Shawn’s been out of town for a few days on a work trip in Santa Monica for the tech company he works for. I am feeling particularly nostalgic tonight (what’s new, really) so I pulled out some of my dad’s old old notebooks and song books. Then read all his typewriter typed poetry from when he was traveling though the 70s around the United States, Mexico, and Canada. Doing the whole jumping on and off trains and living a nomadic lifestyle. I used to love to hear his stories. Working at a haunted hotel in Arizona, running a record store in Atlanta, traveling in a VW bus to the Newport festival from Pittsburgh with Townes van Zandt and his buddies (one who wrote a song about it), finding himself at the RNC riot with his ex girlfriend after listening to Allen Ginsberg read poetry in the park, doing acid while reading the book of the dead in an abandoned warehouse and tripping for three days straight, and walking around New Orleans just having an out of body experience.
He had really good stories. When I remember them it is almost like I can pull him perfectly from my memory and form him perfectly in front of me.
My friend, who is much more connected to the spirit world tells me that whenever I think about him - he shows up for me still. So I am sure he just loves seeing me a crying mess curled up against my office wall bawling my eyes out because I miss him like a vital organ. A sharp pain inside me I have to walk around with and feel the effects of every single day.
Sometimes I can’t help but feel so angry that he left me here and died on me first.
I absolutely hate the version of me that I am without him.
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