My friend from far away
Thoughts of things I once enjoyed comfort me.
In Zen, memory has been called the friend from far away.
I can taste foods I loved letting that old friend from far away come visit with me. I can feel the excitement of things I once accomplished. For all it’s glory memory is but a friend not a lover. A faithful friend, but there is a spark to direct experience differentiating it from memory, the same way dreams differ from waking.
Each day I hear things. Snoring, traffic, the run-on sentences that never end out of the loud mouths of sleep deprived speed freaks, trains, farting, foreign languages spoken at a rapid clip, children screaming, sirens, cursing… city noises… the noises of pain… the noises of suffering. The cacophony of agony is ceaseless, it is endless, and it surrounds me.
What I miss is music.
I have linked the music I love on my website. That link has been there for forever. Really.
What is it like?
It is the question most have wanted to ask me. Most wanted, but never, ever asked.
May I help you in any way?
That is the question I am asked most. And I politely say No. Thank you, but no. How may anyone provide privacy? I shower and clean myself in public with strangers. How can anyone provide me, or the others, with simple dignity?
I have washed the only shirt I own in the shower with me. It is draped over the galvanized metal wire basket on the front of my bicycle. It’s drying.
I’m standing here, shirtless. The sun is over my left shoulder. I see my shadow ahead to my right. I look up from the shadow. People are looking at me. There is concern on their faces. I look at them realizing I am crying. Big tears are dripping from my eyes. I wipe at them. The tears will not stop, and I sob out loud.
On my website I’ve linked to the music I’ve loved listening to. It’s been there for forever, really.
And I don’t care now that others see me crying and I laugh. Oh Kimberly. There are things I miss being homeless. Music is one of those things.
Kim has collected three cd’s worth of my favorite music, burned them to cd’s, and mailed them along to me with a walkman cd player, batteries and headphones. I am listening to music I haven’t heard for forever, it must be. I’m standing among us, naked to the waist and alone, and I cannot stop the tears I am crying.
There are things no one can give to an other.
There are also things one can give to another. Things which may move them to tears.
The memory of the music I love is a friend from far away. That friend is an honorable friend. But cd’s, batteries, a walkman and headphones? Ah. Ha, haw… There is a lover, violent with passion and lust in their abandon to fulfill me.
Fuck you for making me cry, Kimberly.
I love you.
I love you really, really, really fucking hard.
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Okay,
Father Luke
