Cognizant

I call "Dad, dad," but Dad doesn't answer and I feel strange. I know it's his hearing, I see him, he's right there watching TV, cognizant, cognizant. If I'd screamed, "Dad," he'd turn my way, cognizant, as if I'd whispered and would ask what I wanted, cognizant. These are the shortest, coldest days.

I watched the original Walking Tall with Dad last night and couldn't tell if the film was taking itself seriously, until the end. The bitter end: how could an ending not be tragic? How could it not be unrelentingly cruel? The credits rolled. I felt sick. Dad's eyes were open, wide open, and cognizant, but he was so quiet and still; I hoped he was breathing. What else could we do? There was a strong, cheesy smell coming up from the carpet. We were cognizant of it all.

If I hadn't killed Tony, would I remember him now?
What if I hurt him a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, a million times, but he was alive and well, would I remember him now?
Would I think about him, in flashes, whenever the world got quiet?
Would I remember him now, after having watched Walking Tall , sitting beside Dad, would I?
Would Tony say, "Curt, Curt." Would he say, "Curt, Curt," if I hadn't killed him?
Would I have noticed something different about him, on the inside, somehow less magical, colder and less hopeful, meaner.
He was so full of hope when I killed him.
Would he be full of hope now?
Would I grow tired of him?
Would he grow tired of me?
Would he try a little less to be a friend?
Would I try a little more?
Would we be cognizant of these changes?
Would I say, "Tony, Tony," and would I say "Tony, Tony," and would he say, "You're killing me, Curt."

I spotted two owls a few days ago before the sun set. They were large and beautiful. I stood below them, moved. One owl took off, flapped wildly to another tree.

The other struggled to keep up.

2 Years!

Guy and I used to try and watch movies together. Watching movies isn't necessarily a very hard thing to do, but Guy and I could never make it through a whole movie for some reason. We would always get a ways into something, and then he would fall asleep and I would go home, or he would decide that he didn't want to finish for whatever reason. He used to say he knew whether a movie was great or not by whether he could make it through a second sitting without being bored, and if he could, that meant it was exceptional. But he rarely could sit through any movies a second time, and he never wanted to watch anything new because he would get angry if a movie was really bad and lots of movies are very bad and he always said it wasn't worth the stress to find something good. So we rewatched lots of movies he remembered being okay in the 80's that I probably missed and then quitting and starting all over on something else. That happened two hours into Amadeus. And some part of the way through Broadcast News. And that was how I got into Breaking Away, but I had to finish it at home. Zelig, too.

Sometimes, it's nice to start things. And it's also good to finish what you start. Some things have a natural ending, some things you have to work hard to stop them, and some things just keep going because whoever started it is stubborn or stupid or both. Two years ago, on this day, I started writing about butter. I don't write so much anymore--not on this blog, anyway--but the Betterbutterblog still exists, and that's something.

Happy anniversary, Betterbutterblog.