Love's Recovery

A couple of months ago, Tangled Lou, the force to be reckoned with at Periphery, took it upon herself to meddle in the affairs of others when she asked her readers to tell her about love. She didn't specify what kind of love - or even tell us whether or not she thought there was a distinction. She just asked simply, "Tell me about love." It was, in hindsight, quite Kahlil Gibran of her actually.

I didn't respond to her request right away. Mostly because I didn't know what to say or how to say it.

When I did respond, finally, it was simply to point her in the direction of several of the blog posts I've written since this blog began. Entries that documented my relationship with Andy...entries about falling madly, passionately in love but so many more about losing love - first, when I left him after nearly a decade together and again when his brain and then his heart exploded inside leaving behind only the lifeless shell of the man whose ring I once wore.

We'd known and loved each other for 17 years when he died (that was one hell of a long summer romance). Over the course of those 17 years, we found and lost each other countless times but we never lost our love for one another. We both tried, and failed miserably, to engage in other relationships. For my part, I began to believe that piece of me - that important piece of equipment that allows one to fall head over heels in love - was irreparably broken. Since he died and there is absolutely no hope of finding each other again, I know I simply just long-term loaned it to him at the tender age of 20. 

Wow. 20 years ago. 

Where was I?

Ah yes. Tangled Lou. So when Lou asked her question, of course, the person I thought of was Andy. He's really all I know of being in love. While there have been a number of false starts since there's never been anyone else who ran away with my heart.

But I wish now I'd responded differently to her question. Because her question wasn't asking me to tell her about being in love or losing love. Her question was to tell her about love period. And I happen to be an expert on finding love in the most unexpected places, in hidden nooks and long forgotten crannies, from unlikely sources, and demonstrated in a variety of ways.

I've been accused of overusing the very word "LOVE". As though love is some finite, tangible thing that should be conserved, rationed, and only doled out in small, affordable bits.

But I don't believe that, I don't feel that, and I certainly don't live with such a miserly heart. If you've known me for any length of time, if we're friends, I've likely told you any number of times that I love you. Because I do. If you've known me for any length of time, you know I'm usually the first person to hug, to touch, to smile, to laugh. That's all an expression of the love I have and give.

       But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, 
       Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's 
       threshing-floor, 
       Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, 
       but not all of your tears. - Kahlil Gibran from The Prophet

In my not-so-humble opinion, love isn't something you can ever express too often or to too many people. Has there ever been a time you've found yourself grieving the loss of a friend and thought to yourself, "You know, I think I probably told her I loved her just one time too many"? 

I didn't think so.

How often have we remembered someone we've lost though and regretted not having told him, "I love you" just one last time? (And, if we had said it one last time, would there be just one more we'd want to say and another and another?)

Exactly.

Because there is always ALWAYS room for more love and the expression of it. And the more you say it, the more you feel it, and the more love comes back to you in wonderful, magical ways, the more you want to share it with still others because loving IS living.

That's what I know of love. 

It's an excellent return on investment. 

That's what I should have said to Lou. Instead, I say it to you.

      And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your 
      course. 
      Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. 
      But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: 
      To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. 
      To know the pain of too much tenderness. 
      To be wounded by your own understanding of love; 
      And to bleed willingly and joyfully. 
      To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; 
      To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; 
      To return home at eventide with gratitude; 
      And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon 
      your lips.
                                                      -Kahlil Gibran from The Prophet

Day Sleeper

When I first met and fell in love with Andy in the fall of 1992, I was a freshman in college living 100 miles away from him and he was unemployed, living with his cousin, one of my best friends, who worked as the overnight jock at the only rock radio station in town.

They were day sleepers. Clearly.

I, on the other hand, was a solid early to bed, early to riser. Most of my classes started at 8 a.m. My school day done no later than 2 in the afternoon. Beyond that, I'd always enjoyed the early mornings...the quiet, the peace I felt while I savored the loneliness of dawn.

Those first few months of college though, I learned to appreciate the night. I loved feeling blanketed by the darkness, enveloped in the tender moments of first love, while drinking gallons of Mountain Dew and swallowing Jet Alert caffeine pills to stay awake so I could keep up with Andy and his shenanigans.

A typical weekend would start at 6:30 a.m. Friday morning. Class, a break, another class. I'd be out of school by noon and, my car already packed for the weekend, would leave straight from campus to head due north toward the Colorado/Wyoming border...toward the ever blowing wind and sleep-deprived love...pulling up in front of The Book and Record Exchange above which they lived just in time for coffee with my boys. There would be no sleep for me that night. There were conversations and arguments, card games and graffiti, kisses and well...you know...to be had. As the sky would lighten, we'd sit curled up in front of the southeast facing windows to watch the pink of the sunrise. He'd sing me our song. He'd read me a story. I would kiss him goodnight and take my leave to see my mom for a few hours, to nap for a couple of hours, before rising mid-afternoon to see him once again.

I would arrive back in Denver mid-afternoon on Sunday exhausted and content to resume my early to bed routine. So it goes. So it goes.

With Andy, with N8, with Goliath...with Noodle.

I've always felt like an early riser in a sea of Day Sleepers.

You see, I've never been romantically involved with anyone who wasn't a night owl and I've often suspected our opposite sleep habits played a hand in many a break up. It's hard to connect with someone who sleeps while you're awake and vice versa.

And then, a couple of years ago, something changed. Maybe it's age. Maybe it's the cumulative impact of the late nights dabbling in the club culture to which many of my friends subscribe. I don't know. All I know is that my sleep needs have shifted more toward day sleeping much the same way my body's center of gravity has shifted so that I'm always just a tad bit off balance.

Regardless of the reason, recently I asked to modify my work schedule so that I was no longer reporting to work at 6:30 a.m. I realized much of my anxiety in the morning stemmed from knowing I hadn't slept enough as a 9 o'clock bedtime didn't feel realistic without hours of tossing and turning. So now I report at 8:30. It's nice. I like it better.

Still...

I took yesterday off as a planned personal day because I had shit to get done. And then, Thursday night, because I wasn't working the next day, shenanigans were afoot. I, without effort, stayed awake until 4:30 a.m. and only went to bed then because I had to do a very few things late in the day.

Last night then, I was yawning my fool head off around midnight and considered heading toward bed when even more shenanigans presented themselves via a text from my upstairs neighbor. She and I parted ways 'round 2:30. I didn't go to bed though. By then, I was wide awake and my fingers itched to write. So write I did. I wrote several pages on a project I'd wanted to start. And then I may or may not have instigated a middle-of-the-night e-mail conversation with Noodle (shoosh you...no, really, I'm serious. Shoosh!).

The next thing I knew, the sun was coming up and I hadn't yet slept.

So I sang myself our song.

And I read myself a story.

And then I kissed myself goodnight.

And went to sleep.

All the while knowing, as much as I want to...

I can't be a day sleeper. Not right now. There are no allowances for a day sleeper in my current employment situation.

So, as much as I don't want to on a Saturday night when Alameda is in town and performing at the Hi Dive, as much as I don't want to when friends are throwing a St. Patrick's Day party, I forced myself to get out of bed at noon and didn't allow myself a nap or evening coffee. I'm in my pajamas and will make myself go to bed at 11.

I hate it.

I...

Wanna rock and roll all night.

And sleep the day away.

But I'm a grown up. Uh...mostly. Unless there are shenanigans afoot.


Written (primarily) for the GBE 2 prompt "Shenanigans" but also because it's on my mind as Alameda gets ready to take the stage and I'm at home pouting.

Grief, Revisited

I started to write about this year's Thanksgiving tonight. A Thanksgiving that was, once again, so full of love, laughter, phenomenal food, and inappropriate touching! I have the pictures to prove it. But my head and heart are being pulled in a number of directions and, when I went to go search for a previous post to link to, I found a few posts from last year that told me plainly where my fingers were going to travel with or without my consent.

I sat at Acr0nym's dining room table in pajama bottoms and a sweater, icy fingers thawing slowly as I wrapped them around the steaming mug of joe he'd poured and doctored precisely to my liking. Curlicues of cigarette smoke rose lazily around our heads.

"Have you heard from [redacted] lately?" I asked.

"Not recently. But even [redacted] is now poking him about work."

"Really? [Redacted] might join the team? I didn't know that! Does that mean he'd move back here?"

"Dunno."

"I hope so. I always liked [redacted]. Honestly, I had a HUGE crush on him back in the day. But I was shy and I was with Andy then and..."

I burst into hot, silent tears. I turned my face away, staring out the window toward the nothingness of suburban townhouses across the street, saltwater dripping from my chin onto my chest, trying to hide my outburst of angst from Acr0nym's eyes. He'd seen it before but I was embarrassed to catch him off his guard like this...to make him uncomfortable at the start of what was supposed to be a pleasant, relaxing afternoon.

"I'm sorry. I...it would have been his 37th birthday on Tuesday and I've been trying really hard not to think about it or acknowledge it in any way. It...he...that just caught me by surprise."

That was yesterday. Friday. I didn't cry for long and was able to recover from the shock of piercing grief for a few hours - long enough for us to enjoy our afternoon of errand running and decluttering before we would head out on the town for a night out with friends.

However, when I got home last night, I was rooting around in my desk drawer, looking for a long lost office supply, when I stumbled across a letter...from Andy.

Andy didn't write letters. He didn't write much of anything. While he was well-spoken and a voracious reader - someone who put even Devo Was Right and Owen and the Divine Dayna to shame - writing, with dyslexia, was an extraordinary chore for him.

I consider myself lucky to have two letters from him then - one from the very beginning of our nearly decade long dance with one another lost in a box of memories tucked away for safe keeping in storage and, the other, from his last stint in jail, stuck haphazardly, almost deliberately so, in the bottom of my desk drawer.

I unfolded and began to read, once again, the 4 sheets of one-sided, double-spaced lines written with black, felt tip ink in his unpracticed scrawl:

The days aren't bad. I'm working on a street crew so I get to get outside most days. Nights are worse. But it's not all that long before I'm done and can get home. When can you come visit? It was good to talk to you. I always loved talking to you. You know that though. You know I always loved you.

Tears pricked behind my eyes, threatening to spill out from under my control again.

And then? Then I got mad. Madder than maybe I've ever been with him. I wanted to yell and scream at him...maybe even kick his shins for being such a damn dunce!

And also for being dead. I can't seem to forgive him for that.

High on wine, my heart started breaking all over again, that heavy weight of nostalgia and pain and overwhelming love bearing down on me. I couldn't breathe with the weight of it and I needed to tell him how mad I was at him. But there wasn't any way to do that. Not where he could hear me. So, instead, I opened up Google + - Facebook too public for what I had to say - and I posted this:

Actually no, I don't know. You presume too much.

That's right. Last night, I decided to talk to my dead ex-fiance...on a social media site. Sounds crazy, right?

And yet...where would you say it where he or she might possibly hear you? Although it would have probably had more of a chance of getting to him via Facebook. Lots of dead people still use Facebook...or so it would seem.

Anyway, I deleted it early this morning. It was cryptic to everyone else and I, for one, hate cryptic posts. I rudely judge people for making them. Besides, in the pre-dawn hours, I knew it didn't make any difference.

He can't answer me anymore. Even if he wanted to, even if he still has any awareness of me or of his past life here, he can't tell me anything. Fucker.

Sorry, Mom.

The fact is I didn't know he loved me. Not for a very long time - YEARS! I held onto him, held onto my love for him, clinging desperately because I was desperate, at that time, for any kind of love from anyone. When he finally acknowledged that he did love me well...then I clung to the hope that he would somehow change into what I wanted...nay, needed...him to be. Gainfully employed, goal-oriented, happy, not racist.

He couldn't live up to my expectations - my pre-determined resentments. I suspect no one could. I saw his person and super-imposed his potential onto him without his knowledge or consent. When he didn't live up to my idea of his potential, I was disappointed, frustrated, ANGRY!

I'm still angry. I'm still heart-broken. I still love him.

I miss him.

I didn't publicly acknowledge the anniversary of his passing this year. It corresponded, quite conveniently, with the American Gods and Roadside Attractions road trip and seemed, somehow, out of place. I didn't talk about it in the blog or in person to anyone - not even Acr0nym as we drove across the mid-west. But it was always in the back of my mind, simmering like spicy marinara sauce.

Maybe the road trip was less about looking for America and more about looking for a way to escape me...and Him...until the grief had passed unceremoniously in the background.

Maybe I was self-conscious about the fact that I am still grieving for someone who's been gone for more than 2 years. Someone who, for all intents and purposes, I have no right to lay claim to anymore - even before he died.

And yet, I grieve. I grieve as though we'd been married. I grieve whenever his mom would say, "I wish you'd gotten married and had a little baby so I could have a piece of my Andy living and breathing beside me". I grieve whenever I sense there's some date impending that is significant to remember about him...the anniversary of the day we met (October 18th), the day he died (September 7th), the day he asked me to marry him (December 25th), the day he was born (November 22nd).

I grieve and, right now, I'm mad...

At myself.

It wasn't his fault he couldn't be what I wanted and needed him to be. It was my fault for having unrealistic expectations of him. It wasn't his fault that I wasted(?) an entire decade on a relationship that was doomed from the start. It wasn't his fault that I didn't pursue other prospects for potential love.

It was mine.

It was all my fault.

I should have let him go that day long long ago...the day he got on the bus to go back to California and back to his destiny...to die.

But I didn't.

And here I am, crying, for love lost, life lost, potential lost.

While he gets to be here...

I'm here where I wanna be.
7,000 miles from infinity.
No one knows where I am.
It's quiet here with me.
I'm filling in the spaces where the killings used to be.
There's no phone.
And no way home.
Been a long time come late.
Been a long time.
I'm here.
Where I wanna be.
7,000 miles from infinity.
No one knows where I am...
But me.
         - Meryn Cadell



And I'm sad...and I'm angry. I hate him. And yet, I love him. Inexplicably. Always? Forever? I don't know.


Inspired by these entries...one after the other...from last year:

When It Falls Into the Sea
All I Can Do
A Strongly Worded Letter...To No One FYI: if you're offended by particularly strong language, you should not click through on this link. I was pretty mad and I swore...a lot.

Lost Wages

I dropped out of high school.

I don't know how many people know about that. I'm not proud of it so I don't tend to advertise it. But, the fact is, I did. I then almost immediately went to Beauty School. I subsequently quit that too. Go ahead. Sing Beauty School Drop Out for your own pleasure. I'll wait.



Finished? Great.

After a year or two of working a minimum wage job though, I knew I was way smarter than what my school career record reflected. I also knew I had no intention of working for minimum wage the rest of my life. So I decided to go to college.

Because I'd had the foresight to obtain my GED upon deciding to drop out of high school, I was able to go straight to community college. Which, coincidentally, is how I ended up in Denver. I was able to claim residency at CCD because my dad was a resident of Colorado by then and there was no way in hell I was going to Last Chance Cowboy College.

Enter Andy.

I would meet him on a weekend trip home the October of my first semester at CCD and all of a sudden I'd wish I had gone to El-Triple-See. But when he headed back to southern California in December I was glad I hadn't and another idea dawned. Grandiose schemes of pre-med at UCLA took shape. Or, better yet, some kind of liberal arts degree at the University of Redlands.

But then reality set in. I couldn't actually pay for UCLA or University of Redlands. Even though I was a 4.0 student at CCD, I was still under the age of 24 and subject to the incomes (according to FAFSA) of both my relatively financially successful parents. I didn't have the benefit of my Great-Aunt Lue's inheritance like Dr. J did either. By then, the remainder of that money (after her time at University of California at San Diego, or UCSD) had been squandered by my father on a Fiero and 2 years of elective unemployment.

So...

Fine.

I was mostly on my own.

The goal then was to get as close as possible to the Inland Empire without expending too much future money.

I found my opportunity in the Western Undergraduate Exchange program.

As it would turn out, being a WUE student would afford me the opportunity to go to school out of state, a mere 3 hours from Andy, for less in tuition AND housing than it would cost to go to school in Wyoming or Colorado...even Metro.

So I moved...to Las Vegas.

And I dutifully attended the awesome campus of UNLV for 2 years. That is not facetious. I truly did love that campus. There was an In 'n Out right by the Student Union on the grounds. What was there not to love?

At least, for the first year, I loved it.

People like to visit Vegas and so I had an awesome influx of friends and family coming in to "see me" but who were really there to experience the cheese of Lost Wages.

Additionally, the weekends that were not eaten up by out of town visitors were spent nestled in the arms of Andy...wherever we landed. That might have been his mom's or a hotel (if we could afford it) or Scooter's house.

And then Jeff died.

And then Andy and I broke up (again).

All of a sudden, Las Vegas became a prison. And I hated it. I hated the traffic, the noise, the heat. I hated the people sitting bleary-eyed in front of the slot machines planted in a row along the front windows of the grocery store. I hated the very idea of a buffet (I still won't go to one voluntarily). I hated that, even though we were so close to LA, the only venue willing to host punk rock shows (the Huntridge Theater) would eventually be condemned...you know, after the roof collapsed just before a show.

All I really wanted to do was come home...even if I didn't know where home was. All I knew then was that Las Vegas wasn't home. I'm not sure it can truly be home for anyone.

Since I left and came back to Colorado and made Denver my home, I've been back to Las Vegas only a handful of times.  Most of which had to do with me passing through to, once again, visit the Inland Empire...and Andy.

In an interesting twist, Andy fell in love with Las Vegas because of me. It was somehow different than where he'd grown up. Maybe he got caught up in the dream of a place built on false hopes and neon. He'd live there for awhile. His brother would move his family there - they remain there. I think he thought Nevada offered more opportunities for success than California did. Maybe it did for him. It would also land him in jail for DUI. Surprise.

Regardless...

The point of this entry is two-fold. Initially, I started writing it because several people I know - a number of them I count as friends - are currently in Las Vegas attending Defcon 19. And, for the first time in a long time, I wish I was there right in the thick of things. I want to see how things have changed, how they've stayed the same. I want to drive past my old haunts and see if the coffee house I used to frequent is still there and, if so, whether their triple iced espresso mocha still beats all other triple iced espresso mochas I've had since all hollow. I want to see what's changed on the strip. I want to go play BINGO at the Gold Coast. I want to play roulette at the Golden Gate on Fremont St. I want to give Andy's brother a hug.

Most of all - I mean, besides hanging out with my friends in the biggest partiest atmosphere of all time - because I really miss Acr0nym, Spux, Kelli, TC, et al? I want an In 'n Out burger animal style. Maybe two.

But truthfully? After contemplating Las Vegas for a long time, the only things I really miss are related to food...In 'n Out, Trader Joe's, triple iced espresso mochas. The rest of it can be had here. Even hanging out with my friends...at least, all the time 'cept Defcon time.

I can take or leave Lost Wages. It ain't nothin' compared to home.

The second part of this entry came after I started writing it. Peej, in her blog yesterday, asked this:

I guess the whole point of this rambling blog entry is - for those of you that actually went to college directly out of high school, especially if it was out of state, how do you think that the experience changed you? Are you still friends with the people you knew back then? What did you gain from the experience? Inquiring minds want to know.

As I stated, I didn't go straight out of high school. The reason I didn't was because I didn't think I deserved to be able to go to college after I failed miserably at high school. I didn't believe any college would take me. What I came to realize is that the reason I failed at high school is because high school (and life) had largely failed me up until that point. I realized that, in order to be successful, I was going to have to get past the idea that I shouldn't have aspirations beyond minimum wage and that I wasn't qualified to go to school.

Once I got to school - CCD and UNLV - I realized I still didn't have to study mostly (that was my junior high experience). I could still pull straight A's out of my ass with minimal effort as long as I showed up for the tests. That gave me confidence in me. It made me realize I could actually do ANYTHING I wanted to do. College turned me on to literature I didn't know existed. It turned me on to theories I wasn't aware of. It turned me on to SCIENCE! That's where I fell in love with Biology, Genetics, and people...how people tick, how societies work.

Did it make me more employable knowing the ins and outs of the young Hegelians? Maybe. I doubt it.

But that wasn't why I ultimately went to school. I went to school because I needed to prove to myself that I was better than what I'd handed myself. I needed to know I was better than minimum wage. I needed to (I thought) be closer to Andy...

Even though, I also believe college, at the end, was the reason I decided I couldn't be with him for all time.

I don't remember anyone from college except for Steve at CCD - a boy in my speech class first semester - that I remember used to volunteer at Planned Parenthood as an escort/bodyguard and Cricket at UNLV who'd lived all of her adult life - since sophomore year in high school - in a wheelchair...left quadriplegic from a school bus accident (she was a cheerleader on her way to a football game when they were broadsided by a train). I haven't talked to either of them in a decade. Friends came before and after.

Again, for me, college wasn't for the parties or the friendships. College was about self-esteem, self-confidence, knowledge, success, and (as much as I hate to admit it) following behind the love of a boy whose heart I'd ultimately break (damage to the point of death?).

It was worth every minute and every penny (that I'm still paying for...until October of this year). I learned a lot about myself in school - personally, at least. And it gave me tools for self-awareness and growth. While I miss Andy desperately and while he is undeniably intertwined with my college experience on another level, college, for me, was worth every minute, every penny.

Any questions?

By Association

It dawned on me tonight...

I feel as though I've referenced Meryn Cadell's song, Secret, eleventy billion times on this blog and never explained its significance.

There's actually only one post on this blog that makes the connection...the connection between the song and the person to whom it will, forever more, be associated...and make me sad. And y'all know how I feel about forever. T'isn't in my vocabulary...

Except with a couple (few) songs.

The most significant is Meryn's first track on Angel Food for Thought. Her (his...he is transgendered and now lives as a man) 1st album (at least, of which I'm aware) released in 1991.

The fall of 1992. I was in my first year in college. I'd gone "home" to Cheyenne and, while there, I ran into Gooch for the first time in months. I love Gooch. I loved him then. I love him now. And so, when I ran into him that Saturday night, I was thrilled to say the least. He invited me over the next day to hang out.

It would be quite possibly the single most life-changing moment of my life.

I went to his apartment that Sunday, stood in front of the door to the interior of the building that also housed the Book & Record Exchange, rang the bell...once...twice...and then watched as a young man I did not know come running down the stairs in tie dye shirt and rasta hat.

And that, Dear Readers? Was the moment I first saw the boy who was perhaps the love of this life.

I don't recall anything about him beyond that moment on that day. That day belonged to Gooch. No. It was the next weekend Andy and I would...I don't even know what. Talk late into the night and remember only later that other people were in the room with us...but only as a memory...an intellectual exercise. It was that next weekend we'd have crazy, spontaneous sex with each other while Shana and Jeff were in the front room because we couldn't deny our attraction to one another.

He had a girlfriend. I didn't know.

And that's how it started.

Every weekend then I was there in that apartment above the Book & Record Exchange from Friday evening until Sunday afternoon - staying up all night and then, THEN!

Saturday morning. Sunday morning. The sun would start to come up as we would start to wind down and he would put on Meryn Cadell's album - Angel Food for Thought. He'd sit on the floor in front of one of the glorious floor-to-ceiling southeast facing windows and I would sit between his legs and he would sing the song to me in his gorgeous, baritone voice. I'd occasionally harmonize. But mostly I'd just listen, sinking into him, ready for sleep.

It was my lullaby. And, somehow, I knew he inexplicably loved me. Because of that song.

I'd find him again after he had to leave.

I'd love him...chasing him down the main street in old Redlands.

He'd love me...and finally tell me so.

I don't know why or what's real about what we shared over nearly 2 decades...except that song.

He's dead now. And I'll never forget that song.

Without it...we might not have ever been.

Once more...with feeling.

Jane's Lament

Really, Jane? Really?

Why tonight?

You'd think after he'd been dead for a year and a half that his ghost would somehow fade and I'd be set free.

Not so freakin' much.

Maybe it's because death...or just grief in general...is in the air. After all, even though I know none of the deceased or guilty, there's the verdict in this case that came down today and the trial in this case that spawned this blog entry that most likely went to the jury today. People I've never met and am yet still touched by profoundly.

But Jesus. Is my heart ever going to stop hurting over him? 20 years is a long freaking time, Andy. Isn't it time to let me go?

I'm starting to suspect...not so much.

I miss you. And I'm so sorry.

I Miss Him Tonight

Have you ever lost someone - someone dear - and, one night, been sitting there listening to songs from your past and started laughing because a song came on that had such silly memories associated with it - say, a memory of listening to a cassette tape on a shitty dual cassette player quietly so as not to wake parental units all while having your feet tickled, trying not to laugh or scream or say anything too loudly - and you wanted to pick up the phone and call the person with whom those memories were shared only to realize they were gone...dust...never to tickle or do the brown chicken brown cow dance again?

Yeah. That.

When It Falls Into the Sea

I met Andy in Wyoming.

He wasn't from Wyoming or anything but he happened to be there for awhile. That's where I met him. How I met him is a long ass story I don't feel like telling tonight.

Politely, he was from the Inland Empire. I'd expect a few of you...Diva, Lux Obscura, to understand what that means without explanation. For the rest of you, the Inland Empire is pretty much the armpit of Southern California - and that's SAYING something. More specifically, he was from San Bernardino. Which is REALLY saying something. And what it's saying is absolutely nothing good.

Not long after I met him (read started fucking him regularly), he abruptly left Wyoming and headed back to the streets of California. It was a messed up situation all around. I don't take his side. I don't take any side. Even now...perhaps especially now...I don't take sides. It was what it was. Totally messed up. Regardless, it sent him away.

I was just getting ready to turn 21. I loved him. I was terrified. As...uhm...interesting as my life had been up to that point, I had absolutely no clue what was about to be in store for him...or for me.

He literally had nowhere to go.

I knew he was on the streets. Even though he played that down for me when we would talk - on the rare occasion we would talk as it was collect calls all the way then and he was extraordinarily sensitive about calling and causing financial distress for me, poor college student  - I had some idea of what that meant.

When I saw Where the Day Takes You not long after he left, I cried. A lot. Through the entire movie. While it's been several years since I saw that movie, I suspect I'd still cry...a lot.

So, it should be no surprise for you to discover that, during that first spring break I had after he was gone (he left in December...Christmas Eve actually) I headed straight for California.

That first day I saw him...and I'm not even going to go into what I found in him - I'm ashamed of both of us and no, it had nothing to do with prostitution - we met up at the AM/PM in Redlands right off...uhm...hmmm...I-10? I could take you there if I was there. I don't remember the street names...surprisingly.

Yeah.

Anyway, so that first day I saw him, we met up and were joined in very short order by several of his new friends...Lumpy (dead now), Mickey (out of prison now on a 2nd degree murder bid), G-Man. And I, in my young, naive, Wyoming girl way - because I loved him...and them, bought them 40 oz. to freedom with what little cash I had.

Somehow, probably because I was the only one of age, they sent me to the liquor store alone. And this is how naive I was...Andy told me to buy them quarts. I didn't actually understand what that meant. I bought them 40's. When I brought the bottles of Budweiser back, he thought I was being generous. No, Andy. I was just...stupid. The only things I understood up until that point when it came to liquor was fifths and pints of tequila or whiskey and 2-liters of Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers.

And when I say I brought them back? I mean, I brought them back to an open portion of the Redlands sewer system where they were lounging. No. I'm not kidding.

After they'd drunk some, the decision was made - and not by me, please understand - to go walking through the sewer tunnels...the enclosed portions.

And I was scared shitless...no pun intended.

But I did it. Holding his hand the entire way. As terrifying as it was - rats running past and the fear of someone somewhere pressing a button and releasing a shitload (again, no pun intended) of water to run through at any moment - I did it...because I loved him and this is what he wanted to do.

The entire way through the tunnel, he and G-Man - another one with an incredible singing voice - sang. Mostly what I remember is that they sang Youth Brigade Sink with California. And I was stunned by how beautiful their voices were. They harmonized with one another, blended together into one voice so easily. Jesus. G-Man was just 14 then. I wonder what ever happened to him?

Looking back on it, I certainly felt alive. Looking back on it, I think his intention was to scare me away...far away...back to Wyoming where I wouldn't get hurt. Ha. Don't make it a challenge, Love. I didn't balk at that. I didn't balk at scaling the fence into the reservoir where I tore my pants, my shirt...possibly my soul. I didn't balk in the back seat. I most certainly didn't balk when you were storming down the streets of downtown Redlands telling me to get the hell away from you, did I? Why didn't I listen to you then? I don't know. Stubborn, I guess...

Still am.

Happy birthday, Andy. 36 now, wouldn't it be?

Happy birthday. Wherever you are.

Happy birthday. I've moved well beyond you now. OK?

Another Day, Another Anniversary...Of Sorts

Every once in awhile, I catch myself thinking, "Huh. I haven't heard from Andy in awhile. It's about time."

That was just how it went with us.

For most of our relationship, I rarely knew where he was at any given time so it was always up to him to call me when he was near a phone.

This, of course, was back in the day when there were no cell phones except for the ridiculous ones like Richard Gere was seen using in Pretty Woman and there was no such thing as free long distance or Skype.

I gladly bore the brunt of the expense of those sporadic calls. It was about all we had much of the time.

I used to worry about him a lot.

Worried that he was in jail...

Or dead.

But, he always seemed to know when he needed to call me and reassure me that he was, in fact, still alive and free to roam the streets of the Inland Empire.

I did have a scare once.

It was during a time when we weren't together having gotten into yet another awful fight and ugly words were exchanged. We hadn't talked since then.

So when the collect call originated from a hospital with a southern California area code, I panicked...and thought twice about picking up the phone.

He was alive.

Mugged.

Stabbed.

But alive.

And I was thankful.

I used to play with that scar, tracing it with my finger. It was sensitive - almost painful even years later. Still...I would torment him and giggle and laugh when I'd get the inevitable intake of breath and exclamation to knock it off.

He used to read to me for hours...and sing to me for hours.

He had this incredible voice - a deep, rich, baritone that always rang true. He never had any dreams of using his ability in a professional way - even though I encouraged him to explore his options of which he could have had many - but he was never shy about sharing his gift with me in our own private concerts.

He was so very funny. He could make me laugh like very few others can. We could make each other laugh with just a look filled with our own inside jokes of which I'm not even sure we knew what they were.

He had the ability to work magic where the rest of the world fell away when we were together...most of the time. When he couldn't, well...

That's when it would get bad.

And it could get really really bad.

It got really really bad...before it was beginning to get better.

Still...

I haven't heard from him in awhile.

I wish he would call me.

I wish he could call me.





A year ago: We Interrupt This So-Called Life Broadcast
                He's Gone

The Best Laid Plans

Today is a very important day in the blogosphere¹.

Today is the birthday of Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom.

The 1st birthday, as a matter of fact.

Over the course of the last year, I've regaled you with over 400 tales from my single life, stories from my past, stories from my present, observations about friends...and enemies...and strangers.

It's been an interesting year.

On the surface, it wouldn't appear much has changed.

I'm still single...and loving it. Still living with The Lex and The Cat in the heart of Denver. Still having my singular sensational adventures.

And yet...

One year ago today, I wrote about my first love...made, hmmm...made fun of him even maybe a little bit.

Not knowing that the next day...the VERY NEXT DAY...he would be dead.

And that changed me.

Changed my mind, changed my heart, changed the direction I'd intended this blog to go.

I wanted this place to be lighthearted. To be fun. To be whimsical.

And it couldn't always be that place when the second I began writing here, I experienced the deepest grief I'd ever felt.

So this place - my infinite wisdoms - became something else.

It became more...ME...than I'd actually intended. If that makes any sense.

Not exactly a diary but...a place I've ended up sharing more of myself - a more intimate portrait anyway - than I'd ever intended.

For the first few weeks after Andy's death, I considered deleting that first entry.

For the first few weeks, I'd considered sharing the blog with his family...but I didn't want to share that first entry with them and wanted to hide what I really thought from them.

But I didn't delete it².

It was sincerely written. While perhaps a bit flippant, I did speak honestly about the fact that he loved beer more than he loved me. I did speak honestly about the craziness of his mother. I did speak honestly about the fact that I was single and that I loved it and was not "technically" a lesbian³.

It made me think - that first entry did. It made me think about always speaking honestly and from the heart. It made me think twice about posting something I'd want to delete later. It made me think - always think - about whether I wanted to mis-represent myself or be true to you, my Lovely Readers.

I'm older.

My liver is much much older.

My taste in wine is much more developed to the detriment of my wallet.

I have more Lovely Readers today than I did then.

But I am still Just Jane...in my infinite wisdom.

Gaining insight...imparting the wisdom I really do have...one little nugget at a time.

And isn't that the point?

To tell you as much as I can, every day that I can, what I know, what I've learned, how much I've loved and to share with you who I am...who I really am - even if it's full o' the crazy⁴?

Yes.

That was - and always has been - my point.

To share. To write. To make you (hopefully) laugh. To make you (hopefully) think.

*raises glass o' wine*

And so...here's to another year of laughter, love, pet peevery, observations, infinite wisdoms, and more. Much much more.

To me - Jane - in my infinite wisdom.

XOXOXO

One year ago: Wow! Really?!

1: In my head.

2: Nor did I share it.

3: But, oh my gawd, women are so very beautiful and fabulous...even if they do often suck.

4: But not all that crazy...or at least aware of my crazy which is more than I can say for most women.

When Our Love Passed Out on the Couch

I've been extraordinarily fortunate to have had just a few touches with death in my lifetime.

Uncle Freddie.
Aunt Lue.
Two acquaintance friends to suicide.
And then Jeff, one of my closest friends - like my brother, died in a car accident. That was different. It was tragic and a freak accident¹ and I finally had a true idea of what real grief from death feels like.

But this...Andy's death is entirely different from anything I've ever experienced. I've known him for 17 years...actively loved him for much of that time.

We weren't right for each other. We fundamentally disagreed on everything. Passion, punk rock music, and literature can only carry a couple so far, you know? Still...that passion never died. It's the reason we fought so often and so fiercely and the reason we kept coming back for more. We saw each other at our absolute worst and even then it was still there - stronger than ever.

We'd both moved on over the last 4 years. Finally. We'd both let it go...the summer romance that started over the fall semester when we were still children and lasted a decade.

And now, especially now, when I have someone new in my life who I like very very much ², it seemed very remote and removed.

Maybe though, maybe I needed this time to look back, REALLY look back, in order to move forward.

So that's what I'm doing. I'm looking back, flooded with so many memories of all the incredible times...and the bad. I reach the end of one memory and think I'm finally finished crying, and then I remember something else that makes me laugh...and then cry all over again.

Eventually I'll stop for good.

And even now, with all this grief, I'm already looking forward to Friday...and Chris.


1: Jeff died while driving down a little mountain road when a tree, loosened by who knows what, fell onto his car and crushed him.


2: When I got the news about Andy yesterday morning, I was working on a blog entry to introduce you to my views on dating and Chris, the man I've just begun dating. I'm sorry, Chris. It just didn't feel right to talk about my happy feelings under the circumstances. Bear with me.

He's gone

Andrew Robert MacDonald - November 22, 1974-September 7, 2009