"Detonated Diary" is the title I gave that piece I wrote when I was 25 for a "Vietnam and the Artist" class in college, which I re-read a month ago when I was 53 (before letting my dad have a copy), and in which I re-encountered forgotten material about the lover who died obscenely young of cancer after telling me we'd be friends for life but also admitting that I'd never be plan A for him. (Plan A was a married woman named Tricia. That part's not forgotten.) While looking for that piece, I also rummaged through old diaries and saw a sketch I made from memory of that same guy, because I had no photograph of him and liked him that much, not because he was not long for this world, which I didn't know yet when I made the sketch. I also wrote down his birthday, December 26, 1959.
And on my knees in the basement unearthing all this I muttered under my breath... "fucking Capricorn"
He was good though, a good friend, and I sometimes still sense his infuriatingly platonic presence and love for me, like he'll meet me on the bridge, he'll be there when it's my time, all smiles and teddy bear warmth, with those brown eyes and those biceps.
(but I'm still not plan A, I get it...)
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