It might be easier if we just met for coffee.

A few months ago, during a previous extended visit, my mom joined G and I at a birthday party. At one point in the evening I looked over and saw my mother had been (judging the wild gesticulations and loud outbursts) regaling a girlfriend of mine with her entertainment industry war stories. Although my friend was cornered, she appeared contented, so I left them at it. However after another half-hour passed (friend still cornered), I leapt in for the save; certain that she could only be enduring such torture to be polite. As we were saying our goodbyes I leaned over to my friend and said, "Sorry about that, I hope my mom wasn't driving you crazy." She just smiled and answered, "Of course she wasn't. She's not my mom."

And I guess that's it isn't it? I could tell you stories about the past ten days, but it wouldn't matter unless it was your mom, now would it?

So what else have I missed since I've been gone...?

I see that Mr. Nine Years has posted for the first time since April. Dude, even those stuffy bastards at Yale publish quarterly. Bring on the goods. Must you make us beg? And before you start spouting crap about not having any time, I have two words for you: Trash Cubis.

And the death of the Johns Cash and Ritter. There was a bit of hubbub about which death deserved the most press/sadness/reverence. I admire Johnny Cash more than John Ritter, but because of my age and latch-key childhood I've probably logged more hours with Jack Tripper than the Man in Black, certainly too many to even joke about my cool cache (we are the ANTIgesit, after all). Honestly? I felt more sad about Ritter than Cash. Johnny Cash lived his life as he wanted to (much to our collective benefit), he stared the devil in the face, made great music, kicked ass while doing so, and died with dignity at a pretty advanced age for a man who lived so hard. I'm glad he'll never be trotted out at some bullshit lifetime achievement award ceremony on the arm of a dim-wit in a tube top like they did Orbison and do Ali. And his sweetie was gone. I hope they're joined by the God they loved to sing about. But Ritter? He was a young guy, had a family, children still at home. To be frank I never thought about the guy once, at all, in any capacity, until his performance in Sling Blade. I just remember looking up at the screen thinking "oh shit, you can act" and feeling really, really, really sorry about his career. But that's just me. The day I got the news about their death I remembered an interview with Ritter in which he talked about his childhood, how he used to sit around the living-room with his dad and Dale Evans and Johnny Cash and sing along while they played old Appalachian folk tunes. I jotted down a theory about it being some kind of plot, or pact, or weird kismit/synchronicity/yin/yang thing, but Choire Sicha beat me to (the gist of) it, much more eloquently.

September 11th passed again. Two years. I can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse -- our built-in propensity to blot out pain. A girlfriend of mine (a midwife and mother of three) once joked if it were not for some heavy-duty memory suppression everyone in the world would be an only child; that no sane person would willingly sign up for the torture of childbirth a second time. "Of course when the baby arrives you forget everything, it is all worth it," she said, then added, "But if we could somehow get back there, in the pit of it, experience the pain of labor just by pressing a button or something, it'd be pretty effective birth control."
"Your belly button." I suggested.
"Yeah, your belly button." and she giggled. I told her I wished there had been a similar button at my disposal to stop me from dating one fucking narcissistic philandering musician after the other. Something I could activate when I felt myself swooning.
*Zzzzztt*
"What was that?"
"Nothing...you were saying?"
"I was saying, I wrote a song about you...wanna hear it?"
*Zzzzztt*
"What IS that?"
"Nothing, really. Listen, I have to go."

But we don't forget really. There are just some things you can't express without sounding insincere and hokey, so most of us just shut the hell up and sit with it, let it fester. This year the anniversary snuck up on me with the same stealth as last year. Last early September my friend Maud and I were having marathon conversations nearly every night trying to figure out why our lives had suddenly turned to shit. Both of us were experiencing similar problems: trouble at work, petty arguments with our partners, our friends, our family and neighbors, back pain, vivid dreams, sleeplessness, skin problems, migraines, she couldn't stop eating, I couldn't eat (or was it the other way around?), smoking too much, drinking too much, swearing at shadows, we hated that we felt so freaking edgy, like at any moment we were undoubtedly going to commit homicide; an unsuspecting (and undeserving) hipster who gave us "a look", perhaps. And then somewhere around September 9th we looked at the calendar and went "Oh". Not like it helped. Not like knowing why we were freaking out made anything any better.

This year wasn't much different. Except this year I tried to clean away the sickness in my stomach. Beginning at 8:46 I cleaned and scrubbed and polished so hard my fingers swelled to twice their size. (Just around that time a small child on television said "...and my father Robert..." as I walked by; even after I SWORE I would not turn on the fucking tv that day.) Oh, but that wasn't enough, when I was done scrubbing the apartment from top to bottom, including rushing out to do seven loads of laundry, run the dog, and pull the weeds, I starting painting. Yes, I decided that the apartment needed to be painted. A nice fresh coat of paint would (what?) fix it, fix it, fix it. (another child: "And my aunt, uncle, and father, ...") I painted the kitchen green, the bedroom a dark slate blue, touched up the ceilings and moldings. I might still be at it if I hadn't stepped out into the yard long enough to see a 747 on it's final descent into JFK and heard myself say "Gee...he's flying kinda low" out loud. That was this year's "Oh" moment. I swear I had no idea I was that shit-scared, two years later.

Mom and G and I drove to Grand Ferry Park at sunset to see the tribute in light. The lights came on too early to make them out at first, but the sunset was astounding, and the sky and air were crystal clear. The east river was the most perfect temperature and color: all brackish seaweedy goodness, I wanted to eat it. The three of us sang Amazing Grace as the sun slid away and the lights came into full view. The other people in the park just sat and watched. Quiet.

So what's new with you?

Posted by Antigeist at September 17, 2003 04:23 PM