Well, there was a newspaper article recently that kind of explained why Blair was murdered. We all looked for an obit for him, and any info about the murder, after finding his memorial page online, but couldn't find anything. I almost doubted that he was killed, and wondered if my dad put that memorial up to see if we'd contact him. Yeah, I know that's kind of vain/paranoid/whatever, but, really, even though there are mental issues on my mother's side of the family, there are problems on my father's side of the family that, though not as tangible, seem more... evil, I guess. So we really didn't know what happened, since noone thought we were important enough to tell, but I guessed, and accurately, that it was a drug deal gone wrong. And it was. His killer was sentenced to 20 years in jail.
About the evil: I have written quite a bit about people's hands. There are some hidden memories about someone hurting me when I was small that I can't access yet. One of them almost came to the surface once when I was studying music. Our choir was working on "The Phantom of the Opera," and there's a part that talks about him watching her, and suddendly, in the middle of it, I needed to throw up. So I went to the bathroom, which was very thankfully close to the music hall, and started puking. In my head, an image of the hands sort of swam around, and I flashed to a memory of sitting on a porch somewhere, and it was like my brains were spewing out of my mouth into the toilet. I was afraid to remember, but I desperately wanted to know what happened. I still don't know, but whatever it was is a little more clear. There was an old man's hand that went into my shorts, through the leg of the shorts. I'm a little nauseous right now writing about it, but that is all I have right now.
There are only two porches I remember when I was small. One was my uncle's. I believe it was next to my grandfather's house. I remember the smell of stale wine around my uncle's house, and I've learned that my uncle and aunt drank regularly. I don't know if they drank wine. I can't ask my father, and it's just not worth it to even think about finding him for that kind of information. I don't think I've been on that porch since I was 6, so, if the buried memories are there, that was a long time ago, and I doubt I'll ever remember.
The other porch was at a babysitter's house, somewhere close to Atlanta. I think I was in the third grade. I do know there was an old man who lived there. I remember that there was an old record player on the porch, and that someone used to play "Dock of the Bay" on it. That song hits some kind of trigger, and makes me feel a little sad, a little angry, and a lot confused. There are a few other songs that create a similar reaction. "Angie" is one of them. I'm not sure I heard that song on that porch, though. I can't remember what the others are, but next time I hear one, I'll let you know.
For now, I'm hoping that writing again might help stir memories, but I'm not getting much more than a fogginess. But I can almost hear someone saying, "Shhh, shhh, don't tell anyone."
About the evil: I have written quite a bit about people's hands. There are some hidden memories about someone hurting me when I was small that I can't access yet. One of them almost came to the surface once when I was studying music. Our choir was working on "The Phantom of the Opera," and there's a part that talks about him watching her, and suddendly, in the middle of it, I needed to throw up. So I went to the bathroom, which was very thankfully close to the music hall, and started puking. In my head, an image of the hands sort of swam around, and I flashed to a memory of sitting on a porch somewhere, and it was like my brains were spewing out of my mouth into the toilet. I was afraid to remember, but I desperately wanted to know what happened. I still don't know, but whatever it was is a little more clear. There was an old man's hand that went into my shorts, through the leg of the shorts. I'm a little nauseous right now writing about it, but that is all I have right now.
There are only two porches I remember when I was small. One was my uncle's. I believe it was next to my grandfather's house. I remember the smell of stale wine around my uncle's house, and I've learned that my uncle and aunt drank regularly. I don't know if they drank wine. I can't ask my father, and it's just not worth it to even think about finding him for that kind of information. I don't think I've been on that porch since I was 6, so, if the buried memories are there, that was a long time ago, and I doubt I'll ever remember.
The other porch was at a babysitter's house, somewhere close to Atlanta. I think I was in the third grade. I do know there was an old man who lived there. I remember that there was an old record player on the porch, and that someone used to play "Dock of the Bay" on it. That song hits some kind of trigger, and makes me feel a little sad, a little angry, and a lot confused. There are a few other songs that create a similar reaction. "Angie" is one of them. I'm not sure I heard that song on that porch, though. I can't remember what the others are, but next time I hear one, I'll let you know.
For now, I'm hoping that writing again might help stir memories, but I'm not getting much more than a fogginess. But I can almost hear someone saying, "Shhh, shhh, don't tell anyone."
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4:48 AM
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