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.....

Christmas in Heaven

And so it goes. 4 years ago, my dad died semi-unexpectedly. School ends on a Wednesday this year; I'm understanding and easygoing about furlough days in general, but it fucking stings to deal with December 19th and the last day of school before Christmas vacation all in one go. The last time those happened simultaneously was when Greg died.

I'm not gonna lie, these have been rough days. Last Friday's tragedy has laid heavy on my heart and filled me with loss. I couldn't stop thinking about those grieving families and the wrapped gifts in their closets that will never be opened by the intended hands. It brought back terrible memories of sitting on the floor, unwrapping my father's gifts myself that I'd bought and wrapped for him, tearing the paper into long thin strips and staring off into space. I wonder who's gonna deal with those presents- and I beat myself up for obsessing about something so frivolous in a time of such great sorrow.

It hasn't all been black dogs barking- we had a class meeting in which I told my kids, "I can't promise we're all going to always be safe. Nobody can make that promise. All I can promise you is that I will always do everything, EVERYTHING, that I can to keep you safe and to take care of you." And I grasped each small hand and said "Good Morning," like I always do, and I hugged them tight at the end of the day, and all the hours in between I rested my hand on their heads or squeezed their shoulders and smiled. Some of those kids waited alone all through that awful weekend for someone to reassure them, to hold them, to listen to them. They come from broken homes or neglectful families or shelters- I did my small part as their teacher, and in my head I was so very grateful for the love and reassurance I grew up with at home. I was grateful for my family and where I came from. And so I did the best I could for them, and I tried to take a little care of myself too.

It always comes back to letting go of anger, and injustice, and feeling grateful for what I've got and have had in my father. Lately I've been imagining a blue column of water inside myself, in my very center, and it's always there. It doesn't mean I'm not allowed to get angry or frustrated or sad- storms pass and the water roils- but I know the waves will calm and the darkness will fade and I will return to a state of peace. Peace is  always there inside me, while the other feelings come and go. 4 years later and I still love Greg and miss him so much. My heart goes out to those whose loss is still raw....

Onward, Obama!

4 years ago tonight, I was flailing around on a treadmill, panting and crying while watching the election returns at the YMCA because we didn’t have a tv at home. Then we drove around town, honking for the sheer joy of being part of an incredible, historical night. I talked to my parents on the phone and hugged strangers with glee. 4 years later, and it ain’t the same.

Almost four years out, and you start to feel safe, like you’re done with all the firsts- you’re over the worst of it. First birthday without him, first Christmas without him, first time you watch a movie without him, first time you eat a vanilla/vanilla cupcake without him. Of course, with timing and all, I didn’t think through that this would be the first presidential election without him. I didn’t think that far ahead.

Greg was politically-minded. He had an imaginary soapbox and he would take a pretend hop down after a rant. He enjoyed watching Rachel Maddow and arguing with Fox news anchors from his armchair. I loved talking politics with my dad, and I’ve missed his insights and attention to detail during this round of election bidness; but I’m still grateful for the analytic skills and interest that he passed on to me.

Thanks to a fabulous benefactress (Thank you Mrs. Sharon), my class receives Scholastic News magazines to keep up with current events. For the past couple of weeks, Room 20 has been Election Central as we read up on the candidates’ stances, re-enacted debates, watched videos online, and tackled tough vocabulary straight from the news. Some of the kids were pretty sure they knew how I felt, but I never came right out and confirmed or denied. I borrowed one of Greg’s lines, and every time they’d ask about my own beliefs, I’d reply: “It’s not my job to INFORM you so you can think like me- it’s my job to INSPIRE you to seek out information and take a stand of your own.”

To make the whole experience more personal, we were gearing up for a Class Presidential Election that also took place today. This morning at my polling place, I charmed one of the election officials into giving me enough “I voted” stickers for every student in my class. Last night I created ballots with all of the candidates, and a space to vote in the Presidential Election just for fun. Students created their own platforms, and a nomination process took place last week. There were debates, town hall meetings, and advertisements (construction paper posters, but whatever; some of those were still better made than the shit I’ve seen on tv these last few weeks). This morning, candidates had their final opportunity to make a speech and take a few questions, and the absolute quality, insight, and intelligence made my heart explode with pride (and occasionally made my face explode with laughter). Some examples:

• If elected, how will you support Mrs. Rodriguez on a daily basis?
• If you were the class president, what would you do if someone was falsely accused of being a bully?
• What is your stance on homework?
• How will you and your running mate handle disagreements?
• What is your position regarding cafeteria rules? 

And then there was the student who asked, “What inspired you to run for President?” and the candidate that answered, “I see a lot of room for improvement in this class- and I've got big plans!” And the candidate who promised there would be a lot more class parties if she is elected, only to be challenged by another candidate: “And who’s going to PAY for these parties? Parties cost MONEY! No new taxes!” Yes, this is really the language they used. I was so impressed (and amused)!

We’re still waiting to hear from the rest of the country, but in Room 20 I’m happy to announce that the Obama/Biden ticket won by a landslide. Voter turnout was 100% and apathy was nowhere in sight. Greg’s inspiration carries on in a new generation……

Another Trip Around the Sun...

This week I raced towards my 30th birthday like some 4th graders falling all over themselves to get at the bday popsicles. There were celebrations, brouhahas, phone calls and texts, quiet dinners and fancy dresses, and bowers of flowers. I made my latest trip around the sun in style.....and even so.....and even so.

One of my dark and moody boy-students shocked all hell out of me by bringing a helium balloon and a dozen crimson roses to school on Monday. The flowers were lovely, and much befitting a 30 year old grown woman, but it was the balloon that yanked at my heartstrings. Something Greg used to do, and I wondered if anyone at all would remember to do it this year, for such a big round birthday. The universe takes care of me in roundabout ways, sometimes.

Although I've always loved my birthday & never been the type to get melancholic or age-phobic, a lot of shit went down in my 20s and it was dramatic to say goodbye. It would have been easy to be blue.....however, it seems as though when you've lost someone too young, and too close, and it hurt too much- you're not allowed to lament any more trips around the sun. After all- what's the alternative? If I'm going to be self-indulgent, I'd rather it be an excess of celebration than an excess of self-pity.

I was awfully glad to get that balloon, though. Welcome, thirties! Many reasons for gratitude.....

Maybe Heaven (special appearance by Sean Penn)

I was in the New York kitchen, pouring a drink and ordering a pizza. The phone was ringing in my ear when Greg came in the door and started to talk. I tried surreptitiously to hang up and heard a vague “hello?” as I fumbled the phone. With his trademark irritation Greg waved me off and said, “No no, it’s alright, it’s not really important” in that tone that underlay that it was fucking important. I put the phone down and said, “I’m sorry Pop, you’ve got my undivided attention now. Tell me.” He told me he’d had a dream where he was dead.

Here’s the dream Greg told me within a dream (in first person, as that’s how it was related to me- voiceover with accompanying visuals- Greg is nothing if not cinematic, even in dreams- perhaps especially in dreams):

I was hitting the heavy bag. The tape was tight and my mind was finally blank. In walked Sean Penn and he said, “I’m here to talk about the muggings. “

I didn’t stop hitting the bag as I replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if I did know what you were talking about, I might say that it’s all in the family.”

Penn didn’t flinch as he stepped between me and the bag and I let my fists hang. Staring at him and knowing I was dead; I had a thought and said, “I’m not in Heaven, am I?”

“Those aren’t my manners,” he said. “Where do you think you are?”

“I don’t know. I guess maybe I’m still in a state halfway to grace.”

“So what’s the supposed Heaven?”

“Fuck if I know.”

That’s where the voiceover stopped and it was me and my dad in the New York Kitchen again. He stood over me and lifted my jaw so I’d look him right in the eyes. Holding my chin, he said, “Maybe Heaven is a gander at your daughter’s clear honest face. Maybe Heaven is a place you occasionally wander around inside yourself; that you always carry but can’t always find.”

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.....

Happy Fathers' Day, to all fathers everywhere. And I do  mean everywhere.....I woke up feeling grateful instead of sad, thinking about Fathers' Days past and good memories. I tried to practice that attitude of gratitude all day long, but by late afternoon it was black dogs barking.

I miss my dad and that's all there is to it. I tried to turn it around, but my mind kept coming back to what other people were doing with their dads, with wanting to be with my dad. So I got my Irish up and I lashed out at someone I care about. I sat in my house in the dark and I felt sorry for myself. Then I started thinking about what I might be doing if my dad was around, really considering it instead of just feeling like shit that it wasn't gonna happen.

So I decided to watch one of our favorite movies, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I only picked it because it's great cinema, I already owned it, and I knew it would bring me back to the first time I watched it. Watching McMurphy play basketball with the Chief reminded me of one of my dad's headshots, of his spot-on Nicholson impression, of how he could detail every character actor and all of the director's choices.

The movie reminded me of my dad, which made me feel better, and it also reminded me of how I don't want to go down any dark paths. One of Greg's favorite lines in the movie is when McMurphy says, "Well, I tried, goddamn it. At least give me that." Tonight, I didn't feel like trying. I felt like following the black dogs barking right down into a miserable hole.  But without being around, Greg didn't let it happen.

It's almost like a kind of time travel: 15 years ago, Greg showed me a movie so that I'd have something to return to by myself, when I needed it. I need to remember that he gave me the tools, the gifts, the love that I need to survive on my own. (I mean, writing is another one- check out this blog.) I don't need more of the same (even if I'll always want it, and badly)- I already have it. It's okay to miss him and to have a shitty couple of hours. Clouds pass over, my mood darkens, a storm comes. But I'll come out the other side. 

"Which one of you nuts has got any guts?"

Happy Fathers' Day, Greg- with love and laughter- and a lot of guts.

Theatrical Therapy

Last night, it was with a full heart that I flopped on the couch and rolled over to stare at the cushions up close. I wanted to get up and write, but it was all a little too fresh and I needed to let it roll around inside me for awhile.

EP Foster 4th Grade had their first major theatrical production last night, a stirring rendition of "Gold Dust or Bust!" It was a short run, with two matinees and a single night performance, but the audiences were robust and the performers put their backs into it. I felt so close to my dad this past month as we've been rehearsing and preparing.

I even channeled my dad a time or two, when the kids would get frustrated with themselves, or with me, and I'd find myself using one of Greg's lines. About a thousand years ago when I was a freshman in high school, they were casting "Rebel Without a Cause" for the school play. I desperately wanted to play Judy, so I came home with my script and found myself whining to Greg, "But they never cast a freshman in the best role- it always goes to a senior!" He said he would coach me, and the first afternoon I cried with frustration and slouched around his office, until he said: "Do you want me to be nice to you, or do you want to get the part?"

I got the part.

I think it's dirty to take credit for someone else's work, so I'll only say that I brought out something those kids already had inside them, but we worked and sweated, and when they got scared I reassured them, and when they got nervous I encouraged them, and when they got frustrated I said, "Do you want me to be nice to you, or do you want to put on a good show?"

They put on a good show.

Not just a good show, they were goddamn stars. Kids that are reading two grade levels below where they ought to be were belting out complicated lyrics, and two of my girls carried the show with grace and comedic timing. Sure, it wasn't perfect, but even the flubs were charming because it was so clear how much fun they were having, how confident they felt.

I'm so grateful for another opportunity, another way to connect to my dad, to remember what mattered to him and his skills and his talents. When I was in college I dipped my toe into directing exactly once, "Crimes of the Heart," and even though I called Greg constantly for advice and to vent, I didn't let him come to a single show. I was afraid the show was going to be bad. How fucking dumb was that? I would have given just about anything for him to have come to any one of the productions of "Gold Dust or Bust!"

Last Friday morning I was driving to school, and on the radio they mentioned it was June 1st, Greg's sober birthday. And I burst into tears behind the wheel- that hasn't happened in a long time. I just missed my dad. I got to school, washed my face, picked up the kids, and cued up the music. And we sung our goddamn hearts out.

Oh Daddy, thank you for all your gifts I carry inside....