I was watching the videos of Rosie that Billy sent when I lost it this time. Am I just a Sad Girl? I regret making fun of you and Scott Walker for relishing in your sorrows. What else are you supposed to do, when you’re sorrowful? That was me trying to embody what someone told me: that you enjoyed your pain. They were right, I think you did, but what else are you supposed to do with pain? Die, I guess?
I’m listening to Crying Time by Ray Charles. Oh brother, right? Or good grief, rather? I’m grateful that he dedicated this whole album to crying. It’s brilliant. I just can’t shake my sad girl vibes. Am I relishing now? We’re all just trying to climb, I suppose.
…I lost it again when I was changing the laundry and pulling out some of your clothes. I should just rename this blog “The Crying Chronicles”. (Don’t pity me, please. If Ray Charles can cry through a whole album, I can share some tears on a blog. Ray Charles had good reasons to cry though, man. Anyway, what I mean is I’m not trying to gouge sympathy here.)
I was thinking about how I view myself amongst a crowd: all these beautiful and vast individuals, but for some reason I assume I’m the main character of my life. Why? I have a feeling I’m not the main character in my story…
I think I’m kind of bad at having fun sometimes. It’s kinda funny. I have gotten some good laughs to myself lately. I was laughing thinking about how overbearing some people are, while I was doing the laundry. I imagined you were there laughing with me. It hurts because there have been some real funny things happening, things we would laugh at together. I wish you could share in it. Nobody understands, blehhh.
But of course, you also didn’t understand sometimes. Am I just bent on feeling impossible to understand? It’s the Aquarian in me, heh. I guess I needlessly question the benefit of intimacy…always have to run away, you said. It’s true, I do, but I don’t know why…man, I spend too much time thinking about myself.
Maybe we all do, ’cause we’re stuck in these persons. Annoying, isn’t it? What’s that term for feeling pained that we can’t experience every life on Earth?
There’s an unknown deadline when I have to stop being sad, maybe…like, in the timeline of my existence here. It’s self-imposed. I’m aware that feelings fluctuate…I can already feel some people typing up a response to me about the answers to my problems. Here’s the thing: I’m content living, swimming in the unsolved problems. Hear you me. HEAR. YOU. ME. Why does everyone purport to have the answers?
I met someone recently who was telling me his idea to open a cinema with couches, like a hangout spot. “But it’d have to be a double feature, to make it worthwhile.” (Don’t worry, we were at an unsocial distance) It’s kind of a half-assed idea, I mean they already have great recliners in the theaters, with alcohol, etc. I said it’d be nice if one could smoke at the movies. He said yes, it would. I hope he pursues the dream although I could tell he wasn’t sure if it’s what he wants, or he lacked confidence in it.
…recently, I was with our beautiful friend and she saw your DVD start playing on its own in her player. She told me it was your way of showing up to us. I watched her bent over that machine for what felt like ages and I started crying because it felt futile…no matter how much we both wanted it. I know some people have success in connecting, but I don’t know what I believe. It just feels like a way to soften the blow, to make the grief less heavy, to think you’re there…or anywhere, honestly. Luna was just staring into a corner of the ceiling and I caught myself hoping she was staring at your spirit. Even if you’re there, what a one-way fucking street. I want your person back, or I want to go where you are. That’s it.
…I’ve been a bad friend lately.
I’m starting to think that all the rituals people did for us in the beginning was just to help me cope. All that ridiculous, grandiose ceremonial shit. They tried to help me believe that you’re out “there” doing well, because I kept asking…I have to take care of myself, they say. So what if this is how the Lakotans did it…the Egyptians did it up reeeeal nice. I guess everyone has their way of sending off our loved ones. It’s all for ourselves.
In The Volcano Lover, Sontag describes a ceremony that the Italians used to do, where they dressed someone up as the deceased person and paraded them around in a casket, or something…must’ve been after the deceased person was buried. I forget. Anyway, part of the ceremony was grieving loudly. The louder the better, they believed. It was important to display it. I think there’s something to that.
…and I think the Golden Teachers are teaching me something. I was sitting outside on our bench with Luna and Kali. I was caught off guard by the weather: the bluest, clearest sky, strong, cold wind that I wanted to believe was you, the leaves in the trees, billowing like plumes. The colors were brilliant. I’ve seen a lot of beauty in that spot, must be the way the light hits it. There were some tall, yellow flowers that were golden in the sun, next to all the litter that collects between the houses. David and Keya’s Christmas tree was tossed next to the trees in the back. I kept glancing back and forth from the yellow flowers to the dead Christmas tree…on to the next season. That part hurts.
I’m a real concoction of emotions today…where was I going…oh I wanted to say that I feel encouraged. Yes, I don’t have to figure it all out today. I feel cared for. I do spend a lot of time dreading responsibility, but you know, I think I’m even enjoying the dreadful parts. It’s strange. Pleasure is strange…I guess I just have to take it. I feel myself falling into a deeper love with every particle of life…every shade, every crumb. Ugliness is prettiness. Prettiness is ugliness. Letters are numbers. Love is hate. Everything bleeds.
I’m watching One Sings, the Other Doesn’t by Agnes Varda. It was on my list. It’s beautiful. I think I’d like to spend some time being in the world without a plan. That sounds like the adventure I crave.
I miss you.