OMGabe

by Gabe Berman – the author of Live Like a Fruit Fly

Archive for the category “dad”

What’s Your Blood Type?

“We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.”

– Charles Bukowski

Today is my dad’s birthday. I miss him. Right down to the bone marrow, I miss him.

And sometimes I don’t even want to live anymore either.

But not because I miss him so much. That would just be weak.

Rather because, the lifeblood flowing through our society’s veins is commerce when it should be kindness. And sometimes that heaviness is just too much for me to bear.

Especially since we all share the same destiny.

But here I shall stay because, well, there’s much work to be done.

And by “work” I mean: sensing beauty when I can and more importantly, adding beauty when I can.

Maybe you will consider the same.

love/thanks,
– gb

win the war with your mind

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Can We Handle The Truth?

In thirty-nine minutes, it’s my dad’s birthday.

Harold Berman.

He would have been seventy-four.

If he hadn’t gotten sick, I’d probably be in Florida right now. And I’d call him tomorrow, like nine hundred times, to wish him happy birthday.

But I flew back to New York the day he was diagnosed. And here I remain. For now.

I still hear him in the back of my head. As clear as ever. Behind my ears. As I always have.

Not in words exactly, but in silent feelings. I can feel his feelings. And they guide me through decisions and situations. Although, obviously and unfortunately, I can’t call him after the fact anymore.

And I hate that.

Hate.

When I was young my dad told me I shouldn’t use the word “hate” because it’s too strong of a word.

Well dad, I really mean it this time.

More so than I ever.

Because all I can do is sit here, listening to Brubeck – your favorite, while writing to a few good people who are now reading these words.

So what would you like me to pass on to them?

You’d often say there are three sides to every story – my side, your side and the right side. The truth.

So, what’s the truth here?

It feels like, behind my ear, the truth is that only love is real.

But maybe that’s good-ol-fashion bullshit.

Because the fear, and greed, and evil in this world, sure as hell seems just as real.

Wait.

Ahh, I got it.

I can hear you more clearly now dad.

Love might not be the only thing that’s real, but it’s certainly the only thing that matters.

And I love you.

Beyond.

And miss you.

Excruciatingly so.

And I love you too, dear readers, for being here with me in this moment.

I’m truly grateful for you – and that’s the truth as well,
gb

Happy Birthday Dad.

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Fuck Pride

It took three tries and two long pauses between those tries to get the goddamn sentence out of my mouth.

“Remember the music from that movie daddy…”

“Remember the music from that movie daddy would…”

“Remember the music from that movie daddy would…always whistle. Once Upon A Time In America with Noodles? With De Niro playing Noodles?”

My mom checked back into the old files in her mind and within a second, smiled in acknowledgment.

And after I almost cried three times, I smiled too.

It was a nice moment for us to share.

We watched Tarantino’s latest flick together tonight. The Hateful Eight. Ennio Morricone composed the music for it. And for the Once Upon. My dad would randomly whistle a song from that score while reading the New York Times. And then he’d look up from the paper and say to me, “Hey, Noodles!”

I wonder when I’ll stop being eviscerated by these memories.

Hopefully never.

love/thanks,
gb

My new book – Love Looks Like This

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