121
" You see, humans shrunk themselves when talking. Traditionally, one must succumb to the correspondence of politeness and must be careful not to step over anyone’s toes. This meant nodding your head at rather unthoughtful, sporadic moments, raising your voice an octave, and repeating the last few words a person said to assure them that you were respectfully listening. Everyone shrunk, but she kept. If she did not want to listen, Soriah would tell you. If she didn’t know what you were saying, she’d stop you and ask you to repeat yourself. Many people didn’t like that. It was a difficult, naked territory to be in—to be told by someone they weren’t listening to you, but she was a conversational nudist. Soriah withstood the awkwardness of confrontation, the nervousness of acknowledgment, and lived in it, and almost enjoyed it. Even if you tried, no preparation could ever prepare you in a conversation with her. She was point-blank. Her beauty was that of a certain wildness and her choice of conversation was just as predictable as the heartbeat in your chest in which she too controlled. "
― Karl Kristian Flores , The Goodbye Song
124
" One day, she told me her favorite color was green. Do you know how much green I see in a day? Enough to remember any other color ain’t her favorite. Green. That’s a whole lifetime with a girl whose face emerges on leaves, tennis courts, the billboard on every nearest passion pit, the emerald fabric of my curtains, hotel salads, on a crumpled Washington, and the two forest eyes of my own that look back at me in the mirror and say, “Diana #1, Diana #2.” Ain’t that a bite. One day, I will lay outside to daydream about her for so long, fungi will grow on my pathetic body, plaguing me with her favorite color. Will she love my algae then? "
― Karl Kristian Flores , The Goodbye Song
126
" Tickle me, stroke me, feed me, fuck me,
Overload my senses-- hug me, drug me.
It's hard, you see, to consider what's more,
When we hate to think and love the gin.
But until this pleasure dies, I will never live--
There has to be more to life than this. "
― Karl Kristian Flores , Can I Tell You Something?
128
" It wasn’t only benches, Charlie found, that bore names on them. There were rocks with names, buildings with names, parks with names, streets with names, even tables with names. Charlie thought it was a wildly large ask for a man to expect people to know who he was after he’d left. It’s too hard to compete with the excited men today who want to be remembered tomorrow. But no one could ever live that long. We don’t remember Lincoln every hour, or Jackie Robinson every meal. Charlie supposed the only solace a man could own is knowing he did plenty of good things in the time he had. It was all we got and a noble insufficiency was enough. He also figured if you were going to make a bench, not to inscribe your name on it, but instead something awesome like, “This Bench Was Made with One Hand.” No fool was going to remember your name, for God’s sake. But they might laugh at a spectacle such as a one-handed achievement. "
― Karl Kristian Flores , The Goodbye Song
133
" A piece of plastic stole an entire species—
In lobbies, in the bathroom, in an elevator,
Ideas, reactions, and silent contemplations,
During lunchtime, during mass, during his funeral,
On the street, on break, on duty,
Before the waiter brings the food and after the check,
While the flight attendant bothers to request airplane mode,
While a trafficked victim speaks to you in code,
While the potential love of our life just walked past,
While mother cooks with a recipe we forgot to ask. "
― Karl Kristian Flores , Can I Tell You Something?
135
" At any given moment, everyone walks around with a laundry machine of vocabulary. Words spin and cycle in heads after fresh loads of new people, new ideas, and new encounters. This laundry machine of vocabulary hints at what we’re interested in, learning of, struggling with, and thinking about. It changes every few months. If you stick with a person long enough, while they may not confess to you that their family is dying, you wonder why they always come back to words like, “polka-dots,” “temperature” or phrases like “getting old” or “good morning, doc! "
― Karl Kristian Flores , The Goodbye Song
136
" I love the church. I like the waxed candles that remind me people think of people. I love the bouquet of flowers on the altar that a group of grandmas grow in their gardens and pridefully donate every week. I admire the wooden statues of craftsmanship, of a mother staring at you with the kind of pure, loving look I forgot to ask from mine. I like the skinny man nailed to the cross reminding me that people are capable of sacrificial love. I like to stare at the art on the stained-glass windows, of angels, of lambs, and of fruit. I love running my hands over mosaics and tracing the lips of saints. I love the hymns and joy of the choir, who sing regardless if you’re too scared. I love watching the collective sway of bodies subconsciously comforted by their environment after finally saying “Peace be with you.” And most of all, I love being surrounded by people trying. They wear Christ around their neck and squeeze a rosary for dear life, admitting their weaknesses and sins. Tell me, where do you find that? There is an honesty in the church, spilling from kneeling persons, that gives me the hope humans can take care of each other and our planet can be a good one. Where else can I be exposed to the practice of morality on such an emotional level? I love everything about the church—the shiny pews, the smoky incense, the Bible and its purpose – because when all is considered, it makes sense. It is a template of discipline and thoughtfulness. Why call religious people idiots when they’re the few paying attention to their own lives? And there are other ways to be moral of course, but not many ways to practice. I’ve learned that to believe in God doesn’t subtract any life from you. It is additional. It is the world and God. If someone wears a jacket over their shirt, they aren’t naked. They’re double-layered. "
― Karl Kristian Flores , The Goodbye Song
