I think about the times when some of my old friends made me laugh. And yes, I say this again and again, and I’ll say this now, repeatedly, until my last breath or until the hour of my death (amen).
There are no friends like old friends.
There are no memories like the memories that shape our youth or the ones that remind us of the days when it was fine and safe to be wild or crazy.
I like to be crazy once in a while.
Don’t you?
There are no friends like the ones who know when you need them most—and they know this, unspoken and without explanation or question, as if to say that there are no hills or mountains that I would not climb to be by your side, whenever, if ever you need me the most.
There is nothing like this nor is there anything like the tenderness of touch, nor is there anything as redeeming or saving, rescuing, and nor is there anything as heavenly as the feel that comes when, “your person” evolves into reality, and all is seen and all is known, and all is revealed because, at last, we understand why we went through the life we lived, because all was lived the way it was, just so we could be here, now, at this point.
There is no love like the love from someone who knows you fully, as in totally, or intricately, and there is no connection like the one that needs no explanation; simple and vast, deep and cosmic, or even kindred and also, seemingly intended for us to find a moment of awareness which allows us to say, “oh yeah, this is why life happens.” There are no replicas or substitutions for the wild reality that there are people who have been brought to us, as a blessing, or as a gift of fate.
They are far and few in-between, but valued nonetheless.
There are no words nor is there ever a connection like the ones we feel when seeing someone after a separation, which came as a result of life’s curveballs. When you see them, it’s as if no time passed and no space was ever between you since the last time you spoke.
I love this fact.
Decades could pass and this would mean nothing to the true depths of love or friendship, or more intimately, not even time can break or loosen the grips from the hands of love.
There are no memories like the times when we saw the world in new ways. To me, there are no memories like the ones I have of my city—my invisible kingdom, my palace, or in some regards—this is my place of worship, my sanctuary and place of prayer, meditation, and this is where I am, where I belong, and with all of my heart and all of my being; this is me and this is my backdrop, like the skyline, New York City after midnight when the Hudson river runs like a black sheet of glass, Brooklyn is nearby, and the city lights up like a festival of hearts.
There are no sights like the first time I looked out from a rooftop at sunset, just at the start of autumn before the leaves changed in New York.
The air was neither too cool nor too warm, but perfect.
And so was the view.
New York City has always been a special place for me. This is my haven and port in the storm. This is my sanctuary city, my place, my town, and a piece of my dream, which coincides with the ideas of walks through Central Park, or visits to the museums, or eating in some downtown spot which may or may not have been commonplace to anyone else.
But not to me.
No, this is when memories are made. This is when life changed or unfolded, like a slow-motion film of a flower in bloom, and to me—as if to be more picturesque, or to add color and description, I am me and I have become who I am, cultured or not, because of moments like this.
My accent has improved but, my speech is like that of a NY street kid with bad “r” sounds like, “buttah,” instead of “butter” or “snika,” instead of “snicker,” or even worse are my “th” sounds as if to say, “batroom,” instead of “bathroom,” whereas the word “mother” sounds like “mudda” and “father” sounds more like “faddah,” but still—I am me, good or bad, or seemingly nothing more than one of the many inhabitants or daily grinders in this city of mine.
I am the wealth of the poor and the experience of, say, cobblestone streets and memories of 14th Street, or the small, little unknown playhouses where I saw people who were far braver than I am. I saw people who stood at a microphone and read their prose or poetry, or who shared or displayed their art—and dammit all, I swear that one day, I will do this—read or perform and do a reading as in out loud, as in wholesomely, and honestly, and modest as the smallest child, I will let my words flow, or shine, or in whichever way they are received—I will do this, one day.
Someday . . . I promise.
But, of course, I’ll need you there with me.
Since, after all, it is you who inspired me.
There are no times like the times when someone stood behind you and explained, “no, this is you.”
As if to say, “no, you got this.”
“You can’t quit.”
“Not now!”
They are the ones, the valued, and the resource and the very wellspring of life to which, because of them, you refused to go gently or quit, or submerge and submit to the murk of emotional quicksand.
There is no one else in the world like this.
(like you)
There are no friends like the friends who were there when you shriveled into yourself, out of fear or shame, and there are no friends like the friends who were there, without a whisper or judgment, or some snide and underhanded remark.
There is no love like the love you get from that one special person who kept or held your secrets as if to be trusted with something so Godly, or heaven sent, that your secrets and your stories are to be guarded by them like the covenant of God, as if to be bound by a sacred agreement, or the mutual promise that is as unbreakable as the sun and unstoppable as the gravity, which forces us down to earth, and keeps us grounded.
This is what loved ones do for us.
And some loved ones, well, their love is weightless and lofty, like an expression of euphoric bliss, unmatchable by any drug on the face of this earth.
There are no times like the times when the lights of redemption shone brightly; and there are no times like the lifesaving moments when the darkness seemed to break, and the brightness which came over you is the one which comes from the view of someone’s love.
Yes, life changes. People move and go in and out of our lives. People come. Some people stay. Some people stay for good reason and some people stay to support someone’s demise.
I understand this.
Not every smile is friendly and not every enemy is a threat.
Blessed Father,
Save me from my so-called friends.
Alert me of my enemies
and teach me to watch for the crooked smiles
which are designed to hide the shiny steel of knives
that are intended of my back.
Holy Father,
allow me the chance to recognize the love
which is out there for me,
which is true, as the words you have promised.
Let me understand the value of love,
so I will never forget
or abandon it, hopeless
or afraid.
Amen
It is pointless to argue the good and the bad or the right and wrong because even the bad can lead to something good, like the revelation of truth.
This might not always be fair or kind—but ah, at least we know the truth now.
At least we can see the lies we hid from.
At least we know that there is a wolf in the henhouse. We know that yes, “Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves—so be wise as serpents and harmless as doves,” and yes, although I walk through the valleys of the shadow of death; I shall fear no evil for thou art with me.
My true love and my true friend and my heart.
Thy friendship and thy love comfort me to know that here I am.
I am not a Downtown kid, nor am I am an Uptown resident.
Nor is there a silver spoon in my mouth or my drawer and while I am poor to some and wealthy to others—there are no friends, nor love, nor anything or anyone like those who can say I know you, and I’m here.
Always.
There is nothing like those who are there for you. When the time comes, or when the sky breaks from the storms, there are no friends like the friends who cheered when you found your own resurrection, as if to be brought from the boundaries of a personal or private hell—and more than anything, there are no friends like the friends who cheer and celebrate or tearfully observe and memorialize your rise above the dirt—and even if your heights shall be higher than theirs or if your wealth for fortune should exceed theirs, there are no friends like the friends who were there when you had absolutely nothing, and rich or poor, they loved you all the same.
I was thinking of my friend, Papo.
I miss you, my old friend.
(I’m sure you miss him too.)
I miss our laughs at work. I miss our talks.
I am sorry that I was not there to see you go.
But in my heart, I know that you know I was there—with love.
There are no times like the eye-opening moments when the sky takes on the color of morning, the world around you is quiet, and the city is behind you, like a silent guardian with a whisper that is louder than the lions or the thunderous Gods of Greek mythology.
There are no times like the mornings when you wake up and see pieces of your dreams, alive and well, and smiling at you with that, “come hither” look, as if to know that you are wanted. And yes, you are desired. And yes, you are far more valuable than you could possibly imagine.
I remember every time I walked passed the theater where they showed the play Rent.
I remember my promise, which is not due just yet.
But I am still alive, which means I have time to make things right
(even if I’m wrong).
There are no times like the times when the body melts in the encore of a sexual eruption—the mind is elsewhere and the body quakes in the post, aftermath of something heavenly, beautiful, and loving, and in the next breath—there are no times like the times when you’re not worried about your loneliness—and you are immediately at ease because the person you love is there to love you in return. There is no one else, and there are no more hidden features, and all is well, the fight has resolved and you have come to find your place, in full-circle.
Everything is on the level and, next, there is a choice—do we go out for breakfast?
Or should we just stay in bed . . . .
and do it again?
These are the best “when” moments in a lifetime.
Trust me.
I know.
Value them if you have them
and if you can, grab them as if they were a bolt of lightning
and never let them go!
The Written Addiction 