Dear Get Down Family,
What’s good, people? How is everyone hanging on these days? Please know that I am thinking about and missing all of you. I haven’t been able to contact everyone. Sometimes I am ok on the phone, sometimes I can barely gasp out a word. I am slowly moving back into life, but that seems like such a bitter betrayal of everything my mother meant to me. I can’t imagine breathing one more minute without her here; and then I’ll come to myself with a start and realize that I’ve gone five minutes, 10 minutes, an hour without thinking about her. And it will crush me.
I wasn’t sleeping well. And when I was sleeping, I fought off terrible, violent nightmares. I woke up bruised for several days. I started to be afraid to sleep in a bed. I only felt safe on the couch, in front of the tv, in a lighted room. I couldn’t grab more than a few hours at a time. And there was so much to do. The program to compose, and clothes for her to be buried in. Calling all her friends across the country. Going through her things and putting them safely in storage so my father, wracked with a peculiarly masculine eviscerating grief, won’t throw all of it out in some kind of daze.
Making sure everyone has enough food to eat. Making sure that the liquor cabinet stays stocked. Checking on Brian. Making sure my dad isn’t trying to do too much. Receiving endless visitors.
And then, later, writing thank you cards. Planning her grave stone. Organizing her jewelry and clothes so that her sisters can choose what they would like to have. Preparing to go back to work. There was little time for sleep, which was a relief.
But now that I’m back in LA, I can’t get enough. I’d rather sleep than do anything else. The best I’ve felt in the last month is when Iron Fist came down last weekend and napped with me. I wasn’t alone. It was daytime. I could relax. I could breathe. I could sleep and not toss and turn my way through terrible, terrible dreams in which I have to keep explaining to people that she died on my brother’s birthday. She died on my brother’s birthday.
Last night, Broc and I went to Aqua Lounge to see Jeff Goldblum and his jazz combo, the Mildred Snitzer Orchestra. They were a tight group, and the song choices, though a little pedestrian (sorry, Jeff) were definite crowd-pleasers. I was couldn’t get over the fact that I was 3 feet from The Fly. He looks good, family. Real good. On the list of soon-to-be-56-year-olds-who-could-get-it, Seth Brundle is number one with a bullet. The place was packed full of wack ass Angelenos, though. There were also a number of cougars in full effect, but I love them and will have nothing said against them.
So, anyway, I want to talk about finally getting to see the man I have crushed on since I was 16 years old, and I want OBVIOUSLY to talk about Barack and how my heart can’t contain its joy at his ascendance.
But when I start, it feels false. I don’t know. I’m still out here, family. I’m still hanging in there. I crawl my way towards a day with no crying, and then when I achieve it, it feels like failure. I can’t move from this spot.