What You Have Lost Can Never Be Found

I remember Peej telling me about a project she was going to participate in last year. A local man's Losing Something project, in fact. I remember seeing the raw photographs and I remember her telling me what it was she talked about in her interview.

But I never knew the end product was available online...at least, not until today.

I've spent at least an hour tonight reading the transcripts, looking at the pictures, listening to the stories these people - many with whom I'm acquainted - told. And my heart hurts.

So when I finally turned toward this space to write, I don't suppose it's any surprise that everything coming out of my fingertips was tempered with loss. My own loss. Loss that I'd prohibited myself from talking about here.

I don't even know what story I would tell.

A Strongly Worded Letter...To No One

I started drafting a letter today - a strongly worded letter to the Universe.

I used all sorts of cuss words...fuck, asshole, shit-ass-mutherfucker...and every combination in between. Because I'm angry. And sad.

I'm surprised by the anger, frankly. The sadness? Not so much.

It's just...over the last 2 months - not even two months - so many good ones have been stolen from the lives of people I love so much. First, John. Then, Debbi. Now, Moon? What. The. Fuck?

Add to this the hospitalization today of a friend who's already been through so much in the last year...someone who deserves to just have a normal time of it for awhile...and I'm feeling so overcooked. I want to kick rocks at someone ANYONE and there's no one at which to kick rocks.

It just is.

So I started to draft this letter. I started to say Just. Stop. It. to the Universe.

When I realized something.

I'm trying to assess blame for all these random heartaches...for all this grief. And, with the exception of John who was killed by a stupid stupid stupid man-child, there is no one to blame.

It just is.

It struck me...I actually see the benefit of believing in a god of some kind. I see why it's easier to believe we are the product and puppetry of some omnipotent being rather than just some random assortment of globs of gooey flesh.

Because when shit hits the fan? There's someone to blame. When things are bad, we're not alone.

Instead of having to face the fact that we're all of us alone.

Instead of having to face the fact that sometimes? Sometimes life is fucked up just because it is.

It just is.


A year ago: The Weekend Report
                  Coming Attractions

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?

All I Can Do

UPDATED: Moon died last night, November 22. Rest well, Moon.

Last week, an acquaintance of mine and her husband were involved in a catastrophic single-car accident.

I do not pretend to know Moon well and I've never met her husband, Col. Mustard, at all. What I do know from having a couple of encounters with her is that Moon sparkles. She is one of those golden souls with wonderful energy and talent...someone you just want to know and be close to her warmth.

Moon was several months pregnant at the time of the accident. Her son was stillborn shortly afterward. She remains in critical condition and the outlook seems grim. Mustard is in serious condition. If you're compelled, details and updates are being provided at The Moon Mustard Fund blog.

Even though I do not know Moon well, this accident has made my heart hurt and I want to help. Several of my friends know and love this little family so very well. They are all hurting, anxious and sad, wondering what in the world they can possibly do to help too. I, who have no business offering help to the family, can only offer to help those who are putting aside their own personal business to attend to the family and to each other.

There's one other thing I can do. I can tell you all about this little family who needs all the positive energy, healing thoughts, and prayers we can muster.

So I'm asking. Please. Whatever good moojoo you've got, will you give it?

If anyone ever needed and deserved it, these two totally do.

Donations - for the baby's funeral and all the mounting medical expenses - are being accepted via paypal if you have the ability and desire to give financially. Details and a link are available, again, on The Moon Mustard Fund blog.



photo snagged from Facebook - original source unknown

 In all things it is better to hope than to despair. - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A year ago: Sold to the Highest Bidder
                   I'm Not Name-Calling, But It's an Exercise in Restraint

Seconds

*I wrote out this entry and then deleted most of it. You don't need to know how he died. No, that's wrong. I don't want to tell you about how he died. I want to tell you how he lived.*

For obvious reasons, I've been thinking a lot about Jeff over the last few days.

Not the Jeff of Jeff and Brad - although he is, of course, totally blog and thought worthy.

But no. Not that Jeff. Not tonight.

The particular Jeff I'm referring to, one of the best friends I ever had, has been gone - yes, as in dead - for over 15 years...which is crazy to me...that it's been that long. But I did the math yesterday in my head and yes, yes it really has been 15 years.

Jesus.

Well now didn't that just put me in my aging place?

Anyway.

This is one of my all-time favorite memories of him.

The crew - Jeff, Drew, Dean, Jonnie, and I - were over at Drew and Jeff's house one night. You know, just hanging out, drinking, laughing, talking, listening to music. Beck. And Gordon Lightfoot thankyouverymuch.

We were all, all but Drew, church mouse poor then. Me, a college student. Dean and Jeff under-employed roofers. Jonnie...what was Jonnie doing at the time? Waitressing maybe. Or nothing at all. I don't remember.

But! Between the 5 of us, we'd managed to scrape up enough money to order a feast of delivery Chinese food.

Jeff, bouncing off the walls he was so hungry, impatiently paced around while we waited and lamented about his rumbling stomach. Oh my gawd, that guy could eat!

Finally!

Food arrived.

Jeff hurried it into the kitchen, giggling in giddy anticipation, talking to himself in gleeful tones, moving as fast as he could, and started unpacking the containers of kung pao beef, sesame chicken, chicken and snow peas, sweet and sour shrimp, fried rice. He piled a plate nearly a foot high with all the saucy goodness and started to make his way back toward the living room.

Alas, Baby, his dog, had other plans for him. Worked up over Jeff's antsy vibe, Baby came barreling toward Jeff and his precarious plate of food.

Knocking into Jeff's legs with gusto, Jeff tripped over Baby's back and went sprawling.

So did his plate.

So did all his tasty morsels.

"Aw, fuck," he said. Then, "Fuck it."

He stood up, surveyed the mess on the floor, largely contained in a 1'x1' area, said nothing else and turned back toward the kitchen.

He returned a moment later with the biggest grill spatula known to man and, without ceremony, began to scoop all the Chinese food back onto his plate.

Jonnie and I, sitting side by side on the loveseat watching, occasionally giggling furiously, were dumbfounded then when Jeff sat down across from us, plate in hand, and began to shovel the freshly scooped-off-the-floor Chinese food into his flavor hole.

Jonnie: Jeff! What the hell are you doing?!

Jeff: Leave me alone. I want to have enough for seconds.

I love you, Jeff. I miss you.

Time Doesn't Stop...But It Sometimes Stands Still

photo courtesy of Matt Conroy - 26 Things

21 years ago today, my adorable niece, Coco Pants, was born.

On that day, I was 17 years old - wretched in the last hormonal throes of teenagery - and still under the delusion that time creeps as slowly at 40 as it does at 10.

Do you remember 10? Do you remember when life was stretched further than the eye could see? When 12 weeks in the summer felt like a never-ending story of sunshine and ice cream delights? When the days to the next Christmas or birthday seemed an eternity?

I woke up this morning, listening to my almost-40 body complain about the abuse it's sustained. In my head, I'm screaming, "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about." All the while, I'm making my list of everything I must get done on this last day of the weekend before the whirlwind week ahead begins in earnest and I'm lost in a rush as the days fly past faster and faster - a blur of places to go, people to see, tasks to accomplish.

I barely remember last week.

But I remember 17 as though it were just yesterday.

Tuesday, I met an old...I don't even know what to call him...friend? flame? door left open?...for drinks. We squeezed each other in between our respective work and social schedules and talked, in part, about how busy we both were. Two hours felt like 20 minutes and there was so much that still felt undone as we said our goodbyes in the parking lot, both feeling like there was plenty of time to take things slow, draw them out, make them last - there are, after all, more urgent matters at hand demanding our attention and our time. Although, perhaps we'd still be there in that parking lot if it hadn't been for our audience of one perched on the trunk of her (I presume) car, smoking a cigarette and watching with amusement. Bitch.

And then it happened.

One of his two best friends was killed while riding his motorcycle Thursday night, the victim of a head on collision with an allegedly stoned SUV driver...an 18-year-old driver...one whose life is still stretched further than the eye can see. While John, whose 33-year-old life was just beginning to take on that blur of age and wisdom, was cut short in one tragic instant.

And the clock stands still.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
                                           -W.H. Auden

Family and friends come together, suspended in this moment of immense grief, to cry, to laugh, to toast, to love him...and each other. In this moment, time stands still for them as clarity strikes, resonating through their hearts, as guilt for the lost opportunities to appreciate, to savor each other and the time they shared is recognized. They do it now, openly appreciating and loving one another, attempting to make up for lost time, before time resumes and they join the rest of us as we continue to rush rush rush through the trivialities of our lives.

Tick tick tock
Says the clock
Seize the day.

A Second Chance

It's odd the way life twists and turns back on itself.

Not quite a year ago, I was confused and sad over the end of the beginning of a relationship at which I'd looked forward. A relationship that ended in a stupid explosion over hurt feelings.

I was so very sad at the time. Dealing with the death of Andy. It seemed as though everyone was leaving, one after the other, and life just kept getting harder.

But there was a glimmer of hope that perhaps, one day, everything would work itself out and we could, at the very least, be friends.

So I went on with life, doing what I do, whatever it is I do, meeting new people, exploring interesting side roads along my path, and just generally enjoying myself. Always though, there was a gnawing feeling of something left undone and a little bit of hope.

As time wore on, hope dissipated and I began to believe that the mini-explosion was, in fact, the end. Occasionally, I would find myself lost in reverie over the events leading up to the end and wondering where and how he was, but the thoughts began to come farther and farther apart.

Until last week.

After receiving an incredibly surreal text message in the middle of the night.

And I'm like all wait...what?

Because, I think, we may end up friends again. After all this time. After lost hope.

And this is happiness. I missed him.

Thanks.


A year ago: Wine sophisticate, I am not

You know, uh Rockin' and Rollin' and Whatnot

One of the first movies I ever remember seeing in the theater was Grease.

And I saw it several times the summer it came out - the summer I was 5.

It wasn't until I was quite a bit older that I had an understanding just exactly why Rizzo felt like a defective typewriter. Ahem.

Or what the hell Kenickie had kept since the 6th grade that was broken. Ahem.

Or just exactly what "the chicks'll cream" meant. Ahem.

But oh wow did I ever love that movie through and through.

We had the double album and the piano music. I'm fairly certain I still know the entire movie line for line by heart.

So the fact that Sing-a-long Grease is not coming to Denver?

Is about to break my heart.



By the way? Danny Zuko does NOT sing "the chick'll scream" in the song Greased Lightning. Just...trust me.

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.

We Interrupt This So-Called Life Broadcast...

Remember yesterday I told you about my one actual fiancé?

I just received word this morning from his aunt...he's had 2 strokes and a heart attack. He's on life support and not expected to live.

He's 34 years old.

I don't have any other details at this time.

My heart feels very sad right now. Because no matter how aimless he was, he was my first true love and I know he loved me.