bring the noyz

The world weighs on my shoulders
But what am I to do?
You sometimes drive me crazy
But I worry about you

-- Neil Peart

Well. . .

. . . not anymore.

No, not ever really. There was never really the need. But I suspect that the roles were frequently reversed. Unbeknownst to you or not, you were typically regarded as the more stable of our pair.

Well. . .

. . . not anymore.

We went together to see The Police on the Synchronicity tour. It was either in the fall of 1983 or spring of 1984. It was that month's show not to be missed. It seemed like everyone was there. And we had floor seats!

Due to "youthful indiscretion" I really don't remember the show. Before it began a friend of ours seated a couple rows back offered a small handful of multi-colored pills which I eagerly gobbled. As I recall, you displayed more sense, and were happy with the large beers we aquired by asking some "cool looking" old enough guy in the beer line to buy us a couple while slipping him enough cash to also get himself one. I was always amazed at how well that worked. I don't remember anyone ever saying "no".

The show ended and somehow I was driving us home. I should not have been. We were on the expressway heading back towards the Sprawl, one very and one slightly hopped-up high school kid out too late on a school night.

That's when I saw it, a hallucination that if I close my eyes I can still see as clearly as that night: The Wall.

Yes, The Wall, just like in the movie. It was several stories high and completely blocked the entire road, extending as far as my peripheral vision could see in both directions. I knew it wasn't real, but hey man, in retrospect I was pretty freakin' high so that whole line between reality and imagination was a little fuzzy.

The panic began to take hold. I screamed. I was considering radical action, like slamming on the breaks and turning hard, which would have doubtless sent us hurdling into a lethal out of control skid.

You reached out and calmly placed your hand on my arm. At the moment of impact you said, "It's okay, it's not real."

POOF! The Wall dissipated like a cloud as we drove through it.


I am reminded of that story because it is an appropriate metaphor for our relationship.

You always had a way of seeing past and shattering my illusions, of grounding me in reality with a positive spin. Basically man, you were always there for me.

And I for you.

I know we didn't talk as frequently in recent years. And that's okay, although it is now something I will no doubt regret for years to come. Since college our relationship was like that. We'd go months, or even years without so much as a word between us. That was fine. Invariably we'd connect again and it be like we hung out yesterday. Although not bound by blood, we were brothers none the less. Neither time nor distance ever impacted the strength of our friendship.

Just knowing you were there, no farther away than an e-mail or a call, was comforting.

Well. . .

. . . not anymore.

Last weekend, on the day after your memorial party, I found myself alone with you in the house. I sat and I looked at the photographs of us: younger, thinner, goofier. Your beloved bass guitar hung on the wall. I vaguely remember when you got it. I held the urn that contains your ashes. I still wish I had been able to find a post-it or a notecard with a piece of tape to label it:

"Can-O'-Chris"

You would think that was really funny.

I held the urn. It was, as your father said, "kinda like holding a baby." I think that is strangely the most affectionate thing I ever heard Pop say. I shook it. Is that really you in there? Yes. No going back.

Damn you. I'm the foolish impulsive one. Not you.

Three weeks ago today you made your selfish decision.

Am I angry? Yes. Angry with you, with me, with the whole freakin' mess of a world.

And sad. Mostly just very sad.

And very tired.

I'm tired of not having my first waking thought everyday be regular things like "Oooh Wednesday, today I've gotta. . . " or "Hurray it's Saturday!" and instead being something like "Tuesday. Chris is dead. And so is Curtis."

I'm tired of the empty feeling that comes and goes at seemingly random times throughout the day.

I'm tired of the sadness that covers me like my blanket when I go to sleep each night.

So I'm just not going to do it anymore. I hope.

This evening I had a revelation.

I realized you are with me as you have always been with me. As is Curtis. Along everybody else both living and dead that I love and have loved. Our lives, are characters, the very fabric of our beings are inexorably intertwined by our shared dreams and common experiences. We are parts of each other.

That is a gift that even Death is powerless to steal.

For me, and for us my dear reader, life goes on.

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you that makes it hard to let go
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

-- Bono

Well. . .
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