Slings, Arrows, Outrageous Fortune

Woke at 2AM from a dream about my old friend Sean. We were in Cambridge’s once grungy Central Square where, post Mary Chung dinner, we hit The Middle East for a show. This little nocturne featured a beloved, 10 years gone pal plus full hearing and mobility.

Did I wake up wistful? Oh babies, yeah—most def!

Somehow this sweet, melancholy tinged dream segued into a highlights reel of egregious and embarrassing moments from my 20s. Ouch!

My idiocies and rat-shit behavior can be laid at the foot of the fresh rare, banjaxing, incurable disease diagnosis and then having my very first brain surgery at 23. Actions explained, not justified or defended. Doesn’t excuse or undo anything though. //shrugs// I’ve certainly learned from my off-the-rails exploits (and sincerely apologized to all wounded parties) but I still need to figure out how to forgive myself.

How do other people do this? Have you been able to forgive yourself for past transgressions?

I was reading a post about Joss Whedon—once hailed as a feminist hero, now exposed as a self-absorbed, thoughtless, often cruel and otherwise tremendously flawed human. The story’s author gives more than a two dimensional portrait of Whedon and his atrocious actions—not excusing him but providing a wider view. Whedon takes issue with the wording used by some of his accusers but mostly allows that everything happened, pretty much, as claimed—more or less. Yeah, there's lots of waffling and hedging.

E.g., quoting from a production of Richard III he’d recently see:

Alas, I rather hate myself
For hateful deeds committed by myself.
I am a villain. Yet I lie. I am not.

So, Whedon’s a rotted dickhead—an incredibly rich, conflicted and talented rotted dickhead. Also, he's human…like me. If he can give himself absolution, surely I can too.

By the by, Buffy, Angel and Firefly are still some my favorite teevee shows. And the Alien installment closest to my heart? Alien: Resurrection.

In this Age of Google, where we can learn/know all about the artists whose work we enjoy, I'm kind of cool with just appreciating the art. 

Hurrah for us still sitting here!

For Dan, Kevin and Sean. For all of us

We try to keep Time linear
By numbering our years,
By celebrating annually
On our rickety web of biers.

“Hurrah for us still sitting here!”
And so we all partake
We give ourselves one more slice —
Paper thin! — of birthday cake.
~ The Amazing Bob

Why am I so damn lucky?

Yeah, yeah sure — I’ve got the nasty-ass, putz-faced, abominable and otherwise vile Nf2. I’m deaf now and have horrifically wonky balance (etc., etc.) BUT I’m alive. Kevin, Sean and Dan are not.

I’m living, breathing, practically effervescing with sparkling buoyancy...and shit.

How is it that I’m so damn lucky?

Dunno but I’ll take it.

I’ve been feeling all kvetch-y since my latest trike roll? Warum? Apart from the road rash and aches, I feel like a dimwitted moran for forgetting to brake on that hill. Sheesh! I went in for knee physical therapy yesterday and the very nice lady told me that I need to be checked by my doc and submit an “OK to rock ‘n’ roll” before I can resume rehab action.

Sigh. Yesterday I was feeling all “Ah, I shouldn’t have even mentioned the roll! I should’ve just gone through with the PT. NOW, I’ll have this stupid unnecessary delay!”

Impatience? Yeah — that’s my middle name.

This morning I’m thinking the lovely PT lady was right. While laying on the floor with Rocco (who’s now coming up INTO the kitchen for brekkie — PROGRESS!!!) I felt a pain, a twinge in my ribs and one in my left cheekbone. Christ, have I cracked a rib and more? Such annoyance.

I don’t have time for aches and pains!

What’s the lesson I need to take from Thursday’s ill fated ride? If I’m going to trike after I’ve gotten unhappy news (in this case — Dan’s death) then I best stick to straight paths. No hills. When my mind’s all preoccupied I seem to forget about that silly yet oh-so-useful invention known as brakes.

Coco

If I’m gonna trike the Hebrides (and I AM!) I NEED to be mindful or, at least, less mindless.

Got it, Donna?

Got it.

Rocco

Good.
So then, this morning I’m celebrating Rocco’s increased indoor comfort levels. He hung out up here for awhile after his morning meal AND Coco didn’t attack him either. YEA! I’m lifting my cuppa joe to Gaston who showed up for a meal. Yes, our loud boy, absent all summer, was back this morning and looked fine, fancy and just chockfull of healthfulness. And to Gus who will soon be an indoor boy at Jen and Oni’s.

By the by, Oni’s put his foot down. Gus is the second porch dweller of mine that they’ve adopted — Skitter was the first. He says “No more.” He was quite firm about that. Maybe.

Perhaps I’ll go for a wee ride later. Just an incline-free route. I promise.

“Hurrah for us still sitting here!”
And so we all partake
We give ourselves one more slice —
Paper thin! — of birthday cake.

It’s Never Too Late

What a spectacularly huge load of diuretic armadillo feces!

It’s too late for me to reignite my friendship with Sean Vigle. He’s gone and I’m angry as all hell at myself for not acting sooner. Of course, had I known Sean’s expiration date, I surely would have.

Should've checked the back of the package, eh?

Here’s what I’m taking away from this, my lesson learned -- since I can’t seem to find my goddamned crystal ball (so I can always anticipate tragedy), ACT NOW before it is too late.

I’ll be getting in contact with old friends who I’ve not seen in a long time. No, I’m not planning to invade and take over their lives like some crazed, needy wild woman.

Oh là là! Em...nein.

I want to connect once again with Greg and Karin who live in Pasco, Washington where they are both instructors at Columbia Basin College. Greg and I used to have studio space in the same Somerville building. We have similar art sensibilities -- we get each other’s work. His wife Karin is awesome plus -- interesting, mega smart, engaged with the world and warm. Very warm.

I miss them both.

I want to be in touch with Burne again. We spent a lot of time together back when I was volunteering for her organization, The Massachusetts Center for Native American Awareness. She was warm, supportive, wise and a lot of fun too. We took swing dancing classes together.

I miss her.

There are others. So many wonderful people pass through our lives.

 Happily, bittersweetly, Sean's brother Greg and I have just re-hooked up. We originally met after Sean moved on to LA and Greg had arrived here for school. He lives in Kentucky now -- we won't be sitting together, raising multiple, innumerable sad, wistful, celebratory toasts to Sean BUT there's always email.

Thanks to the tragically unhip Facebook I’ve been able to know and visit with pals I’d not seen in ages. Of course it’s not the same as real face time but, all the same, it’s good. It’s something.

How about this:

you can’t always assume it’s too late
or
SOMEtimes it’s not too late.

ACT NOW before it’s too late! 

Also, as my my cousin Gary always says: Enjoy every sandwich.

Yup.

Mix Tapes

In my 20s and 30s, like a ton of other folk, I made cassettes of tunes for my good pals and they for me. Mix tapes weren’t just about sharing fav songs and bands; they were a kind of communication, a way to get to know one another on a deeper level. It was a way to share joy, inspiration and, sometimes, things that couldn’t be said aloud.

After my hearing went south (and why does that phrase ‘went south’ always mean broken, FUBAR or vanished?) I collected all my tapes and CDs. I put them aside so that just the very sight of them wouldn’t depress me while I struggled through the early days of audio deprivation. 

I’d be looking at them, screaming my frustrations -- ‘the music is right there yet I can’t experience it. ‘the fuck!!!?’  I kept 'thinking' (rational thought not being in evidence at the time) that, if I stared at them mean and nasty enough, they'd cough up the glorious dazzlement they carried out of fear of my monstrous anger.

You can see why I had to stow them, eh? It was for TAB's sake really. The yelling got to be a bit painful, I guess.

During my current ongoing studio clean-a-thon, the CDs and tapes resurfaced. I can look at them now and not rage. Much. Wistfulness is more present now.

I found all the tapes that Sean Vigle made for me. There’re tunes from his bands Boo Radley, Jr., Erector Set, Beef and The Verbs.

I remember the singer from Erector Set’s voice -- it was like dark honey mixed with espresso, gravel and popcorn. It was alizerine crimson, raw sienna and ultramarine blue. Hypnotic and energizing at the same time. Jesus, I could live an entire life within one refrain.

And yeah, mega awesome drum work. Of course and DUH-HUH!

I look at the tapes he made me and see the witty, funny titles and the wild tunes he recorded for me. There was Public Enemy next to Urban Dance Squad followed by The Beach Boys and then Joe Strummer and The Polysocialites. He gave me Romanian folksongs matched with Tibetan bells and so much more.

The one I haven’t found yet is the tape of Christmas music. He and I had ‘argued’ (discussed passionately?) the whole Christmas carol/tune-age thing. My very strong feeling was that it all sucked giant elephant wang and I did NOT want to hear a bit of it any more, EVAH! (Got my wish, eh) Sean calmly, rationally allowed that there was some very good stuff out there and he’d prove it to me.

And he did. I’d never heard of any of the musicians or songs on the tape, and can’t bring any names to mind now, but every last one was gorgeous. I don’t believe there were lyrics; it was all instrumental -- acoustic guitars, keyboards, soft percussion. Stunningly gorgeous.

I remember listening to it over and over, the entire way back, via Peter Pan, from Hoosick Falls  (three and a half hours by car, eight and a half by bus) through the Green Mountains of Vermont.

Spectacularly beautiful -- the music and the snow falling gently on the wooded highways of Southern Vermont with the lush, graceful tunes, perfect for the season, playing in my ears.

I still despised the over-polished, over-played crapoli that was piped into shop sound systems everywhere but now I knew, not all Christmas music is utter shite.

I see Sean in these collections and can’t believe he’s not here anymore.

Erector Set -- Inside Out

Foraging for Sean

 

Still no sign of that painting of Sean Vigle. It was him, standing in his black leather car coat, looking like such a hard man, on a brilliant cadmium yellow background.

 

Amazingly, in this very small house, there are still more places to hunt.

 

Nonetheless, I’m fixin’ to start a new painting or three of him. First though, I need to run into Utrecht’s for more canvas and large sheets of nubbly, rough watercolor paper.

 

I was trying to recall if there was any particular reason, beyond life’s simple, crazy chaos, that we lost touch.

 

Maybe.

 

His girlfriend at the time, while smart,  pleasant and stunningly beautiful, was the jealous sort. She had no worries from me -- Sean and I were platonic friends and, HELLO, THE Amazing Bob! But I understood. I was wickedly, irrationally jealous back then too. I became a snarling and stupendously neurotic, whirling dervish of lunacy if any girl strayed too close to MY Amazing Bob.

 

So, I stepped back -- stopped calling and writing.

 

Mostly though, our out-of-touchness was a by-product of la vida loca.

 

While foraging yesterday I found more letters and postcards from him. Sean used to send these 3”x5” cards with Xerox copies of funny, interesting bits pasted to the front. When picking up the mail, after a long day of press room toil, I felt like I was finding hip, witty, little exclamation point bouquets.

 

He sent the one, at right, during his LA years.

 

The pics on the contact print were taken during his Brooklyn span.

 

Today, I am so very glad to be a pack rat.



Sean Carl Vigle

Yesterday I started on a Clean and Toss Crap project in my studio. The idea was to get rid of some of the mega ton of paper, pics and paintings that I truly do NOT need to hang onto.

Here’s the prob with that -- as I go through bags and boxes, I find cherished memories. Sure, I bin a bunch but I also find such a huge amount that I want/NEED to keep. More than I expect. A lot more.

There’s the thank you note that Celeste sent The Amazing Bob and I after her first big surgery (she has Nf2 also), my angel Helen’s third grade report card and certificate of outstanding achievement and a pic of TAB from the very beginning of our courtship. I also found a long letter, sent to me by an old friend.

Sean Vigle and I were both very much interested in cars, music and books. Conversations with him about those and so many other things were just a zillion kinds of engaging, inspiring and awesome.

I made a painting or two of him way back then too. One of which stands out in my head like a beacon. Sadly, I’ve not found it in my stacks yet but will keep looking. If it’s gone on walkabout, I can always do another. In fact, I believe I will anyway.

Through his moves from Boston to LA and then Brooklyn, Sean and I stayed in touch with phone calls and snail mail. Then life became smoke and we fell out of contact.

Memories of him randomly popped into my head last September. Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter were searched -- nada. Next, I engaged my fearsome google-fu and found him. Afraid to contact, figuring he'd probably not remember me, I didn't.

Silly me. Even if he had forgotten me (and, honestly now, who could? I make an impression like a rhino falling on a bone china teacup...but in a good way. Right?), I suspect it’s the rare person who doesn’t enjoy a no-strings-attached ‘hello and how the fuck are ya’ from the past.

‘Hey Donna,

Nice talking to you on the ‘pay for correspondence network.’ Makes you wonder about how many basic problems in the world could be solved if long distance phone calls were free. Then again, think of all the additional problems that could occur...

I suppose the main weird incentive to write and call this time is the abundance of Citroën material I have in my collection of books...’

This is the beginning of the letter I found yesterday. No date on it but, I imagine, it’s from the LA years. Maybe. I was/am really into Citroëns (particularly the 2CV) and Minis (the original model, not those fat fucks on the road now). He’d always send me pics from Mini races he’d been to or Citroëns he’d seen in passing

Again I fell into Wistful City and decided ‘this time I will contact Sean.’ I went upstairs, ratcheted up the google-fu and found a link much faster than I’d expected.

He’s gone -- no cause of death given.

I’m in a bit of shock and that feels funny since I’d not seen or been in contact with Sean since his Brooklyn days.

There’s a big ass hole in my heart today.