A Memoriam: Discussions with a Friend Named Denver

Denver died.


For months I've noticed that there was something "off" with him. But I ignored it.
I noticed his fins getting frayed and small and I ignored it.
His sapphire scales were turning into a dull gray and I ignored it.

It wasn't until he stopped eating his food that I began to stop ignoring him.
It's because I'm selfish and self-serving. Because feeding Denver was my activity and at the time my activity wasn't being achieved because Denver wouldn't eat anything.

Then one day Denver couldn't swim anymore. He just floated with his head looking at the tank lid which was the only real sky he ever knew. His gills were taking slow, big gulps of chemically cleaned water. His small side fins were doing their best to keep him afloat and not falling on the rough stones below him.

I left for only a few hours, I swear. But when I came home, Denver wasn't.
His dead fish eyes were probably the worst part because they were nothing like his eyes.
The horrible thing about it all was that those eyes made him look like just another plane, dead fish. Not Denver, not my friend.

We made a blog together and through the discussions we came to many understandings about life. Denver and I went through transformations together from fish, to friend, to symbol.
I mean that in the most passionate and sincere way possible: Denver became a symbol.

Back in the past postings whenever I talked about Denver I wasn't talking about the blue Betta fish sitting on my dresser. I was talking about myself, my friends, my husband, my family, the schizophrenic lady that came into the shop.

Denver landmarked important pieces of my life and he let me express those. So what does this mean now if he is such a beacon of symbolism?
Why did the universe think that I no longer needed Denver?

What passed away into fish heaven with the little guy?

The husband and I couldn't bare to flush him down some septic bowl. We drove around for about thirty minutes trying to find a send off point. We found a river in a park that was large and beautiful and black as night. I dumped the whole tank in there with him. His plants, the water, the pebbles. It was so dark I couldn't see where any of it went and I'm okay with that.

I said a few words, turned around and went home.



It had nothing to do with if I needed Denver anymore.
And I might start up another blog.
But that still doesn't mean I'll be getting another Betta fish soon.

I loved Denver, the discussions I had with my fish.

See you,

A&D

NostalgiaiglatsoN

Yo. I got some beef. Some soy-product-meat-subsititue kinda beef with you guys.
Just kidding, I just want to make things clear.
I'm not sad, depressed, over-worked, yah-dee-yah-dee-yah.
My blogging voice just sort of has an attitude and is filled with teen angst that wasn't fully utilized in highschool. I'm subjecting you poor few souls who visit me and Denver to these things because words are like wine and need to breathe before being enjoyed.
I don't know crap about wine.
And I appreciate the "Is everything okay?" emails and I love you all for it.
Now for more angst.
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I remember when I was numb.(see, angst.)
I remember when I was motivated.
I remember when I remembered something I forgot, then feeling bad for forgetting it.
I remember Emily and I playing faeries outside in the honeysuckle field. I don't remember what we talked about; what do eight-year-old faeries talk about while eating honeysuckles?

I remember when Charlie and I went to Conscious Land by hiding under a blanket, then lookinng at our reflections through windows.
I remember when I had OCD. When I was obsessive, compulsive, and disordered.
It sucked and it lingered till I was a teenager. Then I started caring too much about what people thought about me and stopped counting the threads on my sheets.
I remember the suicides, and how I found out over a text message.
I remember how the OCD threw up and stained my favorite dress with anxiety and stale beer.

Every time I look at her I'm subconsciously analyzing her to see if she's happy enough or do I need to go buy her a sandwich or something right now.
I remember the first time I did a bad thing. I hated it.
I remember when meatballs was an attempt at a bonding experience.
I told her "no" because that's gross and I don't eat red meat.

I forget so much. I forget that I was supposed to bring a library book back to school today.
I forget what 2010 looked like and I'll never remember because I ripped out all of the pages in my journal about it.
I forget that the Pythagorean Theorem is meant for math and not life.
I forget my best friends' birthdays.
I forget that I'm actually not from Paris.
Italy I guess. Maybe Whales.
But that's just from a piece of paper and I hear he lies about stuff like that sometimes to sound more impressive.



I forget to breathe. I forget what third grade was like. Actually, I don't remember third grade at all. I think that the teacher's name was Ms. Ross.
I forget why I liked Disney Channel so much.
I forget that I'm not really that good of a singer.
I forget that I actually do care about what people think even though I swear to the world that I don't.
I forget to listen and forget to nod my head and say "mmhmm".
I forget to stretch.
I forget words.
I forget names and I forget faces.
I forget that I'm always supposed to smile no matter what.
I forget that I have the ability to be brave.
I forget I may come off stubborn but it's mostly because I just care.

I could have been clingy. I could have been nicer. I could have been more chill.
But I know that the universe is not indifferent to my happiness. And if I stomp my feet and shout loud enough I'll get their attention and then scream. Because I can because I have the right to and because I may never get another chance.

Memories are fickle things that only hang around when they want to. If they get bored they'll ditch you like that boy at the school dance in 8th grade. Other times they'll stick around just like your love handles.

"Eternity is capable of being in love"

See you,

A&D

Humilities. That Time You Got Your Period in Gym Class

Stop and hear the coins fall on the floor.
Listen to the intake of his breath.
And stop.
Feel the muse claw up your throat.
The motion, the ocean, the notion of words that cry to be free.
And stop.

I want you to tell me a lie. How about in a blog post?
An aforementioned coffee shop romance. A purely platonic embrace.
The bat of a hesitated wink.

No, don't stop. This sentence might actually relate to someone and snaps and thumbs up are my bread and wine. I've missed you guys.
I've yearned and longed and dreamed of that soft scent of tobacco and Calvin Klein cologne.

I don't break so easily, not like in elementary when you told me you saw a booger in my nose; or like in middle school when you found tissue paper in my training bra; or even in high school when you heard I hooked up with that guy with the unibrow. Denial. Denial. Denial.

Sometimes I think about skyscrapers. Sometimes of peonies. A lot of the time I think about my weight, my complexion, my stutter, and my love handles especially my love handles.
But there is an iPhone app for everything.
Here's a prescription for an Instagram filter and some Accutane.
Why did I have to get personal in this...Let's just converse about your new tattoo who is in rehab and why did she decide to get pregnant. Meat and Potatoes, Meat and Potatoes, skyscrapers, laughing, New Year's resolutions, and the lonely thermometer that refuses to let the sun come back.

All I ever wanted was to smell clean air and find out what a papaya tasted like. Dish soap and do-rags are all that are in my pantry right now because I spent all my money on compliments and hair ties.

Maybe there is more to the world than Paris.

I'm in college and I get shocked when someone doesn't point out my stuffed training bras or unibrow mistakes. Things are different which is why I have nothing to write about anymore.
So here's the conclusion: Something about love, whiskey, and the way your old scars look in the sunlight.


See you,

A&D