“Who cares if one more light goes out? In a sky of a million stars… I Do”

Whatever this will end up as, it has been playing in the back of my mind starting Thursday a week ago, since hearing of the passing of Chris Cornell. More specifically, since hearing, seeing, FEELING the reactions of hearts I love, aching for this particular loss. And the aching of my own heart too. “He was one of us.” Words spoken to me, that resonate so deeply. One of us, has been too many of “us” for me on a personal level, and I understand completely (not at all) why.

I’m not entirely sure about what I’m writing. I’m not writing about suicide, death, depression, or loss. Except, that’s a lie, because I am a little bit somewhat writing about all of those things.

The words in my heart are about how fucking short life can be, and how I don’t want to let any more moments, or love, pass me by, and how I won’t just take opportunities, but will make them, because pause buttons were pushed, one that led to me losing myself, and forgetting almost everything I knew, and I stopped being alive for years. And one which ended up being pushed because it was the “right” thing to do, (never fully pushed?) the path as it was meant to happen, the unfolding to lead to a (something) deeper understanding, and learning, and now pause is over (?), (my) arms are thrown open, are there to catch, to be caught by… (re-interpretation/appropriation)

And they (words in my heart) are also about how love is, I think, the most important thing. But how it isn’t in and of itself, enough to save the life of one who chooses to not live. Which doesn’t inherently mean chooses physical death. Also, this isn’t, and is, about how it (love), and life as a whole, don’t look at all like I thought they would.

Love, which I used to think would come wrapped neatly in glittery purple ribbons,  and be punctuated by things forevery, and accompanied by grand gestures, but turns out to be without regard for the construct of time, and sloppy, messy, complex, (in its simplicity,  familiarity, comfort, and warmth), while wrapped in glittery purple ribbons, and accompanied by (beautiful, thoughtful, loving) simple gestures (that mean everything in the moments they are needed, especially when given without being asked for). And is able to navigate that which at first glance appears to be unnavigable, if that is the choice made.

Life, that I have always been told must follow a linear path, but instead is laced with switchbacks, and hairpin turns, stops, and starts, and is washed out by tide’s coming in, and then revealed in a new form, by tide’s receding.

(I sit, and stare, and think, and dream, and sing, and float to there, wherever that may be… , as I seek the words I want to write. And were you sitting next to me, you would see the beginnings, and middles, of so many writings… to be gotten back to, when they are ready. If they are ever ready. Maybe it is less {in this moment} that I want to write, and more that I want to speak, or sit in {silent} conversation.)

“One of us” as I interpret it globally,  is one of the artsy fartsy type. Us sedately hyper, hyper-communicative, introverts, who lay it all on the line, and play it close to the vest. Who pour ourselves in brilliant neon, onto the canvas best suited to our chosen medium, except sometimes we’re muted pastel. Or black. Or white. Or invisible ink. One of us, the (un) lucky ones, who create, or burn inside out, for the lack of it. One of us who feel, and feel, and FEEL. Even when we say we don’t. If we create, we FEEL! Us; those who seemingly have a choice to go inside, get down and dirty with the everything we feel, or to not. So then we drink, a lot. Or do drugs, a lot. Or find a “zipless fuck”  and a hundred more after it. To numb. To escape. To hide.

Sometimes too, we go inside, while creating, and drinking, and doing drugs, and finding a zipless fuck, and thinking we’ve got answers, have a handle on things, Or we go inside while creating, without drinking, drugs, or zipless fucks, and do have answers, and a handle on things, and then… what we thought we knew as certainty, isn’t, and we remember that even concrete crumbles, and steel melts. In some instances, that’s a terrible thing, and in others, its exactly the way its supposed to be, perhaps even intentional, and beautiful.

But Chris Cornell though… his departure is one (of many) that sends me deep into a variation of my life long deep think of “why.” Not why did he commit suicide. This why isn’t that why. This why is about why we “rise”, or “fall.” Which is not a statement of judgement, or about better than, worse than, higher or lower on any scale. It is just words to depict going one way, or another.

As I have spent hours thinking about this writing, about Chris Cornell, about the ones who create, and depression, and suicide, or pseudo-cide (addiction) (which is not to be confused with pseudocide, a death, faked) I think of my own journey into the very deep dark place from which I at times didn’t see an escape, and at other times didn’t give a fuck about escaping from, alive. (I did not try to commit suicide, just to be clear!!) I think about the fact that from the outside, Chris Cornell had so much more to fight his way out of the dark for, than I.

This is not melodrama, and this is not victim mentality, this is; write that shit down on a piece of paper in 2 columns, and see what it looks like, from the outside. He had a wife who loves him, kids who love him, THE career he always wanted, friends who love him, fans who adore him, fame and fortune, IMMENSE talent, access to every imaginable resource because, money,  and blah blah blah stuff. I have my daughters, and friends who love me. And family who do too, of course. I have had so much more than so many on this planet, and I KNOW it, but on paper, reviewing the 2 columns, I would have picked Chris Cornell as the one to come out ahead. Alive.

Never, ever will I be able to understand, explain why or how I got to such a deep, dark depth, nor will I be able to understand, or explain, why or how, I am not there anymore, and why Chris Cornell hung himself to stop the hurting. And I could speak of karma, or of God, or luck, or being blessed, faith, lack thereof, dogma, or timing. I could speak of inner strength, tenacity, nature, nurture, biology, chemistry, or a million other things, that would all be supposition. Why did I choose what I chose, and why did he choose, what he chose. And this isn’t really about Chris Cornell, and this isn’t really about me. This is about anyone who has been where he was, and where I was.

Over, and over, and over, as I write this, I see 3 faces, and hear 3 voices, and think of these 3 souls I have been privileged to (some more than others) know. Each of these souls are ridiculously talented, intelligent, crazy, grounded, creative feelers, who have attained levels of success in their chosen mediums that most of us creative feelers can only (maybe) imagine. And each of them has been through some hell. Eerily similar hell, to each other, and me. Although 2 of them have been public about their hell, and by public I mean PUBLIC about their hell, I will speak of them anonymously because who they are, and their hell, isn’t important.

My thoughts about each of these ridiculously talented, creative feelers (henceforth to be known as RTCF), isn’t about their success. I know enough about how the world of artistic endeavors works to know that whatever the fuck luck is, (or is it blessings? – omnipotent omniscient Oprah deity “you get rich and famous, and you get rich and famous”) there is some element of that involved. The mystery for me is the why of each of them choosing to rise, instead of to fall. Which is not to say that they (2 of them much moreso than the 3rd) followed always, only a straight, and narrow path.

I can say I was a somewhat more than casual observer to the period of “don’t think I’ll make it to age 30 so, fuck it” of one of them. (Disclaimer: I didn’t know this was the thinking, until many years later.) But always in the midst of the crazy fun, there was a level of restraint involved. If “method to the madness” has ever been applied, it was then, and there, with that person. If “spiraling in control” can be a thing, I know the master of it. Bravest soul I’ve ever known, this one, thankfully no longer spiraling.

Another of them started to fall at a very young age, chose to reverse the fall, then got knocked the fuck down. Memories of conversation of almost 20 years ago;  a head-down, shoulders slumped, hands in pockets, heart-achingly difficult conversation, about the knock down, an ending of a something, and the why of the ending, like it was yesterday. And that conversation could have been followed by a not just a fall, but a plunge. Rise doesn’t begin to describe this story’s (not yet finished) end.

The third (beloved) soul, that I know of, has never even begun to fall. Not in the sense that I mean here. On the face of it though, would have been “taking candy from a baby” easy for this to be another spiral in control, if not fall. Rise, once again, does not begin to describe… Poised now to reach even higher heights.

Sadly, exponentially more are the faces of those who fell, than those who rose. I see them flashing through my mind, and I am grieved by the knowing that I am forgetting some (probably many) of them no longer here, taken either by suicide, or pseudo-cide become fatal. There are those too who simply slipped away, so lost in their pseudo-cide, they couldn’t be with those of us not following that road.

And I’m left with, WHY? And thank you to whatever it is that requires thanking, which sees me sitting here writing this, with my artsy fartsy, creative FEELINGNESS hanging the fuck out. All. The. Time. Instead of being still in the darkness. Or on the other side of it where the only pain is for those left behind.

1700+ words, and I still don’t know for sure what this is about. I know that since I started thinking about this, children were killed in Manchester, England, while they were at a pop concert. And wars are being waged in other countries by those shouting with bombs that their beliefs are what matter most. And a couple more artsy fartsy legends have passed way. 2 men were killed, and another severely injured, defending teenage girls from a “man” bullying them for their religious beliefs. Today an artsy fartsy guy, younger than me, died. Something about alcoholism, but, I think that wasn’t the exact cause of death.

Life is short. Love is love is love. Is messy.  Is complex in its simplicity. And I have no answers. But I’m here. I remember who I am, and this, who I am now, is who I always was. This was always my path. And choices made from places of fear, are never the right choice. And, irrespective of my beliefs about the hereafter, I care if another light goes out. More though than that, I care about the light that is still here, in so much pain, that it thinks it should be, not.

If you’ve read the above, and think you see yourself in it, this is not about you, except the you this is, in part, about. This is mostly about me, but not about just me, and not about me at all. And/Or Chris Cornell.


Linkin Park – “One More Light”

Should’ve stayed, were there signs, I ignored?
Can I help you, not to hurt, anymore?
We saw brilliance, when the world, was asleep
There are things that we can have, but can’t keep
If they say
Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are
We’re quicker, quicker
Who cares if one more light goes out?
Well I do

The reminders, pull the floor from your feet
In the kitchen, one more chair than you need, oh
And you’re angry, and you should be, it’s not fair
Just ’cause you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it, isn’t there

If they say
Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are
We’re quicker, quicker
Who cares if one more light goes out?
Well I do

Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are
We’re quicker, quicker
Who cares if one more light goes out?
Well I do
Well I do

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Mt. Michelle – revisited

I came across all of my old blogs from when Myspace used to be “a thing” and I’d write all the time. This blog, circa 2004, was inspired by a PM sent to me via the motorcycle forum to which I used to belong. In case that doesn’t make sense in 2017, the motorcycle forum was a message board. A place where like-minded individuals would gather, virtually, to discuss their common interests. In this case, it was motorcycles, (duh) and the riding of them. Or in my case, passengering on them. But, REALLY passengering. At 120 miles per hour sometimes, leaning so deep into curves, our knees almost touched the ground, and for hundreds of miles at a time.

From Myspace:

Me:  He sees my photos, he reads the words I write, (not here, elsewhere) has limited one to one email interaction with me, and based on these things he says I’m like nitroglycerine…. I’m not sure why he started to write to me, but here is how he thinks men view me. (asterisks are mine, reference at end of writing)

————————————————-

“yes, it’s clear that your volatile* personality is a draw…your ability to change looks from mother to rock groupie chick** to biker to manager……. you are like nitroglycerin. “taking” you would make a man feel very powerful. king of the world. look at this fine specimen of a woman that I have slain / subdued / seduced / caused to fall head over heels in love with me / fucked her brains out. however… mishandle the nitro… and THAT’S YOUR AZZZZZ! this scares many men off, because it’s too much responsibility. all they are in it for is to meet a cutie, have sex with her, go out to eat and the movies, maybe fall in love and have a family. they really aren’t prepared to deal with a forceful personality. other guys will see it as a diamond in the rough. a needle in a haystack. something different for a change from the easily duped and quickly swooning volunteers…”

————————————————–

Me:  So apparently I’m Mt. Michelle, waiting, much like Everest, for the brave souls willing to attempt to conquer me?  And what happens when “they” perceive they have conquered me? What if they have the idea that getting me in bed is something that won’t happen until they pledge undying love to me but I decide to allow it to happen before then? Do they think they’ve conquered me, and then I’m not a challenge? And what if “they” are one of the few that get to experience what I think are the best parts of me? The affectionate, romantic, nurturing, tender woman I am. The woman who will in fact cry for their hurt more quickly than she will her own. And who sometimes doesn’t want to be strong, but rather wants to lean on someone for a moment. Are they let down because Mt. Everest isn’t supposed to be touchy/feely, romantic, or emotional?

This is all very timely and interesting. I know it’s only one man’s (unsolicited) opinion. And a man who does not in fact know me. I see elements of truth in what he’s said though. So it leaves me to wonder, if I’m perceived as this challenge, but then instead of playing those silly dating games of making a guy chase me, I am just who I am, is “their” idea of me destroyed and I then cease to be appealing? A friend of mine once said about herself “hard to get doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. If I’m in it, I’m in it.” And I feel the same way.

Which brings me back to the thought of destroying the illusion of Mt. Michelle waiting to be conquered. I suppose the ones worth my time will realize that whether I wait 3 days or 3 months to have sex with them, it’s not indicative of me having been conquered. And they will also know that number of phone calls or email isn’t indicative of anything other than I friggen communicate with everyone, all the time! And if I seem excited to see them it’s ’cause I enjoy their company, not because I’m whipped. And that if I want to help them out, it’s not ’cause I’m madly in love, it’s ’cause that’s what I do. And that while I’m not complex in a drama queen way, that “conquering” me isn’t based on what they might think it is!

Overall I guess this is much better than being viewed as an easy target though. But for my part I guess I have to try and figure out who’s just in it ’cause they think it would be neat-o to say they stood at base camp at Everest, vs those who plan on actually trying to reach the peak. Mostly I wish that I could ask the guys I’ve let close to me in a boy/girl sense if what is written above was their perception of me as well. I don’t know if anyone would be that candid with me though.


*His use of the word volatile is perplexing to me. I can only extrapolate from the rest of the content of his email that its because I so passionately state my case when I feel strongly about something.

** This made me laugh! Groupie! HA! I’m the antithesis of a groupie. I’m the chick who has intentionally NOT slept with rock stars because they are rock stars! Its all about the music for me! Its just a bonus if the music is made by a super hot guy(s). PLUS, dress like a groupie what? Yeah, my tits and ass are always hanging out at shows and I can barely stand because I’m wearing my come fuck me shoes and my feet hurt! As evidenced by the photos I’ve posted here!!


My take on this, today, 5/16/2017

I’ve lived about 100 lifetimes since I wrote the above blog. There have been a lot of deaths, a lot of births, there was travel a plenty, music (always music) 3 long distance moves, love, and marriage, (a thing I hadn’t counted on happening) and within that marriage, the effects of sex addiction (his), and domestic violence. The writer of the nitroglycerine thing also “predicted” the demise of my marriage, before I got married, because my ex is 14 years younger than me. Nitro dude said ex would want to find someone younger, once I got “old.” Oh the irony that my age had nothing to do with the demise of our marriage.

But about the blog, and nitroglycerine, my thoughts are; I am not Mt. Michelle. Nor am I nitroglycerine. (Although I can be explosive! Which I have worked very diligently to change, and which doesn’t mean only anger, just emotion.) If anything can be learned from the marriage formerly known as mine, it is that the only blast created by the mishandling of me, was an almost irrevocable (it seemed at the time) implosion. That’s not to say that would always be the case, there was a systemic, and subtle, breaking down of the me over years. I dig that this was a plot twist no one saw coming, least of all me, but, I didn’t explode.

I don’t think anything *bad* was meant by what was said to me, about me. But I think it shined a not so flattering light on men, with words on what their perspective is (might be) of me. At least from my view of what I think men “should” be like. I don’t think it was being said that I should make myself small for men to not be scared of me, but, maybe it was. Me, and my forceful personality!

What I know now, that I didn’t know then, is that it doesn’t matter to me how I’m seen by most, or even many, men. But I am not to be conquered, or owned, slain, or subdued. In my experience, (see above referenced former marriage) the one(s) who see me as that, are those who are viewing me through the lens of their own insecurities. I’ll go with the diamond thing, if we leave out the rough. Perfect, I am not (Yoda, I am channeling!) but I don’t need to be shaped, and polished, to the eye that is deserving of beholding me. Unless of course, I wish to shape, and polish, me, for myself.

Most importantly what I now know is that the one who will get me, deserves me, is one who doesn’t need to subdue me as means to make himself to feel stronger. Almost conversely, he gains strength from supporting me as I rise, and grow stronger in myself. There are so many things I have learned about myself because of the introspection, the years of being single, while being married, and being alone so much, and part of that is exactly what I am looking for in a man, and none of that includes someone who feels like conquering me is a cool thing. Lucky to have my attention? Yeah, that I’ll vibe with, because I don’t give my attention easily. But that will only be the case for someone whose attention I hold too, who also doesn’t give it easily.

I’m writing around this again because the last several months of my life have been a lot about deep introspection. As I re-read many of my old blogs, I realized how much I lost myself during the years of my former marriage. Its kind of cool to revisit this time, when I used to think any of what was said in the original email mattered. I’ve still got my insecurities, but really, I’m just me. I AM the needle in a haystack, and its one crazy lucky dude who gets that. And me.

Also, to the friend who sent me the email originally, I wish I remembered why you sent it to me, but, in this moment, I mostly want to say thank you for it. It was an unintentional holding of a mirror to myself, to see how I felt about all of it. About me. I’ve come to the conclusion that it was a ballsy move of you to send the email back in the day! I could write so much more about how I feel, and what I think, about all of this, but, meh. The important part was me going inside, taking another deep look at me, so, thanks for that!

The Day After, the day after…

If any one thing I have ever written in my life has been an effort in writing my way through a specific something, this is it. The residue of too many moments familiar to this one, which aren’t at all the same, except my heart doesn’t really want to hear that right now, are a little bit wearing me down.

But this isn’t then, and nothing bad has happened, its just a something difficult, and not in the least more difficult because of the residue. So I’ll write my way through to the other side of my daughter having left to start her new life, chasing her dreams, in L.A. I couldn’t possibly be any more happy for her, any more proud of her, but also, I miss her so much already. Too many times I’ve had to say “goodbye” even though it was never, and still isn’t, forever or bad, its just – the residue.

Its not that I didn’t expect this, because I’ve always been this way when something painful, or difficult, has happened. There is the day it happens, which I work through, only allowing myself to feel a little bit of whatever is happening, or has happened. On that first day, I take care of business, I make lists, or phone calls, and give hugs. I just roll the fuck with it, saying a little prayer along the way, that I’ll be what I need to be, for anyone else who might in that moment need me.

Then comes the day after “it” happens. That’s the day where a something similar to shock takes over, and “surreal” is the word for that day, and I just float through, in some, contrary to my nature, mostly emotionless trance. Maybe a tear here, and there, but mostly not.

And then there’s the day after, the day after. The day the something similar to shock has worn off, and I feel every single thing I didn’t feel the yesterday or the day before. And tiny streams of tears, become rivers, turn into oceans. Where sadness the day before might have been teensy ripples which hardly register, on the day after, the day after, it is waves that make my knees buckle, and I let it knock me down, because sometimes its OK to fall, I think. Today is the day after, the day after, and my knees have buckled a few times.

Its days like today, when being single, alone, feels also like lonely. So naturally, with perfect timing, the ex-husband calls, and I’m a little bit “Dear Universe, fuck off!” because I’m feeling like a big baby, with a cold been hanging on for a week, and Ari moving, and now this too. The apologies are too late, and I don’t believe them anyway because “I’m sorry” had become like a reflex for him years ago. Then I start to cry when he asks if I’m sick, and says something I can no longer recall that is meant to be caring, because I’m worn the fuck out, but (in a not mean way) his is not the voice I want to hear expressing caring.

I feel unkind when I tell him my tears aren’t for him, or our marriage having ended, because they aren’t at all. I’m just tired, and emotional, and I only called back because he said he wanted to ask me a question about alimony payments. Then he asks me about the boyfriend he thinks I have, and when I tell him I don’t have a boyfriend, tells me he’s happy to hear that, and he doesn’t mean it cruelly, but its so remarkably stupid because he didn’t want me when he had me, and he has his girlfriend, and he knows I’m over him. And he says I can call him anytime I want to, and I want to pound my head against the wall because WHY. I say again the tears weren’t for him, or our marriage, and that I have to go, and hang up.

And now the puppy, who has slept almost non-stop for 2 days straight, which I suppose is his way of (not dealing) with his missing his best buddy, as if he knows I’m writing of this, goes to sit at the bottom of the tiny set of stairs leading from the dining room to the living room, where he would sit when he’d hear her car as she’d  park it, looking at the front door waiting for her to walk through, so he could attack her with kisses, and love, and rummage through her purse or bag of life, which never had anything for him, but he did every day, anyway. And the tears that had slowed down for a few minutes overflow again because its too quiet, and the door won’t be opening.

Because I have recently seen what it looks like from the outside when a someone is constantly saying “poor me” and I realize how much I never want to sound like that, and I feel I could stumble into that territory (in my view of myself) if I’m not careful, and because I have also recently seen what it looks like when a someone, no matter how much not fun is swirling around them, always says they are doing great, and that everything is all good, and that is exactly the example I need to follow for my highest good, its time to turn the day after, the day after, around, and remember there is no tragedy here, at all. No mean people came and took my baby away from me. She’s soon to be “living it up, in tinsel town” making her dreams come true, and that’s a beautiful thing. That is who I raised both of my girls to be, and I wouldn’t want her to give that up, just to live near to me.

I can’t not add to this how incredibly lucky I am to have been so loved, and supported, over the last few days. Friends who were there back in the day, who held my hand (or got me drunk, or both) after each goodbye, who knew the residue would get to me, have been here for me this time around too. To each of you,  thank you, and I love you.

And to the extra terrestrial Unicorn who held my hand, in spite of the (physical) distance between us, with words, and music, and photos, and thoughtfulness, in the hours leading up to,  and after the “sailing”  thank you is (as usual) not even sort of enough to express my gratitude for the caring. You’re the kindest, coolest, and most awesome ET Unicorn ever, and I love you, too. 

———

Now it’s the morning after the day of which I wrote above, and it’s officially time to start living this new version of my reality.  It’s a little (or a lot) more quiet than the version before it, but it’s no less beautiful. I fell asleep writing the last words above, and dreamed for the 2nd night in a row of gorgeous snowy white owls, flying all around me. Watching over me. Maybe they were sent, or maybe I called them to me. Either way, they were lovely, and soothing, and appreciated.