circling again, destined, meditated, revolt, laugh until you drop
Keep writing this and keep locking it up because I just can't get it Right.
Uhohherecomes Intrusive Therapist
IT: Right? So, presumably there is a wrong way to go about this?
Yes. Yes there is. For me anyway.
IT: You seem to put these things on yourself. The Right Way. Perfection. Why do you feel like everything had to be Right and Perfect?
I dunno. Because there's no such thing as perfection, so I can continue setting myself up for failure and disappointment with myself, to the point that it boils up into full-on self-hatred of my personal and professional shortcomings, and I spend every day kicking myself over the things I should have done and that I should have done better, which then feels justified when it spills over into displacement and acting out on those around me that I care about.
IT: Uh...OK, good.
*****
I am sitting in the lobby of my theater and inside a small group of kids is watching Rikki Tikki Tavi kill a snake. They're laughing, which is a funny reaction to me. Half of this school group canceled without any advance notice.
I am sitting in the lobby and nobody is with me except for Orson Welles and a dead fish. The dead fish keeps asking me why I'm gritting my jaw so tightly. I don't want to tell the dead fish all of my problems, but I can tell him some of them, but not as long as Orson Welles is here because that smug look on his face is getting to me.
The dead fish gives me a comforting shrug, or the closest he can approximate, and sighs. Orson lights his pipe.
"You're doing it wrong," he purrs in his thick horrible voice.
"I know."
*****
I am nothing but a series of flashbacks. I have lost all sense of tomorrow.
I am flashbacks all day long. They hover around me, around my head, catching my eyes which is why I'm always looking this way, that way, any way but at You.
It would be one thing to lose only one of you. It would hurt, it would sting. I would still be sour and sick. But all of you at once, with threats of more to come, it's too much.
*****
More to come...
*****
Other things, other bad things, other places in my brain.
*****
I am nothing but flashbacks and they spin mercilessly back and forth and, of course, there is crossover, there are those places where all of you are in the same room and those were the best places. But mostly it is the Alone Time that flashes back. Leigh's apartment. Dru on the roof. On a park bench in Austin with Laura. On a bar stool with Eric. More to come.
It's the tearing apart of this whole thing that I can't bear. It's this desire for everything to stop in its tracks and just stay there, just remain in some magical time and place in suspended animation forever, in peace, in fun, in love. Fear of movement and, yes, of growing up. Of doing the right, responsible thing. Just want to be a kid forever; a visceral, naughty kid but a kid nonetheless.
It is jealousy. Jealousy of these other things and places and people. You have what I want, you have who I want, and I want to keep them. Jealous of San Diego and Austin. Jealous of babies and continued education and responsibility. Jealous, perpetually, of Death. Give her back, goddammit, GIVE HER BACK.
I am crying in the lobby of my theater and Orson Welles is long gone. It's just me, pitiful me, and I need to pull myself together because I need to go back out there in ten minutes and ask the children if they have any questions for the actors and thank them for coming.
*****
I remind myself that it has not been that long. That all of these wounds are fresh, and feel all the fresher for the enormous wound caused by the death of Leigh.
I curse myself for being this sensitive. I wish I could be flippant, pretend that I don't care, that I'm unaffected. I wish for once that I could not be hurt by this or by You. Wish I hadn't admitted that you could hurt me in the first place. That I was made of flintier stuff, as I've said over and over again.
Wish I could change every word of this fucking stupid journal to "Eh, it was cool I guess but whatever."
Can't take it back now. Earnestness, oversharing, over-indulgence. Had to tell you about Love. Can't take it back now.
*****
Fine! Go then! Have a blast! I'll be here, totally rocking out! See if I care!
Egh. I can't even fake it.
You're my friends and I love you. And if I'm being a child about this whole procedure then I guess there's no changing me right right now.
*****
Trying to concentrate on the Good Things. That was my promise. Trying to only think about the Good Things, trying to only live the Good Things. They are here and they are all over the place. There is Love. There are so many amazing memories on rooftops in Manhattan and Brooklyn, of nervous beers on 9/11 after making sure that everybody we cared about was safe. The Blackout. The Big Fat Reds. Fireworks and beach blankets.
*****
I will miss you, my Family. I will miss you Eric and Laura and Sophie. I will miss you Dru. I miss you Leigh.
I will miss whoever's next.
*****
So many ways to get your goddamned heart broken in such a short period of time.
*****
I am all memories and quick flashes. So many bars and dark rooms, so much music blasting and laughing and good times. Brunches. Oh God, that one hilarious Easter brunch with Eric and Laura and Leigh, mostly weird because Leigh steadfastly refused to go to Brooklyn because she was a Manhattanite now, but was willing to go because I told her I was going to dress up in my suit and she should wear a nice dress in honor of Our Lord.
If I recall we argued about the merits of Donnie Darko.
*****
I take a break.
*****
The kids love the show and they unpack their lunches to eat on the stage, which makes them very excited, and I put on the stereo for lunch music and the first song is The Zombies ha ha.
They're a lovely group of kids and their teacher is apologetic all over the place because she's never been here before and doesn't know the protocol and I try to put her at ease. This is my house, it's an easygoing one.
This thing happens that happens from time to time where a kid just totally fixates on you for whatever reason. Sometimes little dudes just totally dig bigger dudes, and little girls just totally dig bigger girls. It always gets me when little girls fixate on whoever plays a princess (Maid Marion, Rapunzel, Cinderella, etc). It's adorable beyond comprehension.
He can sense that I'm totally awesome, I suppose. He keeps following me around and asking me questions, telling me he liked the show, likes the theater, likes the part where there was the fight, he likes my hair. When they all line up to leave he asks for a hug. I put an arm around him, lift him up until he's almost sideways, let him back down, and high five.
They leave and I'm here by myself in the theater. All the words I had written before they left are still on the computer, but my mood is totally changed.
Bug makes his way to the theater to borrow some speakers for the big BBQ death match in Memphis. We talk about awesome things and not-awesome things and I play him this Toadies song I haven't been able to stop playing on the theater's casio keyboard. I walk him to the door and am surprised to find that the weather has taken a drastic turn and the sun is out and, for the thousandth time in a month, I shake my head at God because God is the fucking corniest screenwriter in the world.
*****
There is the school of thought, of course, that the best way to honor Leigh's memory is by living life exactly as she would have wanted you to: with vigor and excitement and spontaneity and Love.
As I've said a few times over the last couple of days, I am simply not ready for that. I want to be. I want to imagine that Leigh is somewhere and she is watching and she's hollering "You should get up and dance!" And I did, Leigh! I got up and danced! I danced until I couldn't breathe anymore! And then danced some more!
But then I couldn't help myself. I went outside to cry, because I couldn't pretend anymore that I was having fun for another reason. I was having fun for you, and all that made me do was just think about you, and I flew off the rails. I flew off the rails the same way I did the morning of the wake, the day after the memorial, jumping into the pool at Dru's parents' house in Houston, and the water was so shock cold I couldn't do anything but laugh with my eyes as wide as they could go, and before I knew it I was sobbing uncontrollably in the backyard in the sun in the cold cold water. Because, for an instant in between eulogizing you and viewing your body, my body was filled with euphoria, and I wished that you were there to feel it with me.
*****
The term flips. It is either "miserable euphoria" or "euphoric misery". It is the sensation of being unbelievably sad, but with other people, so you work yourself into a lovely frenzy, even with people who were total strangers earlier in the day. And you are sad, in a way, when it's over, because it just doesn't feel the same to ride the subway by yourself and you're sad. Or wash the dishes by yourself and you're sad.
Something about breaking into deep, angry tears, and feeling someone right there behind you, holding you, refusing to let go of you, because otherwise you'd float somewhere horrible.
*****
But these are the differences, and we know the differences. There is a difference between getting all heartbroken and having someone you love move away and having someone you love die. These are all overwhelming things, to be sure. But there are differences.
I will miss you but I will see you again. Just know that I miss you.
Things will work themselves out. "You'll be fine."
There are stories. They are all stories. They move and they begin and reach their climax and denoument and then, yes, they end. Aristotle told us and it is so. We should not fear the end of stories because there are so many left to be told. And we should not end a story that's still right in the middle. It's easy to see endings everywhere when it rains for days and days and there is death hanging over you. But it is not so. No need for the word "goodbye".
But yes. Sadness. No time yet to think about the future, certainly no time to compare it to the past, to a specific moment in time that is gone gone gone. Just time to learn. And yes, to grow up.
To think about how to be a better man than I am today; all the terrible words that have come from my mouth, from my diseased head.
My head.
*****
I told them, standing up there, not sure what to say next, stuck at a thought, stuck on the fact that there's no conceivable reason that you should ever have to eulogize your 29 year old friend -- I didn't know what to say next up there in front of all of those people at the memorial so I just said, "We called her Wendy."
As I've told a few people, her brother-in-law Mario loved this. He fixated on it.
When Sleazy got there he was happy to have even more Lost Boys in his midsts.
And then, back in New York, there at the end of the party, with everybody else gone and collapsing after fun times and deep conversations, all that was left awake were Lost Boys after a night of watching old videos and looking at old pictures. And there, captured forever, sometimes in the background and sometimes just at a glance - there is Wendy. And me reaching out for all of these bits and pieces, all these valuable pixels, still grasping for whatever there is, whatever exists, whatever is left.
At the very end of the night myself and Junebug and Sleazy, all sitting outside in The Pavilion. The three of us, constant after all these years. And so many close friends and loved ones still within arm's reach. And we, for now, we are going nowhere.
Uhohherecomes Intrusive Therapist
IT: Right? So, presumably there is a wrong way to go about this?
Yes. Yes there is. For me anyway.
IT: You seem to put these things on yourself. The Right Way. Perfection. Why do you feel like everything had to be Right and Perfect?
I dunno. Because there's no such thing as perfection, so I can continue setting myself up for failure and disappointment with myself, to the point that it boils up into full-on self-hatred of my personal and professional shortcomings, and I spend every day kicking myself over the things I should have done and that I should have done better, which then feels justified when it spills over into displacement and acting out on those around me that I care about.
IT: Uh...OK, good.
*****
I am sitting in the lobby of my theater and inside a small group of kids is watching Rikki Tikki Tavi kill a snake. They're laughing, which is a funny reaction to me. Half of this school group canceled without any advance notice.
I am sitting in the lobby and nobody is with me except for Orson Welles and a dead fish. The dead fish keeps asking me why I'm gritting my jaw so tightly. I don't want to tell the dead fish all of my problems, but I can tell him some of them, but not as long as Orson Welles is here because that smug look on his face is getting to me.
The dead fish gives me a comforting shrug, or the closest he can approximate, and sighs. Orson lights his pipe.
"You're doing it wrong," he purrs in his thick horrible voice.
"I know."
*****
I am nothing but a series of flashbacks. I have lost all sense of tomorrow.
I am flashbacks all day long. They hover around me, around my head, catching my eyes which is why I'm always looking this way, that way, any way but at You.
It would be one thing to lose only one of you. It would hurt, it would sting. I would still be sour and sick. But all of you at once, with threats of more to come, it's too much.
*****
More to come...
*****
Other things, other bad things, other places in my brain.
*****
I am nothing but flashbacks and they spin mercilessly back and forth and, of course, there is crossover, there are those places where all of you are in the same room and those were the best places. But mostly it is the Alone Time that flashes back. Leigh's apartment. Dru on the roof. On a park bench in Austin with Laura. On a bar stool with Eric. More to come.
It's the tearing apart of this whole thing that I can't bear. It's this desire for everything to stop in its tracks and just stay there, just remain in some magical time and place in suspended animation forever, in peace, in fun, in love. Fear of movement and, yes, of growing up. Of doing the right, responsible thing. Just want to be a kid forever; a visceral, naughty kid but a kid nonetheless.
It is jealousy. Jealousy of these other things and places and people. You have what I want, you have who I want, and I want to keep them. Jealous of San Diego and Austin. Jealous of babies and continued education and responsibility. Jealous, perpetually, of Death. Give her back, goddammit, GIVE HER BACK.
I am crying in the lobby of my theater and Orson Welles is long gone. It's just me, pitiful me, and I need to pull myself together because I need to go back out there in ten minutes and ask the children if they have any questions for the actors and thank them for coming.
*****
I remind myself that it has not been that long. That all of these wounds are fresh, and feel all the fresher for the enormous wound caused by the death of Leigh.
I curse myself for being this sensitive. I wish I could be flippant, pretend that I don't care, that I'm unaffected. I wish for once that I could not be hurt by this or by You. Wish I hadn't admitted that you could hurt me in the first place. That I was made of flintier stuff, as I've said over and over again.
Wish I could change every word of this fucking stupid journal to "Eh, it was cool I guess but whatever."
Can't take it back now. Earnestness, oversharing, over-indulgence. Had to tell you about Love. Can't take it back now.
*****
Fine! Go then! Have a blast! I'll be here, totally rocking out! See if I care!
Egh. I can't even fake it.
You're my friends and I love you. And if I'm being a child about this whole procedure then I guess there's no changing me right right now.
*****
Trying to concentrate on the Good Things. That was my promise. Trying to only think about the Good Things, trying to only live the Good Things. They are here and they are all over the place. There is Love. There are so many amazing memories on rooftops in Manhattan and Brooklyn, of nervous beers on 9/11 after making sure that everybody we cared about was safe. The Blackout. The Big Fat Reds. Fireworks and beach blankets.
*****
I will miss you, my Family. I will miss you Eric and Laura and Sophie. I will miss you Dru. I miss you Leigh.
I will miss whoever's next.
*****
So many ways to get your goddamned heart broken in such a short period of time.
*****
I am all memories and quick flashes. So many bars and dark rooms, so much music blasting and laughing and good times. Brunches. Oh God, that one hilarious Easter brunch with Eric and Laura and Leigh, mostly weird because Leigh steadfastly refused to go to Brooklyn because she was a Manhattanite now, but was willing to go because I told her I was going to dress up in my suit and she should wear a nice dress in honor of Our Lord.
If I recall we argued about the merits of Donnie Darko.
*****
I take a break.
*****
The kids love the show and they unpack their lunches to eat on the stage, which makes them very excited, and I put on the stereo for lunch music and the first song is The Zombies ha ha.
They're a lovely group of kids and their teacher is apologetic all over the place because she's never been here before and doesn't know the protocol and I try to put her at ease. This is my house, it's an easygoing one.
This thing happens that happens from time to time where a kid just totally fixates on you for whatever reason. Sometimes little dudes just totally dig bigger dudes, and little girls just totally dig bigger girls. It always gets me when little girls fixate on whoever plays a princess (Maid Marion, Rapunzel, Cinderella, etc). It's adorable beyond comprehension.
He can sense that I'm totally awesome, I suppose. He keeps following me around and asking me questions, telling me he liked the show, likes the theater, likes the part where there was the fight, he likes my hair. When they all line up to leave he asks for a hug. I put an arm around him, lift him up until he's almost sideways, let him back down, and high five.
They leave and I'm here by myself in the theater. All the words I had written before they left are still on the computer, but my mood is totally changed.
Bug makes his way to the theater to borrow some speakers for the big BBQ death match in Memphis. We talk about awesome things and not-awesome things and I play him this Toadies song I haven't been able to stop playing on the theater's casio keyboard. I walk him to the door and am surprised to find that the weather has taken a drastic turn and the sun is out and, for the thousandth time in a month, I shake my head at God because God is the fucking corniest screenwriter in the world.
*****
There is the school of thought, of course, that the best way to honor Leigh's memory is by living life exactly as she would have wanted you to: with vigor and excitement and spontaneity and Love.
As I've said a few times over the last couple of days, I am simply not ready for that. I want to be. I want to imagine that Leigh is somewhere and she is watching and she's hollering "You should get up and dance!" And I did, Leigh! I got up and danced! I danced until I couldn't breathe anymore! And then danced some more!
But then I couldn't help myself. I went outside to cry, because I couldn't pretend anymore that I was having fun for another reason. I was having fun for you, and all that made me do was just think about you, and I flew off the rails. I flew off the rails the same way I did the morning of the wake, the day after the memorial, jumping into the pool at Dru's parents' house in Houston, and the water was so shock cold I couldn't do anything but laugh with my eyes as wide as they could go, and before I knew it I was sobbing uncontrollably in the backyard in the sun in the cold cold water. Because, for an instant in between eulogizing you and viewing your body, my body was filled with euphoria, and I wished that you were there to feel it with me.
*****
The term flips. It is either "miserable euphoria" or "euphoric misery". It is the sensation of being unbelievably sad, but with other people, so you work yourself into a lovely frenzy, even with people who were total strangers earlier in the day. And you are sad, in a way, when it's over, because it just doesn't feel the same to ride the subway by yourself and you're sad. Or wash the dishes by yourself and you're sad.
Something about breaking into deep, angry tears, and feeling someone right there behind you, holding you, refusing to let go of you, because otherwise you'd float somewhere horrible.
*****
But these are the differences, and we know the differences. There is a difference between getting all heartbroken and having someone you love move away and having someone you love die. These are all overwhelming things, to be sure. But there are differences.
I will miss you but I will see you again. Just know that I miss you.
Things will work themselves out. "You'll be fine."
There are stories. They are all stories. They move and they begin and reach their climax and denoument and then, yes, they end. Aristotle told us and it is so. We should not fear the end of stories because there are so many left to be told. And we should not end a story that's still right in the middle. It's easy to see endings everywhere when it rains for days and days and there is death hanging over you. But it is not so. No need for the word "goodbye".
But yes. Sadness. No time yet to think about the future, certainly no time to compare it to the past, to a specific moment in time that is gone gone gone. Just time to learn. And yes, to grow up.
To think about how to be a better man than I am today; all the terrible words that have come from my mouth, from my diseased head.
My head.
*****
I told them, standing up there, not sure what to say next, stuck at a thought, stuck on the fact that there's no conceivable reason that you should ever have to eulogize your 29 year old friend -- I didn't know what to say next up there in front of all of those people at the memorial so I just said, "We called her Wendy."
As I've told a few people, her brother-in-law Mario loved this. He fixated on it.
When Sleazy got there he was happy to have even more Lost Boys in his midsts.
And then, back in New York, there at the end of the party, with everybody else gone and collapsing after fun times and deep conversations, all that was left awake were Lost Boys after a night of watching old videos and looking at old pictures. And there, captured forever, sometimes in the background and sometimes just at a glance - there is Wendy. And me reaching out for all of these bits and pieces, all these valuable pixels, still grasping for whatever there is, whatever exists, whatever is left.
At the very end of the night myself and Junebug and Sleazy, all sitting outside in The Pavilion. The three of us, constant after all these years. And so many close friends and loved ones still within arm's reach. And we, for now, we are going nowhere.