Appalachian American Ennui

I cannot believe how many people that I love now, whom thought I merely liked. Of course there are those whom I knew I loved well before my chest filled up, aspirating love all over the fucking place. Those, of course, are my children, Patrick Kent, Sylvia, Jason, the family who used to live in Hogg Lot, the girl with tattooo of Marilyn Monrow wearing a covid mask on her left upper arm, the sweat beads, the unattractive feet, Ida, Dr. Perry, Becca, Cheryl Posey who died, Amy who saw the UFO with me, Dr. Thompson, Dr. Kinser, Ethel, Denver, Holly, Ben, Ron Chestnut, Esq.,Emma, Lisa N., Star, Angela who moved to Newport, Lacey, Sara Cole, Jenny D., Sharlene, Steve C., Priscilla, Billy Jack Hurd, Christine D., Richard DuBois, Jennifer whom I loved alot, Jan, Harold, Bobby Combs, Brenda, Danielle, Curtis C., LaDonna, Kevin Bridgett and Alma, Bridget lovely and terrified of life, Tonya God Dammit, Bruce and Gloria, Danny, [Rich Black Coffee, The Law], Amy B., Tara to a lesser degree, Bob Vetter who loved me too but would have suffered waterboarding in lieu of ever admitting it, Joanie, Leslie, Pam Anderson who broke the fuck out of my younger heart, Neil Guffey, Raymond Stakley, Pam, Connie T., Kimberly M., Cecil, Dale Fox, Doug G., certain clients, Mouse Wolfenbarger, Kathy, Walt, Tom and Tim, Michelle, Betty, Jim, Rick, Shannon, David and Darlene, Phyllis and Zonnie, Cindy, Nani who did not even like me, bart and edna, Blackie, Oliver, Blackie, Gimpy to squirrel, My beloved Paul and Anna Mae, Lisa, Lionel R. Barret, Jr., Esq., Robin Smotherman, Aunt Betty, Uncle Ralph, Uncle Billy, that waitress with the brown bob in Chicago, Professor Harper, Wes B., the two cashiers at Sunoco, Hugo, Sara and Maria, Danny Boruff, Linda, Linda, Deitra, Janae, John, Maddie, Laura M., Penny and Whitney and Little Bit, Jodi E., Rebekkah, Courtney, Dylan, Austine, Everly, her sister, Coraline, Kim C., Bobby, Steve, [I pause to draw my own attention to the fact that my ability to identify these people has sharpened dramatically thank to you-know-who, whom I love . . . . Now I've found that I love people like David Marshall, Tara P., Mitch, Noah B., Noah H., Ralph, Johnny Sexton, Cole, Jawnne, Tammy who died, and Larry B a little bit.

This is all yours, Crystal Jones, from me, Paul Whetstone, who loves you a thousand times more than God Almighty and all the angels. I am indeed forever transfixed, what the inmates used to call a "natural life sentence." I am overwhelmed. I told you in the car that you can never say you weren't loved completely by a man who would have probably married you in your Church, your dress a pretty pale beige with matching satin shoes to be worn only once, but still not knowing anything at all about your mysterious inner-works, your taciturn and aloof way of carrying yourself, yet well knowing the sadness, probably fuelled by unimaginable pain and the escapist antics that preceded me. I will love you always, Miss Jones. But, the fact that I can endure this sadddening music, provided below, while absorbing your haunting visage, could mean I've begun drifting away from you, honey. And if this turns out true, I would be so very sorry, yet so much happier. I've never experienced anything like this in my life, Crystal. You need to know this because it is overwhelmingly true. Should the poets take note, which they will, it was doomed fail before it even began, almost Shakesperian, but the resulting implosion inside of me will have to stand for something totally worthwhile and beautifully good. This is inherent in a love so bold. I just don't know what form that will take. I just cannot believe this has happened to me. A former friend of mine once beat me half to death while I was passed out, but this is the most powerful force I've ever encountered bearing in mind that I have also suffered a broken neck, serial expulsions, jail, drugs of almost every kind, alcoholism, intense violence, an overdose, and the darkest depression imaginable. It's referred to as the dark night of the soul. I tried to die myself out it and, true to nature, fucked even that up. My chest fills now full with you. "Paul, honey, you're not in love with me." Remember when you said that? Where will all this go, I wonder. I can even feel you inside of my body at times, like right now. You have violenty shaken to broken pieces my little internal, emotional snow globe. See, you reached down into the briar thickets of your own damage and bloodied your strong hands to summon a mouth kiss, just for me, but I walked away immediately afterward and never looked back. My intuition told me that it was goodbye. Words were unnecessary. Oh my God Almighty. This is the most haunting thing thing of all. I'm hit! Struck by lightning. In italian, it's called the thunderbolt. In song, haunting tales told only by the instrumentals tapped out on big pianos, Gregory Isakov, Neil Young, Hope Sandoval, all the artists fit to score this musical love. My recollection of the back of your legs, opposite your knees, walking away down the isle, trying on new boots I bought for you. At first I thanked God Almighty that I was having trouble remembering your lovely face, the little mole below your strong chin, your leg tattoo, your indifference. But I can recall these perfectly again since finding the couragee to look, and to remember the brief time of mine. I'm now looking at the image, you look sad and that's what kills me. Your damage exhaled at the table and I felt myself absorb it fully Now, it seems to scoop something out of my solar plexus and feed it back to me again and again. I saw the tiny sweat beads on your shoulder in your house in the heat and thought I licked them off your skin and so hope I did, and your hair pulled up on your head. Your Marilyn Monroe tattoo. She is wearing a face mask on your left upper arm. You asked me what my opinion was and I got it right. And your silent company, while you tried to study in the chaos of your home and family. You let me know that these people were your life's focus. I so admired that. But now I'm left with a loss of the sound of your voice. You unintentionally cast a lingering spell, Crystal Jones. I'd say that I don't blame you primarily because I love you. But, in truth, and although unintentional, your entirety - your beauty, your hands, your eyes, your walk, your voice, your sadness, did it automatically . Sometimes, Before the morning docket is called, having mourned all morning at the house, I worry that the bailiffs, the occupants of the gallery, and my colleagues won't be able to tell. Allergies I'll say. And all of a sudden I find myself mourning the day that I might not love you anymore. But I insist that I will never hear your voice again because I will make sure of it. I'm never coming back. I had to walk away from this lest it drive me mad. My limenence, my limping ego, my pity for the circumstantial periphery of your sad life, like when your house burned down, goes right along with the rest of my new sadness. My Goodness. I suppose that this is the letter I planned to write to you one day. I probably should not keep coming back to this blog entry every morning, but it could help me in my recovery from this tectonic change in my life. I'd rather edit this entry seemingly every morning at four a.m., than most anything else. "Paul, honey, you're not really in love with me." I'm satisfied that you've since gathered differently. That weird vestibule one enters when Radiohead enters my tempanic membrances inside my ears scores this musical perfectly. My choppy breath affecting the performance of my voice as I breathe. In yiddish it's called getting verklempt or choked up so that the voice is disabled, muffling speech. It sometimes seems that while spending time with my lovely girl in my mind and trying to talk, I have to wait on account of it. And I get pissed at what caused your pain, Crystal. There's little doubt that you tempered those horrors with the help of copius introductions of hard narcotics into your body. But this is now my pain, too. It adds to my own and temper, too. I rely on the help of prescription medication at times, times two at a time sometimes. The dark mystery at our Central Market table too, where you made sure I knew. You were testing the waters, looking for my reaction with your hazel eyes. All among the first few minutes. Maybe you didn't even mean to share it over lunch, but that tells me that it's never far behind those unforgettable eyes of yours. All while I absorbed the entirety of your lovely, sculpted face, your strong hands, your hair, your blue jeans and your body. I shared my french toast with you, and you shared the unimaginable pain assoicated with unimaginable loss. I did not share my own losses with you, though, fearing that they would drive you away from me. My own stories, which I would even howl aloud like a wounded and heartbroken animal at 2 a.m. within this big house. I think that you'd be happy that my heartbreak did not trigger my longstanding and underlying depression. I think that you might care enough about me to be happy about that, Crystal. I don't even know your middle name or your birth date. Now I don't seem to care anymore. I have all I need. Truth is I lied about the reason I wouldn't represent you, honey. That, you said, made you feel "salty" about me. I am very embarrased, but when your mother called, I did not know your name despite the fact that my blood has always slowed seeing you from time to time over the years. I thought that the call was one of many I receive where, sadly, and out of necessity, I cannot take installments and won't from rent money, grocery money, or social securty. Truth is, when Your mother called about me representing you, I didn't know your name. Had I known it was you, my God, I would have drawn upon everything I know about the law in order to help you, honey. I can't forget that you called me honey that time. "Paul, honey, you're not in love with me." En route to Rural King I used the word "dry," to describe my impressopm pf you in the car, which got your attention. "There's something dry about you, Crystal." You fed it back to me: "Dry?" It just popped out of my unbridled mouth from my heart that never lies to me. But, I meant, I think, that I detected that you were once full of life and now almost running on empty. Objects by Big Thief was playing, but I wish something from Remember Me by Blue Boy was in queue, just for you. Writing this is the most wayward thing I can do at this moment, and I don't even know what I mean by that. In truth, it writes itself. My barber gave me a LGTBQ bracelet because he knows that I support the people who live within the margins of this stupid place called America, where you, too, have lived your less than ideal life, to put it lightly, within those same margins, where I work the law as best I can for other damaged people, because I, too, am one of them and empathize so well. I so wish I had helped you. I know that your mother, by the way, told you that I was a good man because, when I ran into her at the Justice Center she told me so. I truly hope I am. The music of Gregory Alan Isakov keeps you close to me, Crystal Jones. I'll never shake you from my invisible inner core, honey. I don't care to. I've learned that the kind of sadness you evoke is really all I have of you, aside from that kiss, which had its own sadness. I want to help you, but I can't. I won't. It would send me back up into orbit and very dangerously back down to hard ground. See, I am making progress since you first took me absolutely away and jettisoned me into the stars. This letter seems to write itself. According to John Keats, the lonely knight of arms fell asleep beneath a tree and dreamed of the kind of love that I, at first, so desperately wanted with you. After they made love, and as "she made sweet moan, she whispered, sure in language strange and said, "I love thee true." You are star-shaped, Crystal Jones. The way I describe how this has affected me to my concerned close friends is simple: Perhaps I'm only exhausted from a massive love beyond measure, which I never knew existed, no even desired. Maybe you now can say within one of your dreams, "Paul, you love me true." Indeed, Ms. Jones, I surely do.