Thirty years ago today, a baby boy was born that my parents named Jason.
Jason Michael Charles Bogar.
Michael for my dad.
Charles for my grandfather.
And Jason because they believed that he was a healer.
The name Jason means healer.
Jason spent most of his life terrorizing those around him.
His terrorizing came from a deep place of love.
He was a clown.
He loved to play.
And play hard at that.
He loved to watch me squirm in frustration.
He was a trickster.
How can a trickster be a healer?
It was my brother's way of life.
He never apologized.
He lived life with ferocity and unabashed raucous.
He was a hell raiser.
He loved deeply.
And if you didn't realize that--
You could go fuck yourself.
I wish he hadn't fucking died.
I wish sometimes the world was an awful lot different than it is.
Some days I delight in the world as it is.
Most days I delight in the idea that I can delight in the world as it is.
But today, right now. I do not want to delight in the way the world is.
I don't even want to delight in the god damn idea that I can delight in the world as it is.
Loving what is
Leaning into it.
Fuck all that.
I want to call Jason and welcome him into his thirties.
I don't want the world to be the way it is.
Turning thirty signifies a time in your life where things shift.
We grow up.
The ferocity of our youth meets the wisdom of our old age.
I want to see the collision of trickster and healer.
He died too young to get to grow into the beautiful man that he would have been.
I want to smash something.
I want to talk to him.
I want to be annoyed by him.
I want to hug him.
And ruffle his soft hair.
And stop writing shitty poetry on his birthdays.
When he can't fucking read it.
I don't want to make this pretty and neat and poetic.
Jason wouldn't want me to.
He would want me to be angry.
If I felt angry.
He would tell me to be sad if I was sad.
So that he could push me unwittingly, smile that gigantic disalarming smile and say.
"Whoa, goochy girl, chill out. Jeeez."
Happy Birthday Jas. Fuck.
You bad ass SOB.