David (Crosby and Other Ones)

Los Angeles, California

My friend, Max, writes to me to comment on the death of David Crosby. I write back relating a story he has most likely heard before, about my connection to the music of Crosby, Stills, and Nash. The experience related to that connection surely changed my life. At least that was what Tom used to say. More about that in a previous post entitled Seaside Deadbeats.

Max has been in my life since 1980. That is, WOW, more than forty years. And it is unlikely that we would have stayed connected through this time. When we met, I was a mid-twenties, newly-married young woman in a staff position at a university. He was working on his master's degree. He later moved to the east coast, married, raised a family, and ran a prestigious non-profit in the arts. My marriage continued then took a sudden, direct turn down a rabbit hole. Throughout the 40+, we mostly stayed in contact. And now we are on the downside of life, and an event, like the death of David Crosby, an icon of our generation, makes us reach out.

And it makes me think about connection and the loss of connection we often experience in life. There is no concrete reason Max and I should have stayed in touch. Mutual interest? Some gossamer fiber of something undefinable yet binding? On my end, the relationship feels like this weird blending of friend, soulmate, compatriot. Maybe the connection is an odd, once-in-a-lifetime, what might have been, always valued to be in each other's lives, no matter what, thing. I don't question. It is what it is.

And so, as we think and email about David Crosby, I am reminded of someone else from the past who couldn't similarly stick; an old boyfriend of some significance who I had reached out to in a desperately confounding time of my life. This is always risky, but it actually was a good thing. We shared our perspective of our own breakup, what was currently happening in our lives, and our mutual desire to stay in touch. But inexplicably, that connection ended up to be transient.

I was not a huge David Crosby fan, but as these icons leave us we are reminded of their music in our time. And of the people who shared the time, and later time, with us. David, the ex, and I shared a lot together and some of it was not so stellar. We were in college together, and at one point planned a lifetime together. When we talked about that, all those decades later, his comment was: That never would have worked. And he was right. But somehow, I thought our later connection would. I thought so, until it didn't, and when I raised my confusion about this loss with Max he explained it to me, simply and succinctly: His wife is not that into you.

I do wish I still had David (not Crosby, but the other one) in my life. We came of age together and the experience is imprinted on my psyche, if not his.  But... We learn to accept where people are in their lives and experiences. And how they might succumb to the pressures of other, more integral relationships in their lives. I am simply and truly grateful for Max and for our connection which enables us to email about David Crosby and Jeff Beck. Was JB in Cream? I asked. And we shared our love of the Cream song, Badge. Somewhere, somewhere, the ex, David, is maybe also thinking about Jeff Beck and David Crosby. Maybe he too is emailing about the loss. Just not with me. And, truly, if God forbid I had to choose, I would always choose to have Max in my life. When I email him, I am 99. A reference we share which is owed to the beloved Mel Brooks' TV show, Get Smart. If that connection went away, I would be devastated. With the loss of the other, I was wounded, and confused. But the loss of our 99 and Max connection? I would not be consoled by Sorry about that, Chief.

PS You have to know Get Smart to get that last sentence. For more about the series, read Lisa Lutz' Spellman books. You will thank me. And you must trust me about this.