Every time A Bell Rings...

An angel gets his wings.
5 years. These big round numbers just get me every goddamn time. 5 years, and memories get faded and fuzzy, and there's no one to collaborate yer story 'cause Greg's dead (pass it on). The last week or so, I've cried easily and often....but I've also laughed maniacally, been deeply in love, and made ridiculous amounts of cookies. I might even watch old Clarence get his wings this year. Life does go on, and sometimes it fucking stings- but it's not a betrayal. This morning when some students were bugging me about Santa Claus, I told them this story:
"A lot of people believe a lot of different things, so it really comes down to making up your own mind what you believe. All I'm going to tell you is that when I was a kid, one year I woke up on Christmas day and there were muddy boot tracks coming out of the fireplace and snags of tissue paper on the grate. I've never lost my faith since; what I believe in is love."
They went back to nattering about the naughty/nice list, and I went back to tying ribbons and seriously consulting about the effect of green paint versus silver. I've got a long fucking way to get all Buddha on the mountaintop- I get pissed off and scared and resentful and melancholy- but Greg was right when he said nothing passes like time.
Sometimes I get scared, not just because Greg is getting fuzzy; his voice, his mannerisms, his post-it notes all over the back door. I get scared because nobody keeps the family record anymore. I have all his journals, and although I haven't been brave enough for more than the most casual perusal, at least I know the record's there. Who's keeping track now? And does it even matter? At least this blog is something. The handwritten mail I still send and receive is something. My brain is a sieve...but hey, it's something.
What I wish most is that the pain of remembering would fade, while the recollections stay crystal clear. For the love to get deeper and the ache to get duller. I dunno, it seems like things are maybe going that direction. A lot has changed in the last 5 years, but there's still love in my life. I still believe in love for what can't be seen, and what is recognized only in traces of early morning light......

Now, It's always Now

Been dreaming about Greg again. Been listening to his mix tapes and watching the seasons change and wandering around those spaces in my heart that stay charred and echoing, even after almost 5 years.

The tapes are from when I lived in New York and Greg would mail them. They have titles like "Flapper Max," "Uptown Girl," and "The Girl from New York City." Today I was working in my classroom and the song "Al Di La" by Jerry Vale came on the tape, and I put my head down on my desk and cried.

See, I've been trying to get my life in line for some time now. I keep hearing that I'll be happiest in the now, but if every single second is a new now, how the fuck can I stay there? Is now the end of everything that isn't right now? Is now the yellow line whipping down the center of the highway at night, each instant gone before you can register that it's there? How am I supposed to keep track of my dead dad in a now that's constantly on the move? 

Or is now more like the top layer of a papier-mâché globe? Every instant building on another, every memory  below giving my current moment strength and weight? I'm starting to think the only way for me to stay in the now is to acknowledge the always, to let my memories come when they will come, to dream my dreams as they dance behind my eyelids. 

Now is walking to my car in Ventura past Baskin Robbins, and also walking down Broadway  past Westside Market. Now is sitting on  a gray couch by a California picture window with two gray boycats in my lap, thinking about laying on a wood floor in a 5th floor walk up with a calico kitty purring on my chest.

Burying my face in my dad's black leather jacket on a cold night in Los Angeles; burying my face in my man's leather jacket on a cold night in Monterey; which one is now? Time overlaps and fragments and swirls around me. The now is that my face feels good against the leather, which smells good in my nose, and there are hands in my hair and I feel safe. Both moments are true at the same time, and I embrace the cacophony. 

I would like to gently set aside my pain; I'm ready. Being genuine means not relegating my past to some obscure corner. Whenever I want Greg to be a resident of now, there he is in dreams and wanderings. When that's not good enough because I want him actually really here- Now, goddamnit! - now is the experience of that resentment and loneliness as it passes through me and then dissipates. I don't have to forget everything else in order to stay in this moment. I have to remember to let every joyous wild crushing melancholy tranquil feeling/memory/experience wash over me as they come.....and go when they're through. 

The reason I love those cassettes so much is because of the hiss between the songs. In those few seconds Greg is right there in his own now, finger over the button, eyes staring off into space as he listens and gets ready to pause. And I'm right there with him. Now. 

Jerry Vale singing "Al Di La"

Birthday from a distance (distance unknown)

And so Greg would be sixty. A new decade, one he'll never see.....So many questions about a present that doesn't exist:

What would he be writing? Which books would he read, and what would he say about them? Would he be cranky? What would he want for his birthday? Where would he travel? Which songs would he put on a mixtape? Would he still take naps? What would he look like? Would he still stand tall? Who would he stay in touch with? Who would his new friends be? What would he give me for Christmas? How would he get along with the man in my life? Which movies would he choose to see screenings for? Would he stay sober? Would he drive the same car? What would he say about God? What would he think of my cats? How would he feel about my job? What words would he say when I feel low and discouraged? How would he feel about Puig? What color Converse shoes would he wear? When would he eat dinner? How often would he go to New York? Which stories would he read to my students? Would he still be able to sing? Would he buy organic cookies at Whole Foods? How often would he call me? What would he think about while he walks the dogs at night? 

Would he be well?

These are the questions I rarely let myself contemplate, because it is too desperately easy to slide into a hole, until maybe the phone rings or a door slams, and then I stand and realize hours have passed, and the light is gone and the bottle is empty, and I'm cold. 

And it's all just hypothetical anyway, questions that will never be answered. Of course, there could be attempts, but it's still hypothetical when someone speaks for the dead, even to say "He would be so proud of you" or "He would eat that polenta you made." And some answers are so inherently true that they aren't even answers, because there is no question. He would love me. He would love me. He would love me. 

One of my best friends gave me a poem a few years ago, which I found and read today:

i will learn how to love a person and then i will teach you and then we will know

seen from a great enough distance i cannot be seen
i feel this as an extremely distinct sensation
of feeling like shit; the effect of small children
is that they use declarative sentences and then look at your face
with an expression that says, ‘you will never do enough
for the people you love’; i can feel the universe expanding
and it feels like no one is trying hard enough
the effect of this is an extremely shitty sensation
of being the only person alive; i have been alone for a very long time
it will take an extreme person to make me feel less alone
the effect of being alone for a very long time
is that i have been thinking very hard and learning
about mortality, loneliness, people, society, and love; i am afraid
that i am not learning fast enough; i can feel the universe expanding
and it feels like no one has ever tried hard enough; when i cried in your room
it was the effect of an extremely distinct sensation that ‘i am the only person
alive,’ ‘i have not learned enough,’ and ‘i can feel the universe expanding
and making things be further apart
and it feels like a declarative sentence
whose message is that we must try harder'

-Tao Lin

I miss you Greg, and I love you. Happy birthday, somewhere out there....

Ballast

Cast off ballast

these rollicking seas threaten to upset

my sunken ship

too much of a good thing is never enough.

Wrote those lines a few weeks ago. Poem in progress. Life in progress. Recently I've been asked if I even want to get better, and I said yes, but inside I hesitated. What does it mean to let go? What of myself will I lose in healing? Is there serenity without emptiness? 

I've been at war with myself. I want to let go of the trauma of losing my dad, but I never want to forget Greg. I'm 30 years old, and the shine is off the romantic sulk. 

I used to think happy people were basically stupid. They watched happy movies, listened to happy music, lived happy lives. They didn't grapple with INTENSE FEELINGS, didn't think critically, didn't suffer for their art. I don't ever want to stop making art, but I'm also starting to think about the difference between "making art" and "living art." 

So now what? I won't make any promises, but I'm fairly certain this is my only ride on the Carousel of Life. Do I want to get better? 

 There's no tidy wrap up to this post, just question marks and sighs.....