In My Life

You stand alone at the beginning of each day, and the life you choose is all around you. You push off into automation, repeating the same steps as the day before, and pretty soon, you will convince yourself that this is the way things should be, for better or worse.

I tend to fall into these patterns, but I spent the summer of 2002 with change thrust upon me. I was laid off by a company I never totally felt at home in, and spent that year finding odd temp jobs, writing plays and spending more time in the theater, and generally doing a lot of spring cleaning on my whole life. I met a girl whom I spent time with, and some of that time was spent talking, some of it riding a wave of emotion, and some of it on a silent cloud of affection. The friendship bloomed in spring and summer and then faded in fall, and in the years since, I never lost hope that I would see her again. I even talked about her this week. It came two years and two months too late.

I have been agonizing over her suicide for days now, not able to function emotionally except for a profound sadness and emptiness. Even the anger over the circumstances that led her there is fleeting. I had hope. Hope was severed and abandoned. The lingering and very raw pain comes directly from the thread of love that still stretches from our last moment together. I sit here, helpless, with nowhere to tie it off to. I will never have the opportunity to feel her arms around me, to play with her hair, or hear her voice. No, it can't be true that she's gone. It just doesn't make sense that she no longer breathes, that her ashes have been scattered...that she simply does not exist any more. It's not possible.

She's gone. She's gone. I even say that in an attempt to imply that she has merely moved on to another place, but while that may be true, there's nothing I can do at this point to tell her how much I love her. There's nothing I can do to save her life. She slipped away the very second we released that last hug and kiss at the airport.

B: You saved moments of my life. You have to know you did that much.

I look around, and she's not in any of the familiar places. Not on my couch, not standing in front of my movie collection for a movie we're going to watch while we eat.

B: And I didn't slip away. I moved on, and moved on again, but I never forgot you.

Crazy as it might seem, I paced my apartment at night when I should have been sleeping and talked out loud to her, as if she could hear me .

B: I did hear you, and I need you to know that I feel your love now as much as I did then.

S: Then why didn't you come to me when you needed someone? Why was the only way out to end it all?

B: It's hard to say. I guess, sometimes as you journey through life, you get into some dense places that are so loud, that's all you can pay attention to. You...lose sight of shore...and the most persistent things become the most consistent, if that makes sense.

S: You knew you could always come back. Did I do anything that pushed you away?

B: No! No, not at all...I felt guilty sometimes because I felt like I always had so much to deal with, and I didn't want to dump it all on you. I know I overwhelmed you the last time we talked.

S: Yeah...sure, a little...but that's not a one-way ticket out of my life. I'm angry with you for not remembering to check in.

B: I'm sorry. I guess I was just more used to rejection and would not be able to take it if I really needed you and you, like so many others, would turn me away. I had great memories of you and didn't want to take anything away from that.

S: Did I ever give you any indication that I -

B: No, you didn't! I kind of expected it from everyone, though. If you only knew what I had to face....

S: I read some of it. The rest, your mother told me.

B: I don't want you to be angry with me. You have every right to be, but I don't want you to hold on to that.

S: It's not. Mostly, it's...I don't know how to describe it. It's a feeling of something that will never heal. The void will never be filled.

B: It'll get easier. This is very new news to you.

S: I can't reconcile it. I don't know what to do with it. I don't know where to put this.

B: Just sort through it and put things away. You'll see that the good things outnumber the bad. Do you remember our Thai food dinner? What movie did we see?

S: The one where you wore the...what was it, a bright yellow dress?

B: Yeah, that one. I think the movie was animated, and that you saw it once before.

S: I can't remember. I was distracted the whole time because you were so...I don't want to say that you were just happy, but you were actually radiating happiness. It might have been how bright your dress was.

B: I was really happy. Do you remember how I held onto your arm when we walked to and from the theater?

S: Yeah. I always thought we'd eventually come back to moments like that.

B: We didn't, and that's okay, you know. The important thing is that we had moments like that. Do you know how many truly relaxed and happy moments I had after that?

S: I'm going to guess there weren't many.

B: No, not like that. I had friends after that and felt love again, but what I did with you was unique to you, and that stayed with me.

S: So that's where it stays? I have to let go and let it be a memory?

B: Listen. This string of love that you talk about, the feelings that you can't put anywhere...you don't connect it to the next time you see me, because that won't happen for years. Hold on to it. And when you get restless or weak, let it go, and you'll see that I'm holding onto that same string from where I am. I may not be able to take my body with me where I am, but what I do take with me is the love. You, my friend, are shining it my way like a lighthouse, so how could I NOT notice and feel it? It's with me, right now.

All we have left are words, and simple gestures inspired by the experience of having known and loved someone. A great poet named David Harkins wrote:

"You can shed tears that she is gone,
or you can smile because she has lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see all she's left.
Your heart can be empty because you can't see her,
or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember her only that she is gone,
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind,
be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what she'd want:
smile, open your eyes, love and go on."

You stand alone at the end of each day, and the life you chose is all around you. You think about your decisions, the lives you touched and whether or not you made the day count. If you allowed yourself to be present and cherished every moment, if you dared to love with all your heart and celebrated being alive, you can remind yourself that this is the way things should be.

I'll see you again someday, my friend.

Seis de Mayo

Holidays are often misinterpreted. I get pinched for not wearing green for St. Patty's day and enjoy telling the huffiest of pinchers that I'm not Irish, and neither was St. Patrick. Mexican independence day is actually September 16th. Jesus was actually born sometime in June. Holidays exist more in the present than the past. Valentine's Day. Lovers. Sillyness. 

People are often misinterpreted, for that matter. The people who complain the loudest are often listened to, taken for face value, adn then eventually forgotten or avoided. The quietest peopl eoften do not defend themselves, and therefore allow themselves to seem guilty. A lot of people talk about what they want, but act on what they crave. Where does the truth lie in any of this? 

The question lies in trying to rise above it all. Holidays? You should always celebrate the spirit of a good idea. People? Each person should be listened to and understood from where they stand, not where they tell you they are in relation to everyone else. Is there room for error? Huge. Spacious. I'm trying to rise above it all, but I do have distinct feelings about why a friend's butt thinks more about me than she does (she accidentally calls my cell phone once or twice a week but never actually calls me). I get pulled into dramatic black holes of confrontation way too easily (because I'm a Libra and always try to right an imbalance? Who knows.) I'm also shamelessly used to being alone, so given a chance to feel wrong in a group of people or right alone, I have a knee-jerk reaction. Give me a guitar, notebook, or camera, and I've got company for dinner, drinks at a bar, or conversation before a movie. I wish it was as simple as some of my friends put it when they want so much for me. Unfiltered, I love people and the connections we make. In reality, the people who don't like me don't just leave it at that, they're busy with the pointlessly important work of getting everyone else on board.

What gets lost in all of this, in all of the likes, comments, gossip, jealousy, and even the believability when I think a group of people or situation has been poisoned by misdirection, is the simplicity still at the heart of it. That's something to bank in your mind. Whatever you create, be it an honest intention towards someone, a song, a book, or even a thoughtful email, there is a simple truth behind it. No amount of snark or doubt can take anything away from it, and if it doesn't fit, there is a place somewhere that it does. 

C: Wow, that sounded forceful. 

S: Ooh, what brought this on?

C: What brought what on? My reaction?

S: No, you. You just popped up. 

C: I thought I'd break in before you started playing a Sousa march and hoisting a huge flag behind you.

S: Was I going in that direction? I don't think so. I wanted to say something about independence. 

C: Yeah, yeah, I know you're proud, but listen. The prevailing message from your friends this year is NOT that you should be celebrating your independence alone. You should share that with someone. 

S: I - 

C: No no no no. Don't make the face. Don't do the fake acknowledgement - 

S: It's not fake! I get it...and yeah, I agree. 

C: But....

S: But what? 

C: Remember reading what "But" stands for? Behold the Underlying Truth. What's the deal? Why don't you just let it happen? 

S: The question isn't why, really. It's who. And how. 

C: Great. One waitress. 

S: Ha ha - no. That's cute. 

C: I brought it up for a reason. 

S: Ugh. I give up. I don't know, really. When I'm just interested, person to person, it goes nowhere. For the most part, it's exhausting, you know? 

C: Waitress? 

S: Oh my god! That was a moment in time, then everything blew up and she became friends with...I can't compete with the poison. One person hates me. She gets others to agree that I'm not a good person. They avoid me. What can I do? Be hurt? 

C: Well, yeah, it's hurtful. And I'm saying that it's hurtful to believe it, not so much that it's true. Your awkwardness might have inspired them to avoid you. 

S: I just don't know what to do sometimes. It's too complicated. People are complicated.

C: Build some robots, then. Be a cat guy. 

S: Both viable solutions.

C:What was it you said earlier? All you need is a guitar, a notebook, and a camera? 

S: That's not my desert island answer, but...you know what - come to think of it, it might be my desert island answer. I would need extra strings...maybe a few notebooks. 

C: Who are you creating for? I mean, what is the point of this whole creative life if you haven't given it to anyone? 

S: Damn. You got me. 

I am often misinterpreted. I try to portray an image of happiness, genuinely interested in people and, of course, fighting for everyone else's right to be creative too. I write stories that have deep, active meaning, and then forget why I needed to write them. I shoot photos with a longing for that moment in my gut, and then once they're posted I leave them alone. I sing, I act, and after lacerating self-exposure, all boundaries are dropped. I test my faith in the outside world, and back I run to the creative. I never talk about what I want, or what I should be celebrating. 

Maybe it's not a matter of rising above. It could be that other people cannot define me, that my sense of self can and should override every rule. I'll try again. The number of people on Earth is currently 6,819,418,658 (and counting). I think...I can safely say that the odds are working in my favor. 

Stand

I've been here before, sitting alone with a grab bag of feelings spread out along a spectrum of color between absolute resolution and complete defeat. I opened my mouth. I had just finished speaking with passion about what's right and what's wrong, using only my past and the precious spot on the ground I stood on. I spoke, not for myself, but for people who were at that very moment struggling, hustling to find creative freedom. Who was I to represent them? What vote elected me to be an obstacle? All I can tell you is that I saw a void of conscience so wide that we may not recover from it. No, every time you kill an artist's heart, you take away from the world as a whole. 


No, this wasn't the first time I put myself in this situation.


Sometime during the waning years at Playhouse I was sitting on a chair downstage center speaking to a house full of actors. It was difficult to get the words out, to even take the breath required to make a sound. We were about an hour or so away from opening the doors to the audience, and I called everyone involved in the day's productions, crew included, into the theater. This was to be the first of two speeches that weekend, and there I sat, a moment before word one, with a roomful of eyes on me. 


Deep breath. Eye contact. I never thought I'd be here. It went something like this. 


"All of you know, as you can see in the schedule, that this one act workshop is essentially over and done. You're the last people, the ones who are going to close this series out. Now, this wasn't a decision from the top, it came from me. What we ran into was a conflict of priorities in the schedule, and you were going to be given the basement. You would only be scheduled for matinees, and I thought you deserved better. I cancelled the series rather than cheapen it. All of you know my philosophy behind this; There is not a single actor here who represents the best we have to offer. All of you, by virtue of your dedication and talent, represent the standard for what we learn here. I believe in the standard. I don't believe in the best."


"Because this is coming to an end, I needed come here and apologize for losing the workshop, for losing the theater company for you. I'm sorry. I failed you."


This is where my emotions started winning the battle of restraint. 


"There was something I should have done to preserve this for you, something I didn't do or know how to do to save this series. I lost this opportunity for you. I need you to know that I'm still here and fighting for you. If you need a director, I'm in, no questions asked. If you can't find a play you believe in, I'll write one for you. All of you deserve a chance, and I lost this one."


The second time I delivered the speech, it wasn't any easier. The actors were overwhelmingly supportive and immediately responsive. They knew that for ten years, this was my entire life. I had work, I had Playhouse. Lower on the list of priorities was sleep, friends, romance, even my own projects. I felt I was only meeting them in the middle; They stayed with me through rehearsals that ended at 2am on a weeknight. They endured my pages of notes after performances. Their moments of truth and honesty on stage validated all of my sacrifices, more so than any accolades, and I never doubted my dedication to them.


I eventually left the program, totally foreshadowed by the moment I stood in Studio Two and realized that "...this will all go away. It's important now, but someday this will be a memory." A handful of productions later, it all went away and my life was redefined. 


I never stopped loving the artist, though. The very second we make the connection, the unspeakable knowledge that we are communicating on a whole other level, they become part of a family I owe loyalty to...and feel responsible for. I crave the sight and experience of someone growing as an artist, the light bulb that goes off when they learn something new or the discovery of having expressed something that defied explanation just a moment before. I love the process of searching, of dissatisfaction with everything that has been done before. I admire the hunger. I know the lonely struggle to find an audience.


And when someone is set up to fail, when even the odds are needlessly stacked against them, something alarming stirs up inside me. I sat for a moment after the talk, and I collected myself. I was coming down from 80% passion and 20% logic, and I sat because I was dizzy...or maybe a little lost...but I was right. What I inherited, however, was a heightened awareness that left unguarded, artists will be forgotten. That should never happen. Talent needs to be celebrated. 


I have, for the moment, an unanswerable struggle. I have the feeling that this leads towards something important, but am I the person to do anything about it? Who am I to represent the creative community? 


As always, if nobody else claims the spot, can I remain quiet and be satisfied with the outcome? I think you know the answer. 

Your Drug of Choice

Whether you are a person who is addicted to something or you're someone who has checked out of living and leads a dependable, predictable life, the question of what motivates you is something to consider. We get caught in our patterns and are attracted to certain things in our lives, all in the name of...what the hell are we feeding? What are we running away from? I think about this stuff as my niece sits in rehab, deconstructing her life and her addictions, while at the same time I know people who seem to slip through life without a care (or interest). I've written many times about moving through a life that feels like a mosh pit, and I get lost...and I stop to look back sometimes and wonder where and how time just slipped by. I can totally understand how people want to numb themselves, either temporarily or permanently. I get it.

I can feel myself getting away from patterns again, from choosing to be around just about anybody to not feel lonely or forgotten. I found myself mired in dysfunctional situations, caught in moments of clarity where I wonder "what are these people doing and why isn't anyone saying anything about it?" "Why does it feel...unjust and completely false?" Why don't I just step away for a moment and see if anyone notices? Circle one hardly blinked, with my contributions quickly being replaced by another person. Whatever I did in that circle was for a long time copied and repeated with more money. Circle two filed me in the "whatever happened to" files. Circle three is highly suspicious of my distance, thinking it's purposeful and damaging.

I watch shows about addicts and I understand that pain that they're trying to mask. I can taste the sharpness of directly touching it, and know that it's seeded, rooted towards how I react to everything. From being teased and harassed mercilessly through five of my eight grade school years through the traumatizing experience of falling in love for the first time and then falling from that height, I know I have to work hard on understanding some things about myself and the world I'm in. I haven't turned towards drugs or alcohol, nor do I take medication for depression, but this doesn't mean that I don't understand the rationale behind Andrew Koenig selling everything he owned, flying up to Canada, and hanging himself from a tree in a park he loved. I totally get the peaceful, morbid poetry behind it. In a world of endless possibilities, he was exhausted of the options that just didn't make sense any more. He stepped away and saw with a quiet clarity what he had to do. I struggled with understanding it when I heard the news. I wanted to reach out to someone who might need it. And then I realized that nobody I know has a void to fill. I attempted to come back to creativity, but because it's tainted at the moment with obligation and a difficulty that keeps ratcheting up, I'm not inspired to take any risks or feel my way through it.

None of this means that I have nowhere to turn. I still have family, with whom I can find moments of forgetting everything else in the world. I have a couple of people I can completely surrender to, if need be. I think I have a pretty good reputation at work, which can be overwhelming and unpredictable. I also keep myself busy - at the moment, too busy - which keeps me moving from one point to the next. I just have to manage these quiet moments.

What would help get rid of that grade school experience that makes me extra sensitive to people picking sides, talking about me, trying to sabotage every step I take? The only way it started to subside in grade school was when it became physical, but I was still talking about it in college. What would open my heart back up after being traumatized by the aftermath of my first real love, and being told that I "have a lot to offer a lot of people, but not enough for one person"? I can finally admit it changed me and left me with heavy, heavy baggage. It's a tremendous burden to believe that you can't be loved, that you can't trust, that somehow you don't deserve it...that this experience...somehow compounded and confirmed the first. It's all too easy to attach new experiences to that meaning, to make everything fit and to feel like the only reason people need me is to provide a service. It's a culinary disaster of the heart, a combination of emotional flavors that don't go together. The fact that months go by between journal entries makes me wonder if I keep replanting the seeds that feed on and destroy hope.

Just over a year ago, my family and I were at a backyard get-together, and Alfonso, who was in his 90s, locked into me and demanded my attention. "El Maestro", as I called him, began with one question: "How old are you?" Normally, he was a little difficult to understand and spoke only about South American politics, but this time it was about me. "How old are you?" At the time, I was 41. He asked if I was in a relationship or had a family of my own, maybe some kids. I told him no, that there wasn't even one girl I was serious about. He said that I reminded him of his brother. His brother was a workaholic, perpetually young until he got older, and then suddenly he got to his 70s and 80s and began to have health problems. He had nobody to take care of him, no woman by his side, no children to help their dad or talk to the doctors like my sisters do for my parents. He had only Alfonso, but Maestro was the older brother, and had health issues of his own. His brother died alone, without a legacy.

He lived a long life, and died alone.

Alfonso looked at me and made me promise I would try. Of course, he didn't know what kind of life I had, he just had the mental snapshot of me with my parents, my sister, and my niece's kids. He didn't talk politics that visit. This was all he wanted to say, and I couldn't forget it. I came home in January, and wanted to try. The first few times, it didn't feel right. I had two Valentine's Day dates that, in theory, sounds like I'm a player to everyone who hears that much, but in reality was me providing a service to others and deserving nothing for myself. I tried again, spending a weekend with an old friend that turned sterile and awkward. Everywhere I turned, I ran into someone who was holding out for a better thing and constantly looked past or through me. I stepped away, listened to the castrated version of my name - "Stewie," which vaguely takes away any importance of who I am - and eventually work started pulling more and more of my attention.

Alfonso died a few weeks ago. I'm now 42.

I am a little less than a week away from finishing a major project, and then I have to consider what I want my life to be. The first thing that occurs to me is that I'm going to retire from doing this kind of creative project. The second thing that comes to mind is that I tend to consume junk food versions of real interactions between people. I need to know the difference and to trust my doubts when they nag at me over time. The most important thing is that I don't lose hope, that it's not too late. It's not my fault that a whole group of guys didn't let me get through a day of grade school without persecution or humiliation, so I never feel comfortable being associated with a group of people unless I can stand apart somehow. It's not my fault that I was loved once, abandoned, and had to watch her with other guys...and that everything since has come with a guarantee that nothing would come of it. It wasn't me. It wasn't about me, though I've lived with the shame of...somehow representing it...of making all of them right.

My niece had the seizure, and for reasons unknown to me, she asked for help and ended up in rehab. Andrew Koenig, whom I've never met, but I know people he knows, never asked for help, and died. Alfonso, in his wisdom, stopped me and knew I needed help. What would I do to wean myself from the addiction to denial? I need to really look at the people who believe in me the most...Andrea, Vivian, Ninette, to name a few...and find hope in the fact that these people are here, now...and they could tell someone a story about who I am that is in direct contrast to what has come before. What they believe, I should understand better than I understand the numbness and loneliness of my past.

I should begin to try, anyway, because the world is filled with circles and none of them are complete. Looking for them should be my new addiction.