I wrote about my friend once before, so it feels kind of squishy to do it again, and we weren’t the squishy kind of friends, if you know what I mean. He would likely kick my ass if he knew I was doing it, but for the sake of keepin’ him alive just a little bit longer…

Dave‘s been gone so long now that I hardly know he ever lived. He is only memories now, and some old photos that have been put away somewhere that I don’t remember where. That‘s about it. No cards or letters, as that would have been squishy, and as stated before we were not that. It is likely Dave couldn’t read or write, anyway. I never saw any evidence of it, nor much evidence of a brain whatsoever.

An example: Dave and I were young, poor, and had a place a couple of blocks from the beach. Poor is probably the wrong word. We both made decent money, we just did not spend it very responsibly. I remember one lovely Spring, Saturday morning when we were drinking beers for breakfast, because we had no food. The phone rings (this is back before cell phones, 1986 maybe). Being the fool that he is, Dave picks it up (hoping, I am sure, that it is a girl, which for him was highly likely. Maybe even a girl who might invite him to breakfast. With my luck, had I answered it would have been the landlord, or the water company on the other end of the line). “Hey Man!“ Dave couldn’t hide his excitement as he turned down the Van Halen blasting through the stereo. “This guy says he’ll give me a thousand bucks just for answering a few questions.”

”Hang up,” I replied.

An hour later, and with no thousand bucks for his time, Dave looks out the window and yells, “Hey! Where’s my fuckin’ truck!”

While they had his attention on the phone they had repossessed his truck. “Told you, man,” I countered. But at least now I had an explanation as to how he was affording karate lessons. For Dave the repo meant he couldn’t work, as all of his tools had been in his truck. For me it meant he wouldn’t be paying his share of the bills anytime soon… not that he had been paying them anyways.

Still, for all that, we remained friends for a long time. As far as friends go, Dave was a somewhat decent one. I am not a very trusting person. Dave would have my back in a fight. I never doubted that, but he would also leave me rideless at a party somewhere if he hooked up with some rowdy young lady. Hey, friendships aren’t perfect. I get that. For me, they were also rare. Other than a rather steady procession of girls there had been very few other friends for me, and no close ones, so for me Dave was an anomaly whom I never allowed myself to place too much trust in. That was a good thing for me. I valued independence.

Dave couldn’t sing a lick, or play an instrument, but he should have been a rock star. He had the long, naturally highlighted curls that women love. He had striking, crystalline-gray, wolf-like eyes that he had learned to use like a magic wand over his short, twenty-one years, casting spells on women with them, every woman from teachers, to mothers, to hot neighborhood girls. The eyes came along with a chiseled face, and a dark, chestnut tan from too much time at the beach, and from working in the sun. I have seen grown-ass women absolutely wiggle when Dave so much as smiled at them. But as you have undoubtedly learned for yourself, looks aren’t everything, and they only carried Dave to an early grave, just like all those other rock stars.

Because of his looks Dave owned the beach. All of it. He could stop his cruiser anywhere along the boardwalk, sit there for five minutes, and meet a pretty girl. Without fail. Every time. He needn’t even speak. It was amazing. Not being gifted with his powers I didn’t love the beach as he did, so one Sunday not long after the truck repo story I hopped on my bike around noon and started home. “Hey, what’s with you? Every Sunday you take off!”

”I’m going to watch the race.” It was Spring. NASCAR was ramping up. I was a fan. Unbeknownst to Dave, I made some phone calls when I got home that day and I scored us two tickets to the Coca-Cola 600 at Charlotte Motor Speedway on Memorial Day weekend. Rock Star Dave was about to get introduced to my hillbilly sport.

I inherited my love of fast cars from my Old Man. During my infancy my father had taken me to Saturday night short tracks, or on weekend road-trips to some speedway or another; Martinsville, Richmond, Charlotte, North Wilkesboro, etc. I guess he took me because he felt guilty about having moved out and not being around, but no matter the reason I can remember standing in my seat the whole race because I was too small to see anything otherwise. I would have to look between shoulders when anything exciting was happening, but I learned to tell what car was passing which by just their flash of paint colors, while Pop shoved cigarette butts in my ears to block the noise of the engines. Charlotte is one of the best speedways, being both fast and spectator friendly, so it would be the perfect place to introduce a racing newbie like Dave.

As the weekend neared, Dave’s excitement for a road trip (and maybe for a new event) became evident. He started asking questions about racing, and the different tracks. He avidly listened as I told old racing stories. Dale Earnhardt’s name was familiar to everyone in those days, so Dave decided to join Dale’s legion of fans, which did not surprise me, as I am about the only person in the world who doesn’t love a proven winner. When we rolled into Charlotte Dave had never even watched a race on TV. He had no idea what to expect. As we approached the track he came to the realization that this new-found fun was going to be part rock concert, part Super Bowl, part beach party, and part strip club… with the ever-present possibility of death and destruction. Dave tuned right in! This was right up his alley!

Highway 29 was backed up for miles on Saturday, even though the race was on Sunday. Race fans being race fans, they made the most of the situation. Beers were passing car to car, and flasks, and joints, and jokes; it was the party before the party. Men along the highway’s edge held up signs asking the passing “beauties“ to, “show us your tits,” and were for the most part indulged. Even if the race sucked it was already worth the five hour drive, and we were not even parked yet.

There is much of that race that I can’t remember, but two parts stand out. Dave had bought himself an “Ironhead“ ball cap. Our seats were about twelve rows up at the tail end of the front stretch dog-leg. I explained to Dave before it got too loud that when the cars came by on the 2nd and 3rd laps, when they were up to speed but still bunched together, he would have to hold on to his cap, as the wind from the cars would blow it right off his head. Dave got so excited that he forgot, and when that double line of cars screamed past us at 200 miles per hour his new $25 cap went back about twenty-five rows. Those wolf-gray eyes of his were bigger than silver dollars. I had done good. Big city, Rock Star Dave was instantly and forever hooked on NASCAR!

The other part that stays in my mind was when Eddie Bierschwale crashed. Eddie Bierschwale always crashed. Every weekend. It was guaranteed, so for an experienced fan like me it was not unexpected, but it was not so much who crashed in this particular instance as it was where the crashed occurred. Bierschwale started his slide midway through the dog-leg. He was sideways skating through the grass directly toward our seats when the car lifted up from the ground as if by magic. I can remember clearly seeing the chassis, and the chrome exhaust system on the underside of the car as it hurtled toward us twenty feet off the ground. The underside of a race car, incidentally, is not something a race fan is supposed to see during a race. Bierschwale was literally flying right toward us. I was standing hat in hand, my arm fully extended, shouting my approval for the excitement of it above the engine noise, squealing tires, the frenzied crowd, and the danger. When I looked to see if Dave was enjoying it I found him smooshed down between the concrete seats, afraid the car was going to rip through the catch fence and kill us all. Oh, what fun I had with that!

Needless to say, there were other races after that one, and many Sundays when Dave would get on his cruiser and follow me back to our apartment on race day, leaving the poor girls to suffer through their summer vacations the lonelier without his company.

But it was one more thing that cemented our friendship, one more shared bond.

He is gone now. As I stated in my earlier post (More a Brother), I don’t know what took him. I have not found the courage to investigate it. It doesn’t really matter. I hope his groin rotted from making love to some glorious stripper, but I doubt Dave was that lucky. He never had been before, so it was more likely a sad ending. Most are. The only times I really think about him anymore are when I see one of these friendship prompts on Prose, or sometimes when I am flipping through the channels and come across a NASCAR race. It is almost hard for me to fathom that the races still happen, I haven’t watched one in so long. But it is impossible to miss the half-empty stands, or the unfamiliar drivers in their unidentifiable cars speeding around tracks that all look the same. NASCAR is as dead as Dave is. I find it all sad. I am saddened for the sport, and for the times, and for the friend before flipping the channels on to some other bullshit that doesn’t matter either. And so goes a life.

Godspeed, Dave.

(Jesus, he’d really kick my ass if he saw me crying like a fool here at the end.)

Science, with it's merciless and unerring eye, has proved conclusively what the Devious Manipulators of History; salesmen and politicians, cult leaders and your mom, have always know; that our feelings (with a small "f") are Fleeting and Chemically Induced. Indulging in these feelings, lika a child, is routinely portrayed as "romantic".

Oxytocin, the "bonding hormone" (which breast milk is full of) has led to uncountable crimes against humanity; all under the Same Heading "Them or Us".

"Us" being your mommy, and by extension, mommy's religious delusions, atavistic fears, learned prejudices, and selfish motivations.

Self Reliance, the birthright of every animal, is too often undermined, if not crippled entirely, by Chemical Dependence; in the form of addictive need for some Other's approval; blind loyalty.

Some people replace mommy with a wife, who was raised by, and Trained to Be by, an emotional terrorist; upon who's supposed (conditional) "love" they depend for their fraudulent sense of self worth and delusions of adequacy.

Others subcede themselves to Religious "beliefs" promising unwon success, and undeserved, automatic, Assumed Acceptance. Belonging

The Need to Be Loved, not To Love, is a Hole in your Soul- where your Heart Should Be; as romanticized in Extreme's second biggest hit; the 80's power ballad "Hole Hearted".

It is as Bryan Ferry subsequently sang, in Roxy Music's biggest hit: "Love is the Drug (for Me)".

Happiness, laughter, late-night smiles, that's the beauty of love. That's what the media believes real love looks like.

In reality, real, true love, is not that accommodating. It is painful. From the very beginning, there is already heartbreak.

You see your best friend, someone you hold dearly, being hurt by others from "love", but they get up and try again, just to get destroyed again. All for the sake of love, and you begin to wonder, why do so many people put themselves through it? This is only one part of the spectrum.

On the other side, you like someone, and watch as they date other people, over and over, and all you can do is support them from the sidelines. You're either too afraid to tell them because of rejection or fear of ruining your relationship. It's too late, you're already being hurt, because you've already fallen in love.

You're already in a relationship. You fight more than you can keep track of at this point, but you stay in this ruined relationship because you think you're in love. Maybe the relationship is abusive, and hurtful for you both, but neither of you wants to give up through the belief it's meant to be and in the end, everything will work out.

The idea of love is equally as beautiful as it is ugly. It can be the epitome of happiness, or it can be the cause of self-destruction. Love is romanticized, the good and ugly parts, and so we crave it more. But love can not be simply defined; it has no set meaning or value, and changes from person to person, relationship to relationship.

You know you love someone when you choose them every day.

You wake up in the morning, throw the covers off your body, and sit at the edge of your bed for a moment. Thinking about all of the things you don't want to do today. Maybe you don't want to get out of bed, go to work, run errands, or even deal with people in general.

Before you get the chance to lie back down, something gently touches your back.

You turn around and see someone lying next to you smiling-- hopefully, it's your favorite person. Suddenly you find the strength to get up and do everything you hate for someone special to you. You may even go the extra mile and do something special for that person. Just to see the smile on their face.

Your door burst open and a few smaller people burst in excited to see you. And you're reminded even more of why you do all those things you hate for everyone that matters.

The day has come to an end.

And you're standing staring in the mirror mentally recapping your day.

Maybe you came to realize that your favorite person didn't appreciate you going the extra mile today, maybe your small people weren't excited to see you this morning. Maybe that part was a dream you forgot moments after you woke up and you live without the gratitude of others

At that moment, as you stare in the mirror, I hope you chose that person today. I hope you made them feel special. Even if it meant hopping back in bed and canceling your plans. I hope the person staring back at you knows they matter to you.

When I saw this challenge, I just had to write something. Even though I was taking a break from The Prose for the summer. So I did and here it is:

We tend to think of LOVE as being a nice feeling we have. But what is real LOVE like? It's not a just a fuzzy, warm feeling!!!

The LOVE I know and have experienced is awe-inspiring. A LOVE that OVERCOMES, OVERWHELMS, FORGIVES and UNDERSTANDS.

I'm talking about the LOVE of GOD.

"For God so LOVED the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever BELIEVETH in Him should NOT PERISH, but have EVERLASTING LIFE."

John 3:16 KJV

Looking into their ordinary brown eyes as if they are the most beautiful things that you have ever seen. Staring longingly at their peaceful, sleeping face. Feeling immediately better by their touch or presence. Laughing together at the stupidest and smallest of things. Finding time to spend together, even if it's only for a few minutes. Sitting in silence but enjoying each other's company. Doing something that they love, even though you hate it, because you know it'll mean the world to them. Working on flaws that you never cared to pay attention to in order to improve the relationship. Accepting their differences and imperfections.

Having small arguments, fights, and disagreements but never being disrespectful or belittling the others perspective. Being angry or sad with them for a short period of time. Going hours without talking to each other but still making sure that they're ok. Spending some time apart without needing to be together all of the time. Little physical contact. Working long hours in order to have time together in the future. Not getting married but being together. Finding a way to work with the possible differences in love language.

There's so much more that I'm sure I'm missing something.

As her parents called less and her best friend stopped picking up the phone, it was nice to have that person who would be there no matter what, even if it was just for a short moment in the entirety of her life. Because being alone was just too much.

She used his love for her as an excuse for trust, not because love was actually what she wanted or felt. She knew love was the feeling that she didn’t want to die tomorrow because it meant leaving that person behind. She didn’t feel that for him. But he was the person who could save her from the nights she spent crying alone. Someone she could pour her soul to and who was obligated to listen if not understand.

People walked in and out of her life like a series of revolving doors, but he was the only one who had to say goodbye when he left.

Love is lovely, and I mean that in every sense of the term. It is beautiful and charming, while also being sarcastic and trying. There is no such thing as a perfect romance or a perfect way to experience love, but it is one of the most sought-after feelings ever. Love is the feeling of walking through the door after a horrible day and seeing the dishes you had been putting off are done and put away. Love is not sleeping a wink at night because your partner is flailing and echoing snores, but you just can't seem to get yourself to move because you love the reminder that they are there in the present with you. The media portrays love in a mostly positive light, and for the most part, it should be positive, but it's not always sunset walks on the beach and bouquets of roses. Honestly, I don't believe love should be, because there is no growth in that. The yelling and screaming matches over trivial matters help to shape you and your relationship. I have grown and developed as a person and in my relationship through our trials. My experience with love has not been perfect, but I would not trade it for anything because, at the end of the day, my partner has stood by my side, unwavering, for almost a decade. My partner has supported me in my worst times and held me up to make me a better person. Love is knowing that that person will be by my side, holding my hand no matter what. Love in my house is tidying up extra so the other person is less stressed coming home, and cooking a meal for them, and it goes both ways. We look after each other, trust each other, and try to give space when needed. We laugh, cry, struggle, succeed and love together. I mean it truly when I say love is lovely, as it has so many meanings and ways to be expressed and experienced.

Love is not fire that can be sparked to life but snuffed out in the wind and doused in water. Fire is merely passion.

But love is a mountain.

A mountain that starts out with a rock and sometimes even a pebble that we choose to place down.

It is a mountain made up of rock after rock deliberately placed. Placed in a true smile, a chance given, an encompassing hug, a chore done with joy, a massage on a hard night, a shoulder to cry on, a late night talk, a secret revealed, a gift given or received, a treasure sacrificed, a selfless act, a call on the phone, a sin forgiven, a home shared, a meal eaten together and every small choice made for the one we love in between.

We pile them high hoping they last.

And sometimes, we only have time to place a few before the pile comes crashing down.

But sometimes, we build and build and build until we look down and notice that we cannot see each rock clearly. The rocks have broken down and filled the cracks until where there stood a pile, there is a mountain.

Wind and rain may come. They will beat down and erode the surface, but the mountain will stand strong.

Yet sometimes, we can create volcanoes. We can store up all our passions, our rage under the surface pushing them deeper and deeper until the pressure explodes and surges to the surface leaving everything nearby a wasteland. Burnt to ashes.

So do not listen when they tell you love is fire,

Because love is a mountain.

So watch out for the flames and keep laying your rocks.

What is love?

It’s

butterflies in the tummy

heart pounding, hands trembling

I want to spend my life

looking into your eyes;

It’s

holding hands without

chaining a soul –

glorying in being together

being one

while respecting that we are two;

It’s

wanting someone else’s happiness

as much as – or more – than your own;

It’s

a difficult balance

of compromise

understanding

agreeing and

agreeing to disagree;

It’s

giving up the last piece of your favorite pie

because it is also your loved one’s favorite;

It’s

showing up

even when you would rather stay in bed;

It’s

cooking dinner, doing laundry, mowing the grass

taking out the garbage, cleaning the toilet

washing dishes, food shopping;

It’s

working hard

working through

working together

because

your love

is worth

the effort;

As time passes

the years fly by

the life you share

is a living testament

to the fleeting

goosebumps

and sweaty hands

that fade with time -

buried

under the daily grind

the stresses imposed

by existence -

but which find a way to surface

now and again

if only you look

and remember

what is love.