No Words … (well, it’s me, so, a few) … (hundred)

You’d think I’d find this funny by now, right?

Because I’m fucking crazy. I can’t even give the details. Today, however, I am at the gym. Still having vertigo. So, an hour on elliptical. Fine. Move to recumbent bike, long about minute 33 (lol) I am watching Venus Williams lose at Wimbledon and it is making me sad and all of a fucking goddamn sudden I realize my sister died eight months ago and I have a ridiculous breakdown, start heaving on the stupid machine, I have to run to the bathroom — or, well, stagger, trying to seem normal — I’m insane. This is what I did with my aunt. And Steve. And Allen. I was FINE FINE FINE until like nine months later and all of a sudden — BANG BANG THEY’RE DEAD.

I don’t believe in love anymore. Not really. And, you know, some days … I think in some ways I have spent most of my life doing things in an effort to please people who don’t exist anymore … or, never really did … my youth was spent living in a family that circled around a phantom, my absent father, and it was his disappearance and subsequent martyrdom that imbedded in me my ideas about “Men” — he drove into that telephone pole, everyone circled around the myth of him, and I, pre-verbal, learned that Love equaled Absence.

It was an easy leap to become a rabid Roman Catholic child, determined to become a religious servant and dedicate my life to the good works of — another myth, this time, a trinity. Escaped that early on, never made it to confirmation because I knew what I was, and in my early adolescence I fell for Heathcliff, of course, Wuthering Heights, what else?

The romance about running away, about the people you cannot have, a story around which I managed to build my entire life. To. This. Day. I am still missing Heathcliff. But things keep going. Don’t they? Damn fucking right they do.

And every empty liaison with another someone who is lying to any number of someones — me included — although, by another name — but, a Charlie is a Sebastian is a Cyril is a Ryan is a Rose (but never Mama) — every one is punishment for not saving him when I had the chance. But I didn’t. And so, I’d be alone. I was alone. Always alone. I WAS GREAT AT IT.

Because I couldn’t possible — no, not another one, like my father and that idiot Heathcliff who was so tortured about who he was and how he felt he hid inside — HE HID and he drank himself into oblivion. I haven’t the balls for that. So, I’ll just drink enough to land me somewhere with someone who doesn’t exist except for being on the other end of beating me to death. Happy Endings all around. Elegies.

Don’t worry. No one will ever know.

I was an actor once. For 53 years.

And I wish that I believed in heaven … or something … because I would like to see some of these people again … the ones I made up and am making up now.

I miss you every day.

Oh well, it’s always the leaving isn’t it … all that looking back … all that looking back …



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