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It's late... I'm still wearing the clothes that I sweat in (swinging the machete to clear property lines), my gut is rumbling... and guess who gets to do a last minute substitute for the show, tomorrow? Cut off at the knees by the "Soon Come Rasta." "Soon Come"... a Jamaican expression, hell, a lifestyle... meaning "ma�ana." "I'll get around to it." "Whenever." And I'm about as Jamaican as he. Aye, the Show Must Go On. Some days, I'm the personification of the late Ian Curtis of Joy Division ... adrift in the blackness. Others, suffering from diarrhea of the mouth. My jaw was flapping, this time 'round. Which brought me to a sobering conversation with and old school friend--like, from elementary to high school. Always an optimistic and active person, responsible for three kids, his wife, and his own gardening business... and often full of shit. And imagination. Exchanging small talk, like people do, he dropped a bomb on me about a debilitating disease that he was diagnosed with. He read off the symptoms to me... irritability, forgetfulness, zoning off at times... basically, what I have come to accept as "normal." For myself. But this is his manifestation, and fairly grave, at that. Living in a small town, I'm sure this kind of thing is fodder for gossip... that's what small minds do. Which can affect your lifestyle, the way people treat you, and your self confidence. Which, also, is bullshit. Makes me glad that most of the people that I call "friends" are made of sterner stuff. And would rather risk telling me up front, rather than finding out via the rumor mill. Willing to keep up his personal pace to do what needs doing. Keepin' on keepin' on. How un-"Soon Come." |
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