Clearly, I’ve Been Remiss

I was relating to Jesser just this past Friday, as we happily consumed alcohol at his weekly get-together, the hilarity of the Rockobama anecdote. Jesser replied, “Yes, and it apparently was the only thing that’s been worth blogging about since.”

Actually, there is much to write about. The problem with not posting is that once I want to begin to post again there are so many disparate things swimming about that I can’t figure out a cohesive post. Thus, I now officially throw cohesiveness out the window and give you a choppy update.

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Lately I feel like I should not speak to people. Do you ever observe yourself during or immediately after a conversation and think, “I am an idiot. I should not be allowed to speak to others. That person must think I am a complete nut case.” I talk too fast, I say too much, I fail to be politically correct in situations where I think I should have, I give too much information, I am too loud, etc, etc. I’m fairly sure this is in my head, yet I cannot shake the sensation after nearly every conversation I have that I have made some terrible mistake.

A month or so ago, a woman whose child goes to school with the Smallest of Fries called. This woman is nice enough, but needy. I have tried to avoid being “too” close, but I have sympathy for her as a single mother, a position I held for some years and which I really wasn’t very good at. On the phone, I realized I had started absolutely yammering on and on, as if this were my BFF and I had spent a season in solitary. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me–I’m not interested in having more than what we have at this point, I don’t want a new phone buddy (I hate the phone!) yet, there I was, rambling on. “Shut up, ” I was telling myself, “Shut the hell up already, you sound desperate.”

At Jesser’s I find myself drawn into conversations where my opinion on something is asked and I give it, then later think I have said too much, drawn my position too strongly, lacked diplomacy. I wonder if I am wrong to think that I am safe to simply say how I feel about whatever the issue is, or if I simply say too much or talk for too long or shouldn’t have said anything other than a politely neutral non-opinion.

At the market where I hawk my wares, I have a new neighbor/vendor who is someone I find I like very much. This weekend we realized that we share similar taste in fiction, and discussed our favorite fantasy authors, comic books, etc. I mentioned my love of Charles de Lint, and how much of his work that I have read was part of the Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror anthologies that I collect. I said that I really enjoy those books, but that I no longer read the horror stories. That led to explaining why, and as I finished what seemed like the vomiting up of how my best friend was murdered, I thought, “Shit. That was WAY too much information, Genni. Shut up.” I wasn’t sure–who doesn’t look shocked to hear that such a thing has happened? How would I feel if she told me something similar? I wouldn’t be offended, I would be sad for that person, I wouldn’t think they were weird or needy for explaining something that happened to them. But I left consumed with worry that she might think I was weird, or needy, or strange.

Conversations with people I am closer to also seem strewn with hidden mines, and I am sure that I am stepping on them throughout. I hang up the phone or leave a conversation thinking, “I should have said that instead, or, that was stupid, crap, that wasn’t what I meant, either, geez, they must think I’ve lost it.” I suspect that this comes from work I am doing on relationships, on re-defining myself. I am typically a person who keeps their opinion to themselves and doesn’t presume to judge. Now I am trying to find a balance where I don’t feel I am repressed, so perhaps that’s why I am nervous about what I say and declare in conversation. It’s hard to free myself from the yoke that others impose on me, and the sensation of free-fall is disorienting.

***

Saturday, July 12, was the anniversary of when sgt. gennimcmahon and I met and began this love affair that has lasted for twelve years. In the strange date coincidence that has been a big part of our relationship, it also would have been John Kuca Jr.’s 40th birthday. I note that and add that I have no idea what it means that I note it, except that it reminds me of the tremendous tragedy that is such a part of my life now. I am still so angry at how easily he manipulated me and others around him, and shocked by how close I was to what happened while not realizing it until it was too late. I don’t ask myself why I didn’t see it because I understand that part, but I do wonder and wonder why didn’t -Ray tell me how bad things were with him? Why was she so determined to keep the state of her marriage a secret? And why from me? Of course I am sure that even if she had to pretend to the rest of the world, she didn’t need to pretend to me. Yet I also know that had she intimated what her reality was truly like, I would have been most likely to have acted–it would have forced a decision that she clearly wasn’t able to face.

And then the other side of that day–twelve years with sgt gennimcmahon. I marvel at such a length of time, and that I am still quite interested in him, in where our lives will go together, in what we will have made in another twelve years’ time. My first marriage lasted less than two years, my longest relationships prior lasted for fractured four year periods. I will never be one of those who claim a perfect marriage, or suggest that true love means everything is easy. People are damn annoying and it’s hard to live with them. But it’s like anything that is really hard work in that it’s got the biggest rewards for staying the course.

***

Yesterday, July 13, my father would have been 63 years old. He died exactly 8 1/2 years ago on January 13, 2000 (on sgt gennimcmahon’s birthday—see what I mean about weird dates with us?). I wonder what he would think this year? His father died, and I did not attend his funeral or feel any deep need to reconnect with that side of my family. There is so much he has missed, and so many times that I have missed him. My decision to leave real estate nearly three years ago came about after attending a little craft fair and realizing that my dad would’ve been much happier had he followed his creative muse. Coupled with the fact that when he finally did determine and pursue what he really wanted to do (be a nurse, he was a people person) it turned out he only had a few years left to live, I decided that life is too short to waste in a job that you hate. So here I am, hawking the wares at craft fairs and the like, and I know my dad would love that. He is still a presence, even if he is also gone.

***

That catches us up for the most part. I am trying to list bags everyday on etsy, so visit my shop if you are in need of a little fun to carry about. I am on a deadline for naked raku that will be part of the very first show in a new gallery in Ipswitch, Boston, and my neck is killing me from bending over pottery for two hours every evening. I’m definitely doing what I want to do—I spend all day each day being creative, and my only regret is that I can’t work faster and more. Sgt. gennimcmahon and I are talking about committing to this house we hate and remodeling with the goal of making it either saleable or worth living in within two or so years. It’s hard to even clean a house that grates on my nerves at every turn, and once the diaster next door moved in, we sort of went into a state of shock. We’ve decided that we will outlast Crae Z. and her madness, and if we make this house nice enough, we might even get to where we don’t notice her. Think “secure compound” or “fortress” or “Yes, those are real alligators in the moat, so fuck off.”

And Some Perspective

If you had already read the previous post, you might notice now that I edited out some of my more snarky commentary concerning my husband. We had argued yesterday, it wasn’t a good day, but I realize maybe I should be more cautious as to what I say in a public forum. Last night at about 9:20 one of my closest friends, my neighbor, my “spiritual mother” called us. She said, “Genni, I need help” and I was already flying out the door even as I was trying to find out what was wrong. Her partner was unconscious, and sgt gennimcmahon, came right behind me. As I called 911, sgt gennimcmahon started CPR. My friend’s partner had suffered a heart attack about a month ago, but was doing quite well. He was only 66, and although CPR was started within minutes and the EMS response time couldn’t have been faster, his spirit was already gone. After an hour and a half of shocking him, loading medication after medication, the ER doctor told my friend that he had been coded for far too long. We went in and they turned off the machines and we stayed with him until his stubborn body let go at 11:30 pm.

This man, he was a rascal. He was infuriating, egotistical, loud and at the same time funny, generous and often very kind. My favorite memory of him will always be the day the Smallest of the Fries marched up to his house with a plastic sword and this man, he leapt out the door with a colander on his head and his own plastic sword and they battled it out. Not many grown men will do that for a little kid.

Today we will help my friend make calls. They were not married, he was estranged from his family, it will be messy. She is without a job, everything in her life is completely uncertain, and he didn’t get around to drawing up a will to protect her, so there will likely be no benefits for her. It’s a disaster, and in the midst of that, my arguing with sgt gennimcmahon seems pretty meaningless. I was never prouder to be his wife when he unhesitatingly laid that man on the floor and started CPR, apologizing as he did so, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you but the ambulance is on the way, so hang on.”

We’ve had about four hours of sleep, and today I will help my friend make arrangements and calls and all the business of finishing up his affairs as best we can. At some point in the future, sgt gennimcmahon and I will talk about our fight yesterday, but not now–much more important stuff is happening, and reality has pointed out that despite our current woes we know when to set that aside to attend to the immediate, which tells me all I need to know about our marriage today.

A Buffet-Style Post, Where Things are More Related Than You Might Think

This is a catching up post. There are things I want to talk about, but I don’t know how much sense they will make to anyone other than me. It’s like eating at Furr’s, if you are like me you get fried okra, macaroni and cheese, fried fish and lemon meringue pie and call it a meal while other people regard you in horror. But it’s Furr’s, and what you like is your own private business, and no one else has to eat it. So, if you don’t get it, that’s okay. There’s a salad bar and a sundae machine around here somewhere to occupy you.  

That said, I’m behind in scanning artwork, but here is the most recent to be added to the computer memory banks:

  It goes with the series of art I’ve been putting up over the past months, and will be exhibited in December at a group show at the home of The Event. The theme of loss and grief, tears and oceans is one I’m not yet finished with, and it is still closely tied to -Ray and Ruby’s deaths. I’m sure that someday I’ll be done with that process, but not yet, and not now.

So many things spin forth from what happened to my dearest sister-friend and her child, things predictable and things surprising. Recently, I wore a skirt that was -Ray’s. I had reinforced the seams several times, as it was composed of a rayon/linen blend and that is a fragile fabric. Painted on the skirt was a dinosaur. I sat down at the computer that day and the back seam popped and split. I remembered -Ray telling me about the skirt, and had found a business card amongst her things that I *thought* belonged to the artist who painted that fanciful creature on it. I emailed her. She emailed back.

After two emails the pieces fell into place and I realized that she wasn’t just someone who had met -Ray, she was someone who was very tied to her, had been close friends with her, and was left bereft and confused and staring into a void of unknown when they died. I was able to fill Lissie in on what I have pieced together, and she provided information to me, as well. I knew John had “Sent some people away who think they are friends but aren’t” and I had wondered—who was it that he severed ties with during that week as he isolated his family unto his own muderous heart? I know now that Lissie and her husband were among them, suddenly getting an email saying that they had never been liked, to never approach them, to stay away. I tried to provide some perspective for her–it wasn’t anything they had done; it was John’s need to keep anyone from figuring out what he intended to do, to keep people away from Ray who might reach out and help and prevent his actions.

Lissie and I found that the universe lined up and somehow -Ray worked through us. Lissie is an artist, and she makes jewelry. She offered to give me a piece, and I agreed only if she would accept a purse. We each unknowingly selected the very item that the other had secretly chosen for them. I sent Lissie a card that featured a print of a fairy, and she told me that she and Ray each had a framed copy of that print in their houses. She thanked me for being “the keeper of the puzzle” and for whatever reason that struck me and I realized that I have taken on that role, and I’m glad that what I’ve carefully assembled over months of thought has functioned to help someone else deal with what happened. We are glimpses of our dear friend for each other, and I treasure that and tuck it away into my heart.

This theme of loss that I grapple with-that has become part of what I do with my life-includes my own fears about loss of myself. I have always harbored a tremendous and crippling fear of my own death, and so because I have the therapist who pulls no punches, we have been dealing with that in a way that leaves me in a fetal position, being swept out to the parking lot until next week. My own fears concerning what constitutes “I” and what is “life” and what is meant by “death” are now inextricably wound up in -Ray, in what happened, in whether or not she knew, and what she knew, in what she might know now or where she might be. Her mother believes that Ray, who died after Ruby and John, didn’t let go until when, in the ambulance, she heard them pronounce Ruby. She was never conscious, and I pick away at that, wondering, how did she know? DID she know?

This weekend I had a tiny experience that while not of much consequence served to further illuminate the murky concerns of mortality. We had gone to an opening at the gallery and while I was talking to someone, the fingers of my right hand went completely numb. I felt weird, as well, regarding my sand-filled digits with detachment, “Hmmm. This is bad. Well, better not let on, I’ll keep trying to move them…hmmmm.” Then my vision went a little funny. These are both symptoms of migraine, and I have those sorts of migraines every few years or so. But then, the vision thing righted itself. We left the gallery, and as we got into the van I mentioned the events to sgt. gennimcmahon “just in case.” I suspect I was not thinking so straight at the time.

We drove about, looking for somewhere to eat. One of the kids said, “How about the place we went with The Event that time?” And I said, “Who’s The Event?” Everyone in the car suddenly looked at me. Sgt. gennimcmahon put his hand on my hand and said, “Honey? The Event and Still Water? THE EVENT?” and I said, “I’ve met them? I know them?” Which earned me a trip to the ER, pronto. The children were dropped at home, money for pizza was flung on the table and sgt. gennimcmahon zipped me back across town to the hospital. All the way there asking me, “What day is it?” “Who am I?” (I knew all the answers, by the way, it was a short-lived little brain problem).

The ER part of this is not the point, and it did turn out to most likely be a weird migraine. But the abrupt forgetting of a major part of my life; that was somehow very shocking to me and to sgt gennimcmahon  It was one of those messages from mortality that you might just punch your ticket any old time, and there won’t be any warning. You might stop being YOU, and it might happen before you have time to realize it. I knew that I should know who they were talking about. And as they kept mentioning things to get me to catch up, I was trying to put those things together, “The Event….the pottery, naked raku…what is that? I should know this, but EVENT? Oh, smile and pretend, you should know this, look, they are freaking out here…”

I’m so concerned about the ME that must be in there; is there a core of me-ness that doesn’t go away even when I reach the point of ultimate forgetting? Am I in there?  If I am leaving and I don’t know it, how will I save anything to remember me by? This is why I don’t sleep well; it’s an endless circuit that runs through my brain. I have an absolute horror of dying in my sleep for that very reason.

Yet, I believe that Ray; some aspect of her that is real, worked through the universe to bring me and Lissie together at the exact moment it happened. I believe that the connections were made for a reason. And so I hope that even if I get switched off before I’m ready, that whatever is the essential aspect of me will remain. Just like I know exactly where I was and what I was thinking when I had no idea who The Event was. I knew that wasn’t right, even if I was pretty altered at the time it happened. Mainly I was sort of lost in my head, like when I’ve been given narcotics, and my mind is just babbling away, but if I open my mouth nothing intelligible comes out. My mind was saying, “Wow, something is really wrong here, seriously, this is not good, you should really say something about this, and quickly.” But it didn’t come out of my mouth.

I feel somewhat embarrassed that this small thing–a mundane headache, really–seems like a big enough deal to post about. But I do think things happen for a reason, and appropriately or not, it definitely tripped something related to a larger set of issues in my life right now. I think we all have experiences like that, and I can’t help how much it struck me. I’m an organized person, I like for the pieces to fit into the puzzle—I will worry with it until it does, or I pass out after three days without sleep. So that’s that–this is where I’m at today, this week, right now. Wondering, changed, seeking. But also grateful for Lissie. Grateful for sgt. gennimcmahon who did not wait for me to tell him that things might not be okay and who did not agree with me that we should bail on the ER once it seemed like there might be a wait and who even looked up the symptoms of a stroke on his PDA and then showed it to an impassive receptionist. These are all pieces of a puzzle so big I can’t even determine what the final picture will be, but I have to keep putting the pieces together anyway. Like a giant mandala, perhaps, it seems important.

 

 

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Hot Off the Drawing Table

I finished this last night, and I like it as much, if not more, than the drawing of -Ray, which I’ll put up in this post, since it seems that WordPress is going to let me put in a rectangular thumbnail, thank heavens. You can click images to enlarge.

The new one is actually in three pieces; a 6″ x 6″ center piece, and then the top and bottom sections are 6″ x 3″. It will displayed with the pieces floating with space between them, so it will look different once I’ve figured out how to hang it–which is similar to the way I expect to hang the one of -Ray. I did not put the one of Ray in the upcoming show at the gallery because the way I planned to mount it didn’t work when I laid it all out. Which is fine, I’m not ready to part with it.

 All of the works I’ve done lately are Prismacolor pencil and marker–someday I will learn to paint, I’m sure, but until then, this is my medium of choice. As always, this is my creative property as the artist, and the title is a working title because I hate titling work and it takes me forever to settle on what I want to call something. I have no formal training outside of high school, where I had a phenomenal art teacher who is the manager of the gallery I exhibit at. As such, I think of myself as falling somewhere into the “outsider art” label as it’s currently applied–obviously I’m not insane or unaware of that I am making art, but I’m also not a degree-holding fine artist who is keeping up with current trends and working in a defined, established art form.

     

I’m working with a lot of recurring themes–most notably octopi, water, and isolation. Expect to see photos of the four finished works as they’ll hang in the gallery later this week.

Friday Episode of Showing Off

It’s not really showing off, it’s showcasing this week’s efforts for all, like, six of my loyal followers. Damn, that sounds stuck up, too…Hell, we’ll call this Stuck Up Friday, or, Don’t You Wish You Was Me.

 Seriously, I submitted seven pieces to my gallery for the jury process for an upcoming show, and four were accepted. Strangely, my beloved Octopus Girl  wasn’t admitted to the party. This one was,  as was this one :

  and this one, which is two pieces that will be exhibited mounted on two 9″ x 9″ shadow boxes (you can see the line if you look closely):

 ray.jpg (this is a rectangular file, which apparently won’t allow me to put in a thumbnail. Stupid WordPress…)

Both of these went in over-sharpened, I’m not sure why, as they don’t look that way in Photoshop. The one of Ray is actually very soft; so much so that every time I’ve photographed it, I can’t get it focused. I have been trying to execute these pieces without overthinking them (I generally research themes and symbolism to the point of exhaustion), so when this one became a picture of -Ray, I was surprised. I was thinking of her mother’s words about her crossing over, about how she felt that -Ray had crossed after Ruby, so she is reaching out to what I believe is Ruby. The lighthouse at the top and the octopus at the bottom are there in part because those were two of her favorite things, and the images she asked me to paint on the pair of boots her mom returned to me when we visited. I am not sure that I will allow that one to be sold, because I have a big emotional attachment to it. I’ll photograph it again once it’s mounted and put that up here as well.

So, as seems to be the trend lately, I didn’t finish enough purses. Just these two:

15-february-2008-saddle-up-jpop.jpg (the skinny ones won’t allow me to insert a thumbnail, sorry)

    

Long view: 15-february-2008-saddle-up-lucky-cat.jpg

Both are the Saddle Up! bags, with long straps that will go across the body. Both are $75 plus shipping. Also available are matching checkbook covers/wallets:

   

Those are $12 each, and don’t change shipping if ordered with a bag. They would be about $4.10 to ship alone. Obviously it’s a better economic decision to buy one AND a bag.

Now, with my week’s work complete, I will commence getting ready for Friday Night at Jesser’s house, the much-anticipated end of week event at which we are regulars. Just imagine them shouting, “Norm!” when we get there.

The Ghost of Valentines Past

In email from Valentine’s Day of 2006, -Ray wrote:

 We’re a bit mushy in that we say and mean that we have all that we want.  I can’t imagine what object would make me happier.  I mostly deeply want John and Ruby to be alive and happy.  I’m so corny.  And easy.

She wasn’t sick yet. Whatever happened over the summer hadn’t happened yet. It seemed like there was so much time. I wish I could write back, send it through time, tell her to come to me immediately and we’ll change the future. If she and Ruby were alive and happy, I’d have all that I want.

If You’re Looking for Happy, She Stepped Out for a Moment

Don’t panic, she’ll be right back. She needed a bit of fresh air.  

I have a few habits I have developed. One is now defunct; but for a long time I would check -Ray’s EBay store and whenever a new negative popped up, I sent the following email to the commenter:

On September 07, 2007, John Kuca Jr. of grindlesvintage murdered his wife, Luray and their five year old daughter Ruby, then took his own life. Your only recourse now will be to try and get your money back through Paypal.

Now it is over 90 days past the last auction that ended, so feedback can no longer be left. They are “no longer registered users”, but their page still hangs there in space.

Another habit is that I go back through our emails and read the email from that day’s date through the past few years. So tonight I read the email from February 5, 2005, 2006 and 2007. We skipped it in 2004, and while I’m sure there was one in 2003, everything before July 2004 perished in The Great Computer Collapse of ‘04, in which I turned on my computer, it blinked and in a blinding flash wiped everything from the hard drive. Everything. Forever.

The other reason for our trip to Albuquerque this past weekend was to visit with Ray’s mom and her stepdad, and to collect four bags of clothing that her mom wanted me to have. It was a little trip through trends; the tartan and wool trend, the Victorian trend, the DIY extravaganza when we were both fashioning garments and selling them on EBay. She didn’t sell a lot of hers, then lost interest half way through, so there were quite a few items that came to me. Cost me $107 to dry clean the smell of cigarette smoke (her mom smokes, -Ray had quit a couple years ago) out of those things I couldn’t launder myself.

I don’t get daily hits from people searching their names anymore, but I get a few a week. Some, lately, were looking for services for John, Luray and Ruby Kuca. There weren’t any. John’s final requests as listed in his bizarre email weren’t entirely followed anyway. -Ray’s mom has her and Ruby’s ashes; John’s were released to his brother. John asked that an estate sale be held to help defray medical costs incurred before he murdered his wife and child, but his brother has instead looted the EBay inventory that they had and is selling it off on EBay. He doesn’t acknowledge that these goods came from my best friend’s hard work; he and his wife are just building the sort of karma I wouldn’t wish on anyone but them. They perhaps don’t realize that some of us were familiar with some of the items they had on the huge racks that held their livelihood.

-Ray’s mom believes that both -Ray and Ruby have crossed into a spirit world, and that she has communicated with them both. I would so very much be comforted if I believed in something so strongly. She told me about Ruby being channeled by her friend, a medium, and how Ruby is happy where she is, and how neither she nor Ray wishes to return to this life again. She said that Ray agreed I should have her clothes. I figure that whatever gets her through the night, keeps her walking and talking is a good thing. And as much as I resist such things when people speak of them out loud, I have my own moments when I feel that she is close by. My most recent piece of art (just finished tonight, not ready for viewing) became a picture of her. It flowed out of me with little or no conscious thought, and it’s not the first time, when drawing someone who is dead, that I have felt like I had help, or a connection of some sort, when it happened. I know, too, that those friends who have channeled spirits and allowed some sort of communication to take place have done so out of sincere belief that these phenomena are real, and out of love for their friend as she grieves the loss of her daughter and granddaughter.

I read her email and she is Right There. Not gone. Not until I scroll up and run out of email. Two years ago today we emailed several times; talking about the Superbowl (neither of us cared, and we really didn’t understand the male need to shout at the television and get angry over an activity in which they were not at all directly involved). Then, a quick one to say that fifteen minutes ago, her entire family except for her and the cat had started puking and running fever. Then one more to agree that she Was. Not. Going. To. Get. It. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to read further and remember whether or not that held true.

I don’t even have a place to put all these clothes, but am already trying to figure out a way to mark each item so that even if I forget where it came from I can check it; I won’t ever part with anything that was hers. It’s further complicated by the multiples of tiers of things I can’t get rid of, which are clothes she gave me. And clothes I gave her that were returned to me after her death. And clothes she bought from me and that were returned to me after her death. And clothes I gave to her to sell on EBay or keep that came back to me. And clothes I bought from her on EBay. And then other items that would be junk if they hadn’t been hers.

Her mom also gave me her and Ruby’s Christmas stockings, which I had made for them when they moved back to Portland. The boots I painted for her when we had very first met online—a Celtic octopus on one and a little lighthouse on the other. Two things she loved, octopi and lighthouses.

It’s a rough sea to sail. I have a pretty sturdy boat, though, and I doubt I’ll capsize. Sometimes I seem to take on a little water. Blogging about it is a way to bail it back out, until the next time. As anyone who has lost someone they loved knows, you never get to finish sailing that sea, but the periods of calm get longer and longer, and so you keep going, and maybe someday your boat runs into theirs, and another life begins. Or not. I won’t know until I get there, will I?

Tomorrow, Christmas, and Then…

Today I have argued with a five year old about what “Christmas Eve” means. He is certain, dead to rights, that it means we will be opening presents tomorrow. Santa is coming tonight.

No, I say, “Christmas Eve” means the Night Before Christmas. Clearly, the confusion lies in that part where we say “CHRISTMAS Eve.” Obviously, if the first word in the name of the day is “Christmas,” then any words coming after that are extraneous.

I suspect he’ll be one pissed off kid tomorrow morning.

My moods right now are far less straightforward. There is no good time to post this, no good point to put this into the mix, really, because it’s not all happy holiday cheer. But it exists. Tonight we attended a party at the home of three men, one of whom died about two weeks ago. This family is shattered, but the deceased had taken delight in planning parties and so his family chose to carry on and invite others to their home. It was nice; the house was draped in lights and hung with stockings. They had gifts for everyone who came. Friends gathered; all of whom knew the deceased and attended this as a tribute to him as well as his companions. It was, it was nice.

Also, though, it was sad. There was no getting away from that any more than there’s a way to change the calendar and make Santa come tonight.

I’m having the same sensation. Tomorrow would have been John and Luray Kuca’s 6th wedding anniversary. The day after Christmas would have been Ray’s 40th birthday. I always sent presents for what I called the “Anni-Chris-Day.” Ray’s mother has the Christmas stockings I made for Ray, Ruby and John waiting for me to come get them. Ray’s was flannel, with a lighthouse print. The woman loved lighthouses like nobody’s business. Ruby’s had space-rocket-flying-vintage-50’s-style children on it. I picked a fabric with guitars on it for John, whom I had the hardest time choosing for. I think that was the year I also sent them red chile pepper Christmas lights, since they had left New Mexico for Portland and Ray never minded a little bit of tacky.

I have tried several times to write the annual Christmas letter, a normally mildly amusing little affair that for reasons I cannot entirely grasp is a source of great entertainment in my husband’s family.

I can’t write it.

It’s never easy to write a Christmas letter that is honest without delving into less positive events during the year. With a very difficult teenager in the house, the spin skills need to be razor sharp. But no matter how I draft it, I come back to what seems like a huge hole in it. I can’t fill it in; no one needs a Christmas letter detailing my best friend’s diagnosis of late-stage breast cancer and her subsequent murder and the murder of her child by her husband’s hand, and his suicide. They don’t need a list of what the teenager has gotten into in the space of a couple of months.

Good things have happened this year. I have a deeply caring, wonderful group of friends with whom I raise a glass most Fridays. I got a job teaching high schoolers how to sew. My purse making business has brought in actual, meaningful income. My sister and I get to share in combined artistic endeavors and spend Saturdays together. I am able to spend time once a week with my grandmother when I take her grocery shopping. I have friends outside of Fridays who are amazing people–including a fine blogger, a group of women with whom I play Bunco once a month, and people who reached out and connected in the wake of Ray’s death whom I’ve not met personally, but whom I hold in my heart and will not ever forget.

Ray’s death makes me wish I was religious. I might have a better idea as to how to ritualize it, then. There are numerous options I’ve considered; building an altar in the tradition of Dia de los Muertos, getting out the pattern for the “Luray of Hope” purse I meant to make to raise money to fund the fight when she was alive and making purses for her close friends and family and maybe putting one in the gallery I exhibit at. I would donate the proceeds to the local domestic violence shelter. I could put up a post here on the day of her birthday, and I might do that, even if it’s repetitive.

Ultimately, there isn’t anything that will make me feel better. The awareness of what lies beneath my life; the ever-present loss of her. The loss of Ruby. What would I give to be arguing with Ruby about whether or not Santa was coming tonight? Or emailing the tale of my argument with my child to Ray, who would respond with something equally amusing about hers. To again agree that they are somehow linked and should definitely get married someday.

This will always, now, lie beneath Christmas. It won’t ruin it, but it will affect me in ways I can’t entirely predict. It’s something John passed to me when he made the horrifying decisions he made that night. It’s a stone to carry forever. We all carry other people’s stones, and they are always there.

But, also, tomorrow is Christmas EVE, and there will be many good things that I can hold along with that stone. It’s just that right now, this year, it’s heavier than anything else I carry.

Two Months and Forever and Yesterday

Two months ago Tuesday, I got the last email I would ever get from you.

I am home today.  Tomorrow I have to be admitted back for a CT Pet scan or pet ct scan or something like that - earlier than God in the am.  Only a day thing.  They haven’t ’staged’ me yet (Stage I, II, II, IV etc).  But I can say it’s not an early stage.

They also gave me great drugs for sleeping and anti anxiety.  I’m very low energy though, and raspy of voice.  The sound of the oxygen machine is making me want to eat my own fingertips, but oh well.  It works good.

I cut much of my hair off and Ruby wanted that too, so she has a little crooked flapper bob and I have more of an outdated sitcom star raggedy ann, badly uncolored, scrappy do at this point.  My hair ..um.. Hurts.  Isn’t that weird?!?!

John has been spinning spinning spinning about holding all our ends up. He’s amazing and I worry about him so much, soon he’ll crash and burn.  But for now, he is….Adrenaline Man.  You can see the outline of a human, but through and through, he is made of pure adrenaline, perhaps as a gas form.

I’m going to do some work from my bed.  I don’t have a lot in me today.

Love always, love love love love - that’s the thing we all drink from === -Ray
I wrote back immediately.

Oh, Thank Heavens.

I know you are low energy, how could you not be? I know it’s not early stage. I know that I have held you in my heart for every second of every moment since you broke the news; I have cried and brainstormed and laughed when John thought he had called (sgt gennimcmahon) but had really called S—— (there should be a law against teenaged boys answering the phone).

I could come for a four day weekend, if you would like. This is, always, about you, and what you need and want, not about me, so please use your energy on being honest. Don’t think about my ability to afford anything, either. This is a direct order.

We are going to shave our heads for you, I think. (sgt gennimcmahon) has volunteered to do it with me, so when you are bald, I’ll be bald, and he’ll be bald. Obviously, I am braver than he is; there are bald men everywhere. However, the women I have often admired are the bald ones, so there. I think I can do a sort of fundraiser (don’t tell John, the pride, that man, the pride) over it. I’m going to install a tip jar here shortly on the blog. I may design a Luray Purse, the -Ray of Hope (Springs Eternal) and dedicate the proceeds to you. If nothing else, you will need hats. I see that I will need to start making hats….

This blogger (”spinning liz” at http://spinningtumor.blogspot.com/) wants you to know that  : “please tell her there’s a total stranger way out here in the ether who has officially adopted her, as a sort of Extremely Useless But Deeply Caring Guardian Angel. There’s got to be a language somewhere on earth that has a word for that.”

I’m figuring you’re out of reading energy on even this much email. How are YOU, in your soul, your heart? Should I call you, or would that be too weird? I want you to have the best of everything, spiritual, mental, physical. What a fight you are in, I should send you something in camoflague, a helmet or something….

I love you always, forever, this minute and every minute there is. XOXOXOXO

I will hope every minute of every day that you got that one, that you felt how much I loved you, that after that, when he took over the email and started the process of ending it all you still had that one in your heart.

Two months ago today. Just yesterday. A hundred years ago.

It was really two months ago the morning of the seventh that I found out. It was five minutes ago. It was something I saw on television once that upset me. It was something that happened years and years ago.

When we went to see your mom, she told me that your death date was the seventh, because you died after midnight. She believes you were fighting it. I think he miscalculated; your lungs were shot and you didn’t breathe in as much of it as he and Ruby. It doesn’t matter, really, except it’s in my head forever.

It’s been two months. I hate that I go on, I’m glad I can, I don’t want to, I must and will. It is every contradictory piece of existence that can be gathered into one space. I know you’ll never email me again; I know that I’ll wake up any minute and you’ll be sending me something silly and asking how to get the child to stop shouting, do they all have hearing problems? I will reply, “Yes. They all shout like you are stone deaf and all you can do is keep saying, ’stop shouting at me, I’m right here’ until they are distracted by something shiny.”

I wear something of yours nearly every day. I wrap you over me because I cannot, ever, touch you. I cannot hold your hand, so I wear your tights. I cannot hug you or Ruby, so I wear the dinosaur skirt. I try on the collars and wear the beaded one because I can’t write to you later to tell you how Dia de los Muertos went and how many purses I sold. You’re here. You’re gone.

Two months. A minute. An eternity.