Alright, now I'm pissed. I'm also an idiot. Instead of saving all my ranting from the last two hours of typing, I reloaded the page and lost it all. Most of it was dribble, but I'm sure that there were a couple of golden kernels of corn in that shit I excreted. Now if I just had the mental capacity remaining to remember where that particular tangent was heading.
The fact that I'm not at home anymore is really just starting to set in and the realization that I have no fucking idea what I'm doing out here is scaring the piss out of me, and my inner child just shit himself. Fortunatly I have good friends here and am slowly making new ones. The drugs that plauged me not that far in the past are very prevelant here and it's certainly a test of my will power to stay away from them. I have known for a long time that everybody smokes pot, but ending up in a situation where almost everybody is doin' something else is tough. But I have to put all that aside to tell you about something that learned yesterday: Shane Mack, one of my favorite people in Calgary, died about 10 days ago. He was 26.
Having met Shane about 5 yrs ago, hearing this felt like a steel toed boot to the balls. I'd like to think that in that time we considered each other friends, and I certainly wasn't ready to hear that I won't talk to him again, at least not anytime soon. So I guess this is my goodbye to a brilliant wit, a beautiful artist, a mostly kind heart and a good friend. May you find the peace in death that you forever sought in life. I'll see you again when it's my turn, have a drink ready for me.
Fishbait
1 comment:
Hi. This is rather random. Shane and I met/fooled around in high school, and remained friends until I was a total shit to him shortly before he moved to Calgary. I was trying to find him to make amends about six months ago, and found his obit...
According to the bardo thodal (?), the Tibetan Book of the Dead, souls take 49 days to find a new home. I concived a child around the end of August, 2006. During my pregnancy, I often dreamed of her. She told me her name was Ebyn, and that is her name now. I've been afraid for her (hokey, rational, or not) that she's inherited a tortured soul, and I've been worried for Shane that he was never able to find happiness. Everything about him was for others; everything was show.
I had myself convinced several times that I was in love with him. For him, I'm sure I was just the slut in combat boots on the bus. High school is awful, isn't it? Like many others, I managed to distance myself from it and escape small town Sasatchewan. What this means, however, is that I don't have closure. As much as this isn't about me, it kind of is. I always just thought that someday, I'd just find him and apologize, and we could go back to swimming in the gross Piapot lagoon and drinking gross Strawberry Angel.
You don't have to reply to me. This has been incredibly theraputic to write, and that's what I needed. If you were interested, however, I have a few photos of Shane from years ago. I can be reached at asm566 (at) mail.usask.ca.
Ammy
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