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

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.

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 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.

Song written and performed by Dave, "I Wish I Could See You Tonight"

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

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.

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.