I’m writing because that’s what I do. It’s almost who I am.
I’ve been thinking about that scene in Adaptation where Nicholas Cage plays neurotic twin brothers and, towards the last of the movie, the two take a moment during a crisis to share about their past. One of the brothers says that the measure of life is how well you have loved, not how well you’ve done in getting someone to return that love. Insightful and heartbreaking, I thought.
About the only thing I’ve done today is go by the funeral home this afternoon to see Mike. Linda broke my heart with her red-rimmed eyes. It gave me joy to see Mike in his denim shirt and safari vest and for him to have his pipe and leather hat in his grasp. Just had a heart beat skip.
I couldn’t stay but a minute or two. I just couldn’t.
Other than that, I’ve just holed up and tried to keep the wind from blowing me away. Went to the grocery for milk and honey, literally.
I’m so paranoid, I’ve got the front of my house closed up and dark to make people think I’m not here.
Don’t know who I think will drop by or what they could do to me if they did, but I just didn’t want to see anyone today. I didn’t feel companionable. I’ve got to admit, I didn’t even take phone calls.
This isn’t the first time in my life that I’ve isolated, but I hope this is one of the good times and not one of the bad times.
I brought work home over the long weekend and didn’t make an honest pass at it.
This has been a weekend of partings for me. One of my all time favorite public figures, Judge Eugene Matthews, also died. I covered him as City Hall reporter in the 70s when he was a city councilman. He was a civil rights activist in this town when that wasn’t a very safe thing for a white guy to publicly do. Blessed are the peacemakers, Gene. You seemed to be one to me. We went to the same church and I even tried cases before him. Heck uv a guy. Hope someone has the same opinion of me at my death that I have of Gene today.
The OKC art community contributed greatly to the art faculty of the afterlife this weekend. A great many people who pick up a palate and a paintbrush faced funerals in this town. I guess the holidays are tough on everyone, no matter what.
Then, life goes on. Rec’d. an email from Tucson letting me in on the Christmas scoop — what grandkid wanted just what exact size of this or that. Lets you get some perspective. I always try to get my grandchildren something that makes a very obnoxious noise or has a great many small, sharp parts. It’s my not-so-secret way of getting back at my daughter for being a child. I must say that she does so much better a job as a parent than I did, despite the fact my parenting is one of the things in my life of which I’m most proud. As far as I can tell, my daughter’s an actual grown up. No question about the fact that she’s more grown up than I am, but that’s damning with faint praise.
It’s been all silent on the son front. Haven’t heard from the boy and if you live anywhere near Yukon, I hope you go to the discount movie house there and tell the kid he should be ashamed the way he’s treating his poor, old, pitiful father.
According to the IRS letter I got this weekend, maybe they would take Jack instead of an arm and a leg. I’ll have to get with my CPA about whether “first born son” is an option or will it have to be next born, this one already being unfit for grinding into government sausage.
I hear the Red Cup staff 80s prom and birthday party for Daniel was a big success. Heard from birds in the know that it was still going on at 5:30 a.m. and that some of the hosts were back at work just a few hours later. Someone slap that drunk gay guy, willya? Who’s the old guy in the cummerbun? And that wench, Becky, in the blue dress with the black velvet corset strapless top? Bring her to me. Muhwahahahahahahahahahaha.
Saw my hero at Paseo and had a little conversation. He’s perplexed about why he would be my hero. Damn. The guy’s got taste and style. He’s got a cool job and talent. He’s a sculptor on the side. He’s got a prestige address. He’s everywhere cool, so he’s clued into the city. Hell, my only question is why he isn’t everyone’s hero. He even does something I’ve not been able to accomplish and that’s be friends without conflicts with Privacy Shattered Sharon. Damn, Mike. You’re my hero. The fact that you don’t KNOW how cool you are makes you all that more cool.
Also met a guy from New Orleans named Travis, thanks to Skip Z-man. Travis is helping to restore a buttload (technical term of his trade) of old drums down on the corner of Paseo. He was out Saturday night on the corner with some passersby just percussing. The street needs musicians. Hope he gets hooked up with Randy Clemens’ dobro. Red Stripes all around and keep going!
The wind makes me restless. Puts me out of sorts and on edge. The weather’s changing and I don’t like that much. The top will have to go up on the Miata again and this time, it’s likely to stay up for awhile, I suspect. I hate that. One thing and another, and I won’t be going around the lake at night as I often did in the warm summer nights. No one to go with any more, either.
Going to see Mike today makes me want to do some sumii. Maybe this weather will accomplish the goal of keeping me home and writing and painting. There’s a silver lining for you, Pollyanna.
G’nite and sweet dreams,
John