March 6, 2017

Tears and Letting Go



Dreams die hard. She looked at the video again. Why did he struggle. Why not just let the Cop arrest him, put his hands behind his back and know it would be alright. She is so naive, she thought a few hours later.

Tears streaming down her face, understanding taking the place of ignorance. She knew now why the boy in the video surrendered slowly, controlled with power. The cop and him in some kind of dance. The entwined lives intersected there on the pavement. The movement, the emotions, the struggle—surrending to the violence—the back and forth of relinquishing power, control.

Learning that often you don't come back. You do not go quietly home—do not pass go—not a get out of jail free card for you.

She remembered how he laughed, reminding her how they told her she was "delusional."

After working so hard all these years, a quiet life, a home, the garden tended, food in the fridge. A life that seemed to work. A marriage that seemed ok, certaintly not perfect, slowly becoming more abusive, but how much more could a poor kid from the wrongside of town want.

She knew now the other videos she use to watch would never be the same. "It is so all wonderful, we all got along so well, everyting is great, we had a great time". In some ways, she was letting go of not only her marriage, but being able to truthfully say that it really was all so great, everyting is wonderful, we all get along so well.

How many arrests before she understood that time in her life was over for good now. So frightened, she thought she would vomit in the beginning. Now finding she could write "Pig" without being so scared, say "Fuck you" with courage, basically find she was less afraid—but certaintly not complacent. More skeptical, shrewd, strong and less innocent.

Growing up on the wrongside, she learned to avoid any involvment with trouble. She hated violence, shunned doing anyting that caused her to get noticed in a bad way. Girlfriends would steal or do the the things teenagers do, but save for an occasional joint, some alcohol, dancing at the clubs, she tried her best to be a "good girl."

That good girl and the "good wife" had to be let go of now, so the woman could accept more of the reality that was intruding—sometimes forcefully into her life.

After seven arrests, she felt the need to run also. Run far away from the stuggles life was showing her, but he was't going to let her off that easy.

"Just shut up and write!" he said.

A muse that not only kids her she is delusional, but seems to think it is funny she hears his voice. Have you heard this voice for awhile? he says laughing. "Fuck you," I say. How much longer will this go on? Not quite sure, he says, but your writing aren't you?


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