Los Angeles, California
I lied. I wrote that Eight was the penultimate post. And, at the time, I thought it would be. I signed off, even thanked the girls and my guy. But guess what? I'm not done here. I've been in a whirlwind of activity, seeing friends from out-of-town; house projects, so, alas, I haven't really launched the new writing project, and I keep writing posts in my head. So, for now, I've pulled Eight off my blog. It will be back, later. But for now...
I've always been a bit of a Springtime freak. Hills are green; flowers are blooming; everything and everybody looks a bit fresher. Baseball is back. Well, sorta. Though I have been an LA Dodgers fan since my college days, I finally threw in the towel on Dodger Stadium. I made the decision last year. It is just too fu#%ing LOUD. I figured out, a season or two back, that the only respite from the noise was in the club level seats. But it still assaulted you when you walked in. Announcers for opposing teams were commenting on it. In fact, a LOT of people were commenting on it. Even on TV, or over the radio, the stadium sound system was disconcerting. And, as more than one person lamented on social media sites, the strident screeching of those young women announcers who interacted with fans and players before and during the game: Painful. So, I decided to make the jump to Spectrum so I could watch the games at home. And then, I just . . . didn't. The season started and Joel and I watched a few games which were provided on TV locally (with copious Spectrum commercials), but then we just kinda lost interest...
So, I got to thinking about all the money we were saving while not sitting up in the club level at Dodger Stadium, and decided to look at some other things to do. And through this circuitous route, we ended up at The Hollywood Bowl last week, on Sandra's birthday, seeing Paul Simon in concert on his farewell, Homeward Bound Tour. And it was one of the best concerts I have ever attended. I've seen the Beatles. I've seen the Stones. I've seen Pavarotti. Who knew Paul Simon would be SO stellar in concert? Well, probably a lot of people but not me. I was never really a fan. But about a year ago, insomnia drove me out of bed into the den and while surfing around TV, I found his Concert in Hyde Park. Afterwards, it became the first complete album I downloaded into my iTunes library (I have since downloaded a cast recording of Candide, but back to Paul Simon). I listened to it enough to want to see him in concert, especially when he announced it as a farewell tour and I saw the venue was The Bowl.
It was a cloudy day and an overcast night. We had great seats, bought a bottle of Santa Barbara County pinot noir, and watched the Bowl fill with what mostly looked like 50-year high school reunion attendees. I remarked to Joel that this is where the last of Woodstock has come to gather (or wither). I don't think he got that. But we were both certain that the four pot-smokers sitting alongside us were grandmothers. We played Older or Younger, a game where I point out people to Joel and he lets me know if he thinks they are older or younger than me. It's a nasty game that really appeals to my darker side and puts Joel in a precarious position, requiring diplomacy. But as we sipped our pinot and the sky deepened, my dark side dissipated. The concert started with no announcement, just Paul Simon strolling onstage while playing his guitar and singing America. That was followed by twenty-five more songs, with the best saved for last: American Tune; Late in the Evening; The Boxer (my favorite), and The Sound of Silence within the sequence of the three encores.
The next day I found a website called setlist, which listed all of the songs played for each night of concerts. Utilizing the Hyde Park album and then downloading the songs that weren't duplicated from that concert, I recreated our concert on a playlist. And that has been the soundtrack in my house throughout Memorial Day weekend and ever since. It's gotten me away from NPR, any thought of TV, and is certainly more evocative than the sound of a crack of any bat, Dodgers or otherwise. I've been in concert afterglow. And that is a special place to reside.
Tomorrow night we head back to the Bowl to see James Taylor and Sheryl Crow. Great seats again, and another bottle, probably of pinot. My friend, Holly, and I saw James Taylor last summer in San Francisco. What a great memory we made of that weekend! Everything we did was perfect, from the hotel to the restaurants, to the Summer of Love exhibition at the De Young museum in Golden Gate Park, and, especially, the concert. You don't expect every weekend away to be that stellar, any more than you can expect every concert you attend to be one of the best ever. Last week we were lucky. But, regardless, I am looking forward to sitting with Joel, sipping our wine, and looking out for those pot-smoking, J Jill-wearing grandmas. I have been reminded that these exquisite memories made are what makes life worthwhile. I had forgotten that for quite awhile while struggling to stay above my own personal undertoad (reference John Irving's The World According to Garp). But tomorrow I will be mindful, joyful, and very grateful, that as spring begins to give way to summer, I will spend the evening with Joel, hearing good music, under the stars. There won't be Under African Skies, but there may be Mexico. Fingers crossed...
Thank you for reading my blog. It ain't over till it's over...
May 30, 2018
March 16, 2018
Kevin
Los Angeles, California
Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. I have a bottle of Redbreast Irish Whiskey. A good bottle of good whiskey. And I plan to drink a lot of it; to do so in memory of these Irish-American men who checked out of life by way of guns. I just don't know what else to do.
Kevin, the contractor, who oversaw the remodel of my flooded and mold-ridden bathroom, then became my friend who came to parties at my home, is gone. I knew he was struggling, and I was worried about him. Now, I realize he was shutting down. And that shut-down led to his ending his life last week. And, once again, my own struggle is to comprehend how that can happen. I rail at the gods. I rail at God. I want this to stop.
I don't know exactly what happened with Kevin, but I do know he had been in a spiral of despair. A Vietnam vet with PTSD demons and not enough support from the Veterans Administration. It was his sense of humor, strong character, work ethic, and engaging personality that created a connection for me and we became friends. He finished the bathroom remodel and, after eleven weeks, was no longer at my home each day. But we stayed in regular contact. He came to a World Series party at my home last October -- a Cubs fan, but that was alright.
The thing is that when people in your life choose to die, it's not about you. But it's hard not to make it about you. And subsequently, difficult to not get out that file that contains all of the people you have lost. Impossible to resist questioning: why.
Holly was with me when I got the news. We were just leaving for Orpheus and Eurydice at LA Opera. And still, we did go. I have learned to hold it down, if I don't have to hold it down too long. And I knew I would be ok because I was with Holly. I am lucky, so very lucky, to have good and caring friends. And Joel who is always there with an ear and a shoulder, no matter how scarily intensely I present my despair. But, in the past four years I have lost people who meant a lot to me. One was a friend whom, I have assumed, couldn't deal with the tragedy that occurred in my life, so she abruptly stepped back. Unless you have experienced this, you can't know how the heart bleeds when this happens. Because you are dealing with insurmountable grief, and then this other grief of loss gets unceremoniously dumped on top of it. I still wake up in the middle of the night and wonder why she lost the connection that had kept us close in each other's lives. You lose parents; you lose a husband in a devastating way, but nothing prepares you for losing someone whose friendship you valued above others. And, you cannot help but wonder what you did to cause this.
I wanted to reach out to her today, but for months she has been silent. My frister, Connie, has said that relationships require effort on both sides. I call that requirement: reciprocal consideration. And as many have pointed out, when you stop being the only facilitator in a relationship, you will learn if you are valued. Perhaps, in this case, it's more complicated than that. For better or for worse, this friend endeavored to advise me at a pivotal point in my life. While grateful at the time, I later theorized that she couldn't handle the disaster that followed. It was almost immediately too much for her, and I think she felt she could retreat behind her philosophy that family comes first. Being a best friend, you think you are like family. But in this case, you are not.
I greatly miss the people who have left my life. I have never taken family nor friendships lightly. Not with my frothers, and certainly not with the fristers. After all, my fristers are the sisters I chose. And they chose me. This can be that once-in-a-lifetime connection. Or, it can be the pain-in-the-ass sister or miserly friend who, after decades, you finally realize has put no effort, nor anything else, into the relationship. You rightly decide to let her go. Still, it's hard enough to release that one, much less the ones who mean so much. It's painful like a death.
We are often told to have gratitude, and I am truly grateful for the good fortune of my friendships. I treasure them. As I twist and turn, I continue to find these friends there for me. Unconditionally, or somewhere quite near enough to that. And I am committed to reciprocate by always being there for them in every way that I can.
Sandra, my frister extraordinaire, has been gone now for four years. I am ending this blog shortly, and beginning an entirely different writing project. A time for that to happen, as there is a time for every season under heaven. But tonight, I am just feeling really, really sad. I miss the ones who have left; both living and dead. I question what I did to make them retreat; or in the case of the dead, what I didn't do that might have prevented them from leaving this life. The root of the answer to both is always the same: that it is not about me, but about them and the choices they made. But still, I keep relentlessly coming back around to the childish and useless thought, that if I did enough for, or mattered enough to, these people, maybe there might have been a different outcome. And alas, I am ruminating in these tormenting thoughts tonight, thoughts that will continue to swirl in my head in the weeks, months, and years to come.
Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. Irish whiskey, and a prayer for grace, and the clarity to appreciate the memories we made together. I will miss Kevin a lot. I will miss them all, forever.
I Will Remember You
I'm so tired but I can't sleep
Standin' on the edge of something much too deep.
It's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard.
But I will remember you
Will you remember me?
Don't let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories. -- Sarah McLachlan
Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. I have a bottle of Redbreast Irish Whiskey. A good bottle of good whiskey. And I plan to drink a lot of it; to do so in memory of these Irish-American men who checked out of life by way of guns. I just don't know what else to do.
Kevin, the contractor, who oversaw the remodel of my flooded and mold-ridden bathroom, then became my friend who came to parties at my home, is gone. I knew he was struggling, and I was worried about him. Now, I realize he was shutting down. And that shut-down led to his ending his life last week. And, once again, my own struggle is to comprehend how that can happen. I rail at the gods. I rail at God. I want this to stop.
I don't know exactly what happened with Kevin, but I do know he had been in a spiral of despair. A Vietnam vet with PTSD demons and not enough support from the Veterans Administration. It was his sense of humor, strong character, work ethic, and engaging personality that created a connection for me and we became friends. He finished the bathroom remodel and, after eleven weeks, was no longer at my home each day. But we stayed in regular contact. He came to a World Series party at my home last October -- a Cubs fan, but that was alright.
The thing is that when people in your life choose to die, it's not about you. But it's hard not to make it about you. And subsequently, difficult to not get out that file that contains all of the people you have lost. Impossible to resist questioning: why.
Holly was with me when I got the news. We were just leaving for Orpheus and Eurydice at LA Opera. And still, we did go. I have learned to hold it down, if I don't have to hold it down too long. And I knew I would be ok because I was with Holly. I am lucky, so very lucky, to have good and caring friends. And Joel who is always there with an ear and a shoulder, no matter how scarily intensely I present my despair. But, in the past four years I have lost people who meant a lot to me. One was a friend whom, I have assumed, couldn't deal with the tragedy that occurred in my life, so she abruptly stepped back. Unless you have experienced this, you can't know how the heart bleeds when this happens. Because you are dealing with insurmountable grief, and then this other grief of loss gets unceremoniously dumped on top of it. I still wake up in the middle of the night and wonder why she lost the connection that had kept us close in each other's lives. You lose parents; you lose a husband in a devastating way, but nothing prepares you for losing someone whose friendship you valued above others. And, you cannot help but wonder what you did to cause this.
I wanted to reach out to her today, but for months she has been silent. My frister, Connie, has said that relationships require effort on both sides. I call that requirement: reciprocal consideration. And as many have pointed out, when you stop being the only facilitator in a relationship, you will learn if you are valued. Perhaps, in this case, it's more complicated than that. For better or for worse, this friend endeavored to advise me at a pivotal point in my life. While grateful at the time, I later theorized that she couldn't handle the disaster that followed. It was almost immediately too much for her, and I think she felt she could retreat behind her philosophy that family comes first. Being a best friend, you think you are like family. But in this case, you are not.
I greatly miss the people who have left my life. I have never taken family nor friendships lightly. Not with my frothers, and certainly not with the fristers. After all, my fristers are the sisters I chose. And they chose me. This can be that once-in-a-lifetime connection. Or, it can be the pain-in-the-ass sister or miserly friend who, after decades, you finally realize has put no effort, nor anything else, into the relationship. You rightly decide to let her go. Still, it's hard enough to release that one, much less the ones who mean so much. It's painful like a death.
We are often told to have gratitude, and I am truly grateful for the good fortune of my friendships. I treasure them. As I twist and turn, I continue to find these friends there for me. Unconditionally, or somewhere quite near enough to that. And I am committed to reciprocate by always being there for them in every way that I can.
Sandra, my frister extraordinaire, has been gone now for four years. I am ending this blog shortly, and beginning an entirely different writing project. A time for that to happen, as there is a time for every season under heaven. But tonight, I am just feeling really, really sad. I miss the ones who have left; both living and dead. I question what I did to make them retreat; or in the case of the dead, what I didn't do that might have prevented them from leaving this life. The root of the answer to both is always the same: that it is not about me, but about them and the choices they made. But still, I keep relentlessly coming back around to the childish and useless thought, that if I did enough for, or mattered enough to, these people, maybe there might have been a different outcome. And alas, I am ruminating in these tormenting thoughts tonight, thoughts that will continue to swirl in my head in the weeks, months, and years to come.
Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. Irish whiskey, and a prayer for grace, and the clarity to appreciate the memories we made together. I will miss Kevin a lot. I will miss them all, forever.
I Will Remember You
I'm so tired but I can't sleep
Standin' on the edge of something much too deep.
It's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard.
But I will remember you
Will you remember me?
Don't let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories. -- Sarah McLachlan
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.