New Year... Trying for Happy

Anyone who's lost someone close to them knows how difficult and heartwrenching it is to turn that calendar over to a new year. Another year they won't see or experience. For those of us still mourning, it's another year of grief and loneliness. I'm getting pretty fucking sick of feeling this way, yet I don't want to "get over it." I will never get over it. I have become a fantastic actress (or at least a clown). Most days, no one would detect the sadness and pain I feel. That's not to say I fake being happy--I am lucky to have many genuine moments of happiness, fun and laughter in my life. But the underlying sadness is always there. And I cover it up like a fucking boss. Usually.

December was a wretched month in many ways. A friend and neighbor of mine and Jason's died on New Year's Eve. Another young life lost. Cathy was a bright light around our neighborhood--always smiling, joyful, spreading laughter and warmth. Everyone within 10 blocks knew her face and her smile. She had a wicked sense of humor. I admire her joyful spirit even more knowing her life wasn't all rainbows and I strive to live life as positively as she did. She helped Jason with his business, she and her husband had us over for epic summer nights in their backyard and she tried to be there for me as I struggled to cope.

I will always be sad that we had not talked much since Jason's death. And these terrible things that happen only make me miss Jason more, as I long so badly to talk to him. He would have been so saddened by Cathy's death and would have joined me in lending support to her husband and family.

When you lose someone close to you, you naturally miss their physical presence--their smile, their voice, their laugh, their arms around you. But what I miss even more with Amir and Jason is their insights and ideas and thoughts about everything. I miss talking to them so much I feel I can't stand it sometimes. I am not myself because I cannot share things with them. I often feel like half a person without them in my life.

So, I move into a new year with a heavy weight on my shoulders, but one that lightens with support and love from my friends and family. I remain sad but optimistic. Grieving but positive. I strive to find happiness and purpose, even when both seem unlikely. I truly appreciate what I have and what I'm capable of, even when I dread the thought of a future without Amir and Jason in it. No matter what, I will do whatever I can to make 2017 a happy and productive year.

Darth Vader Piñata

Missing Amir's wit and wisdom today as I do every day, I wanted to share a few more glimpses into his exceptional mind.

This is from an email in February 2007, after he visited me in SF and we made one of the few bar bets I won over the years:

"I owe you five bucks because 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You' was indeed performed by Frankie Valli, not Johnnny Mathis - I guess all that Rita Moreno and whiskey clouded my judgment at the Owl Tree bar.

I ran into about 300 rabid Lakers fans at the Oakland BART depot. L.A. stomped Golden State's ass at Oracle Arena, and I got to witness the hi jinx of drunken dipshits in outdated Kobe Bryant jerseys storming the train. Luckily, I didn't get shot at and got to the airport in time to witness two young lovers get in a MASSIVE fight at the security check-in. I chuckled to myself, gave thanks for my independence, and prepared for what would be a turbulent flight. It's snowing like a motherfuck in Reno, and the descent into the blizzard nearly caused me to puke up my cashews. We made it, though I made my neighbor uncomfortable by reading that addicting 9-11 book you gave me as we lurched about in the clouds."

And, from September 2010, just before I visited him in Portland:

"I feel like an asshole for leaving you an answering machine message filled with insensitive jokes. If I had a nickel for every time I put my foot in my mouth, I'd be filthy stinkin' rich. Mostly I was just hoping to make you smile.

Trivia is Tuesday night at 7:00. Again, I remind you that you are expected to help us win. Don't bother coming all the way out here if you can't tell me the minimum I.Q. for Mensa entry, the smallest Great Lake, and Valerie Harper's boyfriend's name on 'Rhoda.' Last time, the first prize was a Darth Vader piñata. I sulked the whole way home."

"I can't beat it..."

For as long as I can remember, I have lived very much inside my own head, deep in thought, constantly poring over ideas and feelings and insights without talking to another soul for hours (or even days) on end. Only one other person in my life shared this tendency toward living inwardly and that was Amir. He and I often talked about the good and bad points of living in one's own mind, being too cerebral and introverted, overthinking our feelings and intentions to an unhealthy extent.

Yesterday, during a long walk around Prospect Park on a cold, gorgeous day, I thought, "My brain must be tired of me." Then I considered how amused Amir would be by that idea and... here we go again... I longed to share it with him.

How has it been two years since I spoke to my darling brother? The days and weeks and months seem to drag on, when they are not flying by. That's the thing about grief: it fucks with time in a fascinating and utterly confounding way. It feels like yesterday that I last saw or spoke to Amir and sometimes it feels like it's been far longer than two years. I am completely gobsmacked by how often I reach for the phone to call or text him, even after 24 months of not being able to do that. I do this even MORE often with Jason, sometimes even stopping short of calling out to him from another room before being punched in the chest by the reality that I'm alone and he won't answer. Jason's absence from my life is intensely physical. Grief begets physical and emotional longing of an intensity that I never expected to feel in my life.

What else is there that fucks with the mind and heart like grief does? Nothing. There is pain, both physical and emotional, that most every human faces in his or her life. There is sadness and longing and disappointment and confusion and anguish. But none of it wreaks havoc on the mind and heart like deep grief does. None of it transforms who you are as a person down to your very core and uproots everything you once felt about life, love, longing and loss.

Last night, I saw the movie Manchester by the Sea, starring Casey Affleck as a young man who loses his brother while also suffering the aftermath of an earlier, horrific tragedy in his life. I don't remember the last time I was so moved by a film and a performance. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I managed to hold it together in the theatre (I've gotten pretty fucking good at not crying in public), but its poignancy affected me deeply.

Affleck's character's grief and pain are so crushing that you can see it physically in his eyes, his face and his body language before the film even reveals the magnitude of the loss he's endured. At one point, speaking of his grief, he repeats the line: "I can't beat it." Fucking hell, do I know that feeling. I don't think I've ever seen an actor convey the numbness, anger, misery and longing of grief in such a compelling and thoroughly authentic way. Give this brilliant actor an Oscar. Now.

You want a glimpse of what profound grief looks like? See this movie. And bring tissues.

Two Years

Today marks two years since our family's darkest day, the day we lost our beloved brother and son. I can't write much because I'm on a train from Bologna to spend a solo day in Venice. I'm so glad to be spending this difficult week with my sister and brother-in-law, to talk about you and remember you. Not an hour goes by that I don't think of you. Not a day goes by that I don't ache down to my bones to talk to you. Not a week goes by that I don't cry for you. We all miss you desperately. I will never, never get used to you not being here with us. I'd never want to. xo

Mr. Mojo Rising

Here's yet another peek inside Amir's uniquely astute mind, in the form of an email from 2014. I'd sent him a link to a Flavorwire story about Jim Morrison, in which it was noted that the three “sidemen” in The Doors got too little credit for their contributions, a fact I have always found unfortunate. As always, Amir took the discussion several steps further, adding his own illuminating take:

Funny, I heard 'Love Me Two Times' the other day and forgot how great it is, from an instrumental standpoint (lyrics disposable). I absolutely agree, Manzarek and Krieger deserve equal credit for being top-notch musicians. Not to mention their creativity - they wrote all of these now iconic melodies. Excellent songwriters/arrangers. Densmore was pedestrian at best, but he did have great sideburns.

Morrison had two things going for him, in this order: (1) good looks and (2) a unique baritone voice with decent range. One could argue his prowess as a hyper-literate, visionary lyricist/poet/mystic/pedophile and in a handful of songs this is true. Trouble is, more often than not he sounds pretentious and his affectation ridiculously theatrical. That's just me, though. Many worship him as a modern day Yeats or Sartre or whatever. His ego would have benefitted from a dose of self-deprecating humor now and then (see Lennon, John or Davies, Ray).

Interestingly, I read somewhere recently that the notoriously anti-war Morrison was the son of a Navy Admiral. His father's ship was involved in the Gulf of Tonkin incident, which started the Vietnam War.

My dad gets credit for introducing us to The Doors--he brought home their LP after going apeshit for the album version of "Light My Fire" (back in the days when FM radio would disappointingly play only the three-minute "single" and only the album rock station played the full version). I was particularly interested in Morrison's poetry and I shared my well-worn copy of a book of his poems with Amir, who proceeded to mark up specific lines with a highlighter and make notes in the margins. How I wish I still had that book! Perhaps I'd derive from it some deeper understanding of Amir's adolescent mind or infer some unintended significance, a la Heather Chandler's posthumously-highlighted copy of Moby Dick (for those who get the reference). ESKIMO.

On Sneakers and Spicoli

In recent months, I've noticed that Vans sneakers have become quite popular again, particularly the slip-on variety. (Well, I suppose they’ve never really gone out of style completely, but it seems I’m seeing them far more frequently lately.) Of course, they’re just one of a quadrillion little things that make me think of my sweet brother Amir every day.

Why Vans? Well, in spite of his advanced intelligence, Amir was slow to learn how to tie his shoes. (Ya think maybe because he had two older sisters who constantly did it for him??) Anyway, because of his having yet to acquire this skill, and probably due to the ubiquity at the time of slip-on Vans partly because of the popularity of Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Vans being Spicoli’s sneaker of choice, Amir insisted on wearing slip-ons for much of his early childhood. That is, until later in the 80s, when high-top Nikes became the sneaker du jour for basketball-obsessed kids like my teenage bro. (And when Yael and I migrated to high-top Reeboks or LA Gear. Oh, but we were a stylish bunch.)

At back-to-school time, we’d pile into the station wagon and head to the miniature Vans store on Topanga Canyon that we all loved because it looked like a little surf shack. We’d squeeze into the tiny shop, where I’d choose the two-tone, lace-up Vans and Amir always made a beeline for the slip-ons. Then, like all the hip kids of the day, as soon as we brought home our pristine new sneakers, we all promptly colored in the waffle-like squares on the soles with different-colored pens. We were cool that way.

[I'm on the hunt for photos. Stay tuned.]