The graveyard chronicles part 2.B

Elmer Armstrong. He doesn't have a tombstone yet, just a small plastic black sign. Elmer Armstrong.

The graveyard chronicles part 2

I'm in the graveyard again. There is a ladybug exploring the bench next to me. Oh now she's just resting. I wish I could do justice to all the thoughts that go through me while I am here but sometimes a moment can not go beyond itself. That is what it is like for me here. Those are moments that make life something worthwhile, the ones you can never share. These moments, these are for me alone; I try to share them in here but once the journal comes out the moment dies and a new one is born. My thoughts leave where they were and start to focus on the movement of my hand and the letters on the page. I envy this lady bug. My thoughts here do not come as a steady narrative stream, rather they come as flashes, glimmers of a hidden depth I may finally be able to find. There are two other people here today visiting loved ones. A woman has been here for half an hour with water and a spade tidying up a plot. The man stayed for the amount of time it took me to write this entry. Both share a common hurt but neither will share a single word. Neither acknowledges the other. Both left as I wrote that line. They lady bug is still here. The wind is calm and cool. I slowly walk between the rows, reading all the names and sentimental thoughts, smoking my cigarette. This is my place, these are my friends. We have never met but we are connected through a sort of an understanding. They know what death really is and I understand there is more to it than the sadness people impose on it, we share a secret joke. There is a newly dug grave here today. I don't know who's it is, there is no name yet. Faux grass lines the opening, is this because people need to have the illusion of life even then when the body is lowered? The barren dirt is too depressing I guess. I look down this grave for a long time wondering what I would do if I dropped my cell phone, wondering what it would be like to be in there. I would never go retrieve it myself, this is someone Else's place of rest, I would not dream of contaminating it with my worries or stresses or anything else that life has me soaked in. I realize this talk of death depresses most people and that makes me sad. Right now, staring into this fresh dug space, I am so peaceful. I think momentarily of the family and my peace vanishes. What are they doing right now? Are they mourning his death or celebrating his life? I hope people don't mourn my death. I try to tell people, I'm ok with death... not that I'm going to rush into it or anything I have things to do first, but when it is my time, I want to go. Please remember that my friends, and remind my daughter. Death is another adventure, and if it is not than it is a rest. Either one of those I welcome. I have to go back to work.

The graveyard chronicles part 1

Yesterday I spent my lunch with Joseph Charles, A. Turcotte D145444GNR RCA 1936-2000 and Colin Comeault Royal 22E RTegt-sgt 1937-2000. Courageous and loyal soldier, Devoted father and loving husband, who is still waiting for June M Coones 1938-.

I walked through the rows of stones peppered grey. Each one proclaiming that someone important lay underneath. Someone who fought in a war they may have believed in or they may not have; it did not matter then and it does not matter now. Regardless of what they believed they each sacrificed a part of themselves, and not a small part, not a part that can be replaced – they gave their innocence. Take a moment to think about that, I'll wait.... I realize how cliché and silly that sounds.. What the hell is innocence anyway? Think about it. Once a person sees death-I’m not talking last breath, final words, in a bed surrounded by loved ones death; I’m talking knee high mud, wrong step, body parts flying, entrails hanging, could have been me if I was half an inch to the right death-once a person sees that, there is no hope left, there is no room for wide-eyed enthusiasm or the cup half full – How can there be? How can you believe in the good of humanity when you see first hands the depth they will sink to? Men ripped apart, Men ripping others apart, the sorrow, the grime, the innocence in the eyes of the child moments before the grenade goes off, the baby crying with his mother in pieces a foot away, an old man cradling the still shell of his fallen wife. This is the depths we sink. I can’t even fathom the effect of the words I am typing, and I am only using naked words, I can't express the pain, the noises, the smells, the filthy shit covered people slithering on the ground. Men who used to be lawyers and students with promising futures turned into targets and the walking dead overnight, scared and alone clinging to a token of a forgotten world, a picture, a letter. No, my words are nothing, their meaning is hollow and Hollywood. I am still an innocent. When I think of war I think of Platoon or Red Dawn, images on a screen, chocolate milk syrup mixed with corn syrup and red food coloring. That’s what I think of. Actors who stop crying when the director yells cut. These men, for them there was no one to yell cut, the crying continued and I believe it would have continued until the day they died. That is what I mean by they gave their innocence. They gave theirs and we keep ours and say “good work boys!” They come home, some of them come home and we give them a parade and a day to mark off the calender and we think it's all good. None of us can ever truly grasp… but I digress.

As I walked and looked at all of their names, dates and ranks; looking at the many flowers, some old and dead themselves, some young and fresh; sunflowers, roses, poppies,.. as I felt the unsympathetic cold of the stone on my hand and the soft loose dirt or regrown grass under my feet; as I felt the warm of the sun clash with the cool of the breeze, I thought of those men and women, what they gave up and where they are now...

A box of wood, a mound of dirt and a pile of de-fleshed bones.

The bees search for nectar above them; birds find an afternoon snack in worms who may have explored their decaying bodies. There is no pomp, no circumstance, just a few words etched in stone, filled in by dust carried by passing winds or simply faded with time. Chipped statues of angels sit at the base, words chosen from a book sit unread save by some vague passerby, the meaning lost and gone. No one salutes them, there is no more “Good work boys!, there is no more them

They are no longer there.

I am not saying they are in Heaven or Hell, I’m not saying they are not. I don’t have the first clue about any of that stuff, nor will I pretend to, but I do know they are gone. They do not notice the chill of the ground, they can not envy as I brush away a wisp hair blowing in my face. The storms blowing or the sun shining, it makes no difference to them.

They exist in name and memory only. Soon the stories they star in, the moments retold at family get together, Christmas, thanksgiving, the laughter surrounding the mention of an old quirk they had or joke they told, they will all cease.

The laughter
replaced by a casual mention
replaced by a vague recollection
replaced by silence.

The memory will be gone.


These people become nothing more than another name carved into a rock amidst a sea of others. Gentle sentiments, well intentioned promises "Lest we forget, forever missed". There is no choice but to forget, time takes care of that…. and forever? It is a simple illusion. It doesn't exist. Time is simply a complex puzzle consisting of collective realities, always stopping and starting but there is never one constant forever, no flow. Forever is simply a word to give romanticism to the lines of the poet. It is an illusion we keep alive to help soften the blow that one day we will join McElroy, John Joseph 1934-2001 in his existentially challenged tomb and we will simply be gone, Remembered for a time and then gone...

So goodbye Matthews, William E (Bill) July 20 1916-April 22 2008. I give your name this moment and I give your memory this passing thought. As for you, I give you the promise that I shall enjoy the breeze, love much, cry when hurt , and join you soon. Your forgotten soul will not be alone.

That is all I can give.

Unforgettable, that's what you are...

I went to a wedding this weekend in town where there were many people that I knew.. and by many I mean two... when I lived in GP. One of them I hadn't seen for 7 years. As everyone who knows me for even a second's time knows I am having issues with feeling overall insignificant lately so you will understand when I say it didn't help matters when both of them had no idea who I was. Now granted the guy that I know better did figure out it was me when I hit him and got on his case for walking past me, he knew my voice. The other guy I had a complete conversation with and finally told him who I am. At this point he hugged me an apologized but the damage was done.

Don't get me wrong, I am not mad at either of them. Actually after that I had a fantastic night (for the most part) but I just... I don't know. Have I really changed that much? unrecognizable?? (the grooms dad didn't know who I was either but we hadn't worked on many plays together.. still, three people..) Everyone wants people to care, everyone wants to believe they made a difference in peoples lives. The cold reality that when I leave the picture people's lives go on as if I wasn't there is a harsh one to grapple with.. (is grapple a word? if it is I like it). This is not a pity party; it is a fact of life that I am contemplating. Both of the guys said they didn't recognize me because I look younger, I think it is because I have gained so much weight but they didn't want to be rude (alright fine, that was a pity party), whatever it was the bottom line is I am forgettable. We are forgettable. Interchangeable pieces of lego, you lose one in the couch cushions it doesn't matter, there are 20 billion more. Sometimes I will see them when I am cleaning and vacuum it up anyway because I don't feel like wasting the energy it would take to bend down and save it. A single lego piece is expendable. We all are, and I suppose that's ok, but then why do we all spend life trying not to be. And why do we spend so much time caring about what other people think? Christ, I can't do anything with out being concerned, to the point of paranoia. I'm now scared shitless to leave my house, which I suppose is not such a bad thing if I am as forgettable as I think I am:) Honestly, I can't hold conversations, I have recently realized that I don't even laugh for real.. I think things are funny and I make laughing motions but I don't really laugh... who doesn't laugh? What the fuck am I doing?

I want to be someone special... this is not saying I want to be rich or famous or any of that superficial bullshit that everyone thinks is important. I could care less if I never have more money in the bank then I need for food and rent... and movies... and books, but beyond that, I have owned the same handful of clothing for years.. I just don't care... and famous? Please. Not a chance in hell do I want to have people watching my every move.. famous people are not artists.. they can be I suppose but the majority of them, if they were artists to begin with, lose that along the way. The only pure example I can see of someone who hasn't lost that yet is Matthew Gray Gubler... check out his website if you need proof. Ha, you thought I was going to say Tim Burton didn't you? I love the man and he has more artistry in his little toe than Lucas and Spielberg combined but if you think I think he doesn't sell out every now and then.. come on, I'm not delusional.

All I want is to be important... that's all. Not to everyone, not to a lot of people even. Just a few. I want to write songs that people will listen to when they need that company or that understanding. I want to write a book that will make people think.. even if it's only the five people that buy it. I want to make films that challenge people to look at their own lives with a new prospective. I want people to stand on their desks... not for me, with me.

I want people to remember my name when I walk by them on the street.

But life isn't what we want is it? It's not even what is given to us. Life is made up of instances and events that we borrow for a time being, and not even to use alone. We are life's third wheel. They have been used before us, they will be used again and at that exact same time that we are using them 14 million others are using them as well. Whether we go with it or not, they will never be changed.

Seems like it's kind of asking a lot to be remembered as one person doesn't it?