At Monument, where Embarrassing Bodies was, a HEALING flag does a kite flap. I consider asking what they’d do a doctor couldn’t, but I knew people whose job it was to convince a cross-section eternity’s a blessing away. If a hand was enough to relay my skin like an underfloor heating improvement had just been made, I’d be BFFs with Jesus (if that’s totes not inappropriate). But medicine doesn’t work and vitamins are a temp temp pep up and exercise is a therapy I can’t 12 months sign up for. And I think that’s a full stop.
You deserve the chance to not die if you don’t want to. But there’s no cure for it. When will they find cures for it? And don’t say what’s said when questions get asked about life being eternal. Life isn’t. It’s almost.
I’ve nothing profound to add. I fucked up my time and you did. And some of the moments I thought maybe, only to realise no.
But if you die, don’t do it this way. Not like this. Don’t choose this. If a hallucination says anything it tells you you’re not sane to decide if to die.
Don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t
I give up after single tries.
You can’t bribe, stick, fix, drug me, tell me what’s good for me.
The end was never a fixed point and people have gone on to other, better things and we’ve stayed the same for eight years, more, and we’ve relied on the mistakes of the other and we’ve not said prayers and we’ve had people die, leave us, pick men instead of us.
Our shared memories don’t make me responsible.
I always thought unlikely happened, never saw it, and prefered it that way: it’s easier to believe something you can’t see, don’t know, sometimes.
Instead of laughing at your jokes I gave you square stares until you knew I’d absorbed you like Disaronno, pretty quickly into my bloodstream. I disagreed with you wherever possible, and even though banter or fake hate is a sign of relationship angst, I was more subtle than that. Business like. I was the pencil and you were the bitch.
You played along to a point until I couldn’t read every answer or underlying signal or subtitle and the plethora of meanings you gave out on any one day. The flutter of doubt sank me afternoons, post-midnight, whenever I’d watch Titanic (more often than I’d like, or you).
I hold tight, meditate on incomplete sentences and post-it note hand overs at end of night shifts you start as I leave or vice versa. If we switched bodies I’d make my move faster. The potential’s just hanging in the air like a 3 day old helium balloon, not spent yet.
One day you will be stupider than I would’ve thought possible. You’ll surprise yourself, while not surprising, because every bold-seeming move is a somewhat pre-figured one on your part, an off-kilter step you knew you’d take when needing to force your skin.
But I will stand by you. If it’s illegal, in question, unwise or simple, I’ll take the risks you need to take with you. I’ll die if that’s the route you’re on, if there’s little leg room or leeway.
Once I was stupider than you’d allowed for and you let me be it and told me I was and I wasn’t and played every action to its finish, conclusion. You really love board games and card games and video games and sex games and word play and squash court banter.
I name this cocktail after you knowing what Darwin had in mind with that thesis, the one he tried to retract when he realised what it did to religion. But there aren’t take backs. Take backs are a plethora of swear words that you only need to know that I’m thinking.
One day you will be me but you will be better. Teachers expected you to excel but I’ll take time where they didn’t. I’ll put answers in your mouth, destroy relationships you start, make it impossible for you to work other places.
One day you’ll wonder why you worked for so little: cash, enjoyment, satisfaction. Why you let it be enough at the time, when it wasn’t enough at all, isn’t, yet you’re hammering at it like you’ve just discovered tools for the first time and you’re curious about them the way you once were sex, films, pizza. Now, pizza almost always bores you.
One day you’ll ignore mirrors the way I ignore them and you’ll think of me every time you do it, keeping your eyes on the tap or your fingers when you’re in bathrooms, buying clothes without trying them first even though your size is not a standard, fits all in every shop one.
One day you’ll be me, but better. The recipe improved by TV chefs in two hundred years, ready in seconds. Someone else’s skin. False eyes. Elastic shoes. Nothing pioneering about that particularly, apart from I’m dead.
If you’re planning to absolve people, don’t when I’m here. I don’t want to see it. Every action should be tangible, not about an almost feeling, and I may be heathen for saying it – I’ve read the verses I know you’ll refer to – but it’s not a crime to like concrete. To imagine a time before phone signals and airwaves and radio frequency.
You say absolution’s important and I don’t disagree aloud because I don’t know who’s listening and I don’t want to give the impression I’m only into absolutes, that there isn’t room for grey matter. I think I mean grey area.
I used to hope for resolution, ultimates, ultimatums, endings to take pride in. Instead, it all peters unexpectedly and hope’s quashed like mashed squash, potato, and the seasons you’d hoped to see after are entities which exist in imagination only.
Jack says, “Now where am I going to go for my ‘Columbo based medical CSI type hourly drama’?” and it sounds like a question but it’s not one because he knows there will be a replacement, that’ll takes years to ingrain, sure but, eventually, the reruns will feel retro, of a better time, like listening to Bryan Adams duet with a Spice Girl or hearing the song Save Tonight and wondering what that guy’s name was.
But I felt the death coming, saw it, the second they announced she was leaving for another show, a somewhat less popular show, that she’d rather be in than this (perhaps she was a big Sex and the City fan?)
Recovering from Cameron was hard, because you can’t create chemistry, it just is, exists, like the asteroid belt or rings around planets or how forks fall to the floor then bounce when you drop them. Cuddy was impossible, and if you think about it, her going was like Joey leaving Dawson’s, Rachel leaving Friends, Marisa leaving The O.C. (okay, bad example), Summer leaving The O.C., Luke leaving Gilmore Girls before the shows were up, before those shows got canceled or whatever you call it when they stop something while it’s still popular? I guess, dying with dignity, euthanasia.
But Cuddy and House burned out like me paired with many people, because some of us equate catastrophe with love. And ending the show one season after a principle leaves and saying you’re stopping while the show’s still got something is what we call “denial”.