Fever Dream

A really really long time ago I saw Tim Buckley at the Cellar Door in D.C.. We had a table right in front of the stage. I stared up at him with, I am sure, shining eyes. At one point he gave me a crooked smile. I swoon just thinking about it. He was singing a rambling kind of song. It might have been Sweet Surrender. He sang something about "licking those stretch marks" and looked at me through narrow eyes.
Honestly. As I write this I feel like I'm making it up. Maybe I am. I was fat and already had some stretch marks. Was he singing that to me? It felt like he was. He also spat on me. Not intentionally. He was just singing ... vigorously.  To my very young and enamored self it was holy water. No Covid to worry about then.
I feel like I might have gotten shy and some of confused energy was exchanged and things kind of soured. I'm just not sure what really happened. I can see it all in my mind eye as if it happened yesterday.
For no obvious reason I remembered it last night just as I was trying to sleep. I remembered it and imagined a different ending in which he came out of the club and we were standing there flirting. This memory and reinventing went on for about four hours. I'd sort of dose off and wake up stoking the story like it was the heat keeping me alive. Over and over.
It's one of my favorite memories but it doesn't come up that often.
He's gone.
He's been gone a long time.
If I was going to start believing in heaven I would chose a place where he greets me and says, yes baby. I was singing to you. And smiles that crooked smile and those narrow eyes would shine.

Elijah McClain

I added Rayshard Brooks to my list of names. Really. That list is so incomplete. It's just my attempt to remember what my aging brain can not seem to remember. I can't add Elijah McClain. At least not yet. His death is burning in my heart. He was a young man, twenty three. But I'm feeling my age and he feels so tender and so young. So childlike. He was murdered in August of last year. Last year. He was walking home with a bag in his hand. He was listening to music and moving his arms. Someone called to say he looked suspicious because he was wearing a ski mask. The police body cams ... fell off. There is some video of the cops approaching him aggressively. He reacts with fear and confusion.
I thought I read that he was autistic but I've tried to find that again and can't. He did apparently have some social anxiety. 
My cousin is five years older than I am and is Autistic. He is very tall and has eye problems that cause him to move his head in odd ways. He sometimes has tantrums, although I don't think he's had them in public. He is never dangerous. He stammers and stutters.
A few years ago he had to call an ambulance. It was the beginning of an ongoing health saga. He called his brother to meet him at the hospital. When his brother arrived one of the admitting people asked if my Autistic cousin was on drugs. A health professional didn't have the training to identify Autism. Nothing about his behavior resembles drug or alcohol use. Nothing.
My cousin is white.
Elijah McClain was coming home from buying tea for his cousin.
Trayvon Martin was shot coming home from buying tea.
As far as I know the police officers who MURDERED Elijah McClain were cleared of any wrong doing. There seems to be a resurgence of interest in the case.
My heart is burning.
One of the problems with being a white person writing about having a burning heart because of all the fucking MURDERS of black men and women is that friends and family want you to feel better.
I have no intention of feeling better.
People say ... take a break from the news. Read a book. Since I'm reading Baldwin there is no break there. And I'm not looking for a break.
I can hear the stories and be upset and go on with my life. I don't have to worry every time a relative walks to a convenience store to buy tea. White privilege means my Autistic cousin might be thought of as weird and on drugs but he probably won't be MURDERED by the police.
I feel rage and grief and horror. Of course I do. What else should I feel? Are those things unhealthy? I think it might be more unhealthy to not feel those thing in light of this on going nightmare. This two hundred year old nightmare. Body after body.
Elijah McClain used to play violin for kittens in the shelter. He thought it calmed them
He was murdered.