die_with_a_hammer_in_my_hand werewolf they told me that when my father died, my uncle spent an hour punching the washing machine in his garage. the culmination of a person's life to another, an hour spent driving your fists with ascending and then diminishing force into unfeeling metal, spreading dull thuds through the walls in the pale blue hours after midnight, with more light always on the way. i know of that though, i know of driving out old thoughts with new ones, assuaging a greater pain with a lesser pain. what i wish i could see was his walk there, his walk to the garage, his ambling or ferocious walk to the garage. was each step a reminder of the sorrow, or was there, as i suspect, a moment of self consciousness, a voice that said, don't waste your time, save your knuckles, get some sleep, there's still tomorrow. that horrible voice that will simply not allow us to ever be one essential thing for much longer than a moment, that voice that reminds us of even the tiniest perceptions and split views within us. that we can stand to observe the texture of a loved one's pale face with its pores so still now we can see their architecture. that voice that makes the things which should destroy us, all so bearable, gives us another day and another day, that detached distraction that is hope. it is this i wish to see obliterated in my uncle's walk to the washing machine, where waited for him not the fight of his life, but just more heavy punches, just more walls to break down. 030103 ... werewolf yes indeed...that's what i wonder, what was that hallway like? 030103 what's it to you? who go blather from