here we are

things get really sharp in the days after. you know who came for you and who didn't. you know who was scared and who wasn't. you know love and you know what the trees look like after years of distortion. and all of it matters and some of it doesn't. there's nothing like it, the few weeks, months after a death. it just is. there's some high comedy in there too (you find out exactly how everyone hopes for what comes after, what god will do or not do, how safe they will be, and some of those flower arrangements, i mean wow. and now is not the time for ecclesiastes or maybe you're giving me that new age book, why? how helpless we are to insist we know what we're talking about, no matter what the pleiadians transmit) and this is consideration and we do have a word like your french one in english: sidereal, as in sidereal time.

people appear to be under the impression that a person writes about death or whatever in order to set it right, or make it make sense thru what means you have at hand. that's human. more often then not, it's a song that comes to you like antony, or the way the pear trees look in the light at dusk, when ashes are committed to the river. i'm speaking from experience. we walked thru the hospital to a morgue room and identified his body. there is nothing like that. there is nothing to describe it. he was gone, and his features had assumed the death mask. and the howl that came out of me was primitive and silent. my mother who had gone so far in the hour before, who was not there except as grief, came back and witnessed me. watched me with inexorable pity and love. we were looking at each other as i collapsed. and that's all there was to it. it was just a moment, probably no more than a few minutes. i think it was the clearest, truest moment of my life. and you know, it's not. it won't be, it wasn't. there was nothing to make anything radically better. and that is consideration.

i found out about j's death on NPR. no that's not right. k. called me because she had heard, and i turned on the radio, walked to the bathroom, stepped in the shower and experienced the worst headache of my life. it was blinding. i think i passed out. and then crawled into bed, still wet and shivered. i remember thinking, i thought i had this down. i wasn't thinking about d. i was thinking about all the funerals i stopped going to in san francisco, there were too many, and i didn't want death like that even if it cemented a community, even if it was paying your respects, it was too much and i turned to writing and my life. and then it dawned on me that i had heard it on the radio and i was raging. the mid-morning light cut thru my eyes like a razor and i did throw up. and then i slept. and i think i woke up, i'm sure of it, feeling like i didn't have anything to live for. what's the point. it's exhausting. love doesn't stop death.

i recovered from that very quickly and got angry again. she died 3000 miles away with only 4 people who'd known about her choice to go off chemo and who knew enough to honor her wishes and not tell people. it didn't really happen until a few years later. when her voice started coming back. her letters, notes, encouragement, her laugh, even the brand of cigarettes she smoked. d. i saw in lucid dreams all the time for awhile, until i performed what prayers i could, and then he went away and didn't disturb me in that strangely impotent and invasive way, i really felt like i was impeding his passage, and did what i could to release him. but who knows, i probably needed to feel important to him, like i could help. but here were concrete things happening, that i needed to listen to. i mean really? look at what's in front of you, look around, everyone you love cares and loves as deeply as she did, they don't fuck around with truth, they hold to their humanity and hearts and they fail and they fight and circle themselves like the rock of mecca no matter what obstacles there are, and total doubt and despair isn't helpful on any level, unless it is, maybe in those moments after coming so hard and being so close to inconsciousness, to un-self, no selfishness. even for a moment. here are all your fantasies, they are true. here's all the music, here's all the care. here are assurances of her and of god. and fuck if i wasn't honoring that and making her death into a small thing. everything you have written down, the creatures and the kids and the trees, that was all there to begin with inthe days after, all those awesome and bright and horrifying moments. those really sad places and feelings, keep writing it down, go as far out as you want, i wish i had. i wish i had. she kind of kicked my ass, which was nice of her. start doing your work, the real work with real people and relax, she said. and then she lit a cigarette. she said, now you aight, lady? because i have others to tend to.

you and i had this talk when we were sitting on the couch having morning coffee. i asked you what book you had, and you handed me "grief lessons". well, you know what happened after that. and what we have and have not talked about. and i guess i'm telling you all of this because that conversation does not end, whatever form it takes, whoever it's with. your father, your tenderness, and your savagery, the lighter that didn't work on your walk. you don't learn anything from this, but i think you do fight for passions and some laughter. even with all the falling things, there's the song. there's no alternative, and no consolation. and here we are, and here love is.

it's an interesting thing too, that someone saying "i'm sorry." is actually the best thing anyone can say. it's perfect. i was on the fence about it before d's death. because i'd never experienced a death and i thought it was lame, i mean people saying that. but that's not so.

"The year of grace 1654.
Monday, 23 November, feast of Saint Clement. . .
From about half-past ten in the evening
until about half-past midnight.

FIRE

The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob.
Not of the philosophers and wise.
Certitude, joy, certainty, feeling, joy, peace."
Pascal

i'm sorry.