Wish You Were Here: Reflections of Tarot’s Hermit

Marko told me harrowing tales of his world adventures. My favourite was the story of him lost at sea in a dinghy. After securing the dinghy instead of drowning, the thirst day after day drifting in the blazing sun, with no land for eye to see, it was much worse to have not just gone down. Thirst was an irony on the ocean.

Still a young man, he’d been at sea as passenger and then as captain for half of his life.

A lot of people say they feel lost at sea, adrift, and of course, they really have no idea what that would feel like. And that’s me. I feel adrift. I feel strange and wild. I miss being Mrs. tonight.

I’m a lucky person, to have experienced diverse and intense relationships, and to face each ones’ unique legacy: challenges and joys and terrors. I would probably give a limb to see the blue sea laughing in Marko’s eyes. How vividly his face showed the adventures he’d had, how that wide easy smile and wide-open heart made you so at home!

But alas, the coins have been laid over his eyes. I have other friends and some wonderful suitors, amazing and fascinating people. But most of the time, I’m alone, and I’m beginning to love every minute of it.

Before when I had roommates, year after year, I yearned for solitude, time alone. I’ve always been the type to go to movies by myself. I’m highly social, yet if I don’t get ‘alone-time’ to refuel, I’ll have nothing but anxiety instead of exuberance or empathy. When I’m alone, I like to hang out at the library, clean house while blasting Paul Oakenfeld memories, create art, walk, hang around in a bar watching strangers. Yes, sometimes I PREFER to go out by myself. I go to museums, or restaurants, readings, a stroll.

Last week was the oyster and gin blowout where I lit more candles than I ever had before, and I thought about the lines under my eyes. Humanity is a funny animal: cats don’t contemplate their passing years or changing expressions. I’ve long vowed to be one of those who ages gracefully, not fighting it every step of the way. That was easily said when I was all baby face and did not have flabby elbows! I’m considering Botox for the nervous-tic site above my one eye. It’s been droopier than I’d like ever since the palsy.

True, true, but really, I’m fine about these things. I got carded buying Zigzags last week, so all’s right with the world.

Adrift? Thing is, the more time I spend alone, the less I have that adrift feeling. And it’s not because my heart is closing up. In fact, it’s opening in ways I hadn’t thought possible. I feel volcanically creative. I feel tremendous love for my family and friends, and my spirituality has re-centred after a few years of ‘my god, my god, why have you forsaken me?”

The summer I graduated from university, I went to the ocean and spent a few months in Vancouver with my little pink scissors and a pack of magazines. I made a tarot deck, exploring the themes and how I saw them. The deck turned out pretty damn good for a paste up project. That’s when I decided to become as creative and open hearted as I could, to not waste a minute of my life if I could help it.

This year’s card was The Hermit. I was instantly relieved. Will this mean a bit of peace and quiet? More time to read? More long, solitary walks, reflecting and unwinding. The hermit is often shown in a study or library. Will I spend long hours browsing through old bookstores? Hmm, a year of paradise!

Once upon a time I was in my favourite antiquarian bookstore, What the Dickens, where I was later married. A pleasant but strange lady in a yellow dress was there enjoying a cup of tea. Then she turned to me, out of the blue, and began telling me weird and very clear things about my life. As those things began to turn unpleasant, I became agitated, and she seemed distressed. She told me about the sailor I hadn’t yet met. Some stuff about my fate. I asked her why she felt the need to just ruin my bloody day with some soap operatic predictions. She told me she was a hermit, that she could not stand to be around others because the voices of their films were a hellish cacophony. Alone, she didn’t ‘pick up’ these film reels of other people’s minds. I nodded. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Then she told me not to be afraid, and apologized for upsetting me, but to be positive, to begin painting, and trust God the whole way as my fate unfolded. I was still smiling and nodding when she clutched my sleeve and lowered her voice. “You have no idea how many friends you are going to lose,” she cautioned. “You have no idea!”

Hmm, now that about 8 years have passed since then, and I’m on this side of the ordeal or at least partway through it, I can admit that I did have no idea. As for arguments and high drama with my queens and what not, I thought I must be in for an interesting run of conflict. I couldn’t know, of course, that sister didn’t just mean ‘moving on’ but that she meant DIE. Lose as in lose. Final chapter. End of story. And I didn’t have any idea that fate could come at you like a hurricane, and take down half a dozen of your closest friends through assorted methods, and your husband and your godchild, too.

Is this the year I find peace from the body count?

Because as much as the pile-up has caused me deep, fracturing sorrow and grief, a constant state of mourning that has lasted by chance through repeated loss from every left field for five years with no sign of letting up, there’s something in The Hermit that is serene and calming. The Hermit is alone, but not lonely. He has the luxury of those hours to rest, breathe, study, be silent. Little Miss Chatterbox sure cherishes giving my vocal cords a rest, as much as I relish telling my stories.

I was filled with joy after another year’s passage marked so gleefully, but I was even happier to get home and spend a few solid days working maniacally at my eMac. I listened to Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis at least 15 times a day. I didn’t answer the phone. When my fingers hurt too much to type, I gathered my felines, simmered some gypsy tea and lemons, and curled up with a good book. I love that hermit, idling the hours away in the fading sunlight in his library. I love seeing my friends, but I’m less and less terrified of being alone. I feel I can just trust myself to navigate whatever the future brings.

I miss the Sea Captain. I miss my Bobby McGee, still a fresh and crippling wound, a month in. I miss my wild haired Zoë and still dial her number time to time before I remember. I miss my oldest and most beloved queen, Japey. I miss Dimitri, the brattiest bright light. I miss Crazy Paul whenever Englebert happens to come on, and I miss them all, always. But after seeing the hermit turn up as this year’s messenger, I feel deeply relieved.

It’s the year for me to pull away, pull in, extend less, read and create more. I’ve been examining how I can change my chaotic work patterns- if you’ve ever seen my artwork collages; you’re looking into my vibrant, whirlwind mind. Wonderful. Great creativity, and fun to be with! Not so advanced, however, are my focusing skills. I’m not very good at quieting my mind during yoga. It’s the hardest part. But meditating on The Hermit, and thinking back to that strange lady in the yellow dress who warned me of what I could not even imagine, means this year will be for focusing. The past decade and a half has been wildly social and filled with amazing love. But The Hermit has asked me to release that chaos, to stand back in a quiet room, alone, and get to work.

Focus, and produce. The hermit is not bored or lonely. He is quiet and busy. He is studying and working, and his heart can be detached from circumstance and fully present in the projects at hand.

Here among the dusty stacks and open pages of my new mindset, here among the comforting towers of old books and new thoughts, it doesn’t matter if I’m the only one. It doesn’t matter if I’m the last one standing.

Because you know what? Wish you were here, but you’re not, and the show must go on.

Thanks to Tom Waters, Starweaver, for first Hermit image. Visit him at www.telp.com.

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

Buy her book at http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Astronauts-Wife-Poems-Eros-Thanatos-Lorette-C-Luzajic/9781847287335-item.html?ref=Search+Books%3a+%2527luzajic%2527&sterm=luzajic+-+Books

a few songs you forgot about that you love

Lights Out by Lisa Marie Presley. (a lot of them are great, not just this first release, but it’s about her dad)

I’m not sure why I was so surprised that Lisa Marie Presley was an amazing singer. I chalk up the initial dismissive nonchalance I showed over her pending release I to the era. The cult/culture of celebrity was exploding, but we were still unaccustomed to it. Everyone’s daughter was putting out a record. In the hubbub exploding, The King got lost.

Piano in the Dark by Anita Baker

This is one I completely forgot about until it showed up mysteriously on my itunes. Talk about intense. Lush. Moody. Too bad I don’t care for La Baker’s material, because no one sings like she does.

Rain King by Counting Crows

A whole album of treasures got thrown into the basement because we all overdosed on “Mr. Jones’ and never wanted to hear it again. They’ve been fair to middlin’ along the way, sometimes great and mainly boring, but August and Everything Else was one of those perfect albums.

You Suck by the Murmurs

“I gave up my guitar, you fuck,” one mur chirps. And then exquisite, sheer harmonious melody, all dirtied up from squeaky clean with words like ‘suck’ and ‘pissed.’ The only song more singalong-able is Kenny Roger’s The Gambler.

Night in my Veins by the Pretenders

Hmm, this is one of the sultriest, most erotic songs ever. Even the title says it all. Chrissy doesn’t skimp on the hot details, but this frock-rock number is all woman. It’s true that rock’n’roll was dominated by men, but most of it was written about women. Raunchy, all night long, the boys had their say. I’d say this is a pretty good four minute description of what it feels like for a girl.

Rhythm is a Dancer by Snap!

Unless you regularly hang out at Zipperz on retro night, you probably haven’t heard this one in years. A pure pop pleasure, a hands-in-the-air dancing kind of pleasure, the beat of root beer shooters and mirth.

Don’t Come Around Here No More by Tom Petty

I find Tom Petty gets forgotten about too often. He’s a rather unassuming rock star, and most of the time I forget he’s out there. And I’ve heard enough Free Falling to last a lifetime, but that’s not his fault. It was pretty good once. But there’s more, and they all have their own special vibe, each song has a story and a feeling that goes with it. So next time you reach for Bruce Springsteen make a room for a forgotten friend. This particular song is incredibly heavy-handed emotionally. It’s just devastating. It feels like end of the world, and it just might be.

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

More Idol Chatter

About three years ago I had to put a stop to writing American Idol reflections. I spent way too much time on the Idol boards defending fellow fattie Scottie Savol as a bard ‘of the people’ in the tradition of Johnny Cash. It was a rather ridiculous crush on the underdog, but once I found out that he wasn’t REALLY a thug, it all fell flat, and his truly stunning rendition of Against All Odds stopped mattering much once Constantine Maroulis became my facebook friend.

Yep, not exactly standout stuff and now I’m more addicted to Scrabulous than Idol and that’s a very, very good thing.

But last night’s Idol was just far too surreal to remain silent. Now, I found big ol’ queen Andrew Lloyd Weber truly charismatic, and gifted at working with new talent. I thought it was too late for my favourite hippie dippie Brooke White and her weekly acoustic interpretations, but Weber sagely maintained that even consummate professionals make mistakes, and that he had found her dress practice of You Must Love Me ‘flawless’ (a word that can only work with old-school camp couture, a dying cultural delight.) I was thrilled that Brooke moved on: it’s no secret that Idol is a popularity contest, and it has to be. Celebrity is about more than talent. What was surprising is that poor lassie Carly Smithson got kicked to the curb after her best performance yet. Her and David “Forehead” Cook are hands down the strongest talents. And Sayesha, sweet as she is, has no personality compared to the incredible black diva vocals of previous Idolettes, including the unforgettable Melinda Doolittle, the larger than life Lakisha Jones, and the even larger than Aretha Mandisa. Sure, Sayesha’s was a sassy and sultry coquette, but I can’t recall anything now at all about her performance except her cleavage, which she wore awkwardly. She’ll be gone next week.

Results, shmresults. Things started to get surreal when the two Davids were sent to the safe bench. As the camera panned in on the tense four hopefuls remaining, Dreadful Castro was not even trying to hide the hugest yawn, the type I was admonished for letting slip during church as a kid. Now, sure, they’re working hard and tired, though it can be argued that the Stoner Muppet, so dubbed by the Billionaire Blogger, is not exactly working hard and isn’t really even sure what he’s doing up there and why all those girls are screaming. But hey, I once screamed for Ricky Schroeder, so what can I say? I thought for sure Jay-Jay’s number was up, and that he had a big fattie rolled for the goodbye party.

And then things really started to get weird. We had a little visit from Stoner Muppet’s darker cousins, the Evil Muppets, Mr. and Mrs. George Bush. I mean, these two are not actually human. They don’t look it, they don’t act like it, their clothes don’t reflect it, and they don’t have any feelings, either of them. Their speech was actually pretty good- kudos to the unknown and underpaid writer! And a thank-you had to be said. I could see George’s advisor- “Look, man, you HAVE to go on and thank the American people for helping out.” To which the Prez replied, “Yo, I could care less if the Africans die of malaria, or if they die right here in New Orleans, for that matter. But hmm, as long as we aren’t helping any of dem der sand nigger families…”

Well, it did get weirder: we got to visit Broadway, where everyone’s early fave, Clay Aiken, had taken to looking about 64 years of age. Dressed in strange Spamalot armours and sporting, er, big red hair, he looked even weirder than he did in that black mod mop he wore to the finale a few years back. Stranger still, he looks amazingly like Barry Manilow, except good looking, impossible for both of these dudettes, on the cover of his upcoming album.

Now the highlight of the night made it worth watching this weird spectacle. I don’t watch as much TV as I should, so I missed the Leone Lewis phenomenal entirely. I see her name everywhere but couldn’t put a voice to the face. She sang a song called Bleeding Love, apparently massive, and it was mesmerizing. The voice coming out of this absolute beauty was something from the angels. Pure heaven. So effortlessly expressive. Simon Cowell’s protégée will be one of the world’s leading ladies, no doubt about it. And this song in particular, with its fluttering falsetto and intense facial expressions, will finally provide drag queens with a new backdrop for their eyes-tight-shut-and-fingernail waving repertoire.

And then we heard the good news: because Dolly Parton wasn’t enough, we have got to reach higher for Idol mentorship. And it’s going to be Neil Diamond, which promises to be even more surreal than this episode. Wonderful- little David is finally enough to tell us about his one night love affair with that most memorable of call girls, Desiree. And Brooke White is promised a night of songs for which she already knows all the words.

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

Shut up and Dance

An ambitious, attractive, intelligent man I respected deeply was shocked to find out that a big ol’ intellectual like myself has a penchant for celebrity culture. While I’m sure not immune to the junky, addictive qualities of glossy gossip rags touting the latest infidelities, rehab trips and rivalries that are none of my business, I do believe celebrity mania has much more to offer. It’s not just about superficial pleasures like the latest Oscar gowns- celebrities are arguably more important to the people than politicians, and to some extent, they always have been.

Being famous is not a job I would do well, and while my friend argued that overpaid celebrities are a huge part of the wealth distribution problem, something I can’t disagree with, there’s also tremendous inspiration from our public pantheon. This criticism of those who are wealthy for ‘doing nothing’ came from a man who supports sports. I might argue that acting and singing are valuable arts and that sports icons earning millions for shooting a puck are the true leeches of our gladiatorial bloodlust, but I won’t. Millions enjoy watching sports, even if I don’t.

My friend was especially horrified that I had fallen for Angelina Jolie, the suicidal wrist-cutter who kissed her brother at an awards ceremony. He was definitely ‘team Aniston’, which even from a sex-appeal only perspective, I don’t get. I don’t wish the nicety Miss Aniston any ill, but I couldn’t believe that “Joe” didn’t see Jolie as a woman of substance. While critics have opposed adoption mania as an attention-grab, I can’t judge the intents of a woman who puts her hordes of dough into dozens of charities, and travels to the places we’ve forgotten in order to help the sick and the hungry. Sure, Mother Teresa was appropriately poor- but then we judged her, too, for being too religious. Jolie admits that her film work is ridiculously paid, and that’s why she gives a third of her income to charities. In addition to endless human rights advocacy, she’s currently helping to rebuild New Orleans.

Diana was walking through landmine territory hobnobbing with the legless, giving gloveless touches to AIDS patients, and hugging Bosnians who had lost all their sons in war. She paved the way for the powerful to use their luck and talent to help influence those of us with less to do the same. Though the princess definitely liked sympathetic attention, who doesn’t? I can’t imagine paparazzi snapping at me every time I finally make it out to yoga or finally get a date. If that were my world, I’d want to lap up some positive press that might actually benefit someone.

We all fell into jeering at MJ (found innocent over and over again, yet we’ve ruined him forever-was he innocent? I’m not God). But the headlines forgot to announce his constant and generous donations to children’s funds- giving the term babylover a whole different meaning. Landmine, amnesty, and environmental advocacy groups might all be bankrupt if we relied on our leaders to fund and publicize them. We may criticize stars for their generous deeds, but we should start criticizing our leaders for their inactivity, rather than judging Oprah and Madonna for funding whole orphanages in a fell swoop. Through the years, Bono has single-handedly made charity work manly, not just the realm of chicks and cheese-ball metrosexy megalomaniacs like Sting (I say such things tongue in cheek, for despite my loathing for smarmy, ‘adult contemporary’ music, I respect all of Sting’s charity work.)

The rich and famous may still party like its 1999, but they’ve always been at the forefront of philanthropy. Josephine Baker began the whole adoption thing long before Jolie or Oprah were born. The richest black woman in the world before the big O became everybody’s mother, Baker was deeply eccentric. While she lavished diamonds on her pet cheetahs, she was also prone to paying the coal bills for whole villages, speaking out against racism next to MLK, and she gained notoriety for adopting 12 children from all over the world, her ‘rainbow tribe.’ Perhaps Baker was luckier than we are, being a millionaire and all, but she wasn’t just a lottery winner- she was an amazing icon, a pilot like Jolie, and a dancer of rare beauty, talent and drive. As a little girl from extreme poverty who once made her bed next to her master’s dog, she rose (and fell) publicly, and the intents of her heart are not mine to judge.

But I do judge, and recently fell into the fun of Paula-poking, as the world’s second favourite American Idol judge got speared time and time again for showing up drunk, slurring words, and sleeping with Idol hopefuls. It’s not just charity that celebrities move us to: what dancer, singer or writer grows up dreaming without their favourite inspirations? Famous people may be luckier than other talented people who remain undiscovered, but we wouldn’t keep working if we didn’t aspire to anything. It’s easy to blast Madonna for being loaded, but she sure wasn’t loaded when she got off that bus in NYC with $35 in her pocket, and neither are the minions who keep singing or painting through their own poverty, working on their art against all odds.

Paula’s motherly warmth on American Idol often conjures up public criticism that she’s a wash-up or has-been, a second-rate celebrity relegated to sitting on her big butt passing judgement, so we think we can do so at home, too. And we can, and we do, and that’s part of that gladiatorial instinct we all have.

It’s fun to make fun, but recently I was reminded of something I believe in but had forgotten- you can’t really know anything about a person unless you actually know them.

See, I also thought Paula was a cheesy wash-up with a secret pill problem (and people who are wash-ups with pill problems are people, too- people like our mothers, husbands, and children). I’ve changed my mind, though, because Paula’s story reads like Greek tragedy, though she refuses to harp on it for public sympathy or acclaim.

Her career began cheerleading for the Lakers when she was 18, and she was such a feisty team leader that she became choreographer for the cheer squad. The Jacksons picked up her dance expertise and leadership qualities when she was only 20. Abdul went on to choreograph just about everybody who had anything to do with the 1980s. Prince, Duran Duran, the Pointer Sisters, Dolly Parton, George Michael, INXS, ZZTop, Luther Vandross, and Michael Jackson sought her out for video work.

I’d thought Abdul’s only claim to fame were the cringe-worthy blockbuster hits Straight Up and Cold Hearted Snake- I thought wrong. It would serve me well to remember that a lot of work goes on behind the scenes, and not all artistry is visible. After all, only a small few have heard of me, and it may be that I never write a New York Times Bestseller (I’m not ruling it out, though). Still, I work without ceasing on my art and writing, and have for decades.

Of course, I’ve never had to type with broken fingers and hope I never do. I complain that I’ve had some rotten luck in life and I’ve felt strong and courageous for forging forward when I felt I was dying. But we might all take a lesson about strength and courage from Abdul, who didn’t cancel her concert tours when she had a broken leg.

While the syrupy pop formula of her singing work has never been my cup of tea, millions disagreed with me and made her into a platinum-selling artist. I can acknowledge her lovely, sugared vocal tones and admirable persistence without being fond of that style of music. Her concerts were about more than singing hits, though- Abdul is a dancer, and she got out there and danced with a broken leg and no one knew it. (Paula’s second album was called Shut up and Dance!)

She also survived after being hit by a drunk driver, and she survived a plane crash as well. This remarkable woman’s body took an endless chain of batterings from all kinds of unrelated incidents, and I don’t feel quite as sorry for myself as I did before I knew all this. How inspiring that a woman who was told she would never dance again time after time keeps on going. I can’t imagine the heartbreak of everything I have to offer the world being taken away.

In fact, after more than 14 major spinal and neck surgeries (for starters) Abdul was paralyzed and unable to speak. She was told she would never sing again. She still sometimes has trouble formulating thoughts or speaking correctly, spawning all kinds of cruel assumptions and speculations about her being drunk on set. To make matters worse, she was diagnosed with a rare disease called Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome, in which every part of her body is in extreme pain, all of the time. Some of the symptoms of this disease include pathological changes to the bone and skin, tissue swelling, and severe, burning pain.

Considering that I’m incapacitated every single month with the ordinary curse (and I still think that’s valid, given that I can barely walk) I give full kudos to someone who can be so kind and generous when she is constantly suffering. I give even more respect because she never whines about it, and rarely speaks publicly about her private pain. She did defend herself, much to public laughter, this year, saying she has never been drunk in her life, but she lets truth speak for itself if someone is willing to find it. She never whines or acts like a martyr. She just carries on finding new ways to work and never stopping.

It’s definitely part of the deal as a celebrity to have a rumour mill spin endless accusations, including the one where Paula (allegedly) inappropriately seduced a helpless teenage contestant (yeah, those helpless horny teenage boys). Of course she was cleared. Abdul is squeaky clean and it always comes out that way in the wash. There was that ‘hit and run’ incident that made nice headline follow up to the ‘hit and run’ lyric in Straight Up. Abdul spoke honestly of the incident as a side effect of the various treatments she tried in managing her physical pain. Laugh if you like, but the stuff you pop for fun on Fridays is a living hell for the people who need it (pain is why these things were invented, remember, and a perfectly noble reason for using them. Should Dilaudid not be available to cancer patients, but only to recreational users who later want to judge people who are truly suffering?)

Paula has lived much of her life in confusion, pain, paralysis, and exhaustion. Yet she never complains and constantly forges forward, mothering the nation with her warmth and wit, working behind the scenes in television, video, and film. She brings her extraordinary spirit into our living rooms each week. She could have long retired with her money to relax on endless beaches with endless fruity island concoctions and justify all manner of illicit drug use when the rest of us would have to confess we just did it for fun.

Though ridiculed when no one bid on her Meet Paula eBay auction for MS, perhaps that says more about our public inability to give than about this lady. The unstoppable Abdul also designs jewelry, works with kids who need more education, and speaks up for disaster victims.

I’m reluctant to call anyone’s public artistry or charity ‘a publicity stunt,’ even when it is. Considering, dear reader, that most of this is news to you, as it was for me, it’s hard to criticize Paula for attention-mongering. Let’s be inspired by stories like these to do our best even at death’s door. And let us also remember that celebrities may be public heroes, but there are plenty of similar stories right next door to us. How well do you know your neighbour? And who was it that said judge not, lest ye be judged?

Approaching the Hill-self-indulgent birthday ramblings

I’ve been negligent in the blogosphere, left my g/literati garden unattended. Like King Mathers, I took a few weeks off to mourn another under-30 tragedy and actually wondered if I was finally out of words. But don’t panic- I just needed a rest. If you can’t say anything inspired, after all, don’t say anything at all.

But it’s my birthday today, and that is no occasion for talk of either dead people, or of the various ailments I’m making strides toward eradicating. You’ll hear enough of that in my upcoming cookbooks and every other column I write.

You all admit that a birthday is a mixed loot bag. It’s not because you’re getting older. God, that’s not exactly earth-shattering. The years go by. We age. Stop the press. It’s something else. It’s that weird examination of your own importance, of other people’s feelings for you. It’s the day you wonder if your mom will even remember that she had you, if your exes are having a rare happy memory, if anyone really cares, if anyone really knows you. That all goes on underneath the festive layer of cavalier joyousness, but it does go on. Ummm, mom, it’s nearly 7 pm….Yeah. I’m sure that even the most secure person in the world has this particular strain of ‘centre stage in an empty theatre.’ Even Madonna gets this breed of loneliness. She misses her mother. She wonders if Lourdes is still too young to wax those unruly brows. She wonders if the best is already behind her. And then she goes forth. And so will I. And so will you. We go forth. That’s what we do. But on birthdays, we pause. And even when they all call, and you recall, oh, wow, I’m unique! I’m loved! there is still that pause. To quote the ever-underrated Pet Shop Boys- what have I done to deserve this?

Now I know I’ve got a zillion unrealized dreams and even more unfinished projects that may never be organized into fruition. I know youth is in some hazy yesteryear and sadly I was unconscious through the most important years of my life, thinking I was living it up when I was actually sleeping. Whatever: this is everyone’s sob story. That’s why they call it ‘awakening’ when you start running up that hill. You wake up right before you fall ‘over’ it.

This year was a truly special birthday. And it hasn’t even happened yet! I wanted subdued- sure, the Madonna release party at Flyy next week sounds great, but I don’t wait in lineups anymore, my friends. Not even to see my girl Donnarama, but that’s only ‘cause she’ll entertain me right here in the privacy of my home. Nope, tonight I decided I’m low on zinc and testosterone and I’m going to eat three dozen oysters. That’s right. You know how you always have to reasonable and split ten with a friend? I’ve never had more than five oysters. And once Zoe took herself on her birthday for oysters and showed me how to eat them, and I thought it was the hottest gesture possible for a blazing curly redhead hick girl and wanted to be just like her. (RIP sister.) And tonight for a change I won’t be wasting my birthday money on coke or strippers so I’m having as many oysters as I can stand.

It’s quite possible that I could find myself all alone there at the bar, and wonder why I bothered wearing heels (ha! I ALWAYS carry flip flops in my purse so I can actually make it home in such scenarios!) I mean, people work, and they forget, and they hate oysters. I go to bars alone a lot, that’s what writers do. Still, on the birthday you’d like someone besides yourself to celebrate with you.

Hmm- when I read stuff like what I just wrote, I wonder, “wow, Little Miss Chatterbox, sometimes your entire blog is just preamble. Ramble on.”

That’s what they say. But anyway.

Okay, to the point, focus, focus. Hmm, what point? Yeah, sorry, I have already cracked the wine open, but only because unexpectedly an old, er, friend, came by with flowers and a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Ok, so all I wanted to say really was thanks, thanks so very much. I’m so effing grateful for the finest things in life that I am just swimming in, never at a loss for.

Friends and family, you are everything. I’m still heady from the amazing day I spent with an old BFF and my mama, a few weeks ago, wine tasting in Niagara County. I’m so blessed that suddenly, when you become a woman of a certain age, all that matters again is your mother, and we’ve been having a blast ever since we went for Christmas to The Sing Along Messiah. After that, it was a few weddings and a funeral…nope, sorry, a few funerals and a wedding. We’ve been for Ethiopian food twice and my mom liked the kitfo raw!

And then there’s the girl who held my hand when I walked in hell, and because she is not yet used to the kind of paparazzi I attract, nor to my big mouth telling everything about her eagerly to friends she hasn’t met….she shall remain nameless but I wanted to say that her presence with me these past months has been what the doctor ordered for my broken heart, that she is my sister in every sense of the word and I will stand for and defend her and care for her whenever and if-ever she needs me to.

And I wanted to say to my girlfriend, Maeve, the one who reads Phil Larkin’s poetry to me out loud in fuzzy pink sweaters, thank you for the Sapphic-tinted love these years. Hmm, sometimes roommates you think are like your twin abscond with thousands of dollars and you never hear from them again. And if you happen to win the lottery, you get their girl. Now, I’m exaggerating a brief and er, innocent, excursion into the shower with the woman mentioned above ..but I’ll take brief and innocent from a woman who sends me Valentine’s Day cards and stocks her fridge with Autumn Blush in case I drop by in the middle of the night. I hope this girl has a sliver of a clue how much I love her.

Then, as if that weren’t already more than enough, there’s new Courtney Love on the way. And there’s Facebook, which recently reunited me with a dear, dear friend that I thought went the way of my Avon sales career back in high school. Hmm, he’s a much better blogger than I am, prolific and of considerable wit, and I wouldn’t have expected anything less. Perez always annoyed me while I genuinely adored his namesake, Paris…but the Canadian is the real deal, the Billionaire Blogger. I do write the odd brilliant observation of our Hollywood pantheon- my old sidekick will make sure you don’t miss a beat. It’s a tiny, tiny reason for a lifelong love that never went away, but for example, the random blog on my birthday that he sets up mentions both Madonna and Fantasia. We were twins separated at birth, though we have a few Idolism discrepancies and that’s just fine, Edith.
http://davefraser.livejournal.com/

There’s so much. I’ve been wife, mother, child, lover to the most incredible cast and not a second goes by that I don’t know how lucky I am to have you. It’s funny that despite a lifetime of diagnoses in that ol’ spectrum of the good book, Diagnostic Statician’s Manual, I feel happy. I miss the ones I miss like hell, I wish I’d known before what I know, and I don’t get why I didn’t get the brave brilliance of Seinfeld before last year. I wish my tits looked like Jennifer Tilly’s. But hey, I think I look pretty effing spectacular for an old girl, and I think my friends and family are the best damn things ever. And later, I’m feasting on 36 oysters…if I make it there…

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Further Lamentations

That’s just the thing, then, with sorrow, and living with it like it’s an old friend. And it is. The sadness can surface at any time, crumpling you momentarily. It doesn’t matter if it was an inconvenient moment for a shot in the heart: the blows come when you least expect them, and sometimes when you do.

It’s not often when your entire relationship with a person is all-encompassed by a knowledge, present from the first moment, that he is going to die.

That’s how it was here. It was not a place I wanted to be in, and nor did he. I can tell you that being witness to the madness of methamphetamine is beyond your most macabre inventions about it. Marko was the first man down in that circle caught in meth’s trap. It came and went like wildfire through him, less than a year from trying it until dying. I was so shell-shocked and naïve about meth that I promised Marko I would ‘be there’ for his friend, who was also ill.

They all fall down. Where the hell do I go from here? When I went to see Bobby, to tell him his best friend had overdosed and died, he had been in prison on minor possession charges for a few months, and was clean, sober, sparkling with hope. He spoke valiantly of opening a ministry in Marko’s name, to reach out to the tweaked out, used up masses. I thought I could save the world and dreamed it with him. Our terrible story could inspire others to get help. We could fix everything, we could put it back together, and God would bless us.

It’s too nightmarish and too personal right now to go into the strange sorrow of meth’s descent, and into the hundreds of hours spent searching for resources, for a rehab or program or bed or shrink who could help him. The cycle was endless, at its’ beginning, filled with hope, then swiftly filled in with defeat, psychotic frustration and disappointment, shame, terror of cameras and charts. Suffice it to say, during that part of the struggle and maybe all of it, Bobby lived in hell. The Crystal Inferno would make Dante’s seem like a sitcom.

I was so filled with joy and hope to hear that Bobby was better, about half a year or so after he left. It was news I got a lot, in between. And every time I hoped.

Two handsome, bright, beautiful, boys, best friends, partners in crime, brothers. Both gone. All I can feel now, despite the heartaches and hell this special and loving friendship brought, is these were all innocent people. From the day Marko introduced Bobby to me years ago, all I ever saw in between relapses was this person looking for help in the yellow pages, willing to try anything at all again to get better. Filling up with hope if he went a couple weeks or months.

I feel like poor Bobby was just dropped into a cruel video game. Here, try thirty years of torture, and see how you won’t ever make it. I always used the word ‘elegant’ to describe Bobby, from the start. It was a little poetic for a roughneck east coaster, but it was absolutely true. A polite, bright, gorgeous young man with a quick wit and the same longing for understanding as every other human being. Even when he was most broken, I could depend on his love. He loved me unconditionally, his brother’s wife, and helped me when I was most emptied of everything. He was there for me when I was emotionally bankrupt, with nothing to offer. He said he would walk a thousand miles for me. He nearly did, to visit me last summer, three beautiful days that we spent listening to Johnny Cash and watching Simpsons and even going to church. How I hoped there that he was freed! He was so filled with light and a potentiality of happiness.

Not that long ago, Bobby had sent me an email. It said simply: “Woman, sometimes I wonder what I would have done without you. much love, B.”

But what am I going to do without you? It isn’t fair.

In case any of you underestimate this methamphetamine shit, or think all addicts are just weak people, you should know that three from that circle died. Bobby took the longest. Three totally different demographics, three totally different, promising lives.

Bobby is survived by many who loved him, several girlfriends who will never get over their scars, childhood friends, family. He loved doing special things for people, giving them a small gift that he knew they would find special, a small trinket of some magic weight. His quick smile or intense stare let you know he was with you in the moment. You knew he wouldn’t let anyone hurt you. He stood up for you.

Where do I go from here? I don’t know. I’m less and less sure of the ways in which I used to make sense of the world. I feel like everything is a cruel joke, and that’s a far cry from the stance I had not long ago that refused defeat: my last art show, which Bobby paid a surprise visit from the east coast to see my book launch- proclaimed in huge paint “if this heart is gonna break it’s gonna take a lot to break it.’

Thing is, it was then, already broken. And I think me thinking I had a hold of it, that I could stay together after witnessing Marko’s descent and then the loss, after witnessing the descent of Bobby and the pending loss, that the work I’d done to conquer my own demons and habits and failures, that the mistakes and tragedies I’d witnessed or been a part of had made me stronger: I think it was delusional to think I could keep it together. I feel Bobby’s life was a cruel joke on an innocent man and it touched me irrevocably, but was that all he was here for, to touch a handful of people? What about the things HE wanted? It makes me angry at God, not a place I can afford to be right now, honestly.

How the fuck am I supposed to keep on accepting the things I cannot change? All I’ve got left of that part of my life is a bunch of ‘therapeutic’ paintings, a few love letters, a few photographs. I don’t even have my husband’s ashes. Nothing.

So what happens now? Those of you who know, know. There’s the odd lucky one like one friend I won’t name. After losing everything- her business, her truck, her health, her esteem, her looks- she did spend two years of torture cleaning up and is healthy now, doing baby steps to put her life together. Sadly, three of her best friends are dead. Her ‘triumph’ feels like garbage. Is there life after meth? Some- not much.

Feel free to contact the writer to share your story, inspiration, or outrage. If you’ve found any helpful resources or inspiration through methamphetamine, I’d love to share them with others.