The truth is, I'm
happy.
8/27/12
This round, I left Los Angeles the second day of August. Tomorrow I fly back. Long month.
Whoever said War is Hell didn't have a family...at least didn't have my family.
Still, leaving here depresses me. I - I - I...can't seem to find home.
Whoever said War is Hell didn't have a family...at least didn't have my family.
Still, leaving here depresses me. I - I - I...can't seem to find home.
8/24/12
Hi.
It's me, Little Bored Fauntleroy. It's about 1 a.m. I'm the only one awake. The windows are open and you can here all the little buggy creatures going at it. It's a beautiful night.
I went to the beach today, tall grass, dunes, the ocean. A perfect day for bananafish.
I am sitting in front of the computer at my brother's house. At the house my brother died in.
I am so comfortable here, but also there is such a sadness here, and he is everywhere and nowhere.
I - I - I.
It's me, Little Bored Fauntleroy. It's about 1 a.m. I'm the only one awake. The windows are open and you can here all the little buggy creatures going at it. It's a beautiful night.
I went to the beach today, tall grass, dunes, the ocean. A perfect day for bananafish.
I am sitting in front of the computer at my brother's house. At the house my brother died in.
I am so comfortable here, but also there is such a sadness here, and he is everywhere and nowhere.
I - I - I.
7/4/12
I wrote in my journal yesterday, "how can a heart contain so much sadness?"
I painted the last two days, very long days, and I was exhausted by the end of yesterday. Though not a good painter at all, within the realm of what I am things are going well, almost like I know what I'm doing. It will pass.
I'd planned to make a decent dinner but it was late and I was tired and there are things going on, always things, like no matter how devoted I am to my own invisibility I cannot escape the awfulness that is other people, and this weighs on me deeply. There is no reprieve, shutting your door is no reprieve and I ... am ... simply an eternal shadow of a man who is not certain he is any longer on earth even, there is so much missing from me.
When I went out to get some food, I saw there was a single Guinness Extra Stout left from a six pack, and though I'm not drinking much beer anymore this seemed divined, so I bought it. Then walking home I remembered the full moon from the previous night, and I thought maybe I should try to see that, the moon rising.
It was after 8pm. I'd not eaten since breakfast but I took the Guinness and went to the hallway window where I would sit for another forty five minutes, drink the beer, and wait for the moon. What a beautiful night of stunning silence: to sit in the window for that time, to nurse the beer, to watch the twilight - and everyone in it - passing.
And then the moon rose.
It was exactly what I needed.
I painted the last two days, very long days, and I was exhausted by the end of yesterday. Though not a good painter at all, within the realm of what I am things are going well, almost like I know what I'm doing. It will pass.
I'd planned to make a decent dinner but it was late and I was tired and there are things going on, always things, like no matter how devoted I am to my own invisibility I cannot escape the awfulness that is other people, and this weighs on me deeply. There is no reprieve, shutting your door is no reprieve and I ... am ... simply an eternal shadow of a man who is not certain he is any longer on earth even, there is so much missing from me.
When I went out to get some food, I saw there was a single Guinness Extra Stout left from a six pack, and though I'm not drinking much beer anymore this seemed divined, so I bought it. Then walking home I remembered the full moon from the previous night, and I thought maybe I should try to see that, the moon rising.
It was after 8pm. I'd not eaten since breakfast but I took the Guinness and went to the hallway window where I would sit for another forty five minutes, drink the beer, and wait for the moon. What a beautiful night of stunning silence: to sit in the window for that time, to nurse the beer, to watch the twilight - and everyone in it - passing.
And then the moon rose.
It was exactly what I needed.
3/20/12
My brother was a VP at a corporation with a ubiquitous logo. Because he was a VP they "sponsored" the memorial service; they pitched a tent in his back yard and catered it and organized it and over two-hundred people came. My very frail father and remaining two brothers were also there but I'm not sure anyone knew who we were. I knew none of them, either, so I guess that's fair. but the thing was, at all the tables in this tent, every table looked like an ad for the company - the logo on the cups, the cans of logo, the bags of logo, everywhere a logo. It was a little bit funny. My brother's service, brought to you by ____________!
And three days later I was on my way to Chicago for my opening. Chicago is a great town, and I fell madly in love with it and though it was near 80 degrees the entire time I know the truth about that place, and that truth would keep me from ever actually living there. Which sucks.
The last conversation I had with my brother was about Chicago, you may recall. He told me to be sure to see the Tribune building, and I did. He said to see a game at Wrigley Field. There is no baseball right now, but I vowed (to myself) to see Wrigley Field. It was like a pact, a mission, that I needed to complete.
My bike legs are not what they used to be, but I rented a bike my last morning to see how it might go. It was St. Patrick's day, and there is NO WAY to convey the green madness that is Chicago on St. Patrick's Day. Mardi Gras + Animal House x A Billion. Except worse. Whatever extreme your brain might conjure, it's not even close to what it really is. So I looked at the green-dyed water like a good tourist, decide I'm feeling pretty good, go over to the lakefront and start north.
Chicago is fucking amazing-beautiful. Fucking. I may have mentioned this already.
Now: I'd left Los Angeles February 17 to see my brother and now it is March 17 and I'd been gone a month with all this, minus a few days inbetween. Los Angeles to NY to LA to NY to Chicago and later that day, back to LA. I hadn't really been able to deal with any of it, it was all just about continually moving forward, but while in Chicago I noticed random bits of crying were beginning to appear, bouts of deep sorrow that had up to then been kept at bay. I kept fighting it, wanting to just finish and go home and mourn as necessary. But I noticed this was getting harder to do.
I have no idea, along the lakefront, where I am, so at some point I pull over and ask. It turns out I'm right at the street I needed to be to see the stadium, I just have to cut inland a few blocks. It only took like half an hour, forty minutes. FratBoys, FratBoys, FratBoys - screaming, drinking, screaming some more, as far as the eye can see, and then there is Wrigley Field, unassuming, just sitting there like a 7-11. I snap a few shots and circle around. A gate is open. I think: Hmmmm. I go up to the opening and there is a guy there, older than I, and I think I'll just tell him what I want, be honest, and maybe he'll cut me some slack and let me in for a peek. Except what happens is, I start to ask him if maybe I can come in for a peek, and start to tell him why it matters to me, except what happens is I start crying like a big weeping asshole, and I can't get the words out and this poor guy, christ, what a mess he now has on his hands, and I'm crying like crazy, crying and apologizing, and crying more and apologizing more, and still trying to tell him why I want to come in. He's so decent about it, of course he doesn't let me in, but he tells me if I keep circling around I'll come onto an opening in the fence where I can see in. Then I thank him, apologize some more, and go do that.
The frat boys are yelling, all very FUCKING-A!!!!, the streets are full of them. I never really grasped that one, I am not a Fauntleroy for nothing. I cried like a loser asshole at Wrigley Field, wept.
And three days later I was on my way to Chicago for my opening. Chicago is a great town, and I fell madly in love with it and though it was near 80 degrees the entire time I know the truth about that place, and that truth would keep me from ever actually living there. Which sucks.
The last conversation I had with my brother was about Chicago, you may recall. He told me to be sure to see the Tribune building, and I did. He said to see a game at Wrigley Field. There is no baseball right now, but I vowed (to myself) to see Wrigley Field. It was like a pact, a mission, that I needed to complete.
My bike legs are not what they used to be, but I rented a bike my last morning to see how it might go. It was St. Patrick's day, and there is NO WAY to convey the green madness that is Chicago on St. Patrick's Day. Mardi Gras + Animal House x A Billion. Except worse. Whatever extreme your brain might conjure, it's not even close to what it really is. So I looked at the green-dyed water like a good tourist, decide I'm feeling pretty good, go over to the lakefront and start north.
Chicago is fucking amazing-beautiful. Fucking. I may have mentioned this already.
Now: I'd left Los Angeles February 17 to see my brother and now it is March 17 and I'd been gone a month with all this, minus a few days inbetween. Los Angeles to NY to LA to NY to Chicago and later that day, back to LA. I hadn't really been able to deal with any of it, it was all just about continually moving forward, but while in Chicago I noticed random bits of crying were beginning to appear, bouts of deep sorrow that had up to then been kept at bay. I kept fighting it, wanting to just finish and go home and mourn as necessary. But I noticed this was getting harder to do.
I have no idea, along the lakefront, where I am, so at some point I pull over and ask. It turns out I'm right at the street I needed to be to see the stadium, I just have to cut inland a few blocks. It only took like half an hour, forty minutes. FratBoys, FratBoys, FratBoys - screaming, drinking, screaming some more, as far as the eye can see, and then there is Wrigley Field, unassuming, just sitting there like a 7-11. I snap a few shots and circle around. A gate is open. I think: Hmmmm. I go up to the opening and there is a guy there, older than I, and I think I'll just tell him what I want, be honest, and maybe he'll cut me some slack and let me in for a peek. Except what happens is, I start to ask him if maybe I can come in for a peek, and start to tell him why it matters to me, except what happens is I start crying like a big weeping asshole, and I can't get the words out and this poor guy, christ, what a mess he now has on his hands, and I'm crying like crazy, crying and apologizing, and crying more and apologizing more, and still trying to tell him why I want to come in. He's so decent about it, of course he doesn't let me in, but he tells me if I keep circling around I'll come onto an opening in the fence where I can see in. Then I thank him, apologize some more, and go do that.
The frat boys are yelling, all very FUCKING-A!!!!, the streets are full of them. I never really grasped that one, I am not a Fauntleroy for nothing. I cried like a loser asshole at Wrigley Field, wept.
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