Jim Tate ©Petra Maricela Thompson Violetarojo de Cordero

Was there more that we could have done for you, to help you, to somehow get through to you, to make it better for you? Have you seen Jim he passed this way once. He had beautiful green eyes that would make you long for summer nights at the Oregon Coast. Cold deep blue waters crashing down against the cliffs behind you. The sound of warm winds filling your sails and the smell of salt of the earth air in your lungs. One hand reaching for God in heaven the other gliding across the surface of the sea.

You were haunted by True Love came and set you down right there in the middle of paradise turned into hell. There where you had never been before until that moment when True Love died. From that day forth you woke, ate, wept and slept death. Like a jeweler you polished all your memories with True Loves ashes. Everything he was you became like hymns from his Sunday school days playing over and over again and again in your head. Randy’s clothes, Randy's shoes, hats and even his lovers became you.

We held each other there in the doorway bewtween the path that leads some to life and others to death. Our pain mingled our blood streamed our tears screamed. Is there not one besides thee who else will help me hold this dying man? He has nothing left to call his own not even a home, he has not a place to rest his head.
All your friends are strangers now we don’t understand you. Drinking wine like water only lends itself to more destruction and complications than there needs to be. We said we thought we'ed be gone for no more than two hours maybe three. I had to come right back though cause I forgot my wallet. I found you running barefoot in the park.

Mari: What are you trying to do give yourself pneumonia?
Jim: Yes that’s the general idea.

It seemed as if your bottom had just dropped out from under you and you fell so damn fast and hard. There you were stuck in a broken down elevator rapidly descending. You pressed open and the doors locked closed. No matter what buttons you pushed the only ones that worked were basement and down. You had another change of heart, spirit and mind. So you went back to those ungodly woods where all that is evil lurks. You made you’re way through searching for you’re old friend death. Now tell me how exactly does one write that on their Christmas list. Dear Santa, a red tricycle oh and one quick death. You stood there with the look of devastation and desperation on your face. You were overcome with tears burning up with fear.

We got you home and got through the door with barely enough time to unload your things. All I heard was you screaming my name from the kitchen. I knew you had fallen because the sound of your body hitting the floor shook Rome and I right out of bed. Your T-Cells were so low they couldn’t even make a count. Dementia, neuropathy, inability to think, eat or sleep, Kaposi’s sarcoma, immunosuppresion, cirrhosis of the liver. God damn this world of man made disease and demons that cause so much anguish and distress! Cold black steel heart picked you up and threw you over as you stood too close to the edge while the spectators below screamed, jump.

Now that we’re here at The End what can I say of this man to help you understand all that his friendship meant to me. How many times could I write it how beautiful and wonderful he was. His greatness can not be measured here on earth. There are no plaques on buildings, no marble or mahogany walls with his name engraved on them. Nor are any of his writings published and his art is not exhibited in any museums. I have only the love that we shared, which is my dedication, my monument to him. I have etched these words with that which runs through the core of my being. My love for Jim that you might know him as I once did. –Petra Maricela Thompson Violetarojo

Unless Otherwise Stated · All Creative Nonsense & Website Contact ©Petra Maricela Thompson Violetarojo de Cordero