I’ve come to the realization that I am a reader, not of prose or of poetry, rather a reader of people. I engage in reading daily. Reading through both the surface and hidden mind lines of those who cross me day to day. I remember the first day I read Parker Lane.
He had been a friend of my sister from the time of elementary school, always the guy who would make you crack a laugh, or bust a gut at half the the bullshit that heavily flowed from his contaminated innocent mind. Not contamination of his mind in the sense of young age indulgence in drugs, but rather the very fact that his Dad wasn’t around, his Dad wasn’t around because drugs were. The feeling of neglect poured from his cheek to cheek smile that greeted you with every heart warming genuine interaction he made sure to provide, because in turn he wasn't provided the same pleasure. But this pleasure differed, it differed because love was lacking, authenticity was lacking from the one he need it from most, Dad. Dad said a lot of things to Gene, “Grow up to be a fine young man, son. Don’t grow up to be like your old man,” said as the cigarette smoke from the drag prior to this “wisdom”, flowed out out his nostrils with each passing cliche. I began reading Parker Lane from the earlier ages of my own fading resilience. Because we are all losing that resilience, aren’t we? Seems as so. Even with each passing day we lose our spark, our once so natural and fluid imagination of the life that could. But some lose faster than others, that being the case with Parker Lane.
It was around when I was sixteen or seventeen years old and I had been seeing Parker around town more often. Or maybe since I had finally had the chance to scrape the crud - also known as high school - from the under layers of my eyes, I finally started to have the capacity to read again. And it had surfaced across town that Parker's mother had recently passed of cancer, what kind of cancer escapes me, nonetheless, cancer. Seemingly to be without family, Parker Lane still was in a family of three. Ever growing closer inseparable siblings, bonding by the things that tear us apart. Why Parker Lane enticed my every nerve of curiosity from the age of five or six is as much of a mystery to me as to anyone else, but I guess those are the just the habits of my heart. Never an interest of romance or friendship - however, it seems to be heading in the direction of friendship lately - but rather a life that seemed so polar opposite of my own that I was sucked in, always consumed by the habits of other people's hearts. And as I am sitting next to another innocence stripped upbringing, I stumble back into the reality of the house party I am sitting through. Reading people, remembering Parker. Remembering Parker Lane by the bottles being clashed together by clumsy hands and liquid confidence.