He’s told us not to blow it, ’cause he knows it’s all worthwhile

At the time that I am starting to write this it has been two weeks and about 15 hours since my friend Tom took his final breath. I’m not sure when or if I’ll finish this, because I do not know that I will find the right words.

I have known Tom for more than half of my life and the experiences that we’ve shared run the gamut from weddings to funerals, from horseback riding in Half Moon Bay to touring the Union Pacific Steam Shop in Cheyenne. Music, food, New Year’s eves, New Year’s days, birthday parties,  bachelorettes—he was the masked, silent bartender at a bachelorette weekend on Fire Island in the summer of 2001. When I first moved back from San Francisco we went to brunch. Ten hours later we were watching exotic dancers, he in a fake mustache and me in cat ears. It was never boring, it was never mundane, there was an element of adventure to our every encounter. A flair for if not breaking the rules, then seeing how far we could bend them. There was laughter, so much laughter, and there were tears.

Today is Thanksgiving. I am grateful for many things, for many people. I am grateful for the fact that I can start to put into words some of the many lessons that I learned from Tom. Among them, to make every day matter. Tom had bad days, but I don’t think he ever had insignificant ones. He surrounded himself with amazing friends of all stripes and among the many beautiful things about him, he saw each and every one of us. He had a unique relationship with each and every one of us, a trove of shared memories and experiences and in-jokes. He made every one of us feel, on some level, invincible. He believed in us, sometimes more than we believe in ourselves.

He died surrounded by love and surrounding us with love, and I take comfort in that.

Grief is a strange and mercurial beast. Those stages don’t show up in the order you expect them to. I have had a ton of love and support in the past almost-three weeks as I’ve begun the daunting task of navigating my own, and of trying to be strong for the many, many people in my life who are grieving too. Tom had the ability to create memories with his friends of five decades and with people he met once. The second to last time I was visiting with him we sat down at a bar to have lunch. He got up to take a call and the bartender asked me who my friend was and whether he was an artist. I said yes—he said, “He looks like someone who creates really cool things.”

Indeed, he was.

To be continued. My love to you all.

 

Glad you came along

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Trigger warning: this post is about 9-11 and love and loss. 

Dear J,

Tomorrow morning it will be seventeen years since you died. How unbelievable that seems right now. I think about the events that took your life nearly every day, and yet it still surprises me every year when the emotion and sadness creep up on me.

I remember the first time I saw you and the last. Both times you were playing music, you, the self-described “mediocre bass player.” The bass remains my favorite instrument. The last time I saw you I met your wife and your little boy—I’m not sure your daughter was born yet, though of course I saw her at your memorial. They were beautiful children and from what I’ve ascertained through Facebook, they are beautiful adults.

Of course they are. You were a beautiful, kind soul. Too kind for me, which is probably why our romance was so brief; I was in my early 20s and not yet ready for someone quite as decent as you. And of course we didn’t last so that you could get together with and marry your wife and create those beautiful kids.

I remember the holiday party after you died, when the band sat and played an acoustic set and there was an empty chair for you. I remember the next morning—I’d stayed over at Sean and Ivy’s—Sean was making breakfast and singing along to the song “Santeria”, and so that song will forever remind me of you.

I hadn’t realized you’d switched jobs, and so I didn’t know where you were working until Sean called to tell me you’d not been found. I don’t know how this has never occurred to me before, but I wonder, when I was at the site giving food to the rescue workers three days later, so close that we could feel the buildings still smoldering, I wonder how far away from me you were.

I remember when you were found.

Legend has it that your last words were, “OH FUCK”.  I can still conjure your voice and hear you say that.

I didn’t visit Ground Zero again until last June, when my friend came to town from New Orleans. This is a friend who, like me, knows that there is an afterlife. As soon as we got off the subway, she became overwhelmed with emotion. We walked around for a bit and I didn’t expect I’d find your name and then there it was.

I remember the first time we met up on purpose and Laura Martin was there. I have long imagined that you and Laura Martin spend time together wherever it is that you are now, and when my Louie died in March I comforted myself by visualizing the three of you as a makeshift family.

I remember our first date.

The title of this post is from the song “Here Today,” which Paul McCartney wrote about his dear friend John Lennon.

I’m a very different person today than I was when we were friends. I’m much more sure of myself. I know who I am, though I’m still a work in progress. You and my man would get along well. I know you would.

It’s raining tonight, not like it was on your last night on earth, because that was quite a deluge. But it’s raining enough to remind me.

At the tenth anniversary your mom remarked that she fantasizes that you’ve flown to Hawaii and are living there happily. We are contemplating a trip there in January; maybe I’ll see you.

Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, know that you are missed and loved by many. You were a prince among men. And an excellent friend.

I leave you with this verse written by another friend whom I know you would love:

In the blinking of an eye, soon everything will change

From a clear September sky, the brimstone falls like rain.

If true love soars the heavens, pretend and we can fly.

Soon everything will change, my love, in the blinking of an eye.*

Until we meet again-

L

*Poetry by Neil Thomas

 

I prayed that he would finish, but he just kept right on …

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The title of this post is from “Killing Me Softly,” which I am now learning in my voice lessons. For reasons that needn’t be stated, it also kind of fits with this photo, which I took at the women’s march in D.C. last weekend. It was a wonderful, bonding weekend spent with five other women at a lovely home in D.C. where we cooked, talked, drank wine, knit (I’m learning) and marched at the event itself, which I’m not going to describe in depth on here as I was told that as a writer I don’t want to alienate potential readers by being too political so I will just leave it at this.

If you want to hear more about it, call me.

I like talking on the phone. Kickin’ it old school.

Today I got this message, from my dear L, who now lives too far away but with whom I’d grown very close shortly after I started this blahhhhg: “Did you know I saved some of your blog posts throughout the years? They help me when I’m feeling blue.”

It’s funny, L, that you sent me that today, as I’ve been heavily contemplating putting this thing out of its misery. You were one of the reasons I kept going in the first place – and we reconnected through it, and we got to a place in our friendship that we might not otherwise have gotten. I see you only once every couple of years right now, but you are never terribly far from my thoughts and I love that I can text you out of the blue, “L, they put raisins in my salad” and you will text back something like, “Are you kidding me??? DO THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE DEALING WITH?!” and then we might not speak again for a few months but I know you’re out there and you know I’m back here and we, together, transcend time and distance.

I loathe raisins a) on their own and b) in savory food. In the occasional baked good, I’m fine. I don’t have the aversion to them that Trump has to sharks This is not a political blog.

As many of you know, I have a love/not-sure-how-I-feel-about relationship with NYC, and I am here for the foreseeable future. This past week has been one that’s reminded me of some of the things I love about this place.

It’s been a busy and exhausting and emotionally draining week with some beautiful moments interspersed.

I returned from my girls’ weekend in D.C., which had no particular agenda RESIST!!!, on Sunday afternoon, to a sick Louie. There has been a doggie virus going around our area, apparently. We brought him to the vet and gave him some meds and he did better for a day or so. Wednesday evening I went to see my voice teacher, the inimitable Jamie Leonhart, perform at Joe’s Pub. She was phenomenal. I got home to a sick-again Louie, and so we rushed him to the vet first thing Thursday AM. They took him to the back and after a little while his vet called me into a room to talk. She had tears in her eyes – she loves Louie; obstinate weirdo that he is, it’s hard not to. She told me that as he wasn’t responding to treatment, there seemed to be other things going on. And that she wasn’t sure they could do much, but they would give him fluids and tests to be sure. I asked her if it was possible he wouldn’t be coming home with us again, and she said yes.

I trust this woman implicitly. If I could send every animal I know to see her, I would. She talked me through what the process entails – because I asked. I had to go to work and B had a job and so we couldn’t come back until the end of the day, at which point, she said, we could spend as much time as we wanted with him and she very gently explained what would happen. But, she said, of course they would check him out to be sure of things if that was the route I wanted to go, and of course exhausting all options was the route I wanted to go.

I wanted to cancel my day and B convinced me not to. My first order of business was my voice lesson with Jamie, who has become a friend. How delightful it was to sit in the studio singing with this fabulous woman I’d seen perform at Joe’s Pub the night before, a woman who also loves dogs and gets it and allows me to be weepy when I’m weepy or scattered when I’m scattered – basically, a woman willing to meet the people in her life wherever they are at the moment.. This is a trait I try hard to cultivate.

So we started learning “Killing Me Softly”, and I know last time around I said I was going to work on “Windmills” but this song was played at an integral moment during my no-particular-reason NOT MY … OH F**K HE IS trip to D.C. and Jamie loves it too and we decided to learn it.

And halfway through my lesson the vet calls. And she says, “Well, he tried to kill me, and I was so relieved. We checked him out, his pancreas in inflamed again, but there is no cancer. He was so feisty that I actually had to give him a mild sedative. This boy is not ready to go anywhere.”

Long story no shorter, Louie is home with us this weekend, on new meds, has spent a few days on fluids at the vet, and we are delighted and bewildered and exhausted. We are loving him and spending as much time with him as he will allow; Lou affection entails his letting us pet him until he’s had enough and then walking into the other room. And I love him for this and for so, so much more.

You know the inevitable post will come, and I thank you in advance for your love and warmth, and I think they were wrong, he’s actually either a cat or an android.

Then more reasons-to-love-New York came to light. Because he’s had issues that affect his cleanliness of late we needed to figure out a way to clean him up. He made it very clear that this was not something we could do for him. This morning I called his former groomer, Elly, who hasn’t seen him in years, probably since before his knee surgery. I explained the situation, she said they were slammed but could fit him in between 11 and 11:30. We brought him in, they were familiar and loving to him, they cleaned him up, he screamed – SCREAMED – bloody murder the whole time, we brought him back out and when I asked how much I owed, Elly waved her hand and said, “We’ve known him for years – this was an emergency – it’s on us.” It was an incredibly kind gesture that almost made me weep (I wept).

We brought Lou home where he has been Netflix-and-chilling all day. I spent the afternoon with one of my best friends, the first friend I made in this big city back in 1932, and we had lunch and went to galleries in my neighborhood, including the Pace Gallery for the Thomas Nozkowski show.

And now I’m home, I’m in for the night, I’m tired, I’m emotional, and I’m aware of how incredibly lucky I am to have the circle of family, friends, and acquaintances that I do.

Thank you for reading – this was a rambly one. It’s a rambly time for me.

xo, L

 

 

 

 

Right back to where we started from

IMG_0530 (1)Not exactly, but I’m working on a new book. These are words I did not think I would be saying anytime soon, but as the querying process for the other one got under way I had a mini existential crisis, à la “Now what? What if nothing comes of this? If I’m not working on it anymore, who am I?” and a friend who is a prolific songwriter (and very talented musician, I might add) said, “You set out to write a book  and you did. Great. Now write another one.”

And so I am. Writing another one, and it’s entirely different from the first (which is really the second but for these purposes we’ll call it the first). The book I’m writing now is sort of a comedy-noir, which are two of my favorite genres of film. The protagonist is male. It takes place roughly today. It has been such a very long time since I began the first book that I’ve forgotten what writing a first draft is like. It’s hard! But, as anyone who’s ever taken a class or tried to write a book or read a book about writing knows, you have to write what Anne Lamott calls “the shitty first draft” in order to get to the decent one. Or, as another talented writer friend says, “You write the first draft to figure out the story you want to tell.”

I think because the first book is a tough sell, I’m determined to write something more accessible and salable and this is making it difficult to really dive in. But that’s the only way to approach it, diving in, so enough with this procrastination. Right? Right.

I am returning to my beloved Nola in a couple of weeks and that town inspires me. This will be a combo writing retreat/holiday, as I will get to see some of my favorite people. What I need to do is get better at writing at home; what I want to do is travel the world and write elsewhere.

Much more to say but I’m tired. My sleep has gotten weird again but one interesting thing is that, in the month or so since I started New Book, I’ve dreamt about it several times. Dreamt about the characters, dreamt about the writing of it, dreamt it was a series. So it seems my subconscious wants me to work on this thang.

I’ve been reading a lot more lately, I’m happy to say. Fiction again—I took a long breather from it while I slogged through those last several rounds of First Book because I didn’t want to compare my writing to anyone else’s or be accidentally influenced. Right now I’m reading Zadie Smith’s “Swing Time”— my first time reading her though she’s been on my radar since “White Teeth.” I saw her speak at the Girls Write Now gala in the spring, and she was awesome and inspiring.

What are you reading?

Someone asked me recently if, where writing is concerned, I have a fear of success. I responded that I think what I have is an expectation of failure—which sounds much darker and more dramatic than the way in which I mean it. But she, an intuitive person, to say the least, suggested that it really is what she suspected, a fear of success. So this is something I have to think about, what that means and why I would have it.

The Jewish New Year is upon us; l’Shana Tova to all. My resolutions goals for the new year are many.

Let’s get together and feel alright

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“Wherever you go, there you are.” Somebody said this to me recently while I was talking about an issue I’m having, and how I will address it once x, y, and z are in place. At first I dismissed it as one of those hollow, placeholder clichés, akin to “sounds like a plan” and “at the end of the day.” But then he elaborated and I realized, shit, he’s right.

He went on to say “the one thing all your problems have in common is you.” Right again. Then he said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear.” No, he didn’t. That part’s not true. But the rest of it is … I often fantasize about living somewhere other than NYC, because NYC can be a tough place to live on many levels (she says, scrounging through her purse for five dollars so that she can get an iced coffee). It can also be an easy place (she adds, realizing that she can keep writing and order a cup of coffee in*), but there are much calmer, more beautiful, kinder parts of the world. However, for many reasons, it does not make sense for me to live elsewhere right now.

And so I am instead working on what I can do to be more comfortable anywhere, to make “wherever you go, there you are” a positive thing. One of the ways I’ve been working on this is by getting back to my meditation practice.

I was a skeptic for many years, had tried various forms of meditation here and there, and decided it wasn’t for me, that I wasn’t the right kind of person for the job. Then two years ago, thanks to a generous birthday gift from my mum (one that took me seven months to get up the nerve to use), I went through the Transcendental Meditation training program. It was easier than I’d expected, and I felt like I was getting benefit from it, though I wasn’t really sure what that benefit was. I was fairly consistent with meditation for a while, then I forgot a couple of times and then I fell completely off the wagon. Got back on toward the end of last summer, then November 8 happened and the last thing I felt like doing was being alone with my thoughts for 20 minutes, twice a day. Because, unlike other forms of meditation that I’ve tried, in TM you are allowed to acknowledge your thoughts. And my thoughts were dark in those days. They are slightly less so today, a day that many of us woke to very good news (it’s not about celebrating a victory, it’s about being relieved that people we know and people we don’t know will be protected if they get or are sick or pregnant or take medicine or are human). But I digress.

I had a bout of the blues in early June and decided to throw myself back into TM, as well as to work more with essential oils, which are wonderful for mood support—if you want to know more about this, message me. At the same time, a VIP in my life expressed interest in learning TM, and I highly supported this idea. So I started practicing regularly again and this time around I am absolutely aware of the positive impact it is having. It is making me calmer, lighter, better able to focus. It is helping me creatively, as I gear up to begin a new chapter (ha HA!) in my writing life. It is making me more patient, less irritable, less reactionary. I am very grateful that I decided to dive back in. Sometimes we need to take a break from things to recognize their worth. If I could, I would gift this practice to many people in my life who I think would benefit from it. But as I can’t, I will say this: do good things for yourself. Whatever issues you are facing, approach them from as many angles as might be helpful. Realize the strengths in yourself and in your circumstances and build on them. If you are reading this, I can almost guarantee that something you possess is the one thing that someone else on this planet thinks, “If only I had ____, my life would be so much better.” A job, a home, a loving partner, an enriching hobby, willpower, musical talent, perfect skin, physical strength, intuition, a sense of humor, intellect, empathy, wit—if you possess any one of these things, you have a foundation that others aspire to.

Speaking of aspirations, here’s something nutty—I’ve been taking voice lessons for a couple of years, basically because I like to sing and wanted to get better at it, and I’ve kept going because I love my teacher. However, the idea of singing in front of others makes me want to evaporate. I have tremendous stage fright, as well as paralyzing fear of public speaking. My lovely teacher informed me a few days ago that she is having a recital sometime in the fall and that she’d like me to prep for it. Holy smokes. This would involve singing in front of other people. In semi-public. But it’s good to have a tangible goal, and so I will focus my efforts with this in mind. Stay tuned. No pun intended.

*I didn’t order a cup of coffee in.

 

 

It’s been a long time without you, my friend

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Somebody asked me what I usually do on 9-11, and while I don’t really have any rituals, writing here has become a tradition of sorts. It helps me. It’s therapeutic and it’s important.

I believe that 9-11 enters my mind in some way most days—certainly more often than not. And while the visceral memories fade during the year, on the anniversary they return.

I remember so vividly that I could re-enact my experiences on that day in stunning detail. I don’t remember what I was wearing, but I remember what I was doing, who I spoke with, what I saw, what I ate. I can picture myself in my little apartment on Charles Street, blowdrying my hair and watching the news. I’d turned it on just after the first plane hit. I remember the anchorman’s tone when the second one came, when we could no longer pretend it was an accident.

I remember the phone calls, first to my mom and then to my ex. Nothing registered – at least not the loss of life at that moment, nor the implications for the rest of mine. I think on some cellular level we all knew that nothing would ever be the same, that life would be divided into pre- and post- , but I’m not sure most of us could have understood  just how intractable the change would be.

It was a perfect day. It was sunny and crisp and blueskyed, where the night before had seen torrential downpours. The night before we’d attended a benefit party for Women in Need and then darted from awning to awning to have burgers at the Cedar Tavern.

I remember standing on 6th Avenue in a stunned crowd of people watching the towers burn. Wondering, briefly, if I should go back for my camera and deciding not to. Ron, the homeless man I knew in my neighborhood, called out to me as I crossed 10th Street. “Laura! They hit us!” I spoke with him briefly and told him to stay safe, not yet understanding that that was impossible.

I got on the subway and most people knew. Got off in mid-town and learned that the towers had fallen. Loss of life was beginning to register, but certainly not to the extent that it would.

My coworkers, gathered around a live news feed, one in tears because her husband had gone to the buildings for a meeting that morning. He would walk in hours later, stunned and alive.

The rumors about the planes heading to Los Angeles and Chicago, learning about Pennsylvania and the Pentagon. Phone calls coming in from friends and family all over the country. Emails from people abroad.

Erika and I walked to my parents’ place, where my mom made us lunch (tuna salad on toast and potato chips) and from their windows we could see the smoke and chaos consuming lower Manhattan.

Walking, more walking, visiting with my dad, heading west and meeting Michel, then going down to my apartment. We went to Gus’s for dinner that night, ate Greek food because that was our plan and what else could we do? The couple behind us, an older couple, sounded as though they were on a very early date.

We went to a bar after to meet up with friends, including one who had yet to hear from her mother. She would learn, at some point, that her mother had stayed home from her job in one of the towers.

The Missing posters all over my neighborhood, the trickling in of information about so-and-so’s friend or family member who had died. The smell, that acrid smell of death and chemicals that clung to the air for months afterward.

I’m not sure which day I found out about Jonathan, but I think it might have been two days later. I hadn’t seen him in a bit, hadn’t known he’d changed jobs, hadn’t even heard of Cantor Fitzgerald until it was demolished.

That Friday a group of us volunteered at the site, feeding the rescue workers. We wore hard hats and goggles. The piles of steel were still burning. The heat was palpable.

The next day I went up to the country, travelled up with Phil; he had a house not far from my parents’. My dad picked us up and I spent the weekend with them. I remember taking a walk down their road and fearing snipers hiding in the woods. I remember seeing the biggest f-ing caterpillar I’ve ever seen.

How many times did I watch the planes hit and the buildings fall? It was unavoidable and yet I didn’t resent the coverage. I needed to see it, it was part of the process. My process.

The dreams continued for months. Dreams of buildings exploding and airplanes falling from the sky.

I remember the Portraits of Grief. I saved Jonathan’s and one day, months or maybe years later, I reread it, turned it over and saw the Portrait of someone else I’d once known.

In a very weird way, and please hear me out on this, I miss the aftermath of 9-11. I miss the closeness and kindness and we’re-all-in-this-togetherness. I miss the burying of hatchets and the overlooking of petty differences. I miss the tacit empathy and comfort we provided one another. The feelings of pride in my city, of gratitude for what we were able to do together. The checking up on one another. The collective therapy.

I don’t miss the flyers that stayed up for far too long, and I don’t miss the smell, and I don’t miss the frantic barking of dogs.

I don’t know what I will do tomorrow, I’ve started my 9-11 ritual early this year. I will think about Jonathan and I will think about others and I will probably watch some of the reading of the names. I will try to be a very good person tomorrow.

I will wish that we would all be kinder to one another, that we could all have compassion and celebrate our differences, that we would always remember to tell people we love that we love them, and that we would never take another day for granted.

I think I post this every year, too, because I think it’s beautiful, a snippet of a poem by my supremely talented friend:

In the blinking of an eye
Soon everything will change
From a blue September sky
The brimstone falls like rain.
If true Love
Soars the heavens
Pretend and we can fly
Soon everything will change
My love
In the blinking of an eye.

Neil Thomas, September 2001

I may write again tomorrow. Then again, I may not.

 

For only love can conquer hate

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I just looked at my most recent post and, damn, if you made it through all those photos, you’re far more patient than I. I shot them and curated them and it was too many for me to get through. But it was too many because the day, the event, was so rich and full that it was impossible to encapsulate without showing the whole picture.

The whole picture was a thing of beauty and love. The whole picture was people of every size, shape, race, religion, gender, non-gender, and whatever other categories we put ourselves in … this was about love in all its many splendored glory.

And every person walking in that parade, and most every person on the sidelines and rooftops, believes passionately in the spirit of the day.

I am a proud supporter of the LGBTQ+ community. I don’t remember a time that I wasn’t, even if I didn’t have the lexicon to express it. I’ve thought about this a lot. Perhaps it’s because I “grew up” (and some would argue that I’ve yet to do that) in the entertainment industry and I’ve known people who by-the-way are gay my entire life. Maybe it’s because I’m intrinsically accepting of the human condition, by which I mean the condition of being human; I am not referring to sexuality or gender as a “condition”. Whatever the case may be, the fact that compassion and acceptance for others are still debatable is the most inconvenient truth I can imagine.

If that was overly wordy, please know that I awoke at my normal time of 3AM and this time I didn’t get right back to sleep. I will sleep for one more hour once I post this thang. Then Dog and I have morning appointments and I have work to do.

I don’t attend Pride every year, though for the past six, my dear friends M&M have come up from Florida and stayed with me in order to attend (and to see me, and to love New York, which they do better than most people I know). I decided to go because this year is one of the more significant. This year we are getting ready to elect a new president, and I can’t even delve into that. The thought of what may come chills me to the bone. I don’t agree with everything Hillary has ever said but I agree with most of her policies now and I like her and I respect her and I support her. That the other option “may not be as bad as he tells the world he is” – which I’ve heard from many people and news outlets – I can’t. He is as bad. And so, so much worse. I promise.

This is why I can’t delve into politics on social media. If you were my friend in 2008, you know what I’m talking about. I was … passionate … about politics that year.

However, I was comforted by the “Republicans for Hillary” movement I saw well-represented at the parade on Sunday.

Beyond the election, there’s Orlando, obviously. There’s the fact that we can now add this to the list of “If gun laws didn’t change after ____ then what will it take?!”

There’s the fact that a man in my neighborhood, Chelsea, which has one of the more established gay communities in the country, was beaten up recently in what cops call a hate crime.

I just don’t fucking get it. That I don’t get beating someone up in the first place is a foregone conclusion. I just don’t get why gay/straight black/white female/male and any other either/or that assumes one half is “less than” is even a thing, as they say.

But it is.

And then, in uplifting news, there’s the fact that the National Park Service just declared Stonewall Inn and the park in front of it national landmarks.

I’m a proud supporter of humanity.