My boyfriend did not die in 1991. I told a lie and it turned into a fact, forever repeated in my official biography. He died on Christmas Day, 1990, when his family disconnected the mechanical breathing machine. He was a composer in the school of music. We were working on a piece for voice and strings. I liked writing the words under the whole notes, hyphenating them to make them last. I liked sitting on the bed in his apartment, writing on the sheet musicâbigger paper, thicker, how it sounded when it fell to the floor when we got tired. It was winter break, friends in town, we hopped from party to party, catching up but separately. It was late, the night was clear, the roads were empty. The four of them were sober, the driver in the other car was not. I was a few miles away, in a bar, waiting. When the bar closed, I left him an angry message for standing me up. A few hours later, a friend called and told me. He suggested I break into the apartment and start removing things before the family arrived. For several minutes I didnât understand, thenâevidence. He hadnât told his family and it didnât seem right to tell them now, to suggest that they didnât really know him. I drove in the darkness between the accident and dawn. I climbed through the window. I couldnât figure which things looked suspicious and which things would be missed. I was sloppy, rushed. I grabbed the wrong sheet music. It was a piece that had already been performed. A few days after Christmas there was a memorial. I sat in the back. As part of his speech, his father mentioned the missing music and made an appeal for its return. I couldnât give it back. On New Yearâs Eve, in a black velvet jacket, at a party in the lobby of a downtown hotel, with a drink in each handâone for him, one for meâI kept asking where he was, if anyone had seen him. I had his passport in my back pocket. I shouldnât have taken that either. It was the only picture of him I could find.
Oct 28, 2024
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This early draft i started writing in 2023 about my observations of a couple of close family members
The events I describe occurred in late 2022 and Jim ended up passing away from complications of his alcoholism in January 2023 (his death convinced my own father to quit drinking). Jim taught me how to shoot and his favorite activity was going to the range. We had countless conversations over black coffee about his childhood in Ireland, the writings of James Joyce, and the film adaptations of Tennessee Williamsâs work. He was tremendously charming and had a sharp sense of humor. I was like the daughter he never had and I loved the bastard! May he rest in peace. (Might have to finish writing thisâŠ)
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âCatherine had a mind like a pit bull.  Whatever the obstacle that presented itself in front of her, she would attack it with unrelenting determination.  She always got her way.Â
She had never come across a problem she couldnât fix, except for what her brother had become. Â
Itâs not like she had a lot of money, but she felt it was her duty to help her brother.  She went into thousands of dollars of debt procuring for him new furniture that would hopefully give him a new lease on life: a tasteful grey tweed three-seater sofa; a cozy armchair with a matching footstool befitting a family patriarch; a mid-century modern wooden coffee table; an oversized gold tripod lamp with a barrel shade.  Â
She felt she could trigger a powerful change if she could just replace the trappings of his old life which were so loaded with bad memories â memories from before, in the blink of an eye, it had became apparent to her that Jim was in his final death spiral.  If life looked normal, life could become normal.
Denial is a powerful drug, almost as powerful as the liter of Fireball Jim would drink every day, metered out and portioned into little airline-sized bottles so he could retain some semblance of control.  He would hide them in his dresser drawers, outside amongst his tools on the front porch, in the kitchen cabinets, under the bathroom sink. Â
She would discover them time and time again, after he had promised to her that he would stop.  She would confront him with the evidence each time he betrayed her.  If she could just make him feel an appropriate amount of shame, he would surely see the error of his ways.
He had to be drunk all day every day, or he would get the DTs like he had before.  He couldnât take time off of work to go to rehab, he said; he had already been given a special work-from-home accommodation and was still on the verge of being fired for absenteeism.  And plus, he was running out of days of covered inpatient rehabilitation treatment under Medicare.â
May 14, 2024
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I called up my 99-year-old grandmother the other day.Â
âHello?â she said.
âHey Grandma, itâs William. I missed your call last night. Is everything okay? How are you?â I said.
âOh hi William. Yes. Iâm fine. Thank youâ she replied.Â
Her voice sounded dazed and soft. She held back her usual grandmotherly enthusiasm and silliness in favor of a more direct candor. It was around 9:30 in the morning. My phone call must have woken her up. She seemed both awake and asleep. She began speaking, âI just had the strangest dream. It was my 100th birthday and a news crew was there waiting outside my door when I woke up. They had cameras and lights in my face and everyone was on the street cheering. Anderson Cooper was there and he congratulated me. He looked into my eyes and stuck a microphone in my face and the cameras were rolling and everything. And everyone I ever knew was there. They looked at me and cheered and sang. Frank Sinatra was there and he sang âThe Way You Look Tonightâ to me and spun me around the front entrance of my house. Right in front of everyone. And Buddy Hackett was there. And he cracked jokes and made everyone laugh. He said he remembered me from high school in Brooklyn and that I was always top of the class. And The Righteous Brothers. They were there too. They had their suits buttoned all the way to the top and their hair slicked back real nice. And they looked right out of a magazine. They sang âUnchained Melodyâ to me and your grandfather. He was there too. He looked plump and his face rosy. His hair was big and bushy and he smiled his uneven smile at me. As they played âUnchained Melodyâ he grabbed my hand and we had our first dance again. We swayed back and forth and got married all over again. And he told me he loved me and he always had. He said he was happy about how much life I have lived. And he told me not to be upset about how much he had missed, because he hadnât really missed it. And my parents were there too. Carmelo and Maria. And they looked on and smiled. They still didnât understand the words of the song, but they knew what it meant. And my uncle Zitzi. The bricklayer. He was there too. Looking the same as he always had. Big and burly, with arms like tree trunks, just like I remembered him. He held out his arms and the kids swung on them like monkeys. He told me he was proud of me. Of who I became. Of how strong I was. He said he was proud to have laid all those bricks. Each and every one. Because it helped feed us kids during the Depression when nobody else could. Because each brick made him stronger and gave him meaning. And everything Iâd ever cooked was there. Every meatball and rice ball Iâd ever formed in my hands and fried for my grandkids. For my kids. For everyone. Every piece of pasta Iâd ever boiled. Every crab and shrimp, squid and clam, mussel and scallop. It formed a mountain that could touch the clouds. It surrounded us with gluten, red meat, shellfish, and tomatoes. A monument to the generations that left my house full and picking their teeth. It made the decades of burns and cuts long healed feel healed again. And Joe Torre was there, with Jorge Posada and Mariano Rivera. They were in pinstripes and they forgave me for all the things I shouted at the TV. They forgave me for calling them bums. They thanked me for cheering and said I helped them win each game. And there were slot machines. Slot machines just like they had in Atlantic City. They were everywhere and their big levers were all pulled down. Every slot machine I had ever played was there and this time they all came up cherries. Cherries, three across on every machine. They were all jackpots and the change poured out of them like a geyser. Every single one was a winner. Everyone was there and everyone won. Can you believe it? Everyone. All of them were there in front of me. Looking at me on my 100th birthday. Everyone was there and everyone had seen how old Iâd gotten. It was a nightmare.â
Oct 17, 2024
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"October 17, 1946
DâArline,
I adore you, sweetheart.
I know how much you like to hear that â but I donât only write it because you like it â I write it because it makes me warm all over inside to write it to you.
It is such a terribly long time since I last wrote to you â almost two years but I know youâll excuse me because you understand how I am, stubborn and realistic; and I thought there was no sense to writing.
But now I know my darling wife that it is right to do what I have delayed in doing, and that I have done so much in the past. I want to tell you I love you. I want to love you. I always will love you.
I find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are dead â but I still want to comfort and take care of you â and I want you to love me and care for me. I want to have problems to discuss with you â I want to do little projects with you. I never thought until just now that we can do that. What should we do. We started to learn to make clothes together â or learn Chinese â or getting a movie projector. Canât I do something now? No. I am alone without you and you were the âidea-womanâ and general instigator of all our wild adventures.
When you were sick you worried because you could not give me something that you wanted to and thought I needed. You neednât have worried. Just as I told you then there was no real need because I loved you in so many ways so much. And now it is clearly even more true â you can give me nothing now yet I love you so that you stand in my way of loving anyone else â but I want you to stand there. You, dead, are so much better than anyone else alive.
I know you will assure me that I am foolish and that you want me to have full happiness and donât want to be in my way. Iâll bet you are surprised that I donât even have a girlfriend (except you, sweetheart) after two years. But you canât help it, darling, nor can I â I donât understand it, for I have met many girls and very nice ones and I donât want to remain alone â but in two or three meetings they all seem ashes. You only are left to me. You are real.
My darling wife, I do adore you.
I love my wife. My wife is dead.
Rich.
PS Please excuse my not mailing this â but I donât know your new address."
Richard Feynman fell in love with Arline Greenbaum at the age of 13, and they soon began dating. The couple planned to get married, but a few years later, Arline was diagnosed with tuberculosis. The disease did not affect Feynman's choice; they got married and lived together for some time. Arline died at the age of 25. The letter was written a year and a half after her death and was first made public 43 years later, after Feynman himself had passed away.
I donât know why I like it; itâs just pure pain.
Jun 10, 2024
Top Recs from @magdalena2
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such an incredible book about what makes us human
Oct 28, 2024
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i am from the prospect park splash pad, from annie (1982) and kit kittredge. i am from see you in the morning and wemberly worried and the kissing hand. from bob dylan sung by my grandad, to patches sewn dedicated and delicately on stuffed animals, short films, and bathrooms. from too much too young too soon too loud too much. from fevers and america. i am from cancer and i am from the dinner table. Born to teachers and authors and music, out of love and out of the sperm bank. annie's mac and cheese, and tuesday playdates, and the act of being over dramatic. i am from the way that i see my grandma's face in mine as i put half of my hair in a claw clip, and from good luck charlie, and from everyone that i have ever met.
Oct 28, 2024
My favorite perfume of all time, perfect amount of sweet & warm & comforting
Oct 28, 2024