"It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live." Marcus Aurelius
"The quality, not the longevity, of one's life is what is important." Martin Luther King
On a bright Saturday morning, inconspicuous as any other, we laid our brother to rest. After the final words, prayers and fistfuls of earth, my brother Alex asked everyone to give him a round of applause. Never has a round of applause been so well-deserved.
Dave was not a man--he was a movement. His time on earth was gut-wrenchingly brief, but in its impact on us and everyone he came in contact with it was as vast as the cosmos. Even now I feel his spirit, quietly wafting behind me and up and down the walls of my room. He is with us always, not just as a holographic memory, but as a vibrant, breathing entity.
His death is now only an after-thought, his life is the entire world. His departing lessons were many. His experiences, full with all their tragedies, battles and breakthroughs, are now the stuff of legend.
Generations to come will scrutinize and dissect him like a laboratory frog, picking him apart layer after layer to uncover the good and the grotesque--in short, to uncover his essence. Dave himself was a dissector of humanity; he wouldn’t mind. And besides, his true essence will forever elude us. It left with his last, brutally slow breath. All that’s left for us is guesswork.
But this much is true: he touched, indeed moved, our lives in the profoundest way possible. As a family, he brought us closer. He didn’t make us perfect, but he did force us to face our separation and indifference, however uncomfortable or embarrassing it was. He awakened us from our zombie sleep, rudely splashing water in our faces and demanding us to face one another. He is telling us still, from the grave, Get closer.
His dying example illuminates our paths, shedding light on all the points of caution we encounter. His living example points towards the simple things of life: happiness and family. After that, nothing else matters.
His life, vast as it was, is now only a tiny fragment in the long history of time. His death is a hiccup in eternity. His spirit, however, is a haiku that encompasses all of life, the cosmos, and even God.
If you ask me, I’ll tell you once again: Never has a round of applause been so well-deserved.
I love you, Dave.
I have nothing else to say. My hands will do all the talking.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Where's Dave?
I don’t know, but I sure do wonder about it a lot. It’s no secret to anyone who’s read this blog that I’ve tried to intellectualize and rationalize Dave’s death, but here, alas, I can only speculate. I’ve never died or talked to the dead. I cannot know for sure where the dead go. I can’t possibly even know if they all go to the same place.
People of faith speak of the after-life as if they know it all too well. But faith, by definition, suggests that there’s a certain level of uncertainty. If there wasn’t any uncertainty, it wouldn’t be called faith, it’d be called certainty and religion itself would be rendered obsolete.
I’m not religious, I’m only spiritual. I imagine that when we die, our souls (and yes, I do believe in souls) are recycled back into the universe. The only issue that I debate with myself is whether or not we continue on as intelligent life or merely pure energy fields. I know that physically we’re nothing more than galaxies of atoms, of which themselves are nothing more than galaxies of particles which disassemble and erode when we die. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But to think that we simply cease to exist when we die is cruel and inconvenient, and I can’t bring myself to believe it. The march of history has been long, however, and if we die and continue to exist after death, then one might argue that animals continue to live after death, as well. And this can be hard to swallow.
Maybe where we go depends on what we believe. Maybe there is a heaven and hell. I’ve always been more comfortable believing that there’s a God, or Source, and a heaven, but no devil or hell. Above all, I probably don’t believe in the devil because I deem God as simply being the universe--and in my view, the universe is both intelligent and, more importantly, compassionate. It knows and it feels. Ironically, it is deterministic but interferes with the workings of its creation (essentially, itself) when summoned. There is no place, therefore, that God is not. If the devil existed, he would have to be another universe altogether--an anti-universe.
If this all sounds like jabberwocky, it is because it probably is. However, I’ve come to these conclusions after carefully thinking them through; by having late-night conversations with myself and brooding during the quiet, soundless hours of the night. It’s my unique worldview, and it’s only shreds compared to what you might find in the texts of a philosopher. And my worldview is not in any way detached from the spirit of Dave. In fact it is, more than anything, a search for the spirit of Dave.
In life, I always thought Dave looked like a bug. I affectionately had him (and still have him) as “Bugman” in my phone. Maybe he’s a reincarnated bug right now, even though thinking of him as a bug bothers me. It’s much more comfortable to imagine him reincarnated as himself, perfectly preserved and conducting heaven’s symphonies. In one of his last correspondences (which I've shared in "For the Love of Music"), he invites his friend to listen to a song by Nina Simone in which she asks herself whether or not, and how, she will be reincarnated. The song is profound, and I only learned to appreciate it when listening to it completely alone. I believe that Dave believed he would be reincarnated, otherwise that song wouldn’t have made such a deep impression on him. If it is so that where we go depends on what we believe, then there’s little doubt in my mind that he is reincarnated right now, though in what form I can only speculate.
This much I know for sure: Dave was an organ donor, and today he continues to breathe life inside the bodies of people who, thanks to him, have been given a second opportunity at life. In a strange but miraculous way, he is still physically here.
I talked on the phone with our oldest brother Alex today. He shared with me his belief that Dave currently still lives: in our hearts. He told me that memories of him are fine and dandy, but the true essence of him can only be felt within our hearts. Everything else is an illusion. I was dazzled by this new way of looking at his spirit, and haven’t gotten the opportunity to fully absorb it yet. It may take several years before I do.
I don’t know where Dave is. Dave himself probably doesn’t know where he is. I only sigh and think of that line made so famous by a little-known group named The Beatles: “There will be an answer. Let it be. Let it be.”
The Nina Simone song can be found here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INLBcBGwr0g
People of faith speak of the after-life as if they know it all too well. But faith, by definition, suggests that there’s a certain level of uncertainty. If there wasn’t any uncertainty, it wouldn’t be called faith, it’d be called certainty and religion itself would be rendered obsolete.
I’m not religious, I’m only spiritual. I imagine that when we die, our souls (and yes, I do believe in souls) are recycled back into the universe. The only issue that I debate with myself is whether or not we continue on as intelligent life or merely pure energy fields. I know that physically we’re nothing more than galaxies of atoms, of which themselves are nothing more than galaxies of particles which disassemble and erode when we die. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But to think that we simply cease to exist when we die is cruel and inconvenient, and I can’t bring myself to believe it. The march of history has been long, however, and if we die and continue to exist after death, then one might argue that animals continue to live after death, as well. And this can be hard to swallow.
Maybe where we go depends on what we believe. Maybe there is a heaven and hell. I’ve always been more comfortable believing that there’s a God, or Source, and a heaven, but no devil or hell. Above all, I probably don’t believe in the devil because I deem God as simply being the universe--and in my view, the universe is both intelligent and, more importantly, compassionate. It knows and it feels. Ironically, it is deterministic but interferes with the workings of its creation (essentially, itself) when summoned. There is no place, therefore, that God is not. If the devil existed, he would have to be another universe altogether--an anti-universe.
If this all sounds like jabberwocky, it is because it probably is. However, I’ve come to these conclusions after carefully thinking them through; by having late-night conversations with myself and brooding during the quiet, soundless hours of the night. It’s my unique worldview, and it’s only shreds compared to what you might find in the texts of a philosopher. And my worldview is not in any way detached from the spirit of Dave. In fact it is, more than anything, a search for the spirit of Dave.
In life, I always thought Dave looked like a bug. I affectionately had him (and still have him) as “Bugman” in my phone. Maybe he’s a reincarnated bug right now, even though thinking of him as a bug bothers me. It’s much more comfortable to imagine him reincarnated as himself, perfectly preserved and conducting heaven’s symphonies. In one of his last correspondences (which I've shared in "For the Love of Music"), he invites his friend to listen to a song by Nina Simone in which she asks herself whether or not, and how, she will be reincarnated. The song is profound, and I only learned to appreciate it when listening to it completely alone. I believe that Dave believed he would be reincarnated, otherwise that song wouldn’t have made such a deep impression on him. If it is so that where we go depends on what we believe, then there’s little doubt in my mind that he is reincarnated right now, though in what form I can only speculate.
This much I know for sure: Dave was an organ donor, and today he continues to breathe life inside the bodies of people who, thanks to him, have been given a second opportunity at life. In a strange but miraculous way, he is still physically here.
I talked on the phone with our oldest brother Alex today. He shared with me his belief that Dave currently still lives: in our hearts. He told me that memories of him are fine and dandy, but the true essence of him can only be felt within our hearts. Everything else is an illusion. I was dazzled by this new way of looking at his spirit, and haven’t gotten the opportunity to fully absorb it yet. It may take several years before I do.
I don’t know where Dave is. Dave himself probably doesn’t know where he is. I only sigh and think of that line made so famous by a little-known group named The Beatles: “There will be an answer. Let it be. Let it be.”
The Nina Simone song can be found here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INLBcBGwr0g
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Dave the Opinionated
If history bestows a heroic surname on Dave, such as it did to Alexander (the Great), I think The Opinionated fits him quite well: Dave the Opinionated. Apparently, he was a very outspoken man. Most people would tell you that he was quiet and introverted, but those who truly knew him—-me and my mom, Alex, his friend Ramon and girlfriend Gina, Joandy and the rest of his Miami family-—knew that he was the first one to speak out and up. And I genuinely loved this about my brother, that he wasn’t afraid to say what was on his mind, no matter how controversial—-and this is what made our conversations great. Even though his opinionated nature isn’t a physical attribute, I realize now that it belongs with the other four essential Daveisms.
I mentioned the word controversial because Dave’s opinions were often subversive and completely detached from the status quo. He probably viewed Thomas Jefferson not as a Founding Father but a slave tapper, Facebook as a glorious waste of tweens’ time (in spite of the fact that he himself had one), and organized religion as widescale fraud.
Sometimes his opinions stung, such as his negative critique of my ex-girlfriend. His words, swift as a snake, caught me unawares and shocked me. However, when a close friend of mine also told me the same thing, I realized that Dave’s opinion indeed had much validity to it—-and in my eyes he was absolved.
Other times his opinions were downright wrong. Alex can attest to this. Dave, for example, believed that watching (not playing) sports is a waste of grown men’s time. But no, no, NO! Sports have been around since the beginning of civilization and form the cornerstones of most societies. Humans have an essential, almost physiological, need for pastimes, and sports fulfill this need. Besides, sports just make people feel good.
Dave was a master of words. He formulated his opinions in ways that will make you giggle for a moment, and then think. The following is blasphemy, but it’s my best recollection of his opinion on liberal arts degrees (in an effort to sway me away from majoring in communications): “Bro, I’m earning $25 an hour for practically sitting on my ass watching DVD’s. On top of that, I get paid extra for working overnight. Now granted, there are times where from one moment to the next it suddenly becomes busy as hell, and I do do heavy lifting [of patients] from time to time, but 80% of my shift is me doing absolutely nothing. Now that’s a job! And I only had to study two years for it, which cost me about $800, whereas liberal arts majors go to school for four years, study their asses off, rack up $60,000 in student debt, can’t find a job for shit when they graduate, and end up working at Subway for four years before they land a job in their “field” that pays $12 an hour. That’s harsh, but in this economy, it’s true.” And indeed it is, though his speech failed to change my mind. What it did do, however, was not make me giggle and then think, but instead shiver like all hell.
But Dave knew exactly when to withhold his opinion. When Barack Obama was sworn in as President, I texted him CHANGE HAS COME TO AMERICA. He didn’t respond.
Sometimes I picture myself having an imaginary conversation with Dave. In the conversation, we are discussing his death. He is sad, remorseful, angry at himself, but very opinionated. I can hear him: “It was just plain stupid,” he tells me. “It’s like your whole life condensed and terminated by one stupid mistake. Damn.” He goes on to quote artists and philosophers, he makes analogies, and even jokes from time to time, his classic smirk flashing back like a rainbow. Even though there’s self-pity in his speech, there’s still a life-goes-on-attitude-—life after death, that is.
"And with strange eons even death may die."
H.P. Lovecraft
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Prose Poem
A poem should not mean
But be.
Archibald MacLeish, "Ars Poetica"
I've thought about writing a poem about Dave, but I've asked myself this: If I do write this poem, where do I begin? Dave's story has no point of origin; even his birth seems as random as his death, and he likely got younger the older he got. Death for him was simply a return to the pre-birth state of pure energy that seemingly spontaneously yet purposefully became life. There is nowhere to begin, let's not even talk of the ending.
And how would I write it? How must it feel? It can be sober, grave as gray, but this isn't the spirit of Dave. The spirit is vibrant, life-affirming. But it can't be all praise and good times; there must be some dark moments there, some "ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas" if I'm to report the complete and utter truth. Or must it spring of its own nature and use me as a vessel of its revelation? If so, I haven't gotten the call.
Does it have to be personal, or are the themes universally appreciated? I can make it personal but that might be too painful; I can make it a case study but that might be too convenient. The approach, then, has to be strikingly unique and maintain throughout. It must endure, not only throughout but through time. It's not about making a contribution, poetry has had more than its share of those. It's about leaving something meaningful for my niece and my grand-children.
Does it report or ask? Certainly, every fact will be followed by a question, and every question by empty silence. This fact alone should render questions null, but they won't go away--they're much too sticky for that. After so long, the questions will become the margins.
Does it meander or get to the heart of the matter? The fun in leaving riddles, puzzles and enigmas might be too tempting to resist, but this is pure vanity and ego--and remote from the spirit of Dave. Truth is simple and doesn't require too many, or flashy, words. So I may have no other choice but to leave the epic saga for another, more frivolous lifetime, and focus this one on a beautiful haiku.
Does it speak or does it listen? How can a poem listen? A poem listens if you listen. If it speaks, there is the fear that it will never stop speaking, that it will be an endless manuscript. Can I risk that? Can I even say that much?
Dave's poem begins and ends nowhere and everywhere. This poem is a river that comes full-circle. This river is Tennyson's brook:
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
And, like a river, it is the vein of the world, nourishing its darlings with water--an ever-renewing source of life. Dave's poem must be exactly all of this, and nothing less.
But be.
Archibald MacLeish, "Ars Poetica"
I've thought about writing a poem about Dave, but I've asked myself this: If I do write this poem, where do I begin? Dave's story has no point of origin; even his birth seems as random as his death, and he likely got younger the older he got. Death for him was simply a return to the pre-birth state of pure energy that seemingly spontaneously yet purposefully became life. There is nowhere to begin, let's not even talk of the ending.
And how would I write it? How must it feel? It can be sober, grave as gray, but this isn't the spirit of Dave. The spirit is vibrant, life-affirming. But it can't be all praise and good times; there must be some dark moments there, some "ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas" if I'm to report the complete and utter truth. Or must it spring of its own nature and use me as a vessel of its revelation? If so, I haven't gotten the call.
Does it have to be personal, or are the themes universally appreciated? I can make it personal but that might be too painful; I can make it a case study but that might be too convenient. The approach, then, has to be strikingly unique and maintain throughout. It must endure, not only throughout but through time. It's not about making a contribution, poetry has had more than its share of those. It's about leaving something meaningful for my niece and my grand-children.
Does it report or ask? Certainly, every fact will be followed by a question, and every question by empty silence. This fact alone should render questions null, but they won't go away--they're much too sticky for that. After so long, the questions will become the margins.
Does it meander or get to the heart of the matter? The fun in leaving riddles, puzzles and enigmas might be too tempting to resist, but this is pure vanity and ego--and remote from the spirit of Dave. Truth is simple and doesn't require too many, or flashy, words. So I may have no other choice but to leave the epic saga for another, more frivolous lifetime, and focus this one on a beautiful haiku.
Does it speak or does it listen? How can a poem listen? A poem listens if you listen. If it speaks, there is the fear that it will never stop speaking, that it will be an endless manuscript. Can I risk that? Can I even say that much?
Dave's poem begins and ends nowhere and everywhere. This poem is a river that comes full-circle. This river is Tennyson's brook:
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
And, like a river, it is the vein of the world, nourishing its darlings with water--an ever-renewing source of life. Dave's poem must be exactly all of this, and nothing less.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wayne Dyer
Dave did something before he died that touched--and moved--me. When I think back to the most enduring and memorable moments of our lives together, I can't figure out which tops the list. I think that this is because none of them tops the list. All of them stand together in equal significance. But this moment was especially beautiful because it highlighted how similar and kindred our spirits are. And because it caught me completely off guard.
For several days, I had been listening to Wayne Dyer's "The Power of Intention." I would regularly listen to it after I came home from school and before I went to sleep (during the afternoon). Dave came by one day to give something to our mom. When he came, I was in a half-asleep, half-awake state, so I could vaguely make out his deep voice amid the clamor of my dreams. His visit that day was unremarkable except for the fact that when I woke up and stepped out of my room, I found a CD copy marked "Wayne Dyer Inspiration." I knew right away that this could only be the work of Dave.
This moved me so profoundly that I was at a loss for words when describing this to my then girlfriend. I even made a note of it on my diary-planner. And, to my delight, the CD was filled with all-new (to me) Wayne Dyer material. This is significant because I thought that I was already familiar with all of his material. I listened to all of it the very same day!
The following is the quote that forms the theme of the Wayne Dyer PBS special, and which hung on Dave's wall when he died:
“When you are inspired by some great purpose, some extraordinary project, all your thoughts break their bonds: Your mind transcends limitations, your consciousness expands in every direction, and you find yourself in a new, great, and wonderful world. Dormant forces, faculties and talents become alive, and you discover yourself to be a greater person by far than you ever dreamed yourself to be.” Patanjali
I later discovered that Dave had also sent his father and family from Florida a copy of this CD, as well as many of his friends and colleagues--and he had several more in his possession when he died. I was still surprised that he even listened to and followed Wayne Dyer. It was so incredibly cool!
After Dave's passing, his hospital of employment held three separate memorials for him. We attended the main one, and I spoke a few words to the audience of his co-workers. I finished by saying that he had now returned to Source. I'm sure few to nobody understood this reference, but it was to the PBS special, and all that mattered to me was that his spirit understood it. Wayne Dyer repeatedly uses the word Source to describe God.
Dyer symbolized Dave's spiritual metamorphosis and maturation. It signaled to the fact that he was tired of petty preachers and motivational speakers, and sought some higher meaning in his existence. I believe that, at least in some ways, this spiritual maturation prepared him for his death.
For several days, I had been listening to Wayne Dyer's "The Power of Intention." I would regularly listen to it after I came home from school and before I went to sleep (during the afternoon). Dave came by one day to give something to our mom. When he came, I was in a half-asleep, half-awake state, so I could vaguely make out his deep voice amid the clamor of my dreams. His visit that day was unremarkable except for the fact that when I woke up and stepped out of my room, I found a CD copy marked "Wayne Dyer Inspiration." I knew right away that this could only be the work of Dave.
This moved me so profoundly that I was at a loss for words when describing this to my then girlfriend. I even made a note of it on my diary-planner. And, to my delight, the CD was filled with all-new (to me) Wayne Dyer material. This is significant because I thought that I was already familiar with all of his material. I listened to all of it the very same day!
The following is the quote that forms the theme of the Wayne Dyer PBS special, and which hung on Dave's wall when he died:
“When you are inspired by some great purpose, some extraordinary project, all your thoughts break their bonds: Your mind transcends limitations, your consciousness expands in every direction, and you find yourself in a new, great, and wonderful world. Dormant forces, faculties and talents become alive, and you discover yourself to be a greater person by far than you ever dreamed yourself to be.” Patanjali
I later discovered that Dave had also sent his father and family from Florida a copy of this CD, as well as many of his friends and colleagues--and he had several more in his possession when he died. I was still surprised that he even listened to and followed Wayne Dyer. It was so incredibly cool!
After Dave's passing, his hospital of employment held three separate memorials for him. We attended the main one, and I spoke a few words to the audience of his co-workers. I finished by saying that he had now returned to Source. I'm sure few to nobody understood this reference, but it was to the PBS special, and all that mattered to me was that his spirit understood it. Wayne Dyer repeatedly uses the word Source to describe God.
Dyer symbolized Dave's spiritual metamorphosis and maturation. It signaled to the fact that he was tired of petty preachers and motivational speakers, and sought some higher meaning in his existence. I believe that, at least in some ways, this spiritual maturation prepared him for his death.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
For the Love of Music
Dave’s love for music is unparalleled to most other loves he ever had. It wasn’t playing and creating music, but also listening to it that formed his passion. From age seventeen onward, he spent a significant part of every day listening to music. Before continuing with my ode for his musical passion, let me let Dave himself discuss his tastes:
“And like I said, hip hop is only one of my loves. Although I've been playing the guitar and dreaming of being a "rock star" since I was 14, I actually hated hip hop until I was about 17, lol. I'm now 26. I thought it was just stupid that they spoke their words instead of singing them. It just seemed very unskilled and talentless (I now realize that it takes a lot of talent to be a great mc). One day my best friend forced me to listen to it and after a few songs, I just "got it". However I love the blues, jazz, MoTown style soul music from the 60's-early 80's. Some of my favorites from the genre's listed are Marvin Gaye, Louis Armstrong, Bill Withers (Lean on Me), Al Green, and Nina Simone (listen to this specific song of hers and you'll understand a lot about the kind of person I am http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INLBcBGwr0g ). I also love Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison (their solo work, not too much of the Beatles), Bob Marley, Paul Simon, Johnny Cash, Bruce Springsteen, Randy Newman, and too many more to name- I'm an old soul. I also love Hindu instrumental music, Asian, Arabic and Indian acappella songs of worship, African children choir "chanting" type music, classical music, and old sad Russian music, lol. Even though I can't understand any of the just listed, it moves my soul and gives me goose bumps.”
That is quite a wide spectrum, which is why I’d rather quote Dave than try to paraphrase him. I think it’s simple enough to say he loved music. Except that I want to add that I introduced him to Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, and Bruce Springsteen. At one point, he and I bought harmonicas because we were supposedly going to learn together, and possibly create a band in which he was the guitarist and I the harmonicaist.
I imagine that if the need for Dave was elsewhere any more imperative, it was in heaven due to his musical prowess. Heaven needs his musical expertise more than we here on earth do. This, if true, makes his death a little more bearable.
Dave, as I've said elsewhere in this blog, could play a mean guitar. You could sometimes feel his soul reverberating through a playing of "Stairway to Heaven" or "Creep." The goosebumps would run up my arms and back, and I'd say to myself, Man, my brother can play! He eventually entered the John Lennon Songwriting Contest because he was that good, but nothing ever came of it. I think that part of the reason he decided not to pursue music full-time early on is that he didn't think that he was that good. But inside him flowed deep reservoirs of genius!
His equipment were the toys of a music virtuoso. Everything from pianos to keyboards to microphones, he needed and had it all. He didn't actually have a music studio in his apartment but he often said he did, so when he died I was surprised to discover that he indeed had the equipment for more or less a full-faceted studio but the items were scattered about. This is merely a peak at the side of him that loved to embellish things.
However, with all the music programs installed on his laptop, there is no doubt that Dave had a full-blown, state-of-the-art studio. How many hundreds of years would it have taken him to even scratch the surface of this colossal library?
I often try to find a theme in the songs that most resonated with Dave. There doesn't seem to be one. Most of these songs are simply what he described as anthems. Though he never gave a clear definition of what an anthem meant to him, I take it that he meant what it means to everyone: a song of praise or devotion. A song of success. Since this is all he aimed at, this is all that captivated his attention.
I was regularly bombarded by Dave's anthems when he still lived here. Given that his room was next to mine, they would blast through the wall and often awake me like a glass of cold water. It was 6:55am and all of a sudden, from seemingly nowhere, "Mo' Money, Mo' Problems" would roar into my ears. It was almost like being electrocuted.
I can imagine him now in heaven, leading the choir. He's a celestial Beethoven whose job is to make heaven's music shine.
“And like I said, hip hop is only one of my loves. Although I've been playing the guitar and dreaming of being a "rock star" since I was 14, I actually hated hip hop until I was about 17, lol. I'm now 26. I thought it was just stupid that they spoke their words instead of singing them. It just seemed very unskilled and talentless (I now realize that it takes a lot of talent to be a great mc). One day my best friend forced me to listen to it and after a few songs, I just "got it". However I love the blues, jazz, MoTown style soul music from the 60's-early 80's. Some of my favorites from the genre's listed are Marvin Gaye, Louis Armstrong, Bill Withers (Lean on Me), Al Green, and Nina Simone (listen to this specific song of hers and you'll understand a lot about the kind of person I am http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INLBcBGwr0g ). I also love Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison (their solo work, not too much of the Beatles), Bob Marley, Paul Simon, Johnny Cash, Bruce Springsteen, Randy Newman, and too many more to name- I'm an old soul. I also love Hindu instrumental music, Asian, Arabic and Indian acappella songs of worship, African children choir "chanting" type music, classical music, and old sad Russian music, lol. Even though I can't understand any of the just listed, it moves my soul and gives me goose bumps.”
That is quite a wide spectrum, which is why I’d rather quote Dave than try to paraphrase him. I think it’s simple enough to say he loved music. Except that I want to add that I introduced him to Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, and Bruce Springsteen. At one point, he and I bought harmonicas because we were supposedly going to learn together, and possibly create a band in which he was the guitarist and I the harmonicaist.
I imagine that if the need for Dave was elsewhere any more imperative, it was in heaven due to his musical prowess. Heaven needs his musical expertise more than we here on earth do. This, if true, makes his death a little more bearable.
Dave, as I've said elsewhere in this blog, could play a mean guitar. You could sometimes feel his soul reverberating through a playing of "Stairway to Heaven" or "Creep." The goosebumps would run up my arms and back, and I'd say to myself, Man, my brother can play! He eventually entered the John Lennon Songwriting Contest because he was that good, but nothing ever came of it. I think that part of the reason he decided not to pursue music full-time early on is that he didn't think that he was that good. But inside him flowed deep reservoirs of genius!
His equipment were the toys of a music virtuoso. Everything from pianos to keyboards to microphones, he needed and had it all. He didn't actually have a music studio in his apartment but he often said he did, so when he died I was surprised to discover that he indeed had the equipment for more or less a full-faceted studio but the items were scattered about. This is merely a peak at the side of him that loved to embellish things.
However, with all the music programs installed on his laptop, there is no doubt that Dave had a full-blown, state-of-the-art studio. How many hundreds of years would it have taken him to even scratch the surface of this colossal library?
I often try to find a theme in the songs that most resonated with Dave. There doesn't seem to be one. Most of these songs are simply what he described as anthems. Though he never gave a clear definition of what an anthem meant to him, I take it that he meant what it means to everyone: a song of praise or devotion. A song of success. Since this is all he aimed at, this is all that captivated his attention.
I was regularly bombarded by Dave's anthems when he still lived here. Given that his room was next to mine, they would blast through the wall and often awake me like a glass of cold water. It was 6:55am and all of a sudden, from seemingly nowhere, "Mo' Money, Mo' Problems" would roar into my ears. It was almost like being electrocuted.
I can imagine him now in heaven, leading the choir. He's a celestial Beethoven whose job is to make heaven's music shine.
Song written and performed by Dave, "I Wish I Could See You Tonight"
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Four Essential Daveisms
Four things characterized Dave's physical persona: his voice, smirk, walk and glasses. These were his personal signatures. Wherever he went, he was immediately recognized by these, for lack of a worse term, Daveisms. He could whisper in a cave and the deepness of his voice would reverberate outside; he could suddenly warm your heart with his smirk; his shuffling gait could make you smile with fondness; his glasses--. I don't know what to say about his glasses except that they weren't the most attractive pair.
His voice wasn't always deep. In fact, it used to be squeaky when he was little. However, little by lot, it turned into a smooth and elegant baritone that would make Barry White red with envy. Smooth talking the ladies, therefore, was never a hardship for Dave. However, this same voice made him the butt of endless jokes and impersonations from high school onward. He never minded these; in fact, he seemed to take an indulgent pleasure from them. He knew his voice was a gift, and for this reason and others, he genuinely loved to hear himself talk. This is perhaps the reason why he loved ball-hogging conversations.
His smirk lit you up like a lantern. Dave could say just about any horrible thing, and then almost at once make you forget it with his little smirk. All it was was a wrinkling of the side of his lip, but it could move mountains. Even now, I get ticklish inside as I see his smirk in my mind's eye. This and his voice are the two things I remember most vividly about him. Every thought that I have of him finishes with glimpses of these two things: a thunderous voice, followed by a soft, friendly smirk.
I've spoken about his walk before. Dave shuffled his way through life. His walk consisted of a side-to-side waddle that was punctuated by a constant raising of his pants. Maybe his baggy jeans were what caused his shuffling gait. He very rarely speedwalked because I think that comfort was primary for him when walking, and, sloppily put, his baggy pants didn't mix well with speedwalking. Besides, I think he deemed his walk regal and grandiose, and any alteration of it was essentially a compromise of pride he didn't want to make.
His glasses were too big for him! But maybe I am picky about this because I am by nature uninviting of lens that are bigger than my eyes. For me to put on glasses (which I have to every day), they have to be small. I'm talking Clark Kent small. I think that he probably fell in love with his glasses either because he wasn't particularly picky about glasses or some inexplicable love for them befell him. Be it what it may, he wore them just about 24/7--for one exception! He never wore them out on dates. This is why I suspect that he knew deep inside that they weren't likeable, at least to the majority of people. He might've loved them, but he was nevertheless self-conscious of them.
Dave is a mosaic made up of those four distinct physical qualities. You have to step back to take in the whole. It's a beautiful, beautiful sight. This is the essential Dave, regal and grandiose, simple yet profound. A true work of art.
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” John Keats
This self-taken photo of Dave highlights two of his essential Daveisms: his smirk and his glasses
His voice wasn't always deep. In fact, it used to be squeaky when he was little. However, little by lot, it turned into a smooth and elegant baritone that would make Barry White red with envy. Smooth talking the ladies, therefore, was never a hardship for Dave. However, this same voice made him the butt of endless jokes and impersonations from high school onward. He never minded these; in fact, he seemed to take an indulgent pleasure from them. He knew his voice was a gift, and for this reason and others, he genuinely loved to hear himself talk. This is perhaps the reason why he loved ball-hogging conversations.
His smirk lit you up like a lantern. Dave could say just about any horrible thing, and then almost at once make you forget it with his little smirk. All it was was a wrinkling of the side of his lip, but it could move mountains. Even now, I get ticklish inside as I see his smirk in my mind's eye. This and his voice are the two things I remember most vividly about him. Every thought that I have of him finishes with glimpses of these two things: a thunderous voice, followed by a soft, friendly smirk.
I've spoken about his walk before. Dave shuffled his way through life. His walk consisted of a side-to-side waddle that was punctuated by a constant raising of his pants. Maybe his baggy jeans were what caused his shuffling gait. He very rarely speedwalked because I think that comfort was primary for him when walking, and, sloppily put, his baggy pants didn't mix well with speedwalking. Besides, I think he deemed his walk regal and grandiose, and any alteration of it was essentially a compromise of pride he didn't want to make.
His glasses were too big for him! But maybe I am picky about this because I am by nature uninviting of lens that are bigger than my eyes. For me to put on glasses (which I have to every day), they have to be small. I'm talking Clark Kent small. I think that he probably fell in love with his glasses either because he wasn't particularly picky about glasses or some inexplicable love for them befell him. Be it what it may, he wore them just about 24/7--for one exception! He never wore them out on dates. This is why I suspect that he knew deep inside that they weren't likeable, at least to the majority of people. He might've loved them, but he was nevertheless self-conscious of them.
Dave is a mosaic made up of those four distinct physical qualities. You have to step back to take in the whole. It's a beautiful, beautiful sight. This is the essential Dave, regal and grandiose, simple yet profound. A true work of art.
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” John Keats
This self-taken photo of Dave highlights two of his essential Daveisms: his smirk and his glasses
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Keep Truckin', Dave
Dave's sense of humor was something unlike everyday humor. Though he liked going for the shock factor, all his jokes had a subtle intelligence that often went unnoticed the first time around. You often had to think back to what he said to get it. His humor, which was mostly characterized by a strange, disturbing savvy, formed one of his essential cornerstones.
It wasn't only in the form of jokes that it came, however. It took whatever form the situation required. A lot of it, naturally, was body humor. Dave often made use of the objects around him to enhance whatever point he was trying to make. He'd often perform some act on them that would make you laugh at first, then cringe.
It was often just a sound Dave made. That's all it took. Like the time that he imagined aloud what the love-making sounds of our heavyset neighbor would be. Whatever that was, it definitely sounded more like the squealing of a hog. And, obviously, this was the joke.
Mimicking people was a huge part of Dave’s repertoire. Whether it was the way a person talked or walked, or laughed, if it was distinguishable you could rely on him to make fun of it. He loved doing effeminate, old, and deep (no surprise) voices. When he got into character, it was hard to break him out of it.
Some of Dave’s humor came in the form of pictures, such as the one below in which he is pretending to be a Cardinals-lovin' trucker. There's another one of him strutting his moves while posing as a faux ballet dancer. That was Dave. He was an actor, if only for laughs.
And Dave seriously wanted to become a comedian one time. Inspired by Andrew Dice Clay and his all-time favorite George Carlin, he actually began working on routines. Maybe due to his greater interest in music, or some forgotten disillusionment, he quit the pursuit of comedy as a career but of course never quit being funny.
At Town Baptist, everyone knows Dave for his weekly The Dilbert Files. DF was a comic book written, drawn and created by him which used a fellow classmate, Dilbert, as the protagonist and, likewise, the butt of a whirlwind of jokes. DF became a cult classic, and his classmates often clamored for more. That was Dave. A comic artist, when needed.
When Dave and I were both studying radiography together, at Wright College, we took an Anatomy & Physiology class which would turn out to be the only class we ever took together. It was immediately apparent that he was a class clown. Every opportunity he got, he maximized it by making an abrupt joke. At one point during the semester, he raised his hand and said, "Yeah, so I know we're like in the middle of reviewing for a test, but my stomach is grumbling and I'm just wondering when we're gonna take a break." The entire class broke out in laughter almost at once. Though I simply smiled, I was supremely proud of my hilarious brother.
When Dave passed, he had a TV Guide cover hanging on the wall of his room; it read, Cheer Up! Wherever he is right now, I'm sure he's cheering up a lot of people. And that small fact brings me a world of comfort . . . and guffaws.
It wasn't only in the form of jokes that it came, however. It took whatever form the situation required. A lot of it, naturally, was body humor. Dave often made use of the objects around him to enhance whatever point he was trying to make. He'd often perform some act on them that would make you laugh at first, then cringe.
It was often just a sound Dave made. That's all it took. Like the time that he imagined aloud what the love-making sounds of our heavyset neighbor would be. Whatever that was, it definitely sounded more like the squealing of a hog. And, obviously, this was the joke.
Mimicking people was a huge part of Dave’s repertoire. Whether it was the way a person talked or walked, or laughed, if it was distinguishable you could rely on him to make fun of it. He loved doing effeminate, old, and deep (no surprise) voices. When he got into character, it was hard to break him out of it.
Some of Dave’s humor came in the form of pictures, such as the one below in which he is pretending to be a Cardinals-lovin' trucker. There's another one of him strutting his moves while posing as a faux ballet dancer. That was Dave. He was an actor, if only for laughs.
And Dave seriously wanted to become a comedian one time. Inspired by Andrew Dice Clay and his all-time favorite George Carlin, he actually began working on routines. Maybe due to his greater interest in music, or some forgotten disillusionment, he quit the pursuit of comedy as a career but of course never quit being funny.
At Town Baptist, everyone knows Dave for his weekly The Dilbert Files. DF was a comic book written, drawn and created by him which used a fellow classmate, Dilbert, as the protagonist and, likewise, the butt of a whirlwind of jokes. DF became a cult classic, and his classmates often clamored for more. That was Dave. A comic artist, when needed.
When Dave and I were both studying radiography together, at Wright College, we took an Anatomy & Physiology class which would turn out to be the only class we ever took together. It was immediately apparent that he was a class clown. Every opportunity he got, he maximized it by making an abrupt joke. At one point during the semester, he raised his hand and said, "Yeah, so I know we're like in the middle of reviewing for a test, but my stomach is grumbling and I'm just wondering when we're gonna take a break." The entire class broke out in laughter almost at once. Though I simply smiled, I was supremely proud of my hilarious brother.
When Dave passed, he had a TV Guide cover hanging on the wall of his room; it read, Cheer Up! Wherever he is right now, I'm sure he's cheering up a lot of people. And that small fact brings me a world of comfort . . . and guffaws.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The Last Conversation
The last face-to-face conversation between Dave and I was not a happy one. But it sure was fruitful.
While the conversation began amicably, it soon turned sour when Dave suggested that I start helping our mom more with her laptop. With this simple suggestion, he pressed a button inside me that triggered a Pandora's box of emotions. I just think that I was too brash and felt too smart for brotherly advice. I genuinely felt like, Where have you been this whole time I've been helping mom? And I did say something to that effect, but his response was simply to walk away.
However, something brought Dave back. I think it was utter disbelief that I had mouthed off to him for only a minor suggestion. I think that he was thinking that I was on my male period. The emotions on both sides were boiling over--over nothing. This was the great tragedy of our last meeting, that we fought for nothing.
But here's the triumph: that we solidified our relationship.
You see, in the last months of Dave's life we kept little contact. This became increasingly frustrating for me the more I came to admire him. I merely wanted a front seat to greatness. So I decided to take that opportunity of boiling emotions to make an emotional appeal: that he try to keep more contact with me. It was something that I didn't want to have to say, because up until that point he and I were always cool with the occasional brotherly get-together. But unbeknownst to him, a desire to see him more was simmering inside me. Not only did I want a front seat to greatness, but I wanted to watch his development as a self-taught virtuoso and be a traveler with him on that journey.
Dave acquiesced, and a few days later sent me an invite on Facebook. I added him, but never really wrote him anything. I regret that. In any event, I can't help but appreciate the gesture. It was one of the fondest gestures he'd ever shown to me, although no equal to the moment at the basketball court several years ago when he was preparing to leave to Miami to live with Alex: he told me he loved me. Or the moment when he stood up for me when some rabble-rousers were trying to beat me up. It was at the same place: the basketball court. So many memories.
Dave said something in that conversation that has since intrigued me. After discussing the hassles of dating Hispanic women and his great passion to pursue music, on his disbelief return trip, he said that he and I weren't going to have our mom forever. We had to absorb all that we could from her. This solemn and ironic observation has haunted my sleep.
Another item that haunts my sleep is that on that same day, right after he left, I thought to myself, Why didn't you just let that issue go? What if that's the last conversation you ever have with him? I was, and am still, studying the Tao Te Ching, and I knew well that making something out of nothing is not in harmony with the Tao. I thought about it for a few seconds and relinquished the thought. Little did I know that it would come back with sound and fury.
Life has ways of giving us cues. That was perhaps a cue for me to call Dave and apologize, though I did not. The very fact that he added me on Facebook and later helped me troubleshoot a computer issue over the phone tells me that he forgave me. However, the question of how, exactly, he perceived me when he died ambushes me during random moments. Like everything else, it's another mystery that he took to the grave with him.
The peace that Dave and I reconciled our relationship, however, will always harbor in me.
While the conversation began amicably, it soon turned sour when Dave suggested that I start helping our mom more with her laptop. With this simple suggestion, he pressed a button inside me that triggered a Pandora's box of emotions. I just think that I was too brash and felt too smart for brotherly advice. I genuinely felt like, Where have you been this whole time I've been helping mom? And I did say something to that effect, but his response was simply to walk away.
However, something brought Dave back. I think it was utter disbelief that I had mouthed off to him for only a minor suggestion. I think that he was thinking that I was on my male period. The emotions on both sides were boiling over--over nothing. This was the great tragedy of our last meeting, that we fought for nothing.
But here's the triumph: that we solidified our relationship.
You see, in the last months of Dave's life we kept little contact. This became increasingly frustrating for me the more I came to admire him. I merely wanted a front seat to greatness. So I decided to take that opportunity of boiling emotions to make an emotional appeal: that he try to keep more contact with me. It was something that I didn't want to have to say, because up until that point he and I were always cool with the occasional brotherly get-together. But unbeknownst to him, a desire to see him more was simmering inside me. Not only did I want a front seat to greatness, but I wanted to watch his development as a self-taught virtuoso and be a traveler with him on that journey.
Dave acquiesced, and a few days later sent me an invite on Facebook. I added him, but never really wrote him anything. I regret that. In any event, I can't help but appreciate the gesture. It was one of the fondest gestures he'd ever shown to me, although no equal to the moment at the basketball court several years ago when he was preparing to leave to Miami to live with Alex: he told me he loved me. Or the moment when he stood up for me when some rabble-rousers were trying to beat me up. It was at the same place: the basketball court. So many memories.
Dave said something in that conversation that has since intrigued me. After discussing the hassles of dating Hispanic women and his great passion to pursue music, on his disbelief return trip, he said that he and I weren't going to have our mom forever. We had to absorb all that we could from her. This solemn and ironic observation has haunted my sleep.
Another item that haunts my sleep is that on that same day, right after he left, I thought to myself, Why didn't you just let that issue go? What if that's the last conversation you ever have with him? I was, and am still, studying the Tao Te Ching, and I knew well that making something out of nothing is not in harmony with the Tao. I thought about it for a few seconds and relinquished the thought. Little did I know that it would come back with sound and fury.
Life has ways of giving us cues. That was perhaps a cue for me to call Dave and apologize, though I did not. The very fact that he added me on Facebook and later helped me troubleshoot a computer issue over the phone tells me that he forgave me. However, the question of how, exactly, he perceived me when he died ambushes me during random moments. Like everything else, it's another mystery that he took to the grave with him.
The peace that Dave and I reconciled our relationship, however, will always harbor in me.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
From Russia with Love
Dave was always fascinated with Russian life and culture. Looking back, I can't quite tell when this fascination began. Sometimes I wonder if it was when I gave him a copy of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. He gobbled this book, reading it in a matter of a couple of days. He then moved on to the longer Brothers Karamazov, but never quite finished this one. I think it was due to the fact that he had his hand everywhere: trigonometry (which he taught himself), business, religion, music. He was really exhausting his cognitive limits.
I like Tchaikovsky today because Dave loved Tchaikovsky. Even now, I can't find words to describe the enigmatic focus and intensity of Swan Lake, except but to echo Rilke's definition of music: the breathing of statues. Dave was fond of the self-taught musician who rose to prominence through sheer effort and genius. He was fond of it because he saw a little of himself in that story.
Not long ago, I saw a movie called Cold Souls that reminded me of Dave in so many ways. In the movie, Paul Giamatti plays a spiritually and professionally mangled version of himself. He deems storing his soul away in something akin to a futuristic storage warehouse the only solution to his problem. However, by storing away his soul, he only finds that his problems worsen. When he tries to retrieve his soul, he learns that it has been stolen and somehow has found its way into the Russian black market, where soul-buying, thievery and trading is quite common. His journey from this point forward becomes nothing less than the search for his soul.
I wonder if Dave sought his soul in Russian life and culture. Why was having a Russian partner so imperative? So much so that he transformed his keyboard from qwerty-English to Cyrillic Russian? Why the Russian neighbor he befriended, who was perhaps his closest link in the last months? That mystery is one that Dave took with him. No one but Dave knows where his soul was at the end, or where it went.
Sometimes I also wonder if Dave played Russian roulette with his life. I wonder if he considered the odds of dying during that fateful moment. Or, like Nick in The Deer Hunter, did he simply not care? These are questions that keep me up on sleepless nights, when the howling wind gnaws at my window.
Spirit of Dave is about life, not death. However, as a blog and as an open forum for discussion, it invites these questions; it seeks to address these contemplations, even if they are solely mine. It subscribes to Socrates' essential tenet, that the unexamined life is not worth living--not just yours, but everyone's. I'll take this further, however: the unexamined soul is not worth inhabiting. I think that that is ultimately what Paul Giamatti learns in the film. It is a lesson I can only hope Dave learned.
I like Tchaikovsky today because Dave loved Tchaikovsky. Even now, I can't find words to describe the enigmatic focus and intensity of Swan Lake, except but to echo Rilke's definition of music: the breathing of statues. Dave was fond of the self-taught musician who rose to prominence through sheer effort and genius. He was fond of it because he saw a little of himself in that story.
Not long ago, I saw a movie called Cold Souls that reminded me of Dave in so many ways. In the movie, Paul Giamatti plays a spiritually and professionally mangled version of himself. He deems storing his soul away in something akin to a futuristic storage warehouse the only solution to his problem. However, by storing away his soul, he only finds that his problems worsen. When he tries to retrieve his soul, he learns that it has been stolen and somehow has found its way into the Russian black market, where soul-buying, thievery and trading is quite common. His journey from this point forward becomes nothing less than the search for his soul.
I wonder if Dave sought his soul in Russian life and culture. Why was having a Russian partner so imperative? So much so that he transformed his keyboard from qwerty-English to Cyrillic Russian? Why the Russian neighbor he befriended, who was perhaps his closest link in the last months? That mystery is one that Dave took with him. No one but Dave knows where his soul was at the end, or where it went.
Sometimes I also wonder if Dave played Russian roulette with his life. I wonder if he considered the odds of dying during that fateful moment. Or, like Nick in The Deer Hunter, did he simply not care? These are questions that keep me up on sleepless nights, when the howling wind gnaws at my window.
Spirit of Dave is about life, not death. However, as a blog and as an open forum for discussion, it invites these questions; it seeks to address these contemplations, even if they are solely mine. It subscribes to Socrates' essential tenet, that the unexamined life is not worth living--not just yours, but everyone's. I'll take this further, however: the unexamined soul is not worth inhabiting. I think that that is ultimately what Paul Giamatti learns in the film. It is a lesson I can only hope Dave learned.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
At the Movies with Dave
Dave and I watched many movies in our short time together. The movies were always a favorite pastime for us. Everything from Faces of Death to Spanish action films starring Jorge Reynoso with our uncle Anival to Beavis and Butthead Do America in Miami (to the horror of Dave's dad, Damian). The movies provided entertainment and escape in a way that no other media form could.
One of the stronger memories of watching a movie with Dave also included our mom. That day, we went to the theater to watch Gladiator. We'd actually somehow managed to bring a box of pizza into the theater, whose job to carry was all but mine. I apologized to a woman sitting in front of us as the large square box eclipsed her upward vision. The movie was harrowing to the end. Dave and I sat neck in neck at the edge of our seats, captivated by the story of Maximus, though I closed my eyes whenever the goriness made my stomach queasy. Years later, when a drunken Russell Crowe approached me and offered me a cigarette after performing a gig at the House of Blues, all I thought was: "Damn, Maximus just offered me a cigarette!"
About a year before Dave's passing, we'd spent much of the trip to nearby Niles (to pick up a sofa he purchased) discussing movies. He wanted my picks for the year. I told him that Battle in Seattle was really good because it used handheld cameras to tell the story of the WTO riots. At that time he was watching Che (he would watch it in snippets of about thirty to forty minutes every day, which is why he had been watching it as opposed to having watched it). I was stunned when he asked me not to ruin the ending, because I thought he'd known the life of Che Guevara all too well: after all, I had about six books of his in the library at our home, which he must've browsed through at some point or another. I finally told him jokingly: "Well Che does die," to which he responded, "I know that!"
After Dave moved out, he borrowed most of the movies in my collection to make copies. I'm guessing that he watched on average something like a movie a day, which is my current average, though he probably watched multiple movies at once as opposed to watching one movie in one sitting. I used to watch him watch movies, and his patience often wore thin.
The most vivid movie-watching experience that we'd ever had actually took place over the course of a few days. During those two to three days in the summer of 2000, we sneaked into the theater everyday and watched Castaway at least twice, which amounts to about six viewings of a nearly three-hour movie. Something about this modern-day Robinson Crusoe resonated very deeply with us. And this was a saga that Dave could bear. (He often used the word saga to refer to anything that took a long time; a medical visit, therefore, could become a saga depending on how tardily the doctor saw him.)
Relationships are kept together by binding ties. The binding tie between my oldest brother, Alex, and me is sports--most of our best and most intimate conversations revolve around what trade, game, or controversy consumes the only three sports that matter to us: basketball, baseball and football. Dave and I had more than a few binding ties, but movies was definitely one of the more important ones. When we got together for any conversation that lasted over ten minutes, movie-talkin' would be on the agenda.
Dave subscribed to Blockbuster's movie-by-mail offer, and The Go-Getter was the current movie he had when he passed. He apparently had already watched it, sealed it, and only had to put it in the mailbox. When I looked at the title, it occurred to me that it perfectly described his character--he was a go-getter. When he decided that he'd pursue music, he let nothing get in his way. Additionally, the movie's protagonist is an alienated teenager. Dave suffered bouts of alienation (the song below describes this). Sometimes, I picture him and I in something like Borges' Library of Babel discussing The Stranger and The Metamorphosis. After all, I've been there too. We all have.
I'm an emotional movie-watcher, and it isn't rare for me to get red-eyed during sentimental scenes (particularly those aided by musical scores). Dave didn't share this "weakness," in his words, with me, but I could often see him tremble during climactic scenes. Now, whenever I watch a movie where a character dies, I especially have this weakness. The death of Sitka in Brother Bear was particularly distressing for me. At Sitka's funeral, I had to simply stop the movie as my emotions bubbled up. I eventually regathered myself and finished it.
One day, I hope to make a documentary about Dave. Not because he's my brother and I will always love him, but because he's a historical figure in every sense of the word. His intelligence and musical talent is unparalled in human existence, not to mention his joie de vivre, which is probably more important. I'm always reminded of him when I read Longfellow's "The Warden of the Cinque Ports":
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead;
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.
One of the stronger memories of watching a movie with Dave also included our mom. That day, we went to the theater to watch Gladiator. We'd actually somehow managed to bring a box of pizza into the theater, whose job to carry was all but mine. I apologized to a woman sitting in front of us as the large square box eclipsed her upward vision. The movie was harrowing to the end. Dave and I sat neck in neck at the edge of our seats, captivated by the story of Maximus, though I closed my eyes whenever the goriness made my stomach queasy. Years later, when a drunken Russell Crowe approached me and offered me a cigarette after performing a gig at the House of Blues, all I thought was: "Damn, Maximus just offered me a cigarette!"
After Dave moved out, he borrowed most of the movies in my collection to make copies. I'm guessing that he watched on average something like a movie a day, which is my current average, though he probably watched multiple movies at once as opposed to watching one movie in one sitting. I used to watch him watch movies, and his patience often wore thin.
The most vivid movie-watching experience that we'd ever had actually took place over the course of a few days. During those two to three days in the summer of 2000, we sneaked into the theater everyday and watched Castaway at least twice, which amounts to about six viewings of a nearly three-hour movie. Something about this modern-day Robinson Crusoe resonated very deeply with us. And this was a saga that Dave could bear. (He often used the word saga to refer to anything that took a long time; a medical visit, therefore, could become a saga depending on how tardily the doctor saw him.)
Relationships are kept together by binding ties. The binding tie between my oldest brother, Alex, and me is sports--most of our best and most intimate conversations revolve around what trade, game, or controversy consumes the only three sports that matter to us: basketball, baseball and football. Dave and I had more than a few binding ties, but movies was definitely one of the more important ones. When we got together for any conversation that lasted over ten minutes, movie-talkin' would be on the agenda.
Dave subscribed to Blockbuster's movie-by-mail offer, and The Go-Getter was the current movie he had when he passed. He apparently had already watched it, sealed it, and only had to put it in the mailbox. When I looked at the title, it occurred to me that it perfectly described his character--he was a go-getter. When he decided that he'd pursue music, he let nothing get in his way. Additionally, the movie's protagonist is an alienated teenager. Dave suffered bouts of alienation (the song below describes this). Sometimes, I picture him and I in something like Borges' Library of Babel discussing The Stranger and The Metamorphosis. After all, I've been there too. We all have.
I'm an emotional movie-watcher, and it isn't rare for me to get red-eyed during sentimental scenes (particularly those aided by musical scores). Dave didn't share this "weakness," in his words, with me, but I could often see him tremble during climactic scenes. Now, whenever I watch a movie where a character dies, I especially have this weakness. The death of Sitka in Brother Bear was particularly distressing for me. At Sitka's funeral, I had to simply stop the movie as my emotions bubbled up. I eventually regathered myself and finished it.
One day, I hope to make a documentary about Dave. Not because he's my brother and I will always love him, but because he's a historical figure in every sense of the word. His intelligence and musical talent is unparalled in human existence, not to mention his joie de vivre, which is probably more important. I'm always reminded of him when I read Longfellow's "The Warden of the Cinque Ports":
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead;
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.
Song composed and performed by Dave, "Little Girl"
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Conversations with Dave
Conversations with Dave were almost always spontaneous. By this I mean that they began spontaneously and focused on spontaneous things and events. They meandered at certain points and gradually changed from thing to thing to thing. However, the things always had one thing in common: they were symbiotic exchanges of influence.
Take, for example, our last conversation in person. The conversation began where our last had finished: he asked me if I’d seen any of the pick-up material that he’d burned for me. I told him that I had not gotten the chance yet. Swimmingly (which means fueled by his chattiness), the conversation moved along to the hassles of dating Hispanic women, his attempt to learn Russian in order to court Eastern European women, an aesthetic review of my ex-girlfriend (not good), spirituality and the nature of God (he argued that Conversations with God made God seem like a white suburbanite and therefore was tacky), and his passion to create music. The jump from wanting to learn Russian to the nature of God is a leap indeed, and it certainly didn’t occur this way--however, these are the items that I vividly remember, perhaps due to my own predisposition to them.
At this point in the conversation, Dave shifted gears to something that was more important to him: music.
Dave had been a musician since roughly the age of seventeen when, influenced by Jimi Hendrix, he began playing the guitar. (This time also coincided with his spiritual metamorphosis.) He played the electric guitar at first but soon found it either difficult or boring and from then on switched to the acoustic. The guitar soon became an escape from his daily mundane existence here at home. He referred to his guitar-playing moments as “jam sessions”. He matured as an artist, began appreciating the music of Bob Dylan and Bob Marley, and played the guitar while composing his own songs until his chronic pain prevented him. He also played the piano but never quite mastered it. The song sheet in his piano when he died was “You Are So Beautiful.” Maybe due to his pain, he put his music on hold as he studied to become, and became, a radiographer.
I saw a spark turn on inside of Dave as he described to me the type of music he wanted to create: music that would “move the masses.” He used countless hand gestures as he recounted the story of an old, frail Pablo Casals who, stricken with rheumatic pain, would nevertheless walk to his piano every day and play till the pain drained out of him. He continued: “When asked why he kept playing the same Bach concerto well into his nineties, he replied that he always noticed a little improvement.” He loved that story, and would use it to inspire himself whenever he felt pain or lacked inspiration.
Dave didn’t discuss his pain too much with me and I never asked him about it. I never thought that he was anything other than okay, which is why I’d question my mom whenever she used words such as “sickly” to describe him. Maybe he spoke to her more about it than to me. But deep down, I don’t think I would’ve ever been able to see him as sick. After all he’d always been my older, stronger brother, something nearing a superman. The knowledge that he had pain was always intellectual, but the reality that he was indeed sick didn’t come to me till I saw him lying on the floor dead that fateful night. It was then that all my mom had ever said of him came flooding back into my ears. I wonder, though: even if I would’ve broken through to his illness, what would that have resolved? Was Dave unreachable?
What Dave talked about was just about everything else. He was a really no-holds-barred, nothing-off-limits type of person. I guess what I really enjoyed about conversations with him was just that: that they were about every and any thing. And also that he brought a level of intelligence and rationality that not many people I’ve known have been able to bring. In short, he was my intellectual counterpart. In areas where he lacked, I teemed, and vice-versa. I often see us as a Hispanic, low-budget version of Frasier Crane and his younger brother Niles. I know he would’ve liked that one, especially since it was him that coined “low-budget” among us two.
On trips to the Dominican Republic with our mom, we’d pass the long hours talking. On top of that, we talked the only language we ever talked, which was English, beautiful and alien to hear in Dominicana. Once, a conversation ignited a daring game where he agreed to walk the rat-congested floor in our aunt’s house in Higüey for a peso, which amounts to about six cents in American currency. He won the bet (and therefore the peso from me) and yet I still didn’t wanna give it to him, though he ultimately forced me to do so--I was giving him what a peso could buy: cold water pouches, with the occasional flavored water choice.
What conversations with Dave ultimately represent is the influence that he was able to exert on me. Though he also used his life as a glowing example, his conversations more than anything helped construct my worldview. Maybe our worldviews are such that if looked at through an external lens, it is difficult to tell where his end and mine begin. To be sure, the conversations and the flow of knowledge was always symbiotic.
Les Brown often makes the observation that cemeteries are the wealthiest places on earth because they hold all the intrinsic worth of people’s deferred dreams. Dave died before he could really get started. He often referred to Malcolm Gladwell’s belief that true mastery of anything is gained only after 10,000 hours of practice, and he surmised that he was at 2,000 hours as of March 31, 2010, just two months shy of his passing. When his ex-girlfriend Gina told me that he told her that he enjoyed talking with me, I was happy to know he likewise enjoyed our conversations and to such an extent that he’d say so aloud. I think that more than the intellectual exchanges, he loved the fact that I believed in him. It kept him driven.
Every year on June 5, the day that Dave passed, we should all remind ourselves of our life’s priorities and whether we are living up to them. The reality is, that we should do this every day. See June 5th as a new New Year’s Day. The resolutions will be the priorities. There will be no fireworks and confetti, there will only be silent observation.
Take, for example, our last conversation in person. The conversation began where our last had finished: he asked me if I’d seen any of the pick-up material that he’d burned for me. I told him that I had not gotten the chance yet. Swimmingly (which means fueled by his chattiness), the conversation moved along to the hassles of dating Hispanic women, his attempt to learn Russian in order to court Eastern European women, an aesthetic review of my ex-girlfriend (not good), spirituality and the nature of God (he argued that Conversations with God made God seem like a white suburbanite and therefore was tacky), and his passion to create music. The jump from wanting to learn Russian to the nature of God is a leap indeed, and it certainly didn’t occur this way--however, these are the items that I vividly remember, perhaps due to my own predisposition to them.
At this point in the conversation, Dave shifted gears to something that was more important to him: music.
Dave had been a musician since roughly the age of seventeen when, influenced by Jimi Hendrix, he began playing the guitar. (This time also coincided with his spiritual metamorphosis.) He played the electric guitar at first but soon found it either difficult or boring and from then on switched to the acoustic. The guitar soon became an escape from his daily mundane existence here at home. He referred to his guitar-playing moments as “jam sessions”. He matured as an artist, began appreciating the music of Bob Dylan and Bob Marley, and played the guitar while composing his own songs until his chronic pain prevented him. He also played the piano but never quite mastered it. The song sheet in his piano when he died was “You Are So Beautiful.” Maybe due to his pain, he put his music on hold as he studied to become, and became, a radiographer.
I saw a spark turn on inside of Dave as he described to me the type of music he wanted to create: music that would “move the masses.” He used countless hand gestures as he recounted the story of an old, frail Pablo Casals who, stricken with rheumatic pain, would nevertheless walk to his piano every day and play till the pain drained out of him. He continued: “When asked why he kept playing the same Bach concerto well into his nineties, he replied that he always noticed a little improvement.” He loved that story, and would use it to inspire himself whenever he felt pain or lacked inspiration.
Dave didn’t discuss his pain too much with me and I never asked him about it. I never thought that he was anything other than okay, which is why I’d question my mom whenever she used words such as “sickly” to describe him. Maybe he spoke to her more about it than to me. But deep down, I don’t think I would’ve ever been able to see him as sick. After all he’d always been my older, stronger brother, something nearing a superman. The knowledge that he had pain was always intellectual, but the reality that he was indeed sick didn’t come to me till I saw him lying on the floor dead that fateful night. It was then that all my mom had ever said of him came flooding back into my ears. I wonder, though: even if I would’ve broken through to his illness, what would that have resolved? Was Dave unreachable?
What Dave talked about was just about everything else. He was a really no-holds-barred, nothing-off-limits type of person. I guess what I really enjoyed about conversations with him was just that: that they were about every and any thing. And also that he brought a level of intelligence and rationality that not many people I’ve known have been able to bring. In short, he was my intellectual counterpart. In areas where he lacked, I teemed, and vice-versa. I often see us as a Hispanic, low-budget version of Frasier Crane and his younger brother Niles. I know he would’ve liked that one, especially since it was him that coined “low-budget” among us two.
On trips to the Dominican Republic with our mom, we’d pass the long hours talking. On top of that, we talked the only language we ever talked, which was English, beautiful and alien to hear in Dominicana. Once, a conversation ignited a daring game where he agreed to walk the rat-congested floor in our aunt’s house in Higüey for a peso, which amounts to about six cents in American currency. He won the bet (and therefore the peso from me) and yet I still didn’t wanna give it to him, though he ultimately forced me to do so--I was giving him what a peso could buy: cold water pouches, with the occasional flavored water choice.
What conversations with Dave ultimately represent is the influence that he was able to exert on me. Though he also used his life as a glowing example, his conversations more than anything helped construct my worldview. Maybe our worldviews are such that if looked at through an external lens, it is difficult to tell where his end and mine begin. To be sure, the conversations and the flow of knowledge was always symbiotic.
Les Brown often makes the observation that cemeteries are the wealthiest places on earth because they hold all the intrinsic worth of people’s deferred dreams. Dave died before he could really get started. He often referred to Malcolm Gladwell’s belief that true mastery of anything is gained only after 10,000 hours of practice, and he surmised that he was at 2,000 hours as of March 31, 2010, just two months shy of his passing. When his ex-girlfriend Gina told me that he told her that he enjoyed talking with me, I was happy to know he likewise enjoyed our conversations and to such an extent that he’d say so aloud. I think that more than the intellectual exchanges, he loved the fact that I believed in him. It kept him driven.
Every year on June 5, the day that Dave passed, we should all remind ourselves of our life’s priorities and whether we are living up to them. The reality is, that we should do this every day. See June 5th as a new New Year’s Day. The resolutions will be the priorities. There will be no fireworks and confetti, there will only be silent observation.
Song composed and performed by Dave, "Come Home"
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
The Ever-Changing Dave
Change is hardly noticeable when it occurs in front of your face over a long period of time. That’s what happened to Dave: he changed forms but was only caught long after the act. He went from being thin and strongly-built to being husky, bespectacled and slightly hunchbacked. The irony of it is, that he actually became more handsome as he got older. It is too hard to explain this phenomenon in words, so I will shortly tell it in pictures.
Dave was never too muscular, but during the time that he spent living in Miami with Alex and trying to make it on his own, he managed to etch out what he himself would call “the body of a Greek god.” That, however, did not last long; he quickly lost the physique.
Dave began to wear glasses almost exclusively because he was bothered by the general discomfort of eye contacts. He didn’t like the process of having to put them on, either. He much preferred to have his eyes at will. Though my eye sight has also been poor, his was poorer, and I know this because I have put on his glasses before and felt numb from their power. This is ironic because I was the reader of us two. He read, but he didn’t have the same patience as me to dedicate to reading. Additionally, during the last three years of his life, he did do much reading; it just wasn’t in book form. His readings consisted of blogs, online encyclopedias, news outlets, instruction manuals (for his various gadgets), and The China Study. I don’t know if he ever learned to read music, but he could definitely play a mean guitar.
I also don’t know if his gait ever changed much; he sort of always shuffled his way through. He wasn’t fond of tight-fitting (or even remotely tight-fitting) clothes; he was more loving of loose, baggy jeans and joggers (never shorts). Maybe as a result of this, his walk was never quite right. But that was ok. That was Dave. As with everyone else, his antics and quirks were what made him uniquely him. These were the things that made him distinguishable and loveable.
Shortly prior to graduating from Town Baptist, Dave entered a pivotal phase of his life in which he began to question everything. I say pivotal because it was the first time that he really began to grow spiritually and mentally (though it wasn't immediately apparent). It was from the dazzle of these confused thoughts that he began to carve out his worldview, which ultimately was simple and beautiful.
During this time, Dave listened almost exclusively to alternative and heavy metal rock music. He was rebellious and would lash out when challenged. He also worked several dead-end jobs, unable to find something comfortable. He didn’t do much dating but I don’t think that this was intentional; it was merely a result of not having much of a dating pool. (You see, Town Baptist High School is small with very few students. And dating at that age, in any event, was looked down upon unless it was light and accompanied by the services of chaperones.)
Dave’s religion tumbled when confronted--in reality, bombarded--by the secular world. I think that at the heart of this tumble was his sexual angst. He was a 19-year-old virgin who was increasingly in the company of women--at work, school, and wherever he and his best friend, Ramon, went. Biblical quandaries began to bother him; for example, how was the Bible holy if it was written by man? If salvation was permanent, didn’t that then mean that people like Hitler could go to heaven? Holy Baptist Church was never able to give him satisfactory answers to these questions, and he was never able to reconcile his doubts again, resulting in his stopping to attend. (He also wasn’t all too happy when one of the members of the church, who came closer than anyone else to being a father figure to him, broke all of his rock CD’s--well over a hundred dollars’ worth of music.)
Dave never converted to atheism, but he did embrace his agnosticism and would flaunt it like a medallion whenever the topic of religion came up. He’d graduated from Town Baptist only a few months back, and he was being pressured by the church members to continue on to their college. But he was stubborn in his agnostic stance. Marilyn Manson was too entrenched in his brain to even allow a consideration of HBC’s college.
From this point forward, Dave matured and began to look for a career that would provide him a great income and job security. He found that career in radiography, and as soon as he knew that that was what he wanted to do his will became ironclad. He immediately raised the necessary money to have his criminal record, resulting from a shoplifting charge, expunged. He took all the necessary prerequisites and in seemingly no time had been accepted into Malcolm X College’s radiography program.
When in the program, Dave's friendship with Ramon was practically put on hold as he toiled his way through homework, projects, quizzes and tests. He attended school full-time and was only able to work part-time up until he began his clinical training. After that point, it was all Malcolm X. He attended classes and clinicals practically all day Mondays to Fridays, and spent the weekends locked up in his room studying. For the first time ever, I saw a side of him that I’d never seen before: the studious side. His study habits were more than impressive. It wasn’t rare for him to briefly step out of his room to fetch something from the refrigerator while going over his lesson aloud. He also tape-recorded his lectures, and I’d often hear his professors chattering away in fuzzy voices while passing his room.
Eventually, Malcolm X College participated in a Jeopardy-like contest to determine what was the best radiography program in the state of Illinois. Not surprisingly, Dave was chosen to be the captain of his team. This made him very happy, and he accordingly stepped up his study habits. Instead of studying four hours a day, he would now study five; instead of merely tape-recording his lectures, he would actually go out and rent telecourses that covered the same material.
During the last few years, Dave was quiet and introverted. While he still had his signature sardonic sense of humor, full with his sharp sallies and witty social observations, he kept this mostly to himself unless prodded. In conversation, however, he was often chatty and run-on. I realize now that this may have been an attempt to compensate for his introvertedness.
He didn't leave with neither a bang nor a whimper. He simply shuffled his way through.
Old Dave
New Dave
Dave on his graduation
Dave was never too muscular, but during the time that he spent living in Miami with Alex and trying to make it on his own, he managed to etch out what he himself would call “the body of a Greek god.” That, however, did not last long; he quickly lost the physique.
Dave began to wear glasses almost exclusively because he was bothered by the general discomfort of eye contacts. He didn’t like the process of having to put them on, either. He much preferred to have his eyes at will. Though my eye sight has also been poor, his was poorer, and I know this because I have put on his glasses before and felt numb from their power. This is ironic because I was the reader of us two. He read, but he didn’t have the same patience as me to dedicate to reading. Additionally, during the last three years of his life, he did do much reading; it just wasn’t in book form. His readings consisted of blogs, online encyclopedias, news outlets, instruction manuals (for his various gadgets), and The China Study. I don’t know if he ever learned to read music, but he could definitely play a mean guitar.
I also don’t know if his gait ever changed much; he sort of always shuffled his way through. He wasn’t fond of tight-fitting (or even remotely tight-fitting) clothes; he was more loving of loose, baggy jeans and joggers (never shorts). Maybe as a result of this, his walk was never quite right. But that was ok. That was Dave. As with everyone else, his antics and quirks were what made him uniquely him. These were the things that made him distinguishable and loveable.
Shortly prior to graduating from Town Baptist, Dave entered a pivotal phase of his life in which he began to question everything. I say pivotal because it was the first time that he really began to grow spiritually and mentally (though it wasn't immediately apparent). It was from the dazzle of these confused thoughts that he began to carve out his worldview, which ultimately was simple and beautiful.
During this time, Dave listened almost exclusively to alternative and heavy metal rock music. He was rebellious and would lash out when challenged. He also worked several dead-end jobs, unable to find something comfortable. He didn’t do much dating but I don’t think that this was intentional; it was merely a result of not having much of a dating pool. (You see, Town Baptist High School is small with very few students. And dating at that age, in any event, was looked down upon unless it was light and accompanied by the services of chaperones.)
Dave’s religion tumbled when confronted--in reality, bombarded--by the secular world. I think that at the heart of this tumble was his sexual angst. He was a 19-year-old virgin who was increasingly in the company of women--at work, school, and wherever he and his best friend, Ramon, went. Biblical quandaries began to bother him; for example, how was the Bible holy if it was written by man? If salvation was permanent, didn’t that then mean that people like Hitler could go to heaven? Holy Baptist Church was never able to give him satisfactory answers to these questions, and he was never able to reconcile his doubts again, resulting in his stopping to attend. (He also wasn’t all too happy when one of the members of the church, who came closer than anyone else to being a father figure to him, broke all of his rock CD’s--well over a hundred dollars’ worth of music.)
Dave never converted to atheism, but he did embrace his agnosticism and would flaunt it like a medallion whenever the topic of religion came up. He’d graduated from Town Baptist only a few months back, and he was being pressured by the church members to continue on to their college. But he was stubborn in his agnostic stance. Marilyn Manson was too entrenched in his brain to even allow a consideration of HBC’s college.
From this point forward, Dave matured and began to look for a career that would provide him a great income and job security. He found that career in radiography, and as soon as he knew that that was what he wanted to do his will became ironclad. He immediately raised the necessary money to have his criminal record, resulting from a shoplifting charge, expunged. He took all the necessary prerequisites and in seemingly no time had been accepted into Malcolm X College’s radiography program.
When in the program, Dave's friendship with Ramon was practically put on hold as he toiled his way through homework, projects, quizzes and tests. He attended school full-time and was only able to work part-time up until he began his clinical training. After that point, it was all Malcolm X. He attended classes and clinicals practically all day Mondays to Fridays, and spent the weekends locked up in his room studying. For the first time ever, I saw a side of him that I’d never seen before: the studious side. His study habits were more than impressive. It wasn’t rare for him to briefly step out of his room to fetch something from the refrigerator while going over his lesson aloud. He also tape-recorded his lectures, and I’d often hear his professors chattering away in fuzzy voices while passing his room.
Eventually, Malcolm X College participated in a Jeopardy-like contest to determine what was the best radiography program in the state of Illinois. Not surprisingly, Dave was chosen to be the captain of his team. This made him very happy, and he accordingly stepped up his study habits. Instead of studying four hours a day, he would now study five; instead of merely tape-recording his lectures, he would actually go out and rent telecourses that covered the same material.
During the last few years, Dave was quiet and introverted. While he still had his signature sardonic sense of humor, full with his sharp sallies and witty social observations, he kept this mostly to himself unless prodded. In conversation, however, he was often chatty and run-on. I realize now that this may have been an attempt to compensate for his introvertedness.
He didn't leave with neither a bang nor a whimper. He simply shuffled his way through.
Old Dave
New Dave
Dave on his graduation
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Dave, Modern-Day Casanova
Earlier today, I received something in the way of a mailed postcard. The postcard came from a name I didn’t immediately recognize. Not because of my bad memory but because the certain young woman, who, to be sure, is already quickly approaching middle age, had apparently gotten married and changed her last name to match her husband’s. In fact, the letter was mailed only Mr and Mrs followed by the husband’s full name. I thought to myself, How sad, given that Dave loved that woman and would write letters and songs about her all the time. Unfortunately for him, as with many other women he pursued, this woman didn’t share his amorous affections.
She expressed her grief in the letter and mentioned the fact that Dave pretended to be tough but deep inside was a sensitive man. I don’t deny this (in fact, I can personally attest to it), but the woman, who we will call Nancy, knew his sensitive side all too well—-she’d been serenaded by him before and almost only exclusively knew this side of him. But theirs was a difficult "relationship," too, because besides the fact that Nancy didn’t share his affections, they both were products of Holy Baptist Church. She attended the college and he attended the high school. This was one of many more stigmas that ensured that the relationship was doomed from the beginning.
Dave was a modern-day Casanova, or Don Juan: he knew a beautiful woman when he saw one, and he’d go after her with all he had. He, along with the nextdoor neighbor’s ex-boyfriend and baby daddy who attended grammar and high school with me, taught me all I know about chasing tail, though I have always tried to be more moderate in my pursuit than him.
I don’t think Dave ever got the woman that he truly wanted, but he felt himself lucky nevertheless to have had the privilege of dating more than a handful of beautiful women. Besides, he always felt that he would always find the woman his heart desired. He was learning Cyrillic, or the Russian alphabet, in order to communicate (and ultimately conquer) women of Europe’s Eastern bloc countries. His laptop had—-and still has-—the Cyrillic letters written in marker over the corresponding qwerty key arrangement, and he had actually managed to learn to speak a little bit. The following is from a note he’d written to a young European woman he’d met online:
Привет. Вы очень красивы. К сожалению, я пока не говорю по-русски. Однако, Я Обучения. Говорите ли вы по-английски? Мне бы хотелось узнать о тебе побольше. Для меня это весьма необычный способ знакомства. Однако, Я хотел бы переписываться с вами. Я надеюсь услышать от вас обратно.
Just in case the above message was terrible, and in the hopes that you understand a little English, I am also writing this in English. I think you are very beautiful. I would like to know more about you and get to know you better. Even though I usually don’t meet people in this way, I want to try and get to know new friends. I hope to hear back from you.
I always envied him for his Casanova ways, especially as the years passed and I felt I’d eclipsed him in looks. But whether or not I thought it unfair that he pulled more women, I still respected and deeply admired him for it. I modeled my game after him; for example, I would approach a woman pretending to know or have known her only in order to be able to spark a conversation from a common ground perspective—-one of his favorite techniques. In my mind, I had created a glorious dynasty of female conquest that had started with him and continued with me. (For some reason, Alex, who from early youth up until marriage had been the biggest playa of us all, was excluded from this great dynasty. I guess distance really does do wonders.) And I always relentlessly sought his approval. Every girl that came in through the door with me was a girl I ultimately wanted Dave to see and approve with a favorable comment.
The good thing in all of this was that you could rely on Dave’s honesty: he would tell you what he really thought about whoever you were dating. He didn’t, for example, like Brenda, my ex-girlfriend of two years. His favorite two words when describing a woman not easy on the eyes were ‘man’ and ‘beast.’ Since he was honest, I decided to be honest with him. I let it be known that I wasn’t all too cool with one of his girlfriends' unpleasant voice.
As with everybody else, Dave had his ups and downs, his triumphs and downfalls. He saw the best of them and the worst. Some of the girls he brought home, especially during the summertime when they were so easy to get, were drop-dead hideous. But it was okay, this was forgivable; he, after all, was steadily improving his game. He always took one step back and two steps forward. He learned from great men: Mystery and Paul Janka. Though he personally didn’t consider himself a pickup artist, he enjoyed watching them at work when there was nothing to do at his job. This went in rhythm with his perfectionism. It’s like he reminded a female admirer in one of his online correspondences, in regards to his music: “I don’t think that you can ever stop getting better.”
Dave and I always had a weakness for the ladies. And when you’re a red-blooded, young Latin male who is teeming with testosterone, having a weakness for the ladies can prove to be more than a simple pastime. Many years earlier, I had what I called the Tour of Chicago, a series of self-scheduled visits to many Chicago public high schools for the sole purpose of bringing up my phone-number-getting statistics. During this notorious tour, which lasted all of two months, I’d managed to rack up a lot of numbers, but no action. A lot of juice, but no punch. He never knew I was up to this, even though he was still living with me at the time. Even though The Tour was an homage to his pimp juice, he would’ve surely seen it as a waste of time (which is why I remained mum about it). It definitely didn’t come from his playbook.
Dave believed there was power in numbers, and online he found the numbers he wanted. By means of a slew of social networking and dating sites, he (and later I) discovered a throng of women and opportunity inexistent in everyday life. With a one-sentence message, forwarded multiple times over, he was able to solicit the affections of many worthwhile women. It was really during this time that his numbers blew up; that he came into his element as a playa. For the next year or so, after which time his numbers would begin to taper off, he flirted with a success that he thought himself incapable of attaining only a few short months back. In fact, he would never reach his one-girl-every-two-weeks levels again. But boy did he have fun while it lasted.
Shortly thereafter, I myself also experienced a dating “hey day” akin to Dave’s. Like his, mine was violently short, thriving and dying in about a year’s time. You see, the inherent problem with any social dating site is that after so long you’re gonna run out of your selection pool-—you’ve already written everyone! At this point, you either have to wait on new members to join or simply revert to the old-fashion way of doing things: meeting women in person. With few choices left, this is what we both did, though by now we found ourselves tired and unable to give the same energy to the effort as before (he because of his career acquisition and me because of school). So now we were essentially worse than when we’d started. Among the lessons that this taught us, is that women can be oh so tiring.
However, Dave did accomplish a feat that I wasn't able to: he was able to maintain a relationship for over a year with somebody he met online. He and Gina were together for over three years; they'd broken up only a few months before he passed. My longest "online relationship" lasted only 3 months—-3 months of which not much happened.
Dave, like I am now, had become a one-woman man after he met Gina. Even though their relationship didn't work, it gave him the drive to only want to be with one woman. He described her to me precisely as he envisioned her: beautiful, feminine, graceful, a woman who would worship him and to whom he would write a song and serenade every night.
I believe that this life is simply one episode in a long series of episodes. Dave is still around—-somewhere. I'm betting that he'll find that woman soon, if he hasn't already.
She expressed her grief in the letter and mentioned the fact that Dave pretended to be tough but deep inside was a sensitive man. I don’t deny this (in fact, I can personally attest to it), but the woman, who we will call Nancy, knew his sensitive side all too well—-she’d been serenaded by him before and almost only exclusively knew this side of him. But theirs was a difficult "relationship," too, because besides the fact that Nancy didn’t share his affections, they both were products of Holy Baptist Church. She attended the college and he attended the high school. This was one of many more stigmas that ensured that the relationship was doomed from the beginning.
Dave was a modern-day Casanova, or Don Juan: he knew a beautiful woman when he saw one, and he’d go after her with all he had. He, along with the nextdoor neighbor’s ex-boyfriend and baby daddy who attended grammar and high school with me, taught me all I know about chasing tail, though I have always tried to be more moderate in my pursuit than him.
I don’t think Dave ever got the woman that he truly wanted, but he felt himself lucky nevertheless to have had the privilege of dating more than a handful of beautiful women. Besides, he always felt that he would always find the woman his heart desired. He was learning Cyrillic, or the Russian alphabet, in order to communicate (and ultimately conquer) women of Europe’s Eastern bloc countries. His laptop had—-and still has-—the Cyrillic letters written in marker over the corresponding qwerty key arrangement, and he had actually managed to learn to speak a little bit. The following is from a note he’d written to a young European woman he’d met online:
Привет. Вы очень красивы. К сожалению, я пока не говорю по-русски. Однако, Я Обучения. Говорите ли вы по-английски? Мне бы хотелось узнать о тебе побольше. Для меня это весьма необычный способ знакомства. Однако, Я хотел бы переписываться с вами. Я надеюсь услышать от вас обратно.
Just in case the above message was terrible, and in the hopes that you understand a little English, I am also writing this in English. I think you are very beautiful. I would like to know more about you and get to know you better. Even though I usually don’t meet people in this way, I want to try and get to know new friends. I hope to hear back from you.
I always envied him for his Casanova ways, especially as the years passed and I felt I’d eclipsed him in looks. But whether or not I thought it unfair that he pulled more women, I still respected and deeply admired him for it. I modeled my game after him; for example, I would approach a woman pretending to know or have known her only in order to be able to spark a conversation from a common ground perspective—-one of his favorite techniques. In my mind, I had created a glorious dynasty of female conquest that had started with him and continued with me. (For some reason, Alex, who from early youth up until marriage had been the biggest playa of us all, was excluded from this great dynasty. I guess distance really does do wonders.) And I always relentlessly sought his approval. Every girl that came in through the door with me was a girl I ultimately wanted Dave to see and approve with a favorable comment.
The good thing in all of this was that you could rely on Dave’s honesty: he would tell you what he really thought about whoever you were dating. He didn’t, for example, like Brenda, my ex-girlfriend of two years. His favorite two words when describing a woman not easy on the eyes were ‘man’ and ‘beast.’ Since he was honest, I decided to be honest with him. I let it be known that I wasn’t all too cool with one of his girlfriends' unpleasant voice.
As with everybody else, Dave had his ups and downs, his triumphs and downfalls. He saw the best of them and the worst. Some of the girls he brought home, especially during the summertime when they were so easy to get, were drop-dead hideous. But it was okay, this was forgivable; he, after all, was steadily improving his game. He always took one step back and two steps forward. He learned from great men: Mystery and Paul Janka. Though he personally didn’t consider himself a pickup artist, he enjoyed watching them at work when there was nothing to do at his job. This went in rhythm with his perfectionism. It’s like he reminded a female admirer in one of his online correspondences, in regards to his music: “I don’t think that you can ever stop getting better.”
Dave and I always had a weakness for the ladies. And when you’re a red-blooded, young Latin male who is teeming with testosterone, having a weakness for the ladies can prove to be more than a simple pastime. Many years earlier, I had what I called the Tour of Chicago, a series of self-scheduled visits to many Chicago public high schools for the sole purpose of bringing up my phone-number-getting statistics. During this notorious tour, which lasted all of two months, I’d managed to rack up a lot of numbers, but no action. A lot of juice, but no punch. He never knew I was up to this, even though he was still living with me at the time. Even though The Tour was an homage to his pimp juice, he would’ve surely seen it as a waste of time (which is why I remained mum about it). It definitely didn’t come from his playbook.
Dave believed there was power in numbers, and online he found the numbers he wanted. By means of a slew of social networking and dating sites, he (and later I) discovered a throng of women and opportunity inexistent in everyday life. With a one-sentence message, forwarded multiple times over, he was able to solicit the affections of many worthwhile women. It was really during this time that his numbers blew up; that he came into his element as a playa. For the next year or so, after which time his numbers would begin to taper off, he flirted with a success that he thought himself incapable of attaining only a few short months back. In fact, he would never reach his one-girl-every-two-weeks levels again. But boy did he have fun while it lasted.
Shortly thereafter, I myself also experienced a dating “hey day” akin to Dave’s. Like his, mine was violently short, thriving and dying in about a year’s time. You see, the inherent problem with any social dating site is that after so long you’re gonna run out of your selection pool-—you’ve already written everyone! At this point, you either have to wait on new members to join or simply revert to the old-fashion way of doing things: meeting women in person. With few choices left, this is what we both did, though by now we found ourselves tired and unable to give the same energy to the effort as before (he because of his career acquisition and me because of school). So now we were essentially worse than when we’d started. Among the lessons that this taught us, is that women can be oh so tiring.
However, Dave did accomplish a feat that I wasn't able to: he was able to maintain a relationship for over a year with somebody he met online. He and Gina were together for over three years; they'd broken up only a few months before he passed. My longest "online relationship" lasted only 3 months—-3 months of which not much happened.
Dave, like I am now, had become a one-woman man after he met Gina. Even though their relationship didn't work, it gave him the drive to only want to be with one woman. He described her to me precisely as he envisioned her: beautiful, feminine, graceful, a woman who would worship him and to whom he would write a song and serenade every night.
I believe that this life is simply one episode in a long series of episodes. Dave is still around—-somewhere. I'm betting that he'll find that woman soon, if he hasn't already.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)