untitled.

I have put off writing this account for quiet some time. Until encountering something that brought my procrastination to a halt. I’ve been unsure of how to attack this one. Those things which I put off in writing, tend to be the most difficult to devise but end up as the best renderings. We’re going to go two rounds with this piece seeing that, it was just too overwhelming and exposing to compile into one whole. And I am well aware that I have yet to post parts three and four of “It Takes Time to Extract Joy from Life.” Don’t worry, their in the works!

The setting is anachronistic. My late brother, Matt, is seated at a cast iron patio table of sorts. Two steaming mugs of coffee sit atop the table. I approach without hesitation and sit. We smile at one another. And he begins to speak. It was as if nothing had ever changed. As if no time had lapsed. We express how much we have missed one another. Small talk. Sip coffee. I think we even smoked a couple of cigarettes. Then he says to me, you need to write about me. You need to tell my story. But I don’t what to write about that! That’s greatly involved and much too difficult! Penny, you have to. It has nothing to do with you, or me. People should hear my story. I waver to agree because I fear that my words can only meagerly mirror his life story. Reluctantly I assured him I would do my best to convey what I know, and then I woke up.

Oh there you are brother! I affirm to myself with a bend at the knee as I tilt my head to the side to catch a glimpse of the Matthew I know. There was to be a closed casket at the funeral seeing that he had been so badly beat, he was hardly recognizable. The immediate family was gathered for an intimate one time only viewing. Which might I say, a fan of this I am not. So archaic the practices of death. Side note: Cremation please, for penny. No one needs to view my gradually decaying corpse. My God, how I will miss that corky smile, sly cut of the eye, and those beautiful hands. Gifted hands. Matt was a musician. I loved to watch the way his hands moved as he formed chords with his fingers and strummed the guitars strings. I would even catch myself studying the movement of his hands in the simplest of daily activities, in the dialing of a number, in the creation of a sandwich, or as he signed his name on a receipt. There is something so much more graceful in the movements of an artist than the rest of us whom find ourselves gifted in other areas.

Growing up with Matthew Reginald Baker was quiet the adventure. Never really knew when I might be struggling to separate him from a fist fight, joining him in the out running of a hive of bees, or accompanying him in the basement paper ball war on Barbie terror. Explaining to my friends why he threw their bike into the ditch or explaining to the neighbors why their prize sun flower that they were growing for over a year was taken down by that of a baseball bat was always fun. Somewhere along the way, I think I embraced the logic, if you can’t beat em, join em. And so I did! After all, Matt was the only one who would let me sleep in his room when I had awakened from bad nightmares, or who would join me in festivities such as heating bubble gum and bologna in the microwave, just to see what might happen... Scott is the oldest, and then there was Matt, then me. Two years of age between the each of us. Impeccable planning parental units! My dad would… From baseball card collecting, trips to the local creamery, and ample amounts of Nintendo and neighborhood biking time, my brothers and I had somewhat of a post card picture perfect childhood. Some of my fondest Matthew memories include, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles club, that’s right, we had a club. And uncontrollably laughing while watching cartoons, especially Tom and Jerry and Cow and Chicken…um, while at home on break…from college.

His soul was passionate, yet gentle. He was gifted for seeing past someone’s exterior, and into their heart. The most non-judgmental individual I have ever encountered in my life. I always admired him for that. He knew no stranger and befriended the outcasts or those the world has deemed as “undesirable.” Matt was a collector; of movies, music, rocks, cards, fish, looks, you name it; he probably had a collection of it at some time. He was hypersensitive to the spiritual realm. He loved the Lord. Never knew what day it was or what time it was, but never cared that he didn’t know. Showed extreme talent in the arts. And always somewhat socially retarded…God love him. Addiction was Matt’s greatest adversary. Drugs and alcohol were his opponents. Causing much torment in the latter part of his life, from his teens until his last day here he battled within. Some might assume that these obstacles claimed victory over him. I see it much differently than that. Sometimes our greatest adversaries, failures, tragedies, are only tiny fractals in a much, much larger pattern or scheme than we cannot even begin to identify or comprehend. For right now anyway.

More to follow, very soon…