Tag: goodbye
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Crossroads

- by Typewriter Fox

It isn’t often that life affords you the opportunity to stand at a literal crossroads. But there I was. A high-viz collar turned up against the darkness of Turner at my back. East Cesar E. Chavez stretching out beside me. Facing the curves of the planked river trail. The one skirting the spot where the fish are supposedly laddered around.   The song of water dancing over the dam filled the symphony of another Old Town night. And for once, I wanted to be safe in the sound of something. Because everything else has proven itself a whole lot of nothing. And the claustrophobic silence of that vacuum left a nervous fox drinking fidgeting. To the west, orange barrels lined the bridge. Their rigidly spaced regularity paced …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

500 Mile Drive

- by Typewriter Fox

I still think about that drive. The tenacity of those Tennessee roadside concessions. The ones fueling those dirty dashboard confessions; the ones screaming at a Pigeon Ford quickly evaporating in a smoky rearview mirror. Because I never had the opportunity to properly explain myself. I just remember Knoxville coffee punching hard against softer insides. And how that burn helped to round out the sharpness of those elevated curves. And smooth the stark indignity of unused emergency runaway ramps. The ones scratched and clawed into an unnamed mountain’s downward slope. Cities were on fire then. It felt like the whole world, locked down and suffering, was about to collapse. Which I thought was fucking hilarious. Because I was tired of the abuse. And wanted to break free …

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The Ring

- by Typewriter Fox

There was once a ring. She never knew about it; it was the only secret I ever kept from her. Because after that first Wayne’s City kiss, I pledged absolute transparency—I knew that was the only way that we would ever work. And I wanted to be understood as a fox of his word. The gamble was enormous. The one involving state lines crossed. And expensive pettifoggers. Endless boxes and bruises. The ones ending in too many damn sleepless nights; the ones bleeding into hot, hard days scrambling up those congested 120 miles. Pushing to build a comfortable life from a tender start of want. Those early days holding the promise of only two tea mugs, a simple kettle we both kind of hated, and a …

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The Raven

- by Typewriter Fox

Indiana was unexpected that night; it wasn’t at all what I had planned.   So it is fair to say that I was unprepared. Truth is, I was already at the bar when that text hit my phone. A familiar dive, comforting in its lack of complexity. A place where mostly empty bottles help to fill up even emptier Old Town people. Where the lights flicker randomly. And there is always the underlying vibe that things are just one minor party foul away from a major shuffle. A familiar tension, reminding me of family.  But at least they finally repaired the back door. The one recently battered in and then boarded back up. And that simple restoration made it easier slipping out for smokes between the pours. …

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Time

- by Typewriter Fox

Time is such a weird thing. And 18 months is the current manifestation of that peculiarity. It simultaneously seems like both a lifetime, and the blink of brown eyes crying in an Indiana kitchen. 547 some days. A whisper over 13,000 hours.   But even that isn’t a guarantee. Because I learned a long time ago to never trust the white-coated math. In a way, I guess it makes sense. Because even our arrival times are imprecise. So why should our departure dates be any different? Born into broken water, we leave amongst the tears of others. Adhering to some imprecise system. One based on patterns I’m not sure my pickled monkey brain will ever comprehend. Because I can barely be trusted unsupervised with a tube of …

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Songs for Indiana

- by Typewriter Fox

I just couldn’t face the idea of Indiana. Not after what she asked me, when last I was in that nugget shaped state—I am still caught processing that request. So it was safer for me to remain temporarily behind inside an angry Mitten; my heart was in desperate need of a “lost weekend” to help get my head bent back right again. As often happens inside gaps of untethered time, I continued my feral run. Seeking shelter inside of bottles. And unsolicited bar room conversations. Ducking and covering inside of increasing ABVs. Eventually wandering the empty capitol streets with a leather collar turned up against the wind blowing in off the big lake again, when numb enough to finally ignore everything. Inside the fleeting gaps of …

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Soldier Mode

- by Typewriter Fox

Through a hundred-proof crack of fatigue, I slipped. Revealed a rare glimpse of my bruised humanity. Briefly opened the split curtains of emotional camouflage. Raged openly in a measured overnight temper tantrum.  I threw up honest words. All the way across an ocean. The words not often accessible to those of my gender. Or station. But I wrote them all the same. Then I collapsed, exhausted and exposed, into another night of 517 nothingness.  Alone. But weakness isn’t allowed. Not for those whose destiny it is to provide, anyway. The ones responsible for protecting the weak. The silent guardians of righteous intentions. The stoic peacekeepers of emotional equilibrium. The ones tasked with the difficulty of building a new world from nothing. Only to be rewarded with …

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Fireball

- by Typewriter Fox

Pushing hard east on Michigan Avenue. Fireballing through traffic lights. The burn in the gut helping to burn down everything else. Because it is the kind of night to not really give a fuck. Just like every other night in these godforsaken flyover fields. The compulsion is always to put things with things. Even when there isn’t a handle to hold. Or a viable exit strategy. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it is that there is always something else left to lose. So it’s always a scramble to maintain some semblance of a grip. But everything eventually slips away anyway. Behind spinning tires lingers the stink of tin monsters. Those temperamental, dual-engined beasts. The ones nightly vomiting out “need it right the fuck now” …

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Deer Prints

- by Typewriter Fox

It has been nearly impossible developing original language. Finding fresh explanations. Breaking new words to better fit old desires. Capturing the code of communication between us.  Words can just be tricky that way. But I still had to try. Language remains the only bridge between where we were and where she is destined to go. Because we were in very different places. Even though we were walking there together.  We started at the park. The one where we used to meet. Years ago. In the before times. Back when life wasn’t this fucking complicated. She confessed to wanting to find her spot. And expressed her gratitude that her favorite fox, the one sporting an alarming amount of grey in his fur, was there to help her. …

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Where the Sidewalk Ended

- by Typewriter Fox

Somebody lit the house on fire. It burns to this day. Even though I have temporarily retreated safely back across state lines. It is a tangible buffer; it keeps us separated. And responsibly distant. Which, considering the severity of the situation, is probably the best possible outcome. Because I felt that familiar compulsion to jump in. Head first. Consequences be damned. Just like I always do when tangled up in a situation where wounded hearts are on the line. But at the same time, I don’t want her to jump with me. Only one of us deserves to tumble down these dirty alleyways. Better that it be me—I am expendable. And she is already destined for a different kind of fall. So I will take the …

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