Eternal Recurrence, Part III (Crucifixion)
you better watch out
what you wish for
it better be worth it
so much to die for
-- courtney love, celebrity skin
The Short Goodbye...Hail to the King...The First Night...Real
Time...It Never Rains Under My Umbrella...Enter Sandman...12:15PM
(The Moment of Clarity, Part I)...Retail Therapy...Stigmata...2:30PM
(The Moment of Clarity, Part II)...The Medication is Wearing Off...My
Descent Into Madness...Nightswimming
2/23/99
Dear Dar,
The Ex offered, and I accepted, to bring my duffelbag by the office
on Friday afternoon (1/22/99) so I wouldn't have to take it with me
to work on the bus in the predicted torrential rains--indeed, it was
supposed to rain the whole weekend. No question, this was above and
beyond the call on her part.
I was to be spending the weekend with Summer. Not the whole thing;
Friday evening, normally Lilith, was called off because she had a
prior commitment to meet a friend in Bolinas. (More on Bolinas
later.) Or they were coming in from Bolinas, or something like that.
In any event, they'd be back in Bolinas and she'd be in Berkeley
on Saturday morning. Anyway, I'd be spending Friday night with my
brother barefoot in Oakland, then meeting Summer in Berkeley on Saturday
at a Neil Gaiman book signing. Gaiman wrote a graphic novel series
called The Sandman, amongst other things, and he'd be reading from
his new novel. Sounded pretty cool, and the simple fact was I'd
follow her anywhere. Afterwards we'd go to her place in San Rafael
and hang out, watch movies,etc. She'd never seen Crash or Se7en,
both movies which I suspected she'd appreciate.
Difficult though this may be to believe, I had no aims for anything
beyond that. Just to be with a friendly face--a face I with which
I was madly in love, to be sure, but I have simple needs. In spite
of the fact that many of my friends and family believed I was having
an affair with Summer, I'd done nothing more up to this point in a
physical sense than peck her on the cheek a few times. Not even too
many goodbye hugs in the past week. And I had no expectations of
doing any more than that. ("Want" is irrelevant. This world is not
about what I want.)
So The Ex came by at about 3:45pm. It was, to use quite possibly the
most mild word possible, awkward. We were about to be apart from one
another for at least two days yet did not hug or exchange I-love-yous
or any real kind of sentiment. This was completely foreign to our
relationship, since normally she gets teary in these situations.
Indeed, she was fighting them back, but not the same kind.
She confirmed something important, though: her friend Trisha was in
fact coming up from Fresno. See, in spite of Summer and I having
made vague plans earlier in the week to get together over the weekend,
the primary impetus for my travels was Trisha's visit. Being for the
purpose of consolation, it was very clear to me that I should make
myself scarce. And Summer had offered to let me hide at her place,
so it worked out nicely. Problem: it was looking very much like
Trisha might not be coming up after all. Having a three year-old son
(whom she was not bringing) and no vehicle to call her own, the
logistics were difficult at best.
Even if Trisha didn't show up, I'd still be gone for the weekend.
Leaving The Ex by herself in many ways is the height of cruelty, and
I'm really not a cruel person. But me not going would somehow be
missing the point of breaking up...perhaps it's not so much that I'm
not a cruel person as I am a basically good person who occasionally
feels they hav to do cruel, selfish things. This theory eased my
conscience just enough. That it required easing at all was also
very telling.
Summer was kind enough to keep the bag in her car so I wouldn't
have to take it with me on the BART the next morning. I left at
5:30pm to hook up with Rox, barefoot's wife, who just happened to
work a few blocks away. I put on my fuzzy black beret (you know
the one I'm talking about, Dar) and hit the road.
Not so much because she was asking (though she admitted curiousity)
but because I was feeling the need to tell, I brought her up to speed
on the situation and my own doubts and fears on the BART ride to
Oakland. I vocalized what I'd been thinking for quite some time:
that I was ruining my life and bound to fall flat on my face at any
time. And I emphasized that in all likelihood absolutely nothing
would occur between Summer and myself over the weekend, if ever.
Now, this might seem like heavy stuff to lay on one's sister-in-law,
but in fact Rox and I go back a long way; she worked in the same video
stores as barefoot and The Ex and myself back in Fresno, and for a while we'd
close the store together on Friday nights and open it on Sunday
mornings. This was long before anyone even suspected her and barefoot
might end up married--at the time they were just each others' designated
fuck. (A concept which I've heard of before, but continues to be
as alien to me as casual sex in general.) In addition to always
being completely supportive, Rox more than anyone else believes that
I need to get it over with and just come out to my mother.
barefoot met us at the station in Oakland and we went in search of food,
ending up at our old standby, a wonderful Chinese restaurant called
King Yen. I had an ethical objection seeing as how The Ex loves the
place and going there without her seemed wrong, like the ultimate
insult after everything else I'd put her through recently. (Earlier
in the week she'd cried because neither barefoot nor Rox, with whom she'd
always been very close, hadn't written her to send their condolences
for the breakup. My mother was the only person in my family to do
so, though it had been a cc in the context of how disappointed she
was in me and how self-destructive I was being. Nobody in her family
has contacted me, of course.) But, when you're living the Bay Area,
there's one all-important detail: where the fuck are we going to
park? There was no parking around the other places we tried, so
King Yen won.
Afterwards, we went back to their place and just sat and talked
(not much about my situation, actually) and listened to music and
hung. barefoot's recently upgraded his CDR hardware and software, so
he can now record them without the heretofore unavoidable 2-second
gaps between tracks. As a result he's re-recording most all of the
ones he'd done up to this point and giving me his older versions.
Except for the 2-second gap there ain't a damn thing wrong with any
of them, and my CD collection grew by about thirty that night.
Something else happened that evening: I laughed. Hard. Practically
to the point of tears. I honestly don't recall what it was about,
and in a way it doesn't really matter. In spite of having eleven
years, two other brothers and ultimately very different life
experiences between us (and I'm completely out to him), it never
ceases to amaze me how well barefoot and I click and how goddamn similar
we are in terms of intellect and sense of humor. *Particularly*
sense of humor. (On the other hand, we're very different in regards
to temperament; he's easy to piss off, and if the phrase "road rage"
didn't exist it would be necessary to invent it to describe his
driving style.) Like I said, I don't recall what it was about, but
we were both busting a gut over something--and significantly the
television wasn't on, so whatever it had been had developed from
our conversation. For a while, I was comfortable.
They crashed at about 11, and I was up a bit longer, lying on their
couch listening to CDs (not the ones barefoot had just given me, but from
his otherwise ample collection) and trying to clear my head. I slept
for maybe six or seven hours.
It was raining when I awoke on Saturday 1/23/99, of course. The
rain was supposed to last all weekend, and there was no doubt in my
mind it would do just that.
The Gaiman thing in Berkeley was at 11:30, so I figured if I was at
the BART station by 10:00 that would get me there in more than ample
time. And right around 8:30 I got an e'er-so-brilliant idea: I'd whip
myself up a tape from barefoot's collection, an impromptu soundtrack for
the weekend ahead of me. I've been making compilation tapes for years,
ostensibly for The Ex, but usually a lot of preparation goes into them
and I'm working from my own stuff. This would be on the fly from barefoot's
stuff.
Here's what it ended up being. Side One: Going Going Gone, Tough
Mama, Dirge, Nobody 'Cept You (all Dylan); Blackhole (Beck); Fitter
Happier (Radiohead); Rid of Me (PJ Harvey); How Soon is Now? (The
Smiths); Bottoming Out (Lou Reed). Side Two: I Will Buy You a New
Life (Everclear); Asking for It (Hole, live); 16 Days (Whiskeytown);
Give Me Back the Key to My Heart, Anodyne (both Uncle Tupelo);
Celebrity Skin (Hole, live); Something in the Way (Nirvana, demo);
Ball and Chain (Social Distortion); I Hope You Want Me Too (The
Mavericks); The Sweetest Thing (U2). There were actually two more
songs which I somehow goofed on and resulted in large gaps on the
tape, but it was fitting. The tape was situational, of that particular
moment in real time didn't leave my walkman for the entire weekend.
I arrived in Berkeley at 11:00. It was raining, but I didn't use my
umbrella. Indeed, I felt absolutely no desire to protect myself from
the rain beyond my jacket and beret. Otherwise, if it was going to rain
it was going to rain.
The bookstore was just a few minutes away from the BART station.
No great shock, a line was already forming, about ten people deep.
Summer was not in it. Indeed, she didn't arrive until noon, after
Gaiman had arrived and was preparing to read. And she was two people
short of being alone.
One I recognized, one I did not. The one I recognized was Lee,
whom I'd met at Lilith. Of course, he was the friend from Bolinas,
and last I'd heard he'd gotten involved with a girl named Demi.
He was small and thin with pale makeup, though his eyeliner and
shadow work was very intricate. The other fellow, whose name I
never caught (so I'll arbitrarily call him Bob) was more of Terminal
and myself's body type: just plain big, though much fatter. No
makeup, but a few piercings and the de rigueur black leather jacket.
(Unless specified otherwise, everyone I mention is wearing a black
leather jacket.) Something about him didn't quite sit well with me.
I suppose a pattern was emerging, though I didn't quite recognize it at the time.
The layout of the store and some poor strategy on my part resulted
in me being separated from them by a large bookshelf for most. At
about a quarter past noon I made my way back over to where they were.
Lee's hand was on Summer's shoulder.
Two thoughts struggled for dominance: that they were just good
friends (and unlike myself Lee isn't self-conscious to the point of
catatonia which was extremely fucking obvious to say the least),
and that they had come together. Either one was fine with me, of
course. I knew all along that her and I probably woudn't end up
together, and this was to be expected. Sure. No problem.
After the reading and a brief Q&A session, the signing began. It
was based on ticket stubs given out while in line; as a result I
was among the first 20 people, while Summer and entourage were much
further back. I had Gaiman sign a Sandman book which I'd bought for
barefoot, a fan of the series. Seemed only right after his hospitality.
There would still be a solid half hour if not longer before Summer
made it all the way in and back, I realized. I could try to stand with
them and take up space and generally be in the way (a skill of mine,
to be certain) or do something with myself for the time. I chose the
latter.
I retrieved my extremely heavy backpack from behind the counter
(Tactical Error #1) and told Summer I'd be doing a bit of running
around and would be back in half and hour or so. She was vaguely
surprised but didn't object. Duh.
My plan was simple: to Amoeba Records on telegraph and back. My
emotions were beginning to swirl dangerously and, for better or
worse, quite often buying music is the only way to help them. That's
what's left when you don't smoke or drink or use any other kind
of chemical means to dull pain. For the record, I haven't smoked
grass since the first of the year. I may have quit for good, I don't
know.
Of course, Amoeba was a healthy trek away, but nothing I couldn't
handle, and my body was crying out for the exercise. There and back
in half an hour would be tricky but doable.
Fortunately, I found exactly what I was looking for: Sheryl Crow's
new album, The Globe Sessions. "My Favorite Mistake" was beginning to
have great resonance for me, and I suspected the rest of the album
would too.
It was at the half-hour mark that I began heading back, so after
stopping at the university to use the restroom I picked up the pace,
going down Addison towards Shattuck faster than I should have. Well,
I didn't want to be too late. Besides, I normally run at 5mph for
an hour every day, so a light run would be simple, if in full battle
gear and carrying a loaded backpack.
Unfortunately, I didn't look closely enough at the fencing set
up along the side of the street. I realized it meant I'd have to be
more careful about the traffic, because being hit by a car would
simply ruin my whole day, more than it--
--and suddenly I was airborne.
No cars were nearby, but I'd failed to notice the feet (for want of
a better word) of the fence sticking out perpendicular to the fence
itself. Unforunately, one of *my* feet came in contact.
*WHOOMP!* By god, I'd done it. I'd been saying all along I was
going to fall flat on my face, and it had finally happened. Except
I didn't land on my face but rather my hands and knees, which proved
equally fitting. I got right back up and kept walking, trying to
assess the damage while still making decent time.
My glasses were fine; clothes were scuffed, though this sort of thing
tends to add character to leather jackets; and the the face of my watch
was badly scratched. My hands, however, were fucked. Two nasty gashes
on either side of my left hand underneath the pink, and a big ugly one
on my right wrist. (Lest you think I required stitches, none of them
were larger than an average band-aid.) And although it would be
several hours before I actually got a close look, my knees were
hurting, too. Fortunately, nothing seemed broken.
The coincidental significance of the placement of the wounds didn't
escape me. It was like someone had tried to crucify me in an
extemely sloppy matter, which was exactly what I'd felt like I was
doing to myself. My own personal stigmata, a physical accompaniment
to the growing emotional pain. If I was gonna hurt, I was gonna hurt
in every way.
I got back to the store, and naturally didn't mention anything about
my little golgotha. Bob commented that it looked like I hurt my hand,
and I mumbled something about tripping on the way back. True enough,
and he was satisfied. Neither Lee nor Summer heard us.
I somehow found room for my sweater in my backpack to give my wounds
a little breathing room, though I continued wearing my jacket and my
beret. No way those were coming off. I tried going without the beret
for a few minutes, but that simply wasn't right. I felt minimally
more secure with it on.
Next was a trip (ironically enough) to Telegraph to do some thrift
shopping. First, though, Lee, Summer and I stopped at a McDonald's
to use the restroom, giving me a chance to actually wash off my arms
and maybe maybe maybe stave off infection. As luck would have it I had
a few band-aids in my backpack, old and crumpled though they were, they
would have to do. By then, Summer and Lee noticed.
(i am so dumb
just beam me up
i've had it all forever
i've had enough
remember, you promised me
i'm dying, i'm dying please
i want to, i need to be
under your skin
-- courtney love, dying)
We ended up at a vintage store on Telegraph called Mars. It was there,
watching Summer thoroughly enjoying herself trying on clothes, that I
realized my heart was breaking. Indeed, it felt more like it was
expanding and about to burst out of my chest. It sunk in, as it should
have from practically the moment we met, that she would never be mine.
That I really had thrown away everything I had, led astray by a pretty
(nay, gorgeous) face which in fact had made no promises. I was acting
under my own free will and had to accept any and all responsibility
by myself. If this was self-destruction, it wasn't the coward's way
out via drugs or alcohol. This was taking the blade and plunging it
in without blinking.
Whatever wonderful vibe existed between us at first was now quite
clearly gone, probably forever. For her, the honeymoon was over.
After Mars we went into Hot Topic, of all places (you'd think a group
of goths would avoid *that* store like the fucking plague) and I
wandered off on my own. I became entranced in a particular dress which
I won't bother attempting to describe--if you've been in there before
you know the kind of stuff they carry. I found Summer, asked her to
join me when she had a chance so I could get her opinion on something,
and went back to the dress in question. Eventually she came over and
I showed it to her.
She replied, more than a little curtly, that it was pretty but it
would never work on me because of insufficient breasts, though I could
probably use water balloons--and she sounded *serious*, almost as much
as she'd sounded sincere when she'd told me I was beautiful. Hearing
her make a comment like that was as painful as hearing her say the other
things had been wonderful. She knew that I'd been reluctant to buy a
corset because in an odd way it would seem like cheating, and now she
was suggesting water balloons? The night we went to see Elizabeth we
stopped by Ross, and she had been incredibly enthusiastic about the
possibility of finding a certain dress she'd seen at another Ross
because she thought it would be perfect for me. (Or as she put it,
"When I saw it I thought of you.") We'd found the same basic design,
but much too small for me--an 8 petite when I still stretch a 12.
She'd seemed disappointed when I decided not to try it on at the
store for that very reason. Perhaps that was the fatal mistake;
right then and there she realized she couldn't really be involved
with someone so cowardly.
Fortunately, we parted company with Bob after that, and the three of
us started the drive to Summer's in San Rafael. A trip to Bolinas to
drop off Lee, if it were to happen at all, wasn't happening that
night. Saturday evening bridge traffic being what it is it took about
an hour to get there.
As we neared the San Rafael side of the bridge, I decided to get it
out of my system: I really, really needed help in terms of makeup. I
was just so tired of waiting. I protested a bit too much, stating
up front that I knew it was something that required a lifetime of
practice and couldn't be taught overnight, but just a little push
in the right direction, some momentum, and I could take it from
there...and, of course, I'd be more than willing to buy all of my
own stuff for hygiene purposes.
Summer, who had recently seemed so intrigued by the idea of making
me up, couldn't have possibly seemed more noncommittal. She mumbled
"Yeah, sure," and that was that. Almost immediately (my usual
turnaround time) I regretted bringing it up at all. This was the wrong
time, the wrong place, the wrong everything. This was Louise all over
again, just much more compact. Over the course of a few weeks rather
than several months.
Lee, on the other hand, perked up his ears. We talked a little about
the various kinds (spooky vs. natural), the expense, everyday vs. special
occasion, that sort of thing. He sounded genuinely interested, but I
didn't buy it. I've had people sound interested before. This was another
dead end, another brick wall to crash my head into.
Stepping into Summer's apartment added another level of surreality
to a situation which my mind was already trying to disassociate itself
from. I was in a place which I on at least one level I desperately
wanted to be, but I was not there for that reason. Indeed, it was more
like being reminded of what I'd never have. The worst possible place
for me to be, even though there were no viable alternatives.
Her apartment was very simple--kitchen, living room with futon (my
eventual destination), bathroom and bedroom. Small TV and stereo in
the living room, certainly enough for my purposes. She also had two
cats, a large black one named Ed (short for Edward Scissorhands),
and a more anonymous calico named Lestat.
I decided to try the time-honored trick of making a superficial
cosmetic change to improve my mood; I took of the beret, brushed my
hair, and put it up in ponytails. It didn't really help, and after
a trip to the store and back to buy beer (well, they bought beer and
I bought a new bottle of water), I took my hair back down and put
the beret back on. It felt much more right, somehow. It wasn't
coming off until absolutely necessary. Or maybe when I slept, but
I wasn't convinced I'd be sleeping.
I spent a fair amount time sitting on her floor, usually crouched
against the wall writing in my notebook. "Writing furiously" is
probably a more apt description. My mind was racing, and I was
trying to keep up with it. What was coming out what was pain and
rage and desperation and anger and self-loathing and futility and
a fully realized sense that I was solely responsible for what I
was going through, that I was in a hell of my own creation, that
I'd willingly gone astray because of a pretty (nay, gorgeous and
mind-numbingly beautiful) face which had stroked my ego but made no
promises whatsoever and was in fact now involved with someone else
and I was left hanging without her and without The Ex and without much
of anything except an overwhelming sense of shame and guilt and my
own goddamn stupidity.
Perhaps the one brief saving grace was that as far as they knew,
I was grieving over breaking up The Ex. That was an element, yes, but
mostly it was Summer. Though I'd made it clear that I was fond of
her and would be more than happy to go out with her if she ever asked,
I don't think they truly suspected there was more happening than
that. In a nutshell, she was protected from that particular mindfuck,
and that was very important to me. Ruining our friendship would have
been even more intolerable.
...and there I remained when the movie started. Lee and Summer were
having none of it, though. I was joining them on the couch/futon, and
that was all there was to it. So I found myself on the couch, Lee and
Summer laying together in a state of extreme (but fully clothed)
familiarity with one another, and me occupying the remainder of the
space. It was a remarkably unique form of hell.
I forced myself to put the notebook down and watch the movie,
Se7en.
Considering the similar habits of the killer in the film, I figured
it was just as well.
After a while, Summer strectched out more and put her (socked) feet
in my lap. I didn't object. I casually put my hands on her feet,
savoring even such a minimal contact--not just with a woman for whom
I was aching so bad, but just human contact at all. I rubbed them in
what I hoped seemed like a casual almost absent-minded motion.
She didn't object.
Suddenly things didn't seem quite as bleak. Yes, later on they'd
move into the bedroom and I'd still be out there, but now, just for
this moment, all was just the tiniest fraction closer to being well.
Not well by a long fucking shot, but closer. Sometimes that's the
absolute most you can ask for.
At one point the movie was stopped for a little break. Lee went
outside for a smoke, and for the first time all day, Summer and
I were actually alone. We talked for the few minutes we had, and
it almost began to seem like I'd wished the night would be: just
her and I. She leant me a book to read, something Egyptian-themed
which dealt with finding and losing one's soul mate and things like
that. Although I said that were many other things bothering me
than just The Ex, I didn't go into specifics. She simply did not
realize how strongly I felt for her, and it had to stay that way.
As much as I resented his *presence*, I did not resent Lee at
all, and wasn't jealous of him. Nor did he seem to be bothered by
me being there, as many would have been.
But that's just how he was, and perhaps how the game was played.
A world where she could tell me that we hadn't gotten together
because we were both going through breakups, and while still in
the midst of said breakup she hooks up with someone else entirely
who had in fact just gotten involved with a third person, and it's
all cool. This was the world I was entering, and I'd damn well
better get used to it.
After Se7en, we watched the first half-hour or so of
Trainspotting, then it was decided to call it a night. This was roughly 1am.
Despite my protests to the contrary, for I was perfectly willing
to sleep (ha!) on the couch as is, she unfolded the futon into bed
form and brought out sheets. They went into the bedroom.
I kept the light on, ostensibly so I could write, but also because
if I was going to be awake I might as well be able to see. I realize
that doesn't quite work logically--maybe, just maybe, if it was dark
I could fucking sleep? Nope. Being alone in the dark would have
been much worse, another physical manifestation of where I was
inside.
So the lights stayed on, and I hid my watch and covered the clock.
I didn't want to know the time. Time was no longer relevant; this
moment, this eternity, would last as long as it would last, and no
order could be imposed upon it.
I laid on the bed on my stomach mostly, writing and listening to
the tape in my walkman. Over and over. Based on the number of times
I flipped the tape at least three hours must have passed in that
fashion. I wrote as much as I could, most of it just this side of
coherent, somewhere between Naked Lunch and the chapter in The Sound
and the Fury where the kid's about to kill himself.
Ed joined me, which was another of those little perks. I haven't
had a cat on my bed since Mary died last March, and he was in
many was as affectionate as she was.
Eventually I slept. I only know this because I dreamed. Based
on my sleeping habits (five or six hours a night at most) I don't
dream much, yet this was the same one as the last time I dreamed,
the night The Ex and I broke up. It had been paradoxically my first
truly pleasant dream in a very long time, but it was cut short.
Why? The Ex woke me up to turn me over because I was snoring.
That's gotta be metaphoric of something.
Being a dream it's naturally hard to describe, but the most
overwhelimg sense was that of *belonging*. Of finally having
found a home, a group of people with whom I could be comfortable.
On one level they were very definitely trannies, but that seemed
a minor detail at best--more that whatever it was I was seeking,
it could possibly exist. That no matter how desperate the
situation around me, I simply had to hang on as best as I could.
How long I slept, I of course don't know, but I'd guess probably
for no more than two hours. Once I awoke--as always--I was awake
and that was that. When I finally looked at the time, it was
barely 6am. Jesus. Another six hours of this, at least. For
however long they may have been up, Lee and Summer would surely
have crashed by now.
I paced. I tried to read the book Summer loaned me. I
listened to my walkman, and to CDs through Summer's stereo with
my headphones. I wrote--a bit more coherently, it's true. I
looked at myself in the mirror a lot. Too much, perhaps. Of
course the beret was back on, and it wasn't coming off anytime too
soon. Hell, I'd probably start wearing it at work. (Why not?
My reputation as a freak was well-established already.) My wounds
never stopped hurting, and Summer had no bandages so I was stuck
with the already soiled ones. And, for some reason, I didn't
cry once. I wanted to, I needed to, but I didn't. Couldn't.
Wouldn't. Should have, but it was not to be.
Summer and Lee emerged around 1pm or so.
I'd survived the night.
Next: Clogged Arteries, Southern Style...The Shirt Off Her Rack...
Bolinas or Bust: The Planning Stages...Calling Home...A Moment of
Ecstasy...Can We Do Her In Buffalo '66 Next?... It's Always Midnight
Somewhere...The Reverse Snipe Hunt...Initiation...The Men and the
Rest of Us...Bolinas or Bust: The Drive...Diving for Pearl...
LeeLand...A Little More Bonding...11:30PM (The Moment of Clarity,
Part III)...There Are Certain Times When You Simply Don't Want To Be
In a Truck Careening Down a Dark Rainy Winding Mountain Road Taking
Sharp Turns In The Wrong Lane With A Lovesick And Potentially Suicidal
Goth Behind The Wheel Who Probably Considers You To Be The Enemy, And
This Was One of Them...Landing On Water, Redux
