for mrs. chan

she was the oldest resident in my neighborhood. she’d been here longer than Mr. Don and Mr. Don has been here 30 years.  She didn’t speak english; the sum total of the few actual conversations I had with her was pretty much “twins?”  “yes” “Love” “yes” “LOVE. Beautiful” “yes”.  We’d have that conversation every time she came out of her little house next door to bring Double Trouble a pack of cookies (which I would eventually eat most of) or graham crackers or the occasional tootsie pop (which I would absolutely eat). It actually got to where they would run to her house whenever we went outside….and wait for her to come out. Sometimes she wasn’t there or didn’t realize they were out there so they’d just go about their business….but sometimes if they lingered around long enough or made enough noise, her front door would creak open and she’d come out; always with loot. and she’d look at me and say “okay?” and I’d say yes and she’d hand them the cookies (which I would later eat) or the graham crackers or the tootsie pops (which I would later eat).  then we’d have the conversation:

Twins. Yes. Love. Yes. Love. Beautiful. Yes.  

One day she pointed to herself and said “Chan” so we started calling her Mrs. Chan.

She was very kind to my children.

Sometimes her son would come over and mow her lawn and we’d see her come out and sweep the sidewalk and we’d always wave and if she saw the twins she’d run in and come back with loot and they loved her.  

We met her almost exactly one year ago when we moved in.  

She’d come outside and wait for her grandson to be dropped off by the school bus and sometimes I’d see her standing in the middle of the street when I came home.  We’d wave at each other but she didn’t talk to me until she saw the twins.  

twins. yes. love. yes. love. beautiful. yes.

She was an occasional fixture in our lives because she didn’t come outside all that much and we weren’t usually on the same schedule but late at night, when I’d come home,  there was always a nice warm glow coming from her house.  Sometimes her son would arrive at the same time I did to either pick up his son or drop her off….we’d wave but it was late so we didn’t talk.

But every. single. time. she saw the twins….she’d come over.

twins yes love yes love beautiful yes

There was something amiss the other day. We came home and there were a lot of cars in her driveway, more cars than we’d ever seen there before.  We went inside.  My mom was concerned. Something was up.

Today we got confirmation. 

She was 86. we think she was 86. The general consensus of the neighborhood was that she was 86.  

we talked about it with Mr. Don while the kids ran back and forth in front of her house. They giggled and screamed and we tried to make them be calm…but I knew what they were doing. they figured if they just stayed out there long enough, they’d get some loot.

I watched them play and was thinking of what to tell them and then something happened.

This is not a lie.

A little girl came out of Mrs. Chan’s house…her granddaughter perhaps…I don’t ever remember seeing her before.  She came out and walked over to my daughter and gave her a little purple flower.  Maggie took it and ran. She’d gotten some loot after all. I don't know if there is any grand meaning to that. but it sure feels like there is.

I didn’t know what to say to her son so I didn’t say anything….he was busy anyway but I think I’ll go over tomorrow and tell him that even though we only knew her a brief time and my kids, honestly will probably not remember her (okay i won't tell him THAT), I will never forget her.  Because she was kind to them in a pure, magical way that doesn’t happen all that often….or at least doesn’t happen all that often to me.  

She was a sweet old lady who gave treats to my kids and then reminded me that, for all the nonsense in my brain about how awful we can be as a species and about how easy it is to get lost in the darkness of everybody seemingly hating everybody else all the time for no reason, that it is possible to distill a connection down to a simple transaction,  let me give you something because you bring me joy.  In the end, the answer should be, always be, yes.

Love. Beautiful.  Yes.

I went outside tonight and stood in front of her house. He son had left a couple lights on  but it was not the same.  

The house is empty.

Somewhere inside is a cabinet that contains cookies and graham crackers and some tootsie pops.  

and next door, asleep right now are two little children who live in a better world because of the woman who lived there.

Goodbye, Mrs. Chan. You will be missed.  In the end, the beautiful love was you.

the yes was me.

from first to last...the peak is never passed...

I'm not sure how to feel about the Marathon. and in the interest of full disclosure, I'm a runner. and in the interest of further fuller disclosure, I am someone who HATES it when self appointed "moral authorities" loudly decry something and talk about how evil big money or nefarious cabals of bad (usually whitey) men conspire to rape the poor common folk for almighty filthy lucre.  and now that i've seen the requisite obligatory "FUCK the NYC marathon" posts start popping up in my facebook news feed, I am even more torn.

because, obviously, it should be said that I don't think any resources should be taken away from disaster recovery to work on the marathon. but I also don't have the information that this is going to happen. It may. It may not.  I'd like to think it won't but then again, I am not in possession of this information.  I'd like to think...and here's a nice  pre-fuckyouverymuch to the real good LIBs who are going to scream about how it's just big business fucking over the poor for money...that there is information behind the scenes that is going around that provides a valid reason for going on with the thing; information, discussions, number crunches, et al that might have aided in the decision.

because yes, it's a sad tragedy that people have lost their lives in this disaster.  and I have no qualifier for that...no "but" that's going to follow.  it's a tragedy.

and we need time to recover and rebuild.

we also, I think, need some fucking community and joy. and pride.

We need some time to scream and yell and celebrate that life does in fact go on and that (and my feelings about NYC in general are well documented) New Yorkers do pride themselves on their resilience.  and FOR THE RECORD, ONCE AGAIN I DON'T SUPPORT REMOVING RESOURCES FROM DISASTER RECOVERY SO DON'T, JUST DON'T. I think that having thousands of people show up to run the marathon, which in itself is a testament to the undeniable power of sheer human will--the greatest in us all, and gathering together for camaraderie and joy and love, probably couldn't hurt.

but then again, I don't know. because now it seems that there is so much ill-will toward it that maybe it negates the joy.  I don't know.

I really don't know.

I'm sad and angry and feel really powerless. I've driven past the lines of people...families...standing in line to fill up their gas cans. People with children.  I've heard the cries of anguish on television from devastated people.  and I do feel powerless.  and I guess I could do more...should do more...but don't really know what to do. and I'm sure a lot of folks that are railing against the NYC Marathon also feel powerless and not really knowing how to express that helplessness and so the NYC Marathon can become a defacto "dixie chicks" kinda thing to absorb everyone's rage and I understand that.

but I just don't really know what cancelling or having the marathon does to affect the outcome of this situation.  if we have it, will it take any longer to get power back up? if we don't have it, will it take less time to get power back up?

I don't know.

it feels like these conversations have happened.

but I don't know.

I do know that I could do more. Should do more. and will do more.

and I guess that's my thought today. to all of those who feel compelled to share links about banning the marathon, how about sharing links to donate money to the disaster relief instead. spend your time doing that.

instead of offering ridiculous advice to the runners "how about at the start of the race, half of the runners bring gas to those without it and the other half bring food and clothes"; how is THIS somehow productive; instead of re posting that tripe, how about YOU go bring gas to someone...food to someone...money to the cause.

because it's easy to bitch about the evil empire, harder to get off your ass and do something to help others...and that is the real question behind the question or what should be the real question behind the question...not "why is this evil marathon still going on", but rather "what can I do to help"

I don't know. (a familiar refrain at this point)

but I don't know.

I know I could and should and will do more.

but I don't know how not having a marathon will really change anything.

maybe just getting this marathon cancelled will give a feeling of power to folks who are feeling powerless...and if that's the case, then I'm all for cancelling.

because when something like this happens, something that reminds us we are mere insects in the grand scheme of the universe, sometimes it's enough just to assert some power of our own.

but then again...that is also the spirit of the marathon runner...

so I don't know.

I really really don't know.

On the Nature and Purpose of Artistic Nihilism

“I can't remember the exact quote but I think it was da Vinci who said artists HAVE to be arrogant about their art.  Otherwise how would they ever be able to do the things they do? Hmmm...maybe it wasn’t da Vinci but it’s still true”

 – Anonymous  Friend...after one too many...

My friend and I have a long-standing debate: He takes the position that the purpose of Art is to enact change. I hold strong, however, to the belief that Art HAS no intrinsic purpose; or no intrinsic value for that matter! Much like everything else we experience through life, meaning and value come from our interpretation.

Interpretation. Not Intention.

I submit to you that art is not whole—not complete, not art—until it gets observed, rendered and deciphered into someone’s psyche.

In other words, if someone paints a picture of a tree falling in the woods…

And as for the quote above,  I hates to disagree with da Vinci…but…

The danger in arrogance in art is that it leads to elitism and that restriction…the taking the audience out of the equation is the true enemy of expression.

Art, for everyone’s posturing and delusions of grandeur, is a SERVICE industry. It’s wonderful (not) that we’ve turned our celebrities into demigods but at its crux art is giving a gift.  Sharing an experience.  And all this stuff about making a difference in the world and changing things is a by-product that comes from this gift.  

Can art change the world?  Absolutely. Can an artist set out to change the world? Absolutely.  Is it a fool’s errand to try to change the world through art? A.B.S.O.L.U.T.E.L.Y.

How it works:  Something happens. To ME.  And it affects me; makes me happy, sad, pissed, anxious, horny.  I decide I simply MUST communicate this to somebody.  So I filter that experience though the medium of my choice (paint, music, prose, film, interpretive dance, whatever) and release it into the world.  YOU receive this, unfold it and interpret it based on your experiences, beliefs and yearnings; and simply does not matter if your interpretation agrees with my intention!  

You can’t control what someone does with a gift.

Just ask Oliver Stone.

Stone meant Wall Street to be a scathing indictment of the Brokers and greed and a wake up call to America and accidentally ended up inspiring a whole generation of Gordon Gekko wannabes!  

And to extend what I’ve been talking about to the next level:  If all art has no intrinsic value then all art is basically equal. Everyone who creates art is equal. It’s society that gets the final say as to whether it’s changing the world or if it’s full of shit.  This means (since you can’t control society) that the act of creation is the only thing that the artist can control and is therefore the only thing that matters. 

Art, truly, is in the doing.

Now, where I’m a big fat hypocrite on this is that I’m just as guilty as the next guy…probably more so…of questioning someone’s right to be an artist: why does he get to make a movie, oh she socks, wah wah wah.  And that is a behavior that I’d really like to squelch in myself…stop the hatin’ if you will.

And the argument I hear a’coming is this:  Are you saying that Humans cannot enact change?  What about Ghandi? What about MLK?

Well of course humans can enact change. On an even more base level:

You alive.  I shoot.  You dead.

Change!

But I’m not talking about Humans. I’m talking about Art.

An Artist can in NO way DICTATE what form inspiration will take.  

Meaning is in the domain of the audience.  

I am not saying I don’t CARE if an audience “gets it”.  I’m expanding my circle of awareness to accept the very real possibility that an audience may “get it” in a way that I could never have conceived.

And THAT, is what is so fucking great about ART!!!   

It’s when we get into the realm of “well if you don’t see it the way I wanted you to see it, then you are stupid or unenlightened” that we start getting into elitism and (in my opinion) masturbation. Demanding that someone interpret your art in a specific way is a) impossible,  b) limiting and c) missing the point of truly great art (and no I’m not saying that I have made truly great art…yet?)

So yes….I do hope that someone will listen… I just don’t worry about WHAT they take away from it WHILE I’m creating.  I mentioned the Wall Street example but think about Waiting for Godot…someone might see that and go, “Wow, that is a wonderful exploration of faith”  Someone else might go “wow, what a cynical take on the futility of life”  Is one of those people WRONG?  Does it matter to either one of them what BECKETT’s reason for writing the play was?   

No one cares if YOU have a personal moment only if THEY have a personal moment.

Death is a many Splendored Thing.

I found out that someone died. 

And this is very strange…I hadn’t thought of this person in literally 20 years. But, in a bizarre way, most of the man I am today is because of Her.  She was…in that way that everyone you know in High School becomes the benchmark for everyone else you meet in life…the most beautiful person I’ve ever actually touched; and my first real LOVE. And you know the love I mean: obsessive high school infatuation.  The stuff that makes you spend hours carving Her name inside a heart on a tree in the woods. The stuff that makes you jog by someone’s house….hoping She’ll come out.  I was in 10^th grade. She was a junior.  I was an unpopular band geek, She was a homecoming nomine and a former cheerleader and the top of Ware Co. High’s A-list.  And for whatever reason, for about 2 months in the spring She decided that She liked me. So I got to sit next to Her in Algebra, eat lunch at the cool table and even got a ride home one day…followed by an awkward, sweaty (my sweat), tight close-mouthed kiss.  Didn’t matter, as far as my 15 year old heart was concerned, I’d found my soul mate. My true love.  I saw marriage, kids, our mansion in LA when I became a rock star…the works.

Lot’s of “where do I stand??” phone calls and some really heartfelt notes later, the interest waned.  One day, She didn’t wait for me for lunch and that was it.  We never really spoke again.  I still got to sit next to Her in algebra for the rest of the quarter but it was done.  For Her. For me, of course, it was only beginning and I secretly plotted ways of getting Her to fall for me again. I’d coincidentally show up at places she frequented.  I even managed to convince my friend, Phil, to throw a party just so She could come and I could show up. She did…with her boyfriend  and the party ended up getting busted by the cops…another tale for another day.  My lowest point involved a plot to seize control of an assembly so I could perform Against All Odds to Her because nothing says true love like Phil Collins. I spent countless hours practicing that song…picking the precise point to drop to my knees and make eye contact(“TAKE A LOOK AT ME NOW!!!” you know the part I’m talking about!). She wouldn’t be able to take it and would stand up and try to leave. BUT THEEEEEERE’S JUST AN EMPTY SPACE…” And She’d turn…and when I collapsed, spent from all the emotion She’d run up and as I sang the last “take a look at me noooow…” She’d lift my head, we’d kiss in front of a standing ovation from the entire school.  That took me a solid year of planning to work out…strangely enough I didn’t figure out a way to actually hijack an assembly. Didn’t really matter I guess…

Her senior year, She graduated and was gone.  But somehow, I still thought that we would find a way to be together.  I carried that torch long into my senior year.  In fact, I never really found a girlfriend in High School (or college for that matter until Poodle…much longer story) because in my eyes they paled next to Her. She was the one that kept me motivated…kept me moving…not giving up on anything…because I was gonna SHOW Her.  Show her what She was missing…and thereby win her back!

Of course time is a fickle bitch and eventually I lost track of Her memory…somewhere in there it got replaced by the various other loves of my life along the road.  

Until that day.

When I found out that She died.  I got a quick sense memory thinking about Her. The smells of high school. Jean jackets. Perfume. Big Red Gum.  Her maroon mustang convertible that I got to ride in exactly once.  Turns out She had become a teacher, gotten married, had kids. Lived a great, fulfilling life without ever missing out on becoming a Rock Star wife.  Just as well since I kinda missed out on becoming a rock star.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.  I guess, in lieu of flowers I just wanted to do my part to keep Her alive. She’s now a part of history…a caveman’s drawing on the wall.  Because no matter what She was or became…She will always, at least to one gangly, pimply teen, be the first lesson of loss…of love.  And love never dies, right?

Rest in Peace, S.F.

Smiles Everyone....welcome to Kony Island

Friends, Romans, Country Fans,  I come not to praise Jason Russell…nor to bury him as it would seem he’s doing a bang up job of that himself.  But I figured with all this adoopla going on about Kony2012 and The Invisible Children and Jason Russell in general, it couldn’t hurt to stick my big fat head in.

For what it’s worth, I watched the movie. I cried when Jacob talked about wanting to die and then broke down when talking about seeing his brother again in Heaven.  After it was over, I clicked the website and was fully intent on purchasing a nifty bracelet only to find they were all sold out.  So instead I clicked over to Facebook and read some posts from my more liberal amigos who almost across the board, to a person, have decided to shit all over Kony2012.  Why?  I didn’t get it?  Isn’t this PRECISELY the kind of thing that you would normally get behind?  Aren’t you all the people who usually scream at the top of your lungs, “why are we only worried about policing the world when there’s oil at stake…when…sniff sniff…there are plenty of other monsters out there!”  Well, isn’t this one of those other monsters?  Even Angelina Jolie with her smug Angelina Jolie face said that those (like her) in the international community have long hated Kony and that  it was good to see young people “raising up as well.”  So what gives, Libs?

So with a resounding “to the inter-web” I did some searching and found that there is a weeeee bit o’ controversy about this film.  Blog after blog have put forth mucho criticism about the film that basically, in my view, boils down to the following:

·         The film makers are self-aggrandizing douchebags

·         They have taken liberty with the facts and oversimplified a very complex situation

·         The organization makes a shit-ton of money—some of which it uses to help, most of which it keeps

And it really does seem that these are correct statements…especially the douchebag part.

But I also think the critics are missing the point.  Because Kony2012 is not a movie. It is not a documentary or a call for action.  It’s not a world saver nor is it a charitable institution.

Kony2012 is a marketing juggernaut.  And as such it is a resounding success. And you should bow down.

And really, what did you expect?  In depth analysis carefully plotted and presented with a deft yet soft empathetic touch by idealistic and generous souls yearning only to spread a message of hope and peace with no thought as to personal gain or credit?  A discussion of options that we can then take to our own families and friends and engage in spirited intelligent debate and come to a consensus and then decide the best way to act?

This is America, people.  We choose our artists on fucking game shows.  Does this not represent the best of what we have to offer?

We are a disposable culture and it ain’t about what’s right…it’s about what’s right this minute.  And you know it and I know it and the American People know it. 

We HAVE to be spoon fed over-simplified sound bites with musical cues to inform us the requisite emotional response to spew or not only are we not gonna get it…we aren’t gonna WATCH it!  And we certainly ain’t gonna care it about it unless you tell us to.  Is it the film’s fault that after watching, nobody bothered to investigate further? 

And for the record,  Kony2012 does exactly what it says it’s going to do: It makes Joseph Kony famous.  You weren’t talking about him before…and be honest, you didn’t know who he was before…no you didn’t…no you didn’t…no. you. didn’t.    Yes, it’s disingenuous for them to allow you to presume that 100% of your money goes to support the children…but…once again, and I don’t want to sound like a cynic here, but what charity does that?  And to repeat: the goal is to make Kony famous (mission accomplished).   But mostly, if we are honest here, the goal is to make Jason Russell famous.

Which leads us to…

YES. They are self-aggrandizing douchebags.  The movie reeks as Jason Russell’s audition reel…perhaps he fancies himself the next Michael Moore (self-aggrandizing douchebag), Morgan Spurlock (self-aggrandizing douchebag) or Werner Herzog (their King) and if that’s the case, he’s in pretty good company.  What’s wrong with self-aggrandizing?  As an artist, you kinda have self-aggrandize…I wish I could find a bigger platform and I’d flipping aggrandize all over the place…there certainly ain’t no one else lining up to aggrandize me. 

And I once again bring us back to:  all that stuff on the website is sold out. The film is a success.  People are talking about Kony.  Instead of shitting all over the poor Invisible Children, why don’t you grab a camera and (as my hero, Lloyd Kaufman is apt to say) make your own damn movie.  Be your own douchebag.

Betcha won’t.

Why? Because it’s hard to create something.  Much easier to kick something down.  So maybe the Douchebags ain't the only douchebags...just sayin'

In defense of the Kardashian brain trust

Now I’m normally not one to get caught up in celebrity feuds and all that adoopla.  Honestly it always feels a little like high school to me…oooh Katie and Julie are fighting and that’s really sad because they were such good friends and now who knows if they will pull it together and even though neither one of them knows I exist and if she did, wouldn’t piss in a bucket if I was on fire, somehow this affects my life.

But I was yaHooing the other day and came across some article about a “huge” feud (read: slow news day) between John Hamm and Kim Kardashian. 

In some interview, John Hamm said:  Whether it's Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian or whoever, stupidity is certainly celebrated. Being a fucking idiot is a valuable commodity in this culture because you're rewarded significantly."

Kim, on Twitter, gave her response: “I respect Jon and I am a firm believer that everyone is entitled to their own opinion and that not everyone takes the same path in life. We're all working hard and we all have to respect one another. Calling someone who runs their own businesses, is a part of a successful TV show, produces, writes, designs, and creates, 'stupid,' is in my opinion careless."

And, shocking as it may seem, I have to agree with HER. 

I think it’s way too easy to dismiss someone of her ilk (the Paris’s, the Jessica’s, the Situation’s et al) as being stupid.  As someone who has spent a good chunk of his life trying to make a dollar and a dime in this business of show, and for the most part, except that one time in 2000, having FAILED miserably at said task,  I can attest that it takes a special kind of savvy and drive and ambition and smarts to make a dent in the sand of the Entertainment world…and Kim has built an empire there.  

And before you toss that accomplishment off and say “whatever, she got famous because of a sex tape”, let me point out to you that there are a ton of people with sex tapes.  Pam Anderson has a sex tape. Amy Fisher has a sex tape. Joanie Laurer has a sex tape. Dustin fucking Diamond has a sex tape.  But I don’t think they have clothing lines and perfumes and multiple reality shows.   I don’t believe Screech could sell the rights to his wedding in prime time.  

So I have to disagree with Mr. Hamm. 

Kim Kardashian is not a fucking idiot.

Kim Kardashian is a fucking shithead.

And the fact that she is uber smart, creative and business savvy makes her even MORE of a shithead. 

And the real problem is that somehow she’s also become a role model and there are a ton of girls aspiring to be shitheads too. I wanna be famous I wanna be famous I wanna be famous and it doesn’t matter what for.  Fame is not just its own reward any more.  FAME is the end result, instead of being a byproduct of DOING SOMETHING COOL.  And that is the real shame of all these shows. They’ve stopped inspiring people to be creative.  Why do I have to make art and bare my soul when I can bare my ass and get there all the faster.

Now in the interest of full disclosure I have to, for the record, state that I despise reality television.  And, as I was once on a reality show (Starz Network’s Looking for Stars), you may call me a hypocrite but I just think that I have perspective…hypocritical perspective granted but it’s still perspective so shuttayouface. 

It’s a cliché to say that Reality TV is as scripted as Desperate Housewives but it’s also true.  The themes of these shows are well thought out and planned in advance.  There are probably story sessions where each of the “real” characters arcs are meticulously planned. 

And, I guess, according to Kim, as she “produces and writes”, she’s involved in these meetings.  That means…

That means at some point, she had to develop an idea:  I will get married and it’ll be a prime time special that I can sell ads and pocket millions and THEN I will quickly file for divorce right before the season of my show comes out that will document the dissolution of my marriage thereby giving folks ample time to get really pissed off but then they won’t be able to NOT watch my show; the ones who doubt my marriage was legit will watch for clues so they can yell “SEE!!!!” and the ones who believe will watch with teary eyes and say “AWWWWWWWWWWW”  but they will ALL BE WATCHING.  This is not only the work of someone with intelligence but also a lot of BALLS.

To conceive of a plan so devious takes great mental acuity. We’re talking Keyser Soze. But really…what’s the fucking point?

Because why not do something great, Kim? 

If you want to be a narcissist, be a narcissist.  Hell, you’d be in the company of some truly bad ass artists.  I, myself, have been accused of narcissism and I’m a loser (by society’s standards, not my mama’s).  There’s nothing wrong with being a narcissist. There’s nothing wrong about being rich.

There’s not even anything wrong with being famous.

But can’t you at least be famous because of something instead of being something because you’re famous?

for her. She (who will not be named)

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

Margaret Atwood

She’s not someone I talk about.
Honestly she’s not really even someone I think about; after all it’s been almost a decade.  But I do, from time to time, drift back…

Last night was one of those times.

Me and the Mrs. scored tickets to see Wicked on B’way and it was in the last moments of the show…no spoilers I promise…that there is a song called “For Good”. Now for those who know the show (or have seen the Wizard of Oz), you’ll know that the song is between Glinda (the ‘guh’ is silent) the good and Elphaba (The Wicked Witch) and it’s basically the two of them saying goodbye and the whole point is that they have been changed by knowing each other. Even if it’s not necessarily a good change…they hope it’s a good change…they are forever different people because they came into each other’s lives.  It’s a pretty sweet song…and I promise I have a point.

While watching that moment in the show, I suddenly had that weird feeling in my stomach, that goose bumped flesh, that welling behind the eyes, a bona fide reaction and I did not at all know where it was coming from; it certainly wasn’t a sudden catharsis for the green lady and her blonde friend.  It was palpable and powerful.  This song. Meant something. To me.

And then…the flood…

I remembered.

It was the end. And I mean the E.N.D.  As in: the last straw, endgame, final days, the fat lady singing, all over but the crying, all’s well that ends in hell.  It was OVER. We just didn’t know it.   Because it had been over before. Many times and various volumes and intensities it had been over.  Phones smashed. Walls punched.  The “c” word on a few occasions (not my best moment). And tears. And screaming. And Screaming and more screaming.  It had been over more than it had been on.

But somehow we just kept at it.  And I wish I could say that it was all her. I wish I could chalk it up to the original thesis (chix is whack) and wail against the horrors of loving a crazy woman.  And she was crazy.  She was crazy (wasn’t she?).

But.  And this is the moment of painful self-reflection and awareness:  The reason she was crazy is because I made her crazy.  And she made me crazy so I made her crazy. In other words,  WE WAS FUCKING CRAZY.

The people that knew us then liked to say that we were just oil and water but that was not true. Oil and water repel each other. They don’t mix.  We were baking soda and vinegar—two harmless ingredients that are perfectly awesome and useful by themselves, but when combined explode into a bubbling, sticky, stinking mess.  Alone we could make a fine salad or leaven a cake…together we could dissolve bone.

We were a perfect storm of passion and co-dependence; of remembering that first magical year of loving someone like crazy and now hating every fiber of that same person’s being;  of not wanting to give up again when things get rough like I always do and damn we really should end this.   We were a hot sexy passionate two month summer romance that turned into a six year…six fucking years…descent into hell relationship.
And I could tell you stories…many stories that would make you laugh and cringe and shudder and probably think much less of me…and maybe one day I will but probably not.  It’s not important now. Right now I want to talk about the end.

It was August.  I’d come up to see her in her hometown…did I mention we didn’t live in the same city? We didn’t even live in the same state.  We had to physically be in different zip codes just to be able to function in society at this point.   Anywhoo…so I had come up to visit, to fulfill an obligation that the two of us had agreed to do a year before…some 48 hour film thing.  And we had, surprise surprise, fought the entire forty eight hours non stop. And it was a particularly ugly day that had culminated in someone’s sister being called a whore and someone else smashing that someone’s glass vanity table into oblivion (I told you we fought mean and dirty)  and her mom was crying and we were screaming and I was trying to pack and just get the hell out of there. And I’m packing my car and she comes out.

“I want to play you a song”

“I have to go”

“I need you to hear this”

“let me go!”

“just let me play you this one song”

I figured…fine. I’ll listen to this song and then we can have yet another fight because I won’t understand what it’s supposed to mean but I’m tired so let’s just get this over.
We sit in her car and she takes out her Wicked Original Broadway Soundtrack.  She was obsessed with Wicked.

“This song reminds me of you. When I hear it, I think of us”

And she played the song. THAT song. “For Good”.

And sitting in that car with her, listening to that song together, with six horrible years behind us and God knows how many horrible years in front of us (none it would turn out, but we didn’t know that then)  was strangely calming.  Your basic Eye of the Hurricane moment I guess.  We sat there. We listened. She cried. I cried. And then I got out of the car, hugged her and drove home.

And that was the last moment I was in her physical presence. We imploded…ended with the cellphone smash heard round the world…and went on to live rather normal, happy lives.  And this six years became, at least for me, a dark embarrassing blip in my past.

And I forgot, honestly forgot about that song.  Until last night.

And having a decade between the first and second times I heard it…a decade and two different loves: one stupid and one awesome…afforded me a sense of clarity that I was lacking the first time.

I realized that that moment in her car was our swansong. But more than that…it was HER moment of grace.  See I know now that we humans are for the most part a planet of the fucked up but each of us, everyone at some time is capable of purity; a moment of true and absolute grace.  And embracing these moments bring us closer to the divine. Or something.  She was saying goodbye to me. Maybe she knew it and maybe she didn’t but that song in her car was the best way for her to tell me that even though it was buried somewhere deep inside and scarred from many years of battle, inside her heart was a love for me. And when we give our heart to someone and love them fully with everything we have and everything we know how to give, then we are changed. For better or for worse we are fundamentally different beings.  And because of her I was different. And because of me she was different. And because of us, we were different. Forever, maybe not for better (apologies Mr. Ono) but changed.

So I thank her. For the good times. For the fun and for the love.  And I forgive her for all the shit and I really hope she forgives me because I am truly sorry for it all.  But most of all, I want her to know that from this moment on, when I do remember her…when I talk about her (I’m not gonna do that a lot)…that day in the car…that song, will be what I close with.  Because in the middle of all of it, she chose to send me off with a message of hope and grace; that no matter what we had done and what we went through, at the end of the day,  we’d be okay.

And you know?  She was right.