The fierce dance of life
It's 5:47 this moment, and I just got up out of bed 20 minutes ago. I was tossing and turning all night before that. I just thought I heard a catfight outside and when I went to the blinds to have a look, I saw a black shape struggling in the swimming pool. My first thought was, shit, a cat's fallen in there, and I stepped outside fully expecting that I'd have to book it barefoot down to the pool with a broom or something - only to find three ducks. Fucking. And quacking, because two males were trying to mount one female who didn't seem to be making much of a fuss. That, ladies and gentlemen, was my introduction to Friday.
But how I really started my Friday was coming to in the dark out of a thin sleep and thinking: Sariah's not really dead, is she? And another voice in my inner dialogue saying, It's not real for you yet. Wait.
It seems that a friend tried to tell me she was dead earlier this week, on April Fool's Day, of all days, but wouldn't leave the news on the answering machine. Part of me wants to be miffed about that but I know it was the right choice; who wants to hear about a death that way? It'd be like a drive-by hearse, chucking a coffin in the vague direction of the ground before speeding off as fast as a hearse can go - careless, graceless, only wanting to get it over with.
So I found out yesterday evening that she's dead and a wake is set for today. I remember hearing, well after the fact, that an Indian man who used to hang around with us - Larry - was dead. I remember feeling sorry because he was a nice guy who gave me a great healing massage for a birthday one year. I didn't get to see much of him while we were at good old Glendale Community College but he was a part of that time. He had been imbued with value as his own person first, and then as a part of my memories of G.C.C. I realize how self-centered that sounds. But how else do we process death except by its relation to us?
I remember Sariah's hair first, that long streaming blond hair, and then her face with glasses on. I remember her flowing skirts. I remember her playing cards and smoking cigarettes, playing ten finger slut and the like. I remember her face when she was mad, how her brows would knit and the attitude would come to the fore of her voice. I remember her beautiful little girl, Cassie, who was for a good while the only child I saw on a regular basis. Sariah didn't talk down to her daughter the way a lot of mothers do. No babytalk, no coddling, but she loved her kid. The group loved Cassie too, in our own way, and kept an eye on her.
And only then do I remember that Sariah had one arm, because honestly, that didn't seem to matter much to her abilities. When you first saw her around, you were amazed by all that she could do with the arm she had left, how she maneuvered everything into place and got the job done. After a while you got used to it and honestly, you took it for granted that Sariah could do what needed to get done. But the missing limb was a reminder of all that she'd suffered at a young age. As a little girl, she had cancer, and to save her the arm had to go. And she had to deal with it. In the face of that, suddenly, your own legend of suffering pales and wanes. It's not that you didn't suffer, it's not that your life wasn't in danger, but it wasn't in danger like that.
Brave. I think that most of us would say that Sariah was brave. She didn't see herself as less than, in any respect. She had her own bullshit and drama like everyone else but when the cards were down, she was going to take life by the horns. She beat cancer before becoming a woman. What couldn't she do?
Beat cancer a second time.
When I heard it through the grapevine that she was sick again, I felt bad, but not in the normal pitying way. It wasn't like, oh, poor Sariah. It was more like, damn, hasn't she been through enough? I immediately thought of her daughter, as I think all of us did. But I found a faith in Sariah's determination. She'll beat it again. She'll make it. Maybe that was foolish of me, but it's how I felt (I find myself saying that more in the last year than I have in the last five). I was removed from her company by some years and space by that point, but I wished her everything good. I had hoped that if she needed support she'd reach out through the spiderweb of cell phone numbers and emails and find the old Freak's Corner group there for her. I had hoped that she would make it. God damn it, Sariah, why didn't you make it?
There they are - the tears. I knew they were there. Biding their time. Waiting for a sign. But they're not out in force yet. Sariah's death, like the day, is one more step to becoming real for me. And for all the surrealness of it, I'm grateful to the ducks in the pool, fighting and fucking their way into the next generation. My first thought was, Do you see that, Sariah? What a world!
What a world.
But how I really started my Friday was coming to in the dark out of a thin sleep and thinking: Sariah's not really dead, is she? And another voice in my inner dialogue saying, It's not real for you yet. Wait.
It seems that a friend tried to tell me she was dead earlier this week, on April Fool's Day, of all days, but wouldn't leave the news on the answering machine. Part of me wants to be miffed about that but I know it was the right choice; who wants to hear about a death that way? It'd be like a drive-by hearse, chucking a coffin in the vague direction of the ground before speeding off as fast as a hearse can go - careless, graceless, only wanting to get it over with.
So I found out yesterday evening that she's dead and a wake is set for today. I remember hearing, well after the fact, that an Indian man who used to hang around with us - Larry - was dead. I remember feeling sorry because he was a nice guy who gave me a great healing massage for a birthday one year. I didn't get to see much of him while we were at good old Glendale Community College but he was a part of that time. He had been imbued with value as his own person first, and then as a part of my memories of G.C.C. I realize how self-centered that sounds. But how else do we process death except by its relation to us?
I remember Sariah's hair first, that long streaming blond hair, and then her face with glasses on. I remember her flowing skirts. I remember her playing cards and smoking cigarettes, playing ten finger slut and the like. I remember her face when she was mad, how her brows would knit and the attitude would come to the fore of her voice. I remember her beautiful little girl, Cassie, who was for a good while the only child I saw on a regular basis. Sariah didn't talk down to her daughter the way a lot of mothers do. No babytalk, no coddling, but she loved her kid. The group loved Cassie too, in our own way, and kept an eye on her.
And only then do I remember that Sariah had one arm, because honestly, that didn't seem to matter much to her abilities. When you first saw her around, you were amazed by all that she could do with the arm she had left, how she maneuvered everything into place and got the job done. After a while you got used to it and honestly, you took it for granted that Sariah could do what needed to get done. But the missing limb was a reminder of all that she'd suffered at a young age. As a little girl, she had cancer, and to save her the arm had to go. And she had to deal with it. In the face of that, suddenly, your own legend of suffering pales and wanes. It's not that you didn't suffer, it's not that your life wasn't in danger, but it wasn't in danger like that.
Brave. I think that most of us would say that Sariah was brave. She didn't see herself as less than, in any respect. She had her own bullshit and drama like everyone else but when the cards were down, she was going to take life by the horns. She beat cancer before becoming a woman. What couldn't she do?
Beat cancer a second time.
When I heard it through the grapevine that she was sick again, I felt bad, but not in the normal pitying way. It wasn't like, oh, poor Sariah. It was more like, damn, hasn't she been through enough? I immediately thought of her daughter, as I think all of us did. But I found a faith in Sariah's determination. She'll beat it again. She'll make it. Maybe that was foolish of me, but it's how I felt (I find myself saying that more in the last year than I have in the last five). I was removed from her company by some years and space by that point, but I wished her everything good. I had hoped that if she needed support she'd reach out through the spiderweb of cell phone numbers and emails and find the old Freak's Corner group there for her. I had hoped that she would make it. God damn it, Sariah, why didn't you make it?
There they are - the tears. I knew they were there. Biding their time. Waiting for a sign. But they're not out in force yet. Sariah's death, like the day, is one more step to becoming real for me. And for all the surrealness of it, I'm grateful to the ducks in the pool, fighting and fucking their way into the next generation. My first thought was, Do you see that, Sariah? What a world!
What a world.