Man in the moon

I wrote this post about 24 hours ago:

I've had several ideas in the last two days of what to write -- and I feel that the answer's made itself clear. This is a significant day, the one I've just lived through. I had a scary-but-dealable medical issue -- a procedure -- to contend with; it's all good now, but things of this nature always bring with them bouts of melancholy and contemplation. Today was also my sweet friend Laura's birthday. Laura left us six years ago and has been on my mind nearly every day since.

Happy birthday, my dear!

Earlier, I spoke with a friend who's been having a hard time with things lately. One recent morning -- he'd been out all night with nowhere to stay -- all the sadness and pissed-off-ness he's been swallowing for far too long began to surface. He feels like he's about to lose it, he's out in public (midtown) and he meets a man -- a Cherokee man, he explained, though I'm not sure this was a necessary descriptor -- who takes him under his (Cherokee) wing and calms him down. My friend, who's a fairly spiritual guy, tells me he ends up having "an amazing day with this stranger," to which we both said at the same time, "That's magical."

I'd told him the story of my second-to-last day in Utah, a kindred experience. I was feeling blue and planning to spend the day by myself. Despite my best intentions, given my state of mind, the day would have likely degenerated into nothingness. Or nothing productive, anyway. I went across the street to the store and was considering the beverage display when the girl next to me asked if I was okay, because I "looked sad". We introduced ourselves, I told her the bare bones of what was going on -- it can be very freeing, opening up to a total stranger --and she invited me to go rafting with her and her friends. So I did -- there were about fifteen of us and three or four rafts -- and it was amazing and beautiful, and magical. I couldn't have imagined a more perfect remedy than being taken in by this group of lovely and comforting strangers -- all of whom had gravitated toward Moab to embrace the lifestyle -- and spending the day on the Colorado. It helped me to realize how much larger than our lives the universe is. As broadminded, experienced, and adventuresome as we might be, there is limitless room for expansion. Who's to say whether this is the life I'm supposed to lead in the place I'm supposed to lead it? Every decision made along the way, from where to go to college to which corner to turn one afternoon, has collectively led me to this very moment.

In early 2000 I went to New Orleans* for the second time to visit my friend Bliss, a writer who was down there researching for her next book. On my first night there we attended a party at a well-known New Orleans writer's house -- he and his wife had a beautiful home in the Marigny, the neighborhood I stay in when I visit. I spent the end of the evening talking to a man named Charlie Smith, a seasoned fellow who was, he explained, an out-of-print poet. He recited to me various lines and verses from his work, most of which seemed to be about drinking, and falling futilely in love. I asked Charlie where I could find a copy of his book of poems, Still Waiting for Last Call. He told me that I probably couldn't, that it was gone forever.

A year or so later I found a copy -- signed, no less -- through an out-of-print bookshop. The poetry is simple, imperfect, lyrical -- and, for the most apart, about drinking and falling futilely in love.

Earlier this evening I was sitting alone in the living room (the boys were sleeping) and thinking about Laura, and a line from one of Charlie Smith's poems popped into my mind. I couldn't recall the name of the woman to whom the piece was written, but I rememembered the line, "You left us too soon." The poem is about the loss of a friend who grappled with drugs and demons. This was not the case with Laura, but the sense of loss and of a life snuffed out long before its time is the same.

I found my copy of Still Waiting for Last Call in the other room and -- despite the fact that most of the pages are loose and the cover functions basically as a folder -- I opened right to the poem. This could just be coincidence, but I think it's more than that. Magic, the universe, a sign from beyond ... to me it's all one.

Anyway, here 'tis:

You Left Us Too Soon

Butterflies reach out
when they break their cocoon
Stretching their wings
and seeking more room.

Reaching out for the man in the moon
with a go-to-hell smile
and a gold plated spoon.

But,
Nikkie
Sweet Nikkie
you left us too soon.

Bright eyes can disguise
the person within
Pain can be hidden by
a quicksilver grin.

So Nikkie went looking for the man in the moon
with a go-to-hell smile
and a gold plated spoon.

And
Nikkie,
Sweet Nikkie
you left us too soon.

It's a short one ... I wish there was more. I guess that's the point.

*The photo above is from the Lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans, February 2006