“All the worlds a Stage”

September 17th, 2007 § 0 comments

For me today was irrevocably wretched since yesterday.

I am without words. There is something bubbling inside me, I can feel it, but it does not feel like something savory. It seems to be made up of everything I hate about life and the world, and everything I love about him. Disgusting, I can’t eat or drink it.

Jackie said…. “and sometimes it just hurts.” When I can’t believe away the truth I am left with pain. A horrible and bittersweet pain that does not seem to have an end, but that can not go on infinitely either. It begins when it does and disappears in the same manner. I can’t control it anymore than I can stop feeling it.

They don’t know, they have forgotten, they don’t remember. You can’t go around reminding people what day it is, and yet I want to. I need to. A year ago I shut my phone, disbelieving, and again I seem to need confirmation. The pain seems to come as much from the fact that I must get up, make art, go to school tomorrow and think of inconsequential things, as it does from knowing I will never hear his voice outside my head.

I saw this memorial in Philly this weekend and it reminded me of you. Is it a small comfort or no comfort at all that you are still somehow a part of my world?

statues

I Forgot to Remember to Forget

July 9th, 2007 § 3 comments

I have come to find that there is a distinct difference between remembering and feeling haunted by that remembrance, although I am not quite sure what provokes these different reactions to grief. I think about him everyday I am sure at least once, but usually in a casual way; a thought pops into my head, I hear an old Dylan song, a joke comes floating back momentarily, I catch his face looking at me from the pictures on my bedroom mirror or glowering as I close the fridge after pulling out an item to eat. It is a fleeting moment usually, but enough, satisfying in the way an unrecognized moment, second even, of happiness is. Then there are the feelings that arrive through inevitably dwelling not on a memory or a thought, but on details; a sort of systematic dissection of collided lives, in which a real relationship that existed once becomes like a story in a book, without sentimental feeling but filled with judgment. The dissection turns into a torture of questions, in which decisions that have long since been made are changed for the sake of imagining a different outcome. This leads always and only to frustrated and angry depression. The latter set of feelings have become less and less frequent as time has passed, I rely more on the former experience of memory, but a renewed effort in the studio of last semesters theme has forced, by shear contact, the haunting I dislike. There is no defense or possible escape from it, the only consolation can come from people that I can’t approach, I loath the selfishness of even thinking about telling someone that I miss their brother or son.

In a recent dream I knew that if I could not find him before he came back, he was off somewhere for an extended period of time, someplace I got the impression he did not want to be (with doctors), he would not come back at all. I was looking frantically for him, for information that could tell me where he was, for someone to let me see him…I awoke to the realization that the thing I was trying to prevent, had, in reality, happened to me almost a year ago now. I wonder if this work has ceased to be productive, or rather, since I like the way it looks, if it is worth the feelings it dredges up.

The Trench

April 12th, 2007 § 0 comments

Why now, shouldn’t I be adjusting and getting used to the situation, why it is now a daily struggle to keep ones mind from dwelling? And perhaps that is just it, I am getting used to it, there is no longer that air of mystery, that intense feeling of disbelief, that overpowering sense of shock and dismay pushing away the truth.

“I miss him whether I remember him or not….”

When it first happened I was terrified that what I remembered was not enough, I was lost thinking about all the moments I could have forgotten, and was desperate to think hard about what I could not conjure up. Then someone said to me, “don’t try and remember you will remember and it will be….” and that is also true, I do remember and now it seems like far too much. When several months ago forgetting seem too painful an idea to handle, now remembering seems worse. If I can’t remember specifics perhaps I will just have a vague feeling of numbness about the whole affair, which may relieve the current sharpness of details; a laugh, a joke, a look.

Mom says they call the 1 year mark “the trench”, I am not sure exactly why, but it sounds foreboding and we are not even there yet.

The suspension of disbelief I had is gone, that surreal idea that he never would walk through the door again, never call again, the nevers go on and on and on, they seem possible now, even believable. And it is the most depressing thing.

July 25 1979-September 17 2006

October 11th, 2006 § 0 comments

Can one day be both wonderful and completely horrible? It must be possible because it was. Jackie and I stood outside looking at the backyard, all ready for the memorial later that night, and she told me about the night he died. We were grave, but it was such a nice day, it was not so sad. I looked out at the lawn and said it all looked nice, she agreed, and then said she wished it was a wedding instead. We laughed and agreed that would have been better. As Shem pointed out later when I told him, it’s a different kind of drunk you get at weddings.

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The Night Before

October 5th, 2006 § 1 comment

Tomorrow I fly to the desert. A professor scolded me and said, “you are going home right in the middle of the semester?” I said not to worry, I was not going for fun. She did not ask for details and I did not provide any.

In my whole life I have never been to a funeral, and this one is called a “celebration”. I feel like it is going to be a party for Jon in which Jon will never arrive. Sounds unreal, I can’t imagine going into that house and him not being there. I can’t quite fathom the reality of it. All those summers we spent there. . . I am angry beyond belief.

I am pretty sure that is one of the “stages.” I am angry at all the people who knew him longer, who saw him more, who did not have an unexplainable connection discussed by everyone but us. I am angered by all the lesser people who are left alive. This will pass

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