Oh My Gosh

This song is arresting.
I was following the pack
all swallowed in their coats
with scarves of red tied ’round their throats
to keep their little heads
from fallin’ in the snow
And I turned ’round and there you go
And, Michael, you would fall
and turn the white snow red as strawberries
in the summertime

Original by Fleet Foxes. Any way you hear it, holy cow:"Everything is transitory. Still, every thing is."

A Bench & So Much More

Rhythm is Gonna Get You

My best dancing days all added together have not seen as much dancing as there's been in my life since Michael Jackson died, all that rhythm comin outta everywhere, radios all around.

I want a jazz funeral when I die. But if you play a little MJ when I go, it'll gimme some more boogie to woogie outta here on. And I won't mind a bit. As long as you keep marchin and swingin down the streets with them trombones and sassy colors, lovin the life I led as much as I did.

6'

What did the fish say when he swam into a concrete wall?

Damn.

What do you call gum that bees chew?

Bumble gum.


Okay, two silly jokes for you because I'm going to get all deep on you again. Kind of hard not to be deep in light of the recent circumstances. Yesterday was Michael's memorial service. I haven't read the program yet, but it's got color pictures allover it. It's on the floor next to my bed, between a few books, and every time I see it, it's surreal. Weird. Maybe I should get rid of it. Mostly because MK was such a vivid character, and was so against people making a big deal over him that it feels silly that a) he's not vivid anymore, considering "viv" is Latin for "life" and b) we're all busy making a big deal over him.

That's not what I was setting about to write tonight. Get your gear. We're diving in.

So, Michael's and Talia's deaths were two in what has seemed like a season of death. Since Christmas-time, I have had a friend whose mom died, a friend who lost her mentor to cancer, someone else related to all this sorrow who also lost his niece a week later, a friend whose aunt died, a colleague whose 18-year-old cat died, and another colleague and close friend of MK's who spread the ashes of his friend the day before Michael and Talia died.

...which makes me wonder the following...

Are death rates increasing universally? At a faster pace?
Or just in my head? My circle.
Are there seasons of death? Like December?
Does death come like El Nino? Flooding every nine years or so? I remember my brother's death in high school started a string of tragic teen deaths that lasted for several years at our school.

In the play "Angels in America," a man with AIDS in the 80s is visited by a ghost from an earlier century saying the plague was worse than the current epidemic:
"Whole villages of empty houses. You could look outdoors and see Death walking in the morning, dew dampening the ragged hem of his black robe. Plain as I see you now."

Does it come and go, ebb and flow? Or are people checking out? Jumping ship while the rest of us suckers sail into global insanity?

Is death something I should get used to? Not be surprised by? And if so, then what is there to learn by not being JADED by loss, rather understanding of it? (knock wood)

Death is a passage. But for us left behind, at least the way most of us see it, it's a sorrowful state of affairs that has us picking up pieces that were put together perfectly fine before tragedy came along. Or not picking them up as the case may be.

I think there is something to learn here.

Have you ever been watching a film or reading a book, you're gripped by the story and the relationships and you realize, someone has to die here for the story to stay honest. Who is it going to be?

Other societies view death as a more natural part of the landscape of their lives than we do. And they continue relationships with the departed in ways that our society finds freaky.

There is definitely something to learn here.

The Forgetting. The Remembering.

I am walking up the stairs to work, like I've done day in and out for two years. And Michael crosses my mind. Not the Michael who is dead, or the Michael whose daughter died, but the Michael standing at his office window, phone to ear. The Michael I’m laughing about telling the funny thing I saw at lunch. The guy whose advice we could use—wait one sec, I’ll go ask. …Oh. I can’t. He’s not there.

Shit, how could I forget that?

It’s like the left side of me knows he is dead. The left side of me was there to get the calls, work through the days, tell his mother. Yes, I told his mother.

But the right side of me is where my memories are stored. My memories of Michael alive. And when they come up, it's like THOSE memories each in turn have to learn that Michael is gone. Each memory as it surfaces has to learn what the rest of me knows.

At some point, I am guessing—hoping?--they will reach critical mass, and the rest of the memories stored away will all at once absorb the awareness that Michael is no longer there to consult, counsel, laugh at, with…and the New Normal will be less of a jolt again and again.

From Many Voices

Independent published the article a day early. Read it.

Normalish

Finally did laundry today. Cleaned my room, washed dishes. Talked to Grandma on the phone.

I posted my furniture on Craiglist, too, clearing out space. Suddenly it seemed imperative to be rid of every last thing I don't use or don't like, likening those things to that awful itch from the tags in my sweaters that I can't take out because the damned things will unravel, so I scratch, absentmindedly unhappy. Then I commenced wondering at the wisdom and folly of buying a $2,000 desk. It doesn't have to be $2,000. But it could be. To redirect my emotions to a desk I will love so much I can call it a companion. My friend, who also lost Michael, just bought a baby grand piano. That totally trumps my desk. But he was her bff, so bring on the baby grand.

Body . Spirit

Michael Klein, 1970 - 2007
Islas Secas , Dawn of Time - End of Time

Another Country

I sat on the Mission steps tonight. Conquerers always get the best real estate. Just before sunset. Cloud cap over the sky. Distant ocean. White plaster and red tile roofs of homes in the foreground, and the main thoroughfare moving with cars. A few tourists.

I watched the cars head toward home in the twilight. And in them imagined people of another country. I am the tourist. In their land. Watching their way of life, imagining their foreign language thoughts as they plan dinner, mull over the day, look forward to seeing their kids. A habit I know but at present am set abroad from.

I go home to cook dinner for myself for the first time since before Christmas. Conversations outside of work are still hard to focus on; language goes all watery before they're through. Grief is another country.

Unfoldmentarianism

I sit here and wonder, "What will I blog tonight?"
and then immediately see that I'm alive and well, living a vibrant life and wondering why I'm even wondering, "what will I blog tonight?"
As I type, the kittens torpedo through the room. Good traction on the carpet, those claws. My margarita buzz wears off, kind of melting down my sides. The song Dov and I "wrote" or rather "allowed" in the moments I followed it out of my mouth, hums in me. The pictures of Michael I saw on other people's blogs cling to the insides of my skull. Lisa asks why she didn't use her guest-blogger time to ask where are all the good guys for this good woman (er, me). Tania watches TV in her Obama earrings made from Sculpee. I wear an uber-soft robe in a comfortably lit room. My work, especially at present, is difficult but rewarding. I grow.
What will I blog, indeed?
Let me sit here and think about it.
I'll get back to you.

P.S. Lisa left the kitchen tonight, where she was making Mexican food, to meet me out for Mexican food and margaritas. Then she asked me kind questions and remembered historical funnies. Then she sprang for the bill. Lisa is an old friend who's been around for the growth. Lisa is cool.

I LOVE my purse

I don't love the "new guy."
Tragedy didn't suit him, so he didn't call.
My purse rocks.
The "new guy"?
History.

The Car

PEMA: We're here to-- Do you have a-- What were we telling them?

KURT: That we, uh, that...

KHAN is listening intently in the huddle we created, waiting for one of us to finish a sentence.

KURT: Our friend and colleague parked his car here before Christmas and then died in a plane crash and we're here to pick up his car.

KHAN blanches.

KHAN: I'm, my gosh, I'm--

We are blocks away from LAX. In KHAN's eyes, you can see him calculating, trying to recall news briefs, flipping through imaginary etiquette books, while we all stand in this circle in the parking garage wondering what to do next.

At the counter, I pull out the death certificate from my notebook. I pull out my ID.

The longer I wait for the people to find the key, to type in the date Michael parked, to find the car in the lot, to call each other on the intercom and disappear and reappear and give me more forms to fill out, the more closed-in my vision gets. My breath is shallower by the moment and my fuse is short. I see only a wall of keys on the valet board behind the counter. The very large lips of the young woman helping me. The piercing in the side of her lip, like a metallic beauty mark. The people on either side of her looking forlorn and unsure of what to say or do. I am stoic against the tears that want to come, in waves.

I get the keys. Valets have pulled the car out front. Kurt and I hug. We cry. I get in.

How do I start it?? The radio comes on with the car and plays a commercial of a new show Michael invested in. I get out and tell Kurt the synchronicity. I go back to the Mini, and I can't figure out how to adjust the seat or see the odometer or open the windows. My brain is too fogged from the black interior, the tears on the reverse slide down the back of my throat, the impossibility of mental focus on these simplest of mechanics to get me out of this garage.

I am finally out, I pull into the sunlight. And immediately I drive to the side of the road. The tears are heavy and my breath is jagged. Fucker. Jerk. Dammit. This is *not* my drive. This is his view and his scent. The performance hum under my ass and my feet is HIS ride, his familiarity.

The wheel under my hands is glossy wood and a paper-smooth leather. Its contours cradle my grip. There is life here all around me and under me. I am breathing it and applying myself to it, and moving with it.

I drive fast. Fast in his fast little car. Change the radio when I hear music he wouldn't like. Dance wildly in the driver's seat. Absorb the man in his absence.

The Bus Ride

I used to ride the bus to work and wish that on the 20-minute Express, I could muster the courage to stir up an exciting collective debate, about politics, our community, current issues. Instead of opening a book or staring out the window, the newest rider would lean in and ask what we were talking about today.

This memory popped into my head in the recent days since my friend died. Our journey through life is like a bus ride. Some people get on when you're already in progress, and sometime later they get off; but in that ride you've been changed. You've participated in a rousing discussion, you've engaged in fearless dialogue, you've provoked the social experiment that lies in you and everyone waiting to play with you if you're courageous enough to just play. You've utilized those spare 20 minutes. For good! And learned something you never knew about yourself and the person next to you and the person next to that one. And before you know it, all those 20 minutes are stacked into days and weeks, a lifetime; and the bus door opens, and a passenger waves goodbye, and he gets off at his stop, while the buzz he stirred in your bus continues, and your journey, continues.