If wishes were horses....

Happy birthday, Greg. This would be #62.  Course, he's frozen in double nickels-land forever. I've been so blue the past couple weeks, but only in spurts. I tell myself, it's a full moon. I tell myself, it's a busted thyroid. I tell myself, it's a sentimental novel. I tell myself, it's all these other people's dads around everywhere! I tell myself, it's this weird huge insect bite on my left shoulder. Mostly, I just ride with it- and I'm fine,  but I'm also weepy as shit.

I feel sad and I miss my old man. It bugs me that I don't remember much of his own birthdays; I remember the vanilla/vanilla cupcakes, and him opening presents and saying gracelessly and honestly, "This isn't what I wanted." I remember Sharon's 40th birthday had a big crazy ping-pong party, and I remember making a movie called "Bearing 40" for my Uncle Bear, but I don't remember Greg's 40th. I don't remember how we celebrated his 50th either. I don't remember his stories about birthdays when he was a little kid, or the early years with Sharon before there were kids of his own. I remember the Godfather party only because there are photos (there's a photo taped above my bar). It's embarrassing to admit that I don't remember; I feel guilty. I wish I'd written more shit DOWN while my dad was alive to tell me about it. Then again, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.

Of course the 55th birthday was when he was sick, but we all thought he was getting better and he pigged out on a Pink's chili dog, which only furthered the idea that he was on the mend. That birthday was also when I got my first teaching job, which I truly believe now was a saving grace from somewhere above to keep me safe and sane and grateful to be alive.

Today at summer school, a 4yr old told me, "Tomorrow's my birthday!" and without thinking I replied, 'Tomorrow's my dad's birthday too!"

In the smallest wistful voice she said, "I really wish he could come. I wish your dad could come here for our birthday." I said, "I wish he could come too," and turned my face away. Of course, she meant Room 1 and I meant Earth, but the tone was the same. Longing, imagining, wishing...

Happy birthday, Greg. I love you and I miss you...

Oh honey, nobody dies! Not really!

Last night I dreamed that Greg and I sat courtside at a  Lakers game in the Staples Center. I don't remember why we were there or who gave us the tickets, but there we were. I was eating red vines and watching the pre-game action on the floor; the first quarter hadn't started yet. I remember standing up for the National Anthem and noticing that Greg still had most of his hair when he took off his hat. Sitting back down, I distinctly felt the sensation of my upper arm leaning against Greg's upper arm; in fact, I woke up with that feeling in my right arm, and I was sitting on his left in the dream. The weird thing is that I was sitting on the aisle, and he was sitting in the second seat, which would never have happened in real life.

The Lakers started pouring out onto the court- we were sitting in a corner where I could see down the tunnel and into a room where they were all coming from; Pau Gasol gave me a wave (I know he's not a Laker anymore) and I buried my face in Greg's shoulder in embarrassment. He smelled like Hugo Boss. I can't remember what we were talking about (not basketball, I think it was a playwright) but whatever it was caught the attention of a couple sitting in front of us, and Greg leaned forward to talk to them for awhile.

There was a pre-game show where this fat guy in a sports jacket was going around interviewing people, feeding them one-liners ahead of time and then taping his reaction on the big screen. He was up above our section, but motioned to me and came down beside me.

"Alright pretty, here's your line..." and he handed me a card which I read aloud (no cameras yet). "It wasn't until Robin Williams became my babysitter that I learned what a day off really meant." I looked up at him and said, "I dunno- this seems like kind of an off-color joke since Robin Williams is dead." He laughed loudly and said patronizingly, "Oh honey, nobody dies! Not really!" and I just stared at him until he huffed away to another section.

I turned back to Greg and said dramatically, "I've blown my opportunity to appear on the Jumbo-Tron!!!!" and he replied, "Good thing, since you're wearing a Clippers shirt at a Lakers game." I looked down at myself and I was awash in red and blue. Greg was wearing this Lakers Championship shirt from the 80's (maybe 1988?) that he had in real life and that featured cartoon Lakers with big caricature heads.

"Let me out and I'll go buy you a Lakers shirt to put over it," so I swung my legs over the side of the seat and he went out past me, up the aisle and cutting across a row of seats. He was moving fast and light, and looked so tall and so healthy, and I couldn't help shouting out, "Hey old man! You look pretty good for someone who used to be dead!" He turned around and gave me our secret thumbs up signal, then disappeared up the far aisle.

That was where I woke up. I don't know what the hell any of that meant, and the Robin Williams joke was nonsensical more than off-color. But those vivid dreams where Greg is alive and healthy and not a ghost (at least, not until the end) are few and far between these days, so I was grateful.

So was my right arm.

Tune in Now for a Special Report!

So on top of the master's program, the classroom succulent garden, the Earth Day festival, SBAC state testing preparation, and, you know, TEACHING (sometimes anyway) I started a project with my students last week. Our principal asked the grade level chairs for ideas to get the students pumped up for state testing, and since I have a group of students that has shown interest in TV news, and we are a newly minted STEM academy (the T stands for technology), I thought of using the iPads to create a news report to be shown at the assembly next week. Somehow my idea became my responsibility, and I've been scrambling this week to work on this project along with the million other things I'm spinning my wheels at lately.

The kids have been incredibly enthusiastic! We had "business lunches" to talk about their interview questions, list of topics, and potential interviewees. They came up with their own costumes (mustaches- I mustache you a question, HA). They have practiced and worked on their own time, and a lot of my time as well, of course. This last week I've been freaking and stressing and complaining- "I'm too tired for this, I'm too busy for this, I'm too goddamned overwhelmed for this!" But today the filming started.

And it was.....MAGICAL. There's really no other way to describe the experience. Following them around with their iPad and their clipboard and their fake microphone, watching and applauding as they ambushed staff and students alike with their questions, I was in heaven. Meaning that I actually felt for a second like I was in heaven, with Greg peeping over my shoulder and saying, "You done good, Maxie." I was reminded of the hours and hours he spent with his VHS video camera, tracking shots of Amy and I narrating the Vietnam War in our green helmets and flower children dresses, making music videos, panning photographs with my strident feminist voiceovers, and lots of other school projects I shanghaied him into filming over the years. He was a ruthless, encouraging, perfectionist director, and I adored not only the finished products, but the time spent with Greg basking in his undivided attention.

As I set aside the math notebook and stick a post-it in the informational essay prompts, I realize now how the time spent with me and my friends on our projects obviously took him away from his own writing. Although I never thought about it then, there must have been times that he was tired, or busy, or overwhelmed by his own shit. There's been an undercurrent of resentment (so unusual for me because I truly love my job) when I've woken up in the last month and felt more like bullying a short story into submission than coaxing a 4th grader into fraction-land. I don't ever want to lose my writing voice, and I was panicking because the well had been dry for a long time and suddenly it was gushing, and I wanted to stay home and write, and I had to go to work. Today was what I needed to realize that Greg's presence and attention was a gift, and so is mine. The words will still be there- as long as I dash off good notes in those fleeting moments between lessons. Maybe I could adopt Greg's method of sticking notes on the back door until I'm ready to tackle the next piece. Maybe it's time I got my own method.

I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started feeling grateful, and everything got so much better. I drew down on the good karma Sharon built up over the years as a room parent supermom, and I reached out to my own room parent for help. I started appreciating our awesome site leader and all of her technological support. I put my head on my desk after school and wandered daydreaming through memories of my dad and his two big hands with the thumbs put together, framing the scene.

Filming a phony news report with a bunch of children with fancy coats and raised eyebrows reminded me why I love teaching, and love my students, and why I don't ever want to burn out. Next week is back to math lessons and essay prompts, but I think I got "an elbow to the head" reminding me to make it rigorous, make it valuable....but make it joyful. Keep the kids wanting to be there and learn. Keep myself wanting to be there and learn. Have some fuckin' fun with it all!

As my journalists said today to every subject they interviewed, over and over and over, "Thank you for your time."

Pennies from Heaven

Pretty sure 6 years officially puts me into the void. Most people won't remember that Greg died on December 19th anymore, and some people might not even remember that it was Christmastime. But this is not a sad-sack self-pity whining-into-my-wine post. 6 years later and that shit is getting tiresome.

Thursday night I had a bad dream about Greg. I was in a Starbucks and there were some people there that I knew. I was in a very long line and talking to someone I hadn't seen in a few years, and I looked over that guy's shoulder and there was Greg, across the Starbucks and standing near a table. He looked kind of sick but was upright and not too thin, standing there with one of those surgical masks across his face but in regular clothes and scanning the room. A million feelings rushed through me at once and I absurdly said to this acquaintance, "Do you want to meet my dad? He's dead, actually, but he's standing right over there..." He just stared at me, so I said, "No worries, I'm just going to excuse myself though because I haven't talked to him in a few years and there's some catching up to do." I started to walk away and ____ grabbed my arm, started asking me if I wanted to sit down and what was I having to drink because we'd both been in line for a long time and were finally near the register. I tried to pull away and that's where it all got ugly. I don't remember the rest of the dream vividly, except that at one point I was distraught, with people crowding around me and trying to force me to sit down, and I tried desperately over and over to explain that I needed to get to my dad, he was just over there and I hadn't seen him in SIX years and especially he was DEAD, so I really needed to just go talk to him for a minute. Of course no one else could see him. They thought they were being good Samaritans and protecting me in my grief. Really, they were keeping me from an unknown and unimagined opportunity.

The boychiks have been naughty felines of late, and my sleep hasn't been good. I don't know what to make of that dream, except that I'm always grateful to see Greg, even in a dream, even in a lousy Starbucks.

The dream world is a strange one, and I've been a restless inhabitant for many years. One of my very close friends lost her dad a few weeks ago.- without telling all her business, there were parallels and it was hard. I wanted to console her but I knew better than probably anybody how fucking shitty she was feeling. We sat in her backyard the day after, and the sun was shining, and she asked me about a conversation with her dad, a conversation that as it happened I had also had with Greg. Our dads were both artists (writer, musician) with artists' souls and demeanor. The conversation was about being part of a small special tribe, artists with intense feelings and thin shells. We feel it all and we feel it so very much, and our dads both knew how it was a gift and a hardship. But they both encouraged us to never stop feeling EVERYTHING, because our depths of despair will be matched by dizzying love that many people will never feel in all that burning, gasping glory. We loved our dads, and they loved us, and they did the best they could and were gone too soon.

6 years farther along the path and I couldn't really tell my friend a bunch of bullshit about feeling better because we know each other too well and we're too much alike. I could say, The raw moments will get fewer and farther between, but they'll still come over you like black dogs barking and you'll feel helpless and hurting until they fade again. I could say, Try not to play the game with yourself where if you just act really REALLY good, he'll come back from this extended vacation called death, cause I played that game too long and he ain't coming back.......unless the seventh year holds a BIG surprise for me (kidding!). I can't really say it gets better, but it does get farther away. Probably the only thing I could tell my friend that would be both helpful and true is this- the bad parts fade first. The hospital scene and struggle and guilt will dissipate. The love and gratitude will remain. 

I wrote in another post about leprechaun money in Greg's office. When my cousin got married in September, the aisle was strewn with leprechaun pennies from LA. My precious creative aunt made my cousin and I these bracelets; pennies from heaven...

Fare Thee Well, Faithful Escort

I've been in an awful mood all weekend, but it took me til this morning to finally make the connection. It wasn't stress, illness, or romance, but a big hunk of metal that brought me down. After a long exhausting week already, Greg's car took a dump on me Thursday night. I got it to the mechanic's and Saturday morning, sat down in his office for the bad news. Luckily Javier has a good bedside manner, because it felt exactly like being in the doctor's office. He gave me the diagnosis and the price(it's A LOT), and I asked, "What will happen if I do nothing?" He said, "Well you definitely can't drive it on the freeway, but if you insist on driving it in town as is, it will experience a slow decline over time until it dies." I probably looked like I was about to start crying, because he continued with, "You don't have to decide right now. It's your dad's car, yes? Maybe time to start thinking about changing to a new car.." He gently smiled and gave me back the keys. 

I drove away (hobbled away) and immediately began rationalizing and denying. I don't need to drive on the freeway! I'm not too old to learn how to ride a bicycle! I'll move to the Avenue! I have a lot of friends with cars! This is totally fine! When I called Sharon, who is often more attuned to my volatile Irish moods than I am, she listened to the explosion first and then very carefully suggested leasing a car, saying "There's a lot of affordable options right now, and that way you can have a couple of.............years.............to get ready to make a decision about Greg's car." I put her off by dramatically exclaiming, "I can't even think about this right now! I'm in a master's program for God's sake!" 

But of course that's what I spent most of the weekend thinking about (and drinking wine from a jelly jar since I obviously wasn't going to be driving anyway). Every time I went downstairs to change the laundry or take the recycling, I'd give the car a baleful look. I was one glass away from literally shaking my fist. Here are all the things I understand- I know, it's just  a car. I know, someone's possessions are not the same as someone. I know, Greg cares more that I'm safe than sentimental. 

And yet.....

This is the car that's been there for me on long drives at night through the hills with the windows down. I've cried and snotted all over the steering wheel more times than I care to admit. Greg's envelope with his headshots and his ratty blue towel are still in the trunk. It was the last car we were in together before he died. I feel better when I see it in the parking lot at school. 

Someone I love asked if I could try to reframe this experience. He said, "Maybe instead of feeling let down and disappointed, you could imagine the car is telling that it's served you well, that it's tired and getting old. What if you focused on how far this car has taken you already? Consider that maybe it was there for you as long as you needed it, and feel gratitude." 

I'm not buying a new car right now, I just ain't. I'm probably not coughing up [amount redacted] either. As usual, Sharon has the wisest solution and I was too bullheaded to admit it up front. Greg's car and I have a lot of history, but this weekend was probably the beginning of the most gentle letting go of which I'm capable. Time to say goodbye.....if slowly. 

By the way, can I get a ride to school tomorrow?

A tiny flame burning...

I wonder how many people remember today is Greg's birthday. I know I can't count them on one hand, but I suspect I probably could with both hands. Our wonderful friends sent a bouquet of sports cookie flowers( sports! cookies! So Greg!) which was an incredible gesture of warmth, and I've received a few messages, but that's about it. I don't remember most birthdays after the first year someone's gone either (including people I loved very much), so I'm not resentful, but it's like there must be a birthday party happening somewhere- only was I not invited? I'm rather lonely.

Many of the people I'm closest to these days didn't even know my dad. They know about him, or they've seen photos, but they didn't know him, so it's natural that he's less and less a part of my daily life, even as I still think and dream of him often. The St. Patty's day party is precious to me because I know I'll see many of his friends, and I know his name will be said and it won't be because I brought him up first. C and I still talk about him, mostly telling stories that would sound a little dumb to someone who wasn't there, but make for great shared memories. Every year, Greg's death comes out with a new group of students during my "Star of the Week," when they get to ask me questions about my family and someone always always asks, "Where does your dad live?" Of course, he's still in my dreams.

This morning I started to say to an acquaintance, "Today would have been my dad's birthday," but I amended it to say, "Today's my dad's birthday" because technically it IS the anniversary of his birth in the present tense; but then of course I was asked, "Oh! Are you seeing him later?" and I said, "Not likely, he's dead" because it was 7am and I was tired and didn't have it in me to gloss.

So I guess at least THAT poor person knows today is Greg's birthday.

The good side is I think Greg is turning more and more into a glow in my periphery instead of a storm cloud on my horizon, which I appreciate because it's pretty disrespectful to take this person who was present and loving and creative and vivid for over 25 years of my life and reduce him to an excuse for emotional stagnancy under a guise of love. There are thin ribbon scars instead of gaping wet wounds; as it should be. Today's his birthday and I remember, and I'm sad but I'm basically fine. I honor Greg by being a stand up guy as often as I'm able, and by sending him love, and by setting a tiny flame burning on a birthday cookie from his best friend.

Love you, daddio...

Rhapsody In Blue

Standing at the kitchen counter, listening to Gershwin and cutting up a melon. Remembering how Greg used to use the top of a pizza box as a cutting board when he would cut up the melons he'd buy for a treat - this after lugging them home from the market and up five flights of stairs. Once he forgot the umbrella by the door and I remember a pissed-off Greg hacking into the watermelon and spitting epithets. Usually, it was a mellow Greg talking about the play we were going to see, asking if I wanted to go to Sardi's after the play, or reminding me that he was going to meet me at the bookstore when I got off work (so we could go see a play). 

All those watermelons and cantaloupes were much healthier than walking to Haagen-Dazs or Ben & Jerry's every night he was there (which we also did), but in NYC, watermelons were probably just as or more expensive than gourmet ice cream. I think about and dream about Greg so much more than I ever take the time to write about anymore, I just figured I'd postpone grading for all of 5 minutes and share a happy memory...maybe easing back in with a quick one will get the old wheels turning for a more elaborate post. Also, I actually picked out a rather shitty cantaloupe on my own and I really miss my old man tonight. Them's the breaks....

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....