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. 

We keep overlooking the tell-tale signs for long, side-stepping the sign board by the mile-marker that says, ‘The Road’s Under Repair.’ It gives us a fierce sense of salvation to walk down the impossible path. A warrior’s cloak and mantle is forever propped up with fugacious braces and straps that we keep fitting ourselves into, in life’s trial room. All in a suppressed mental frame! For armour there is a ‘trained’ mind sharp as a steel trap. Endurance lessons know no speed-breakers to those who have known a less than kind destiny.

’We become self-conscripted warriors in battles of emotions that bleed.

Hearts roll over stones. Minds avoid marshy peat bogs. Bodies travel the length of packed turf, knowing no rest.’

Why do we need validation from ‘exes’, friends, middle aged tropes, pointy hair bosses managing by slogan, confederates, syndicates at the office and more?

The list of ‘shockers and displacements’ that qualify us towards ‘sob fest’ kings or queens are endless. Divorced mothers after decades of ‘happy show,’ single nurturers trying to blow the competition out of the water, believing their mother’s milk had to be regenerative to the superlatives. Men trying to corral their energy as hunters, ribald leaders of a pack! See humans running rat marathons to prove their fidelity, virility or fertility. You find people pounding away at the gavel to buy your happiness. Gone is your primal bliss, like an extinct species.

If you’re lucky you manage the secret stipulation in the will. It hits almost mid life to realize ‘You’ve been the statue; pigeons have pooped upon at their convenience.’ Biggest lesson! Be the free pigeon instead. For God’s sake don’t be the dumb statue standing impenetrable, unfeeling and unmoved; rooted to a random observer’s shame, being forever splattered with bird shit.

’Let me be around me for heart of hearts I am my own baby. This baby lives the singing meadows, bursting streams, wailing rains, howling winds of the seven stages in the womb of nature’s timeline. Certainly outdoes the nine months of a secure female womb. Lying stripped, unsheltered, unveiled to the elements of the world. Marching on to a blessed disruption and unrest!

Statues take shit because statues don’t validate. Validate you must, your existence to yourself! Flail a sword; protect the unimpeachable child that seeks refuge in the world of wide hope inside. Your job is to build a strong ramp, a great stair rail that offers solid asphalt to that child to take on wheels in the tracks for life. The race begins with you, ends in you. You are the effort, endeavour and the prize. Masonry doesn’t need a genetic lottery! Go man! Pick up the tools clothed in your father’s flesh! Take a dip in the spring of your mother’s love. They gave you the ticket to a winning lottery. There are no battlegrounds. You are no statue. ‘Love Yourself, Manage Yourself’ and be free. May all illusions rest!

Reality strays far from our fictitious fantasies.

Clearcut happy endings are just true travesties.

Life simply doesn't pan out like some extravagant fable

and this realization often makes us unstable.

The dreams we held as children and grew up with

are left alone as our foolish wishes.

The man meant to be the great hero

lives with a monotonous office job: a total zero.

The damsel in distress waiting for her prince

lays with hopes forgotten long since.

The underdogs that aim to make change

becomes the newest additions to the firing range.

We live in a world where villainy is the norm.

Life is a never ending thunderstorm.

We get lost in the stories we hold dear

while we find ourselves riddled with fear.

Quickly, quicker we run from reality

and turn to escapism, you see?

Not that its wrong to try and achieve

or that you should not believe

just know that real life is not some tall tale

or else you will ultimately fail.

Know that this cruel and gritty world is our life

and it is full of an abundance of strife.

Real life is hard.

We often find ourselves left scarred.

This is not some magical fairy tale where everything falls into place.

We have to fight hard and not lose face.

We must keep these separate

and be dead set

on overcoming what life has beset.

With this, our own lives can surpass those of the grandest stories.