a death sentence, on one hand, to an insecure white girl with a complex on the other. We were perhaps never going to be the same.

I wonder where she’d be now, had she lived longer. I wonder if I’d still see her social media posts and flip past them, or linger on them. If I’d see the version of herself she’d want me to see.

Or maybe that’s just me relating the rest of the world to myself, first and foremost.

When her sister posted she was dying, and to reach out now with any last words to her, I wrote a short, uninspiring paragraph - that I would miss her and remember her. But then I thought, she doesn’t need to hear from her long-lost “friend” on her deathbed. I was probably as self-centered then as I am now.

That’s perhaps not fair to myself, is it? Harsh, I guess. Looking back, I was probably right that she wouldn’t want to hear from me. But how would I know?

This morning, when I got my “Facebook memory”, I pressed “post”, to share it. Or maybe I didn’t.

What do you think I did?

It’s never too late, I suppose.

She deserves to be remembered, a phoenix out of her own ashes.

No matter how flawed memory is.

Bernard exhaled a sigh of relief as he gazed out his kitchenette window, smelling the Hazelnut coffee from his French Press wafting into the devilishly flared nostrils of new morning. He was so grateful for a day off from his shit factory job at Kwimbee's making various idiotic shapes of dough. The most nefarious of the shapes was an perky elfish creature that had an overtly phallic nose that protruded upward like an obscenely erect penis. Oddly, it was Kwimbee's best seller, so Bernard had to look at the insipid smile on the elfin face day after day. His working conditions were so overheated and cramped with the feel of imminent death, that it felt like a well earned luxury being able to finally stumble around his house in an ancient ratty robe, cock out, and balls soft and sagging; absently watching his cat Yolanda lick her neglected crotch while purring in the sun that was tumbling in through the grimy kitchen windows. The plan was to rest, and exercise his wearily taxed body and really make shits bit of headway toward his ongoing attempts at Astral Projection. Bernard had picked up an intriguing New Age book from a pretentious head shop named Feu Follet that was entitled 'Astral Lovers' just for the occasion. Bernard had unflinchingly devoured the read; obsessed with the idea of meeting a eclectic woman from an alternate reality that was more spirit energy than fatally flawed human flesh. Bernard was slightly suspicious that the 'Astral Lovers' part was just accentuated to sell New Age books, so there was a reluctance to dive head first wholeheartedly. Whether or not the smoke and mirrors spiritual girlfriend entity part was true, Bernard was still very intrigued with the idea of leaving his body and inheriting the idealized gift of absolute freedom as he could dare imagine it. Almost every night he dreamt of flying above the houses of his crime ridden, yet magically impulsive and vibrant neighborhood.

Bernard was just about ready to find a comfortable supine position on his Yoga mat when he remembered he had to go to the bank. In a irritated huff, he pulled on his dirty grey work-out pants with the small tear on the left leg nearest to the knee, where his cock sometimes slipped out; cursing to no one in particular that he had to leave the comfort of his own home. Snuffing a freshly lit incense life out into it's wooden tray in a huff, Bernard was about to grab his coat off the rack when his landlord Mr. Petrov walked in to the living room with Bernard's apartment key dangling in his tightly clutched hand. He looked sweatier and more desperate that usual. His eyes were shifty and he seemed to be breathing heavy as he eyed Bernard up and down with his usual manner of disdain.

"What do you need?, " Asked Bernard, with hardly a veiled display of annoyance and disgust. This had been Mr. Petrov's third time in one month that he had let himself in to Bernard's apartment without allowance or warning, and the trend was getting real stale real quick, especially because it meant that Bernard had to make contact with his slum-lord fuck face of a landlord, when before Mr. Petrov was little more then a name on a sheet of paper that Bernard could easily separate himself from

"I need to get into the space inside your walk-in closet. I'll only be a couple minutes in there; ten minutes tops. No arguments please."

"Ok, but no funny business like last time when I found some creepy crawlies slathered all over my shoes. Do your meat slapping in your own closet like everyone else!"

Mr. Petrov rolled his eyes and shuffled away. The space that Mr. Petrov was referring to was the one and only area in the house that was sealed hermetically with a lock. Bernard always speculated over it's contents, thinking a few times of cutting the lock and perhaps restoring it with a similar looking piece of secure metal, but hadn't quite gotten to that stage Bernard did notice the bulge in Mr. Petrov's leisure suit, as he himself exited through the open window in the living room with access to the fire escape, closed it, and stood out on the damp metallic balcony that overlooked the backlot of the multi-dwelling unit (MDU). After a quick cigarette and a look-see at the beautiful sparkling city in the afternoon that lay sedated in spots under the heavy shadows and buildings; he descended down the fire escape like a careful mouse not wanting to be spied on. There was some construction going on in the downstairs of the building where all the mailboxes were situated. Bernard could more than likely navigate this noisy annoyance, but he just didn't want to communicate with anyone today; least of all his landlord. When Bernard's feet met the pavement he was back to his incognito hermetic persona again, ignoring the gaze of the others, and looking for alleyways that kept him sealed away from the daily throng as he hustled his ass down to the bank.

At the bank lobby of the 1st Westside Metropolitan Bernard was instantly greeted by the cloyingly oppressive Teller and Security Guard that played the role of Ventriloquist and Dummy with their almost menacing twin pair of crocodile smiles. Like wind-up toys they came alive as soon as he stepped in the room. The blonde security guard was seated in a chair not far from the glass enclosed checkout station, and looked as if she might have been ten years younger than the Teller, but all her mannerisms suggested she was sprung from the same womb.

Security Guard: "Hi there! Thanks for coming to see us today! My goodness, it looks like such a peach of a day out there! Hey we had a bet, and we were hoping a nice fella like you could share the deets...is it mild out there or is it a bit windy? I'm going with windy 'cuz I see the trees shaking the leaves a bit out there, so I'm leaning towards the gust."

Teller: "Now Stacy, you are always jumping the gosh-darn-don'tchya know gun! Why can't it be both? Why not mild and windy with a dash of the drearies'? (Motioning toward the guard and winking) She's a real cut-up this one! No, seriously, sir, what's the weather out there like? You can be honest, don't try and spare our feelings."

"It's a bit chilly, " Bernard moved toward the teller, emptied his wallet of his ID and credit card to make all indication that he had no time for idle chit-chat and stared blankly at the Teller.

Teller: "Any plans for this weekend?"

Her eyes were flirtatious but filed down, like a pencil that had spent too long in the cave of the sharpener, plunged in darkness amongst the blades and the gears, and rarely seeing the light of day but for to speculate from an outsiders point of view.

Security Guard: "We're heading down to HollowMan's Grove next to Bush Creek on Stapleton Drive tonight for Girl's Night! They got all night Karaoke starting at 9! Shooters all night, you know that's right! Do you like Karaoke? My go to is always Madonna's 'Like a Virgin', but sometimes I do Patti Smith's 'Because the Night' if I'm feeling lonely. Betch'ya didn't peg me for a Patti Smith fan, but I'm pretty open-minded. I listen to just to about anything except Country, Rap, and Metal."

Bernard didn't turn his head to the security guard but he could feel her smile burning into his neck hairs. The Teller was still quite lovely in her mid fifties aside for some black splotches on her neck that only accented her almost reptilian persona. Her eyes glided over him like a frog slyly sizing up a juicy water beetle.

"Oh that's great...I hope you have a fun night..."

When Bernard finally made it back to the door of his apartment he was exhausted and his cheeks ached from trying to imitate the twin simian smiles of the two glad-handing ladies back at the bank. He felt his eyeballs pried open in an unnatural way that seemed inherited from the dramatic duo. He twisted the doorknob to make sure it was latched but the door came open in his hands. Proceeding with caution, Bernhard now shuffled into the darkened room with caution. From the left and right two men pounced on him at once from opposite sides of the hollow blackness and flung him against the far left wall. One looked like a short, bald meatball with red blotchy unhealthy spots all over his ruined skin. He was raw and muscular and looked like he could do a fair amount of damage. The other was stork like in stature with a drooping rat shaped nose and a baseball hat that said the Miami Marlins. Both looked deadly serious and ready to extract some tainted information quick and painful like with their long fingers reaching out that resembled syringes in the half-light.

"Where's the goddamn money you stupid sonofabitch?"

Rat Man breathed heavy into Bernard's face, and Bernard could discern he just had a salami sandwich with day old spoiled milk and a couple of Whiskey Sours thrown in for good measure.

"I don't know you two!...How did you get in here?...What the Hell is going on?..."

For the first time Bernard noticed the crumpled heap of his landlord in the middle of the apartment living room. There were random red stains that covered the hill of his body. His head looked like it had been done in proper with a couple of calculated rough kicks. The gore on the carpet was fresh, and it had only just begun to stiffen in the more blackened areas of the floor where the blood had seeped in the most.

Meatball jammed his knee deep into Bernard's groin, and Rat Stork chopped him on the back of the head as he pitched forward in surprised pain. The darkness detonated through the tough shell of Bernard's skull like the messy ink from a squid. As Bernard collapsed downwards towards the floor, losing consciousness before his face hit the fast approaching catcher's mitt of the rug

*

Where in the devil was he? The night breeze was there at his neck, and Bernard heard night birds closing in, and bats as he dipped and swayed with the slightest of breezes that carried him so effortlessly. It took him a minute to decipher, but Bernard was flying over the sidewalk of his neighborhood! He was on a mission to find the small church on Locust street, and he was almost right above it. He had passed over two brown tiled roof tops, and then a house that was entirely covered in reflective metallic siding(though he saw no glimpse of his reflection), and then there he was! He could tell it was the church because of it's box shaped roof tops, except for one section that was spired over the front door. Bernard could see a multitude of stray cats milling around the front and the side of the church, snacking on the free cat food that was left out for them in a big ceramic blue bowl by the church's disguised side entrance that was almost entirely camouflaged by trees. Bernard could witness the snoozing birds in the branches of the tree snug in their feathers and huddled close together in their cleverly devised nests of feathers, straw and string as he slipped like a vapor, bypassing the structural limitations of the wood and slate of the church's crown. Passing through the ceiling of the church and finally landing on the floor, Bernard could see a group of people through the big glass windows, possibly of the local A.A. group that had just exited the church only moments ago. The group was individual smoking their treasured cigarettes and giving each other hugs as they slowly vanished one after another into the belly of the unknown night. Bernard wondered why he had instinctually flown over to the Locust street church at midnight. It wasn't until he thoughtlessly fumbled under the bottom of the big table, perching like a gargoyle in the middle of the room, and selected with precision a taped key beneath it which he now cradled in his left hand; that he realized that he had been Astral traveling this whole damn time! What a rush! In a total dumbstruck awe he fumbled around in the dark church and paused to touch paintings and a pencil that was resting on a podium at the far right corner of the large room populated mostly with empty wooden chairs. Now Bernard suddenly was feeling a tug that could only be his physical body calling his restless spirit body back home with an insistent sense of urgency. Bernard knew it was time to go, but wanted to make the moment last as long as humanly possible! My goodness, what a bizarre deck of cards he had been dealt today! With the key still pressed tightly in his firm grip, Bernard dashed back towards his apartment in the MDU like a skipped stone that was dancing across the surface of a fleshy lake of humanity after an expert toss by a clever and carefree child who had slipped out into the mysterious first glimmerings of a twilight's whisper.

The End?

7/1/24

Bunny Villaire

(Edit #8)

cramped in a boat, my grandparents

struggle to find space, for everyone

is trying to get out of the mess that is

1920s China—the king has just been

overthrown; his kingdom smashed into

a thousand pieces like a porcelain bowl

falling from its glory; the two sects of China

have gone into war, shooting cannons

and taking blood from their relatives,

yet there go my grandparents, unscathed

and free from the hurricane, starting

once again in an unfamiliar world,

rising from the challenge like a phoenix

spreading its wings and soaring, shining

its golden feathers for all the world to see

Once more, she captivated the scene. Her lips, a soft rose-red, complemented her blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight.The way he gazed at her was different from any look he ever gave me. Why does she trail me like a shadow, tearing away everything and everyone I've ever cherished? My skin began to burn, ashes began to fall from my hair. She was killing me all over again. This time I cannot fight, I cannot win, I will surrender to her. She has revealed her true essence...she is me.

It was not quite an ouroboros.

Two birds, linked at the tails, pouring into one another, an ebb and a flow, a yin and yang, the holy messengers of the shifting tides of infinitude. They knew, they forgot, they smiled, and wept. But yet, it was all the same. What has been, will be, pacing footprints destined to become fixtures of the sand.

I slip the ring onto my finger--perfect fit-- and drape the chain around my neck. The earrings catch the lamplight, and the bracelet sings quietly against my wrist.

I lose myself in zirconia and colored glass, fellow fixture of the sand. I will be, I have been, I am, forever linked into the shifting tide.

Death knows no obstacle, no boundary as love rises from the ashes like a phoenix, soaring to new horizons.

.........

Edith sat in the garden, the lightest of breezes casually blowing grey strands of hair about her face. Despite the cumbersome wheelchair, she looked much like an ethereal being as beams of sunlight reflected off her white, cotton gown and the gleaming chrome of the chair. Butterflies and birds flitted all around as she became the enchantment found in fairy tales, surrounded by a wistful array of nature.

Nearby, her daughter, Isabelle, pulled weeds sprouting amongst the rose bushes. Ever since the dreaded disease had robbed Edith of so many functions, Isabelle had come at least once a week to work in the garden, thereby allowing Edith a chance to enjoy what she had once treasured whilst also enjoying a change of scenery. The garden had been her pride and joy.

Edith watched as Isabelle wiped a gloved hand against her forehead, smiled, and waved, but Edith was unable to reciprocate the greeting in kind. If she could have wept, she would have done so, so great was her remorse. Instead, she wept in the deepest recesses of her heart. She knew Isabelle no longer wondered what remnants of cognizance lingered in her mother for Edith’s vacant expression never faltered in her debilitated state. Still, with all her being, Edith wished to scream, “I’m still here – buried inside.” She wondered if she was already dead for this life did not seem viable or worthwhile any longer.

Of a sudden, a beautiful butterfly landed atop the soft gown covering her lap, fluttering against the breeze in an attempt at stability. Despite the wind, the butterfly remained firmly situated, as if longing to say, “Hold on, Edith. New life awaits.” It was irony most divine but certainly not sublime. Death would be a welcome visitor now. If only.....

It began with a shadow, much like those created in dew laden mornings when the sun is striving to peek through the skies. It grew and took shape, forming against brightly strewn rays of light. The shadow moved closer, until at last, the image of a young, uniformed man emerged. How could this be? Surely, her meds had made her hallucinate for John, her husband of forty years, stood before her even though he’d been dead for nearly ten years. Oh, but he was just as handsome as he’d been on the day when they’d first met during the war. Edith’s heart nearly leapt from her chest at the sight. How she longed to stand and throw her arms around him in welcome, but her treacherous body couldn’t even suffer a smile.

She watched as John lifted a hand. The butterfly that had been firmly rooted on her lap only moments ago, took flight, to settle upon his outstretched hand. John gave a wink and a smile as he whispered inaudible words to the butterfly. In seeming response, the butterfly flapped its delicate wings, lifted, and took flight. Edith watched as it disappeared among the roses in the garden where her daughter continued working. Watching it, Edith was strangely reminded of a phoenix, soaring in its flight, moving on to new and better horizons.

Turning back to Edith, John stretched out his hand and smiled. It was a beautiful, welcoming smile that reached and filled the core of Edith’s being. “It is time, my sweet. 'Tis not death we greet, but life.” The soft words he spoke resonated, sparking a fire of knowledge from the warmth embodied therein. Inside, Edith felt a sense of intimacy and rejuvenation. Joy encompassed her soul.

………

The butterfly flitted nonstop about the rose bushes where Isabelle was working. It seemed insistent, as though she must stop and take notice. She took a step backwards, not wishing to clash with it for it was much too delicate and beautiful on its mid-morning flight. In fascination, Isabelle watched the butterfly for a moment before she turned and took a step toward her mother, intending to move the wheelchair from the fast-approaching sun's glare. Instead, she was brought to an abrupt stop. Her mother’s once stiff body now gave an appearance of softness and youth, of mobility and flight, despite the grip of the chair that held it. Still, the thing that most gave Isabelle pause was the smile that graced her mother’s face. Edith appeared incandescently youthful in the peace that filled the garden. A newfound enlightenment struck, and Isabelle felt the truth of the moment seep into her bones. Though her mother was gone, with one glorious smile, she had broken free of the chains that once bound her. Edith was free.

..........

**In honor of all who suffer through Huntington's, as well as those who succumbed to their battle.**

...........

"You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life." Kahlil Gibran

They say "it will get better", they say "never give up", and I never did, no matter how badly I wanted to. I kept going and going and going on, rising from the ashes of my desecrated form only to burn and rise again and again and again.

Somebody once said: "Happiness needs to be fought for." But I've had my share of fights and I am tired of these never-ending physical and mental battles. I'm tired of pain and of bruises. I am tired of being strong, of proving myself, of having to justify my right to live, to love and to dream to the people who only see me as their slave.

I am tired of pretending to be perfect so that I don't upset or disturb anyone. I am tired of constant self-restraint it takes to keep up that façade. I want to lie down and cry and to be held tight by my love. I want them to say that everything will be alright and I want to believe them.

Happiness needs to be fought for? I don't want, I can't fight anymore. I don't want to force myself to rise from the depths of hell and oblivion only to be struck back down again. I am seared with scars, Kahlil, but I am not the strongest soul, just the one that managed to survive this far.

First and foremost, I am a person, and that should be enough to deserve freedom and happiness and love and life without having to fight for it every step of the way. But if that's not enough for this world, then maybe this is not the world worth living in.

How brave you must be, to set fire to yourself, unsure if you will rise from the ashes.

How does new life spring from the charred remains of a forest ? How do I become better without killing an old way of thinking ? How could the sun, our planet, and the entire solar system come to be without the death of an ancient star ?

Death is inevitable yet impossible. Ordinary yet extraordinary. We grow only to die, and we die in order to continue growing. Energy can only transform: endings are always beginnings.

Death is not just a paradox, but an illusion. One can die several times in one's life, and in fact, must do so. The phoenix doesn't rise without first burning to ashes. Perhaps some logic and poetry to help explain ?

It's absurd... It's real life... It's devastatingly beautiful, like a supernova. A star has died, but it's not gone. A star once giving light and warmth in its small corner of the universe, had to come to an end. But its material isn't lost, it eventually forms new stars that give warmth and light to new planets. Everything you see in our solar system, from the smallest cells and bacteria to the biggest planets and our sun, are all thanks to (at the least) a single ancient star. Every atom on this earth, including you, was created within an incredibly bright, blazing ball of nuclear fusion. That "dead" star is still burning bright, just in a different way. The 13th century Persian poet Rumi once wrote, "We are stars wrapped in skin, the light you are seeking has always been within."

How do we find the stars? By waiting until night. The sun goes down and leaves the world cold and dark, but this is the only way to reveal the universe. One of the greatest treasures is looking at a completely dark night sky. The amount of diamonds you find is uncountable. Likewise, my light inside can't be found without first finding darkness. Within that darkness, pain, suffering, and isolation lie waiting.

The most defining moment of my life is when I decided to meet a part of myself who needed to die. I found myself writhing on the floor in the darkest part of a moonless night. Time couldn't have crept slower. Skin on fire, muscles unable to relax, a foreign substance seeping from every bone at an agonizing rate. The carpet was soaked from the tears that couldn't stop falling. From terrible choices I had made, I lost connections with friends and family. My partner at the time was fast asleep on the bed, high as hell, and unconcerned with what I was going through. I was truly alone, swallowed whole by despair, only befitting that it was under the cover of darkness. I thought my life was over. I assured myself that this pain would never subside, and I knew no one would be coming to save me. How badly I wanted to give up. How badly I wanted to give in and taste that bitter poison once again, to put an end to this suffering. But I knew that would only prolong it. I never felt more worthless. Hopeless thoughts of death were all I could think about as I was convinced my life would end that night. Turns out I was right, because I did die. The no-good, addicted, thieving, not-good-enough-to-be-a-father, loser lay motionless on the floor, nothing more than a pile of ashes glowing dimly in the pitch dark room.

I refused to give up. I refused to continue the life I was living. I said it out loud, I told myself "NO!" That I would NOT give up. The room got brighter. I said it again, tears streaming down my face once more. I remembered how I came to this abyss willingly to set myself free. This is what I wanted, I knew it would get to the point of great suffering, but it was necessary to kill what was hindering my growth. I reassured myself that it was better than a life of addiction, that I would get my friends and family back, that I would get myself back. I would have my son in my life and he would be proud of me, my grandmother who passed would be proud of me, I WILL BE PROUD OF ME. What was once a dense, pitch black room now seemed as bright as dawn. It was still middle of the night, but I could see the entire room unaided. The air was lighter, I could breathe easily again. I inhaled deeply, and exhaled forcefully towards the pile of ashes, sending them adrift. And from those ashes, a new fire was born.

I felt brand new. I felt like I was glowing, illuminated from a new star being birthed inside. Just like the sun or a phoenix, both rise from the dead, and both burn brightly. Death is only an illusion. I was there, I absolutely died that night, but here I am telling the tale and stronger than ever before. Only through the depths of despair and suffering can the astonishing light of your own being truly surface. Whether you find a star or a phoenix, it will be your source of will power burning so brightly that nothing external could extinguish it.

The word death gets such a bad rap because of the pain attached to it. But as I conquer it in my everyday life, it brings me no fear of my last day on this planet. As my phoenix rose from the ending of who I once was, so will it rise from the ending of my life here. As a new star ignites from the remains of an exploded star, why would my death be any different ? As above, so below. Energy can only transform.

So you see, death is nothing but transformation. A simple illusion made fearful by the unknown. There is no such thing as nothingness.

if it were not for my scars

I'd have no profile at all

no depth of character

no stories to retell

it's the wounds that built

my hide rough and rumbled

thick protective impenetrable

so I thank those who wounded me

deep lasting profound bottomless gashes

now made large by constant tearing off

of scabs not fully formed preventing

healing leaving marks like Cain

for all to see and know beware

stay away handcrafted leper