Listening to Elliott Smith Again.

You died just before noon on Wednesday morning. From the time I woke up that morning I was almost doubled-over in pain. It didn't make sense, but all of my insides hurt. My neck and back had been hurting me for days, and I'd been battling a strange headache (something with which I have little experience). On Wednesday my guts started to hurt so much that I worried I might have appendicitis.

On Thursday nothing hurt anymore. My body knew it was your time even though my mind refused to admit it. I guess pain is the logical result of a serious disconnect between mind and body.


When I got the unmistakable midday phone call, I thought to myself, "You're better. You're better. You're better. He's calling because you suddenly got better," and my esophagus grew tight like someone was inflating a balloon inside of it (kind of like it feels now).

I left the office right away, throwing things around so quickly and carelessly that I squashed a fly in one of my folders (which I found the next day).

I cried as I walked to the bus stop. Cars let me cross in places they don't normally and people kept their distance from me. A little boy, I'd guess he was about 4, stood staring at my intently. His mother kept trying to redirect his attention, but he kept looking at me, and finally she gave up. I thought about what I would say if he asked me why I was crying. Nothing seemed right, and I finally settled on "someone I love went to heaven."

I worried a lot about saying something that would scare him or make him sad. I worried that seeing a stranger cry on the bus might scare him or make him sad. I worry about children so much. I worry too much.

As I drew closer to my stop, I pushed more and more of my sadness inside until finally I wasn't crying anymore, except for the occasional rogue tear which I quickly wiped and denied. I imagine a great body of water building inside of me from all the tears I'm not crying and, like a dammed lake or river, sometimes a little leaks out to relieve all of the pressure.

I haven't let myself have a big cry - a red-faced, on-my-knees-cry, yet. I'm always afraid of hurting other people with my sadness. Listening to Elliott Smith, I think of the line, "I'll fake it through the day" (and never mind the next line about Johnny Walker Red, I'm too tired to drink).


I know I'll grieve in my own time in my own way. I know it's still too soon.


Today is the anniversary of Cliff's death. I can tell I'm in defensive mode because every year on the anniversary of Cliff's death I cry, and I haven't cried for Cliff today. That will come in due time too.

This morning when I woke up, I thought about you teaching Cliff to dance. I imagined you wearing a white shirt and black pants, and Cliff wearing khaki shorts and a t-shirt and a bandanna. You were both smiling and laughing. You were both so spry. I imagined Cliff saying "You're the woman" and you replying "don't I know it," as you danced together. And I laughed and felt happy for a little while. As the day went on, I thought of that image again and again and it brought me some happiness and some relief.


I want you to know that you filled an empty place in my heart. I know your family is experiencing unimaginable pain right now because they love you so much, and even though I have the utmost sympathy for them, I keep returning to thoughts of how lucky they were to have had you in their lives, and how lucky I am to have had you in mine.

Lost Souls

I am so upset to hear of Heath Ledger's death.

I suppose I have a secret expectations from the celebrity world - that they will always provide entertainment without reality. That they will always provide diversions from my reality.

About a week ago Brad Renfro died. I was shocked. I know he'd slipped into the oblivion of most American minds (if people even knew him at all), but I'd never forgotten him, nor the first time I saw him in The Client. He was the ultimate heart-throb material - a southern bad-boy and anti-hero. Even as he aged and he acted very little, and when he did act he took really risky roles again and again (I have to shut my eyes for many scenes in Bully), I still cared about him as a human, and when I heard he had trouble I always hoped he'd get better.

So when he died, after so many months or years of silence, it felt like all my hope had been in vain. I thought again and again that he couldn't die, it would be far too James Dean for the real world. I don't know him. It seems silly. But I was sad that such a talent, albeit a troubled talent, had died so young. More than that, I was sad because I had cared about him, whether I knew him personally or not. He'd had an impact on my life.

And now Heath Ledger. It seems ridiculous. I don't know Heath Ledger. I know nothing of his character or even of his person, and yet I'm crying. I'm crying because the movies, and all of the celebrity diversions help me to forget my troubles sometimes. That's the point of movies and the entertainment industry. Sometimes movies are about troubles of one kind or another, and make you think, and hurt you, but they always pull you away from your own life and into someone else's.

And now I am sitting here thinking of how much pain Heath Ledger must have felt. How sad he must have been, and it reminds me that I have my own sadness, and that other people - all other people- have their own sadness - even the ones who are meant to keep us from ours.

I sat here hoping and hoping that someone somewhere was wrong. I read the story of his death like a novel, thinking that it might have a happy ending even though I knew it didn't. When I read that his housekeeper tried to revive him, I rooted for her to bring him back, all the while knowing he was already gone.

I sit here writing this knowing that someone I love and cherish is not going to be with me much longer, and I can't help but realize that the way I'm feeling over the death of a stranger is a reflection of the fear and pain I haven't let myself feel for her. Heath Ledger won't let me ignore the pain anymore. So I sit crying tears for Heath Ledger, that are hidden tears for someone else. Someone I'm not yet ready to cry for.