Unresolved Issues

Dear L,

I sent you a letter last year, after August. When we had decided to keep being friends.

I asked about what you knew about your diagnosis, about yourself.  If you were violent, what I should expect.  All sorts of things.

You never answered me.

When I try to press you about hanging out in person (vs endless emails) you seem to get angry.  Yet you ask for my continued patience.  (Believe me, I am patient)

You seem to hang out with other people, at least that's what you tell me.  I get mad that you don't hang out with me (because that's what I think of as a friendship).  There have been LOTS of emails and frankly, the make me crazy.  I'm a girl and think talking is of primary importance.  Plus, it makes me check my emails every few minutes, because if I get you in a communicative mood, then you'll send a bunch of emails back.

I keep wanting to write to you, but it seems like I'd be begging for something I don't even like.

You texted me when I was in Boston.  In December.  You were thinking about your own death.  Again, you wouldn't let me talk to you.  You were NOT alone, and I'm pretty sure you had some alcohol.

I think I'm someone you talk to when you are Manic.

I think you are waiting for a time in your life when you can talk to people in a mania, or a subdued mania. I think you are waiting to get back on track somehow.  My persistence has been based on an idea that brief interactions can help you get back on track somehow.  But now I see that it's impossible.  And I'll wait through the summer.  (We didn't talk last summer, after a fight)  I'll wait forever.  But I don't know what I'm waiting for.  I don't know who you are.  I've been waiting to get to know you.  Maybe this is you.  Maybe if I didn't need anything from you ever, it would be easier (but what is the point of a polite friendship like that? We were honest with each other)

Everytime I think about you, I end up in this spiral.  How I should be nice to you, how I get a tremendous sense of PEACE when I think about you.  How this all seems unfinished.  And then I think about how you don't let me in, how you were open once and now you are closed and cold.  And how you said how you don't like being cold.

I need to stay away from you. There's nothing we can give each other from this friendship.  (Other than neighborly friendship and treasures of being humans on this earth.  Laughter, conversation, exchange of smiles, etc.)

Little Green Cars and "Devil in the White City"  (You are charming, but you said you have a "Dark Soul".  There's a reason girls get attracted to danger)

The National-Trouble Will Find Me

Kid,
When we were in my room tonight, cutting out paper dragons, we were listening to the radio.  WFUV.  They are doing a series about Mentally Ill people, "Striking a Chord" against misunderstanding.

I tried to ask if you had heard about it yet.  You said "Yes, I have a friend with that. He has diabetes".

I couldn't explain it further.  It's still hard for me to explain anything beyond "people get a cold in their brain".  Maybe I will tell you about our neighbor.  How people get moody.  And mad and sad and angry and lonely.

And how we still need to love them.  Because it is sometimes impossible for people to stop loving people.  Like when it's your mom.  Or your neighbor.


Lyrics, from their album "Trouble Will Find Me"

"This Is The Last Time"

Oh, when I lift you up
You feel like a hundred times yourself
I wish everybody knew
What's so great about you

Oh, but your love is such a swamp
You don't think before you jump
And I said I wouldn't get sucked in
I...

This is the last time

Oh, don't tell anyone I'm here
I've got time and no one near
I was thinking that you'd call somebody
Closer to you

Oh, but your love is such a swamp
You're the only thing I want
And I said I wouldn't cry about it
I...

This is the last time
This is the last time

We were so under the brine
We were so vacant and kind
We were so under the brine
We were so vacant

We were so under the brine
We were so out of our minds
We were so under the brine
We were so vacant

Oh, when I lift you up
You feel like a hundred times yourself
I wish everybody knew
What's so great about you

Oh, but your love is such a swamp
You don't think before you jump
And I said I wouldn't get sucked in
I...

I won't be vacant anymore
I won't be waitin' anymore
I won't be vacant anymore
I won't be waitin' anymore
I won't be vacant anymore
I won't be waitin' anymore
I won't be vacant anymore
I won't be waitin' anymore

Jenny, I am in trouble
Can't get these thoughts out of me
Jenny, I'm seeing double
I know this changes everything

Jenny, I am in trouble
Can't get these thoughts out of me
Jenny, I'm seeing double
I know this changes everything

Brief Visits

Yesterday, I saw R for a few minutes.

I pass by your window everyday.

And when you leave (whenever you do) you pass by mine.

I heard someone on the radio today, who has a "Bipolar Diagnosis".  He said how people around him are confused.

I am.

And I WILL smile when I see you!

(I still want to get through to you.  You are a nice person.  I don't understand what it is you are fighting. Why you seem to be fighting me.  Or yourself.  I'm on your side.  It will always be alright.)

I miss you.

Library Tuesday:Babysitter Sitting on the Baby

Dear Little Boy,

You saw a poster with an actress holding "Light in the Attic" and noticed how funny it was that there was a drawing of a house on a guy's forehead.  We were sitting in the Non-Fiction, fun science book section, and I saw an image I was so familiar with, that I had actually taken it for granted.

We were in the Ft Washington branch (one of the few times we have walked anywhere alone, I just realized.  When your Mom was around, we did a lot of walking around the neighborhood.)

So I ran over to the kids section we were just in, where you found all the Cat Power novels. I had recognized it out of the corner of my eye, but it could be just an illusion.  I read one or two poems to you.  And we both laughed.  Especially the one about the Babysitter who thinks you are supposed to sit on the Baby.  You pointed out the feet sticking out from under her butt.

You got a 6 books (5 cat ones, 1 Bunnicula) and 3 DVDs, all Pokemon.  I got 8 books, some in Spanish, like Dr Seuss.  Some science-y ones too.  We need to do more science experiments.  Especially if your Dad is gonna be a science teacher.

One of the best things about being friends with someone is getting to share all your favorite stuff with them, to introduce it to them.  You get to experience it again for the first time.  Like the Monkees.  Like Shel Silverstein.  Like reading and telling stories and jokes.  (You called my name over and over and over again when I was in the bathroom, and when I got out, I did it to you too.  "Hey, hey, hey, hey....  Hi"  I guess we have a shared joke now)

We read a bunch of them when we got home.  And had pizza, I was really hungry, too.  Fun just hanging out with each other.  I told Jin that he had a nice smile when we saw him on 180th st on the way home.  You said, "I never hear anyone saying that someone has a nice smile,"  I hope I'm not teaching you to talk to strangers.  I think you were appreciating an act of goodwill on my part.  Simple. Beautiful.

(Later, after you had gone to bed and your dad and I both read Tintin to you.  I was thinking about what a lovely day I had had.  He asked if you "pressed my buttons", I think because we aren't related and I get to be a grownup, but also a friend, maybe a sister, definitely a roommate. we get to just hang out.  You are honestly the best, most honest relationship I have in my life right now.

When you were probably asleep and the house was quiet, I heard a story on "This American Life".  About a girl who grew up in a house where her father would get drunk and abusive and violent.  And to this day he denies it all.  I'm thinking that this "sickness in the head" involves a lot of forgetting.

I'm thinking here of the Grown Man.

I haven't heard much from him lately.  A weird set of drunk texts before New years, a quick email.  I still don't know if it's him not having enough confidence to talk to me, or if he is genuinely afraid to see anyone for any reason (especially when it might involve becoming friends with them).  Sometimes, I think I should be relieved that I've dodged a bullet.

I'm writing this to you because I think we are both in the weird place of loving people who have a mental illness.  I think that your Mom and him, my friend, (you said his name, his real name, not his nickname, Superman, a few days ago) have the same disease.  He told me his diagnosis.  Mixed Bipolar. I don't think your Mom has an official diagnosis yet.  Either way, they need to be careful.  And so do we.  They are both beautiful people who have moments of ugly.  Your Mom was really depressed and had to go away to deal with it all.

My friend, I think, hides, when it comes on.  But I think he hides when it isn't there too.  Just to be safe. He lives down the hall from us and I don't know what to do to make friends with him any more than I have already.  (I try to tell myself that he's not interested in my friendship.  Which is fine, and if I sensed that were the case, I'd leave it.  But when he talks to me, he opens up.  But he hasn't lately.  So I'm keeping my distance. And I'll be happy to, for the rest of my life. But if he needs me as a friend, I'm here.  I wish I could go back to being friends with your Mom too, because I think she needs a friend.  But she scares me. And I think I've betrayed her deeply.  She'll never forgive me and I've seen her angry now. So I can't go back to trusting she won't blow up at me. I need friends who won't do that.)

Do you remember your Mom's birthday last year?  We walked down to Buddha Bar on Broadway and 190th.  You discovered I had a video camera on my phone and took shots of the bar.  You had such energy that you were running back and forth in front of us and at one point, you ran all the way up that steep hill that has the old houses with the bad vinyl siding on them.  The VERY steep hill.  A guy came up behind us and joked with you as you were running and you guys ran up together. And then you ran down.  joyful.  I still remember that.

Maybe that's what else I'm here for.  To remember your memories for you.  Clearly.

"All This Life is a Ghost of You"

Icelandic group "Of Monsters and Men"
http://www.ofmonstersandmen.com/

"Though the truth may vary/
this/
Ship will carry/
Our bodies/
Safe to shore"

Why is Iceland such a glorious place for you?
The last conversation we had, sitting in the car, you told me you were there in summer.  How they had complained of the heat, 72 degrees Farenheit!!
And we both shared a smile.  (I needed it, and you probably did too)

I think you might have taught Philosophy for a summer session.

All those pictures you sent me, when we first started talking.  You had been so quiet, so hard to pin down for a conversation.  But easy enough to see on the street or in the hallway.  We would stop and chat.

And "chat".  (How carefree you looked, going through your mail over the recycling bin.  Right next to each other, the mailroom and the recycling.  Why bring trash into your apartment?)

I was going to ask you right then, almost as a joke, "What lessons has the universe been teaching you lately that you need to teach to me?"  Because we ran into each other so often within one week!

Now I think you are in bed more than you aren't.

(And I don't know what's going on with you, and how we are so different.  Maybe I am the same crazy as you)

==
"King and Lionheart" video

You are the color in my drab lanscape. (Maybe I'll always spell that word wrong)
This opens with people being torn apart.
(Why does the kid, look like the Kid?)
I run and run from the evil bad guys who are always angry.
Somehow some magic appears beneath my feet, and instead of gravity, I run along a temporary glowing dirt bridge.
I run and I run,
but you are crying, locked in a tower that has become a spaceship.
And with all my magic, I am left to run on the ground, trapped by angry bad guys and gravity.
Even though we have been running towards each other this whole time.
(I have faith the blackness covers the future, and that everything turns out well)
==
 There has to be some way we can talk.  Through art.

I think I will send you music.  It worked yesterday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4O1iq3yEqXU

I sent you Mary Wells, you wrote back, "Great stuff." Because you wrote that I "Beat You To the Punch". (And that you had been thinking about me yesterday.  Nothing about how we saw each other.  And I didn't write to you until 10:30.  What were you waiting for?)

Tomorrow, maybe, I can send you "Our Little Talks"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghb6eDopW8I

I miss our little talks.  

Our Eyes Met

Of course, what I am familiar with
is the striving for the thing I cannot grasp
Extending my body fully, extending into the sky, my fingers
Curved like a bow,
The pictures he sent, of Iceland.
Enchanting and glistening like oil paint,
teasing me with their size and their monochrome.
I wanted
I want to capture them
These GRAND landscapes
(lance-capes)
volcanic vistas and waters,
roads, unending on a small large island
I love that I could try to paint them 500 times
and never get them right.
But even the failures could be beautiful.
And so it is with you,
I have tried 500 times with you,
(more maybe, and there will be more in the future)
500 hellos.  
500 gestures, countless, even.
And today our eyes met.
I MISS you.
I was carrying 3 bags and 2 dogs
were trying to trip me.
I walked through OUR courtyard
and you were in your kitchen.
Our eyes met through the gauzy curtain you have.
Did you hate me then?
Did you recognize me?
I would allow myself sadness, or torture,
but it is a dull ache now.

I knew from the beginning that I could never paint Iceland.
And I always knew that we would not have a normal friendship.
That you were not someone I could invite over for Doritos, or I could come over for coffee,
But even the mistakes and failures are beautiful.
I ache for the days of sitting in the car with you
and even, stumbling words, I could make you laugh.
Seeing a carefree smile on your face is like
seeing a picture of a mountain against the clear cold blue sky
and feeling the wind, from a photograph.

I can keep you on a wall, on a shelf,
frozen, hibernation, music held on pause.
But I saw you,
and I know you saw me.
Is this the Bipolar part?
The depressed, scared part that regrets opening up to me during a manic episode?
I know you prefer to keep yourself hidden.
You opened up to me and I saw a treasure.
But now you keep yourself buried.
Send me away if you hate me.
Or send me a message if you can, smuggle it out to me.
As I know you have.
(Here I know I should be careful what I ask for.
But I'd like a conversation too.
Some kind of exchange. Something real time,
in person.
I know it scares you, or that you are hesitant about it
But I don't know why.

"I used to live in West Berlin.  The East Germans called the Wall an "antifaschistische Verteidigungseinrichtung"/"anti-fascist defense installation".  "

in person.
A few months ago, October (really?) you got your phone.
And you emailed me.
You called, and we spoke for 5 minutes.
You said it was something to tell your therapist about.
We haven't spoken much since.
The brunch and the pizza barely count
(I know she must think I'm a bad influence somehow,
that maybe I want something from you, maybe from you both.
Or that I am just plain insane, and better to stay away from)

There must be a few walls between us, literally.
My bedroom wall, then the next apartment, 
the older lady, American, very nice.
Then our dead neighbor,
she must have a few walls and windows.
And then your outside wall.
Maybe 5, not quite as many as 10.
Bigger than the Great Wall of China
"antifaschistische Verteidigungseinrichtung"
and anything in Germany.

I miss you like I miss the Dead.
Like I miss all those friends I loved when I said goodbye
and they rode away from my arms,
never to be seen again.
I never know when you will break through that wall.
Or if I should wait.
I miss you sir,
heal yourself.

I will keep singing to you, even if you can't hear the song.

Through Art

Exploring your feelings through art . . .

If we were talking (that is, if you asked me to coffee), I would talk about this article.

http://theater.nytimes.com/2009/11/12/theater/12greeks.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

About how soldiers attend a reading of Sophocles (who was a General, did you know that?  I just found out.  WOW.) and how it helps them to begin talking about issues.  Especially those who have trouble with talk therapy, and those, whom I would guess, have trouble discussing their own feelings.

Because there's also a movie I want to bring up.  About a main character, who has just come out of a mental health facility, and who is bipolar. (Silver Linings Playbook).  The female character is in mourning for her husband who died.  And she's a little wacky too, but not completely diagnosed.

When they first meet, they have an incredibly open and honest conversation about their medications and issues they are working on.  There was an interview with the director (whose son has mental health issues) and Lopate was saying how both characters have issues relating to society.

I think I was expecting you to keep talking.

I was so glad to see someone who could peel back the mask we all wear (especially in NYC).  I peeled mine back as well.  And I don't like doing that.

I liked who I saw behind your mask.

I miss him.

I still get mad and frustrated and bored and annoyed and lonely and bitter towards you for being so quiet. (Sorry, that's me being a person. And wanting to expect things from you.  Wanting so badly to have you show yourself again.)

Shrug.

Most of the time, I just picture everything in hibernation.  You are up on a shelf like a teddy bear.  (A teddy bear that came to life once upon a time).  I can't expect magic to happen just because I work very hard wishing for it.  There's something about patience.

I'm still here.

And I guess I'll wait until you want to reach out.  However long that takes.  Maybe Spring (it's -4 out right now, in this true January).  Maybe when your new meds even you out.  Maybe after this Depression lifts.  Or maybe never.  (Maybe you are making me the bad guy, or are mad that I responded to you the last time you were in a manic phase, or maybe you've just forgotten about me.  Whatever)

I, myself, am doing well. (Emotionally, anyway).  Keeping myself busy with projects to take over the world.  The good kind of tired that comes from working hard.  (Applying for gigs too)  When the weather is just above freezing, I go out and listen to music (although not tonight, I can't bear to go outside!!!).  Usually I go with friends.  I try to keep a good balance of alone time and people time.

(I try not to write to you too much.  It confuses me.  Sometimes I want you to try harder.  Sometimes I know you can't.  Or you don't want to. Or whatever.  I just know that I don't want to send you letters, not knowing how you'll react to them at all.  If you'll like them, or just delete them or if they would make you feel terrible somehow.  So I'll just keep talking to you here.)

Just so you know I haven't forgotten about you.

(I haven't done a book or anything for you in a long time.  Maybe for R's Mom.  I need to do something for someone, or for myself.  Art takes the place of actual emotion)

Invisible Man

(To the grown man)

This is how I would like to be friends:

I'd like for you to abandon your self righteous work ethic when it comes to moments of importance.  Instead of getting up to work at 7am, I'd like you to invite me over for coffee.  (You work from home and we're neighbors, this isn't so wild a theory).

And a little kindness on your part, when I am struggling, will go a long way.  And maybe you'll feel a little more secure with yourself.  And this Bipolar thing.  (I know it's this HUGE thing for you, a mountain you face everyday.  But, creep over it, step by step).

From personal experience, I know that getting into positive habits are good things.  (Here I'm thinking of the habit of you talking to people, like me)

Of course, I doubt everything.  I certainly have little to no faith that we will ever be any kind of friends.  (I think maybe you changed who you think I am, when you told me about your diagnosis.  I hate you for that.  For opening up and then staying away.  I give you the benefit of the doubt because of your diagnosis.  But I hate you for it too.  For holding out your hand to me and then disappearing into thin air.)

So the only way I can deal with you is erase you from my life.  Not think of you.  Sometimes, I am even good at this. Not now, not today.

Today I want to call you and ask if I can come over for coffee because I want to cry.  Because it's cold outside and I'm trying to look forward to a day in Brooklyn.  Because I have a bump and I have no health insurance.  I want to cry because I am a hopeless mess and I need a shoulder.  I want to cry because there are so many beautiful things in my life just beneath the surface and there is a huge layer of ice between us.

I want to cry because I miss you.  That man who was excited about his leather bound OED.  Who hugged me. Who is afraid.

Is this your version of Bipolarity?  The extremes of opening up and then shutting down?  How much of this is your own personality?  (I am waiting because you told me to be patient, but I think you have forgotten about me)

Drunk Texting

So you wanted to reach out a few days after Xmas. You gave me a present before I left, so I'm guessing we're still "friends".  Even though we haven't connected since we talked after Sandy Hook.  (Boy, was I a mess)

I'm 200 miles away.  Watching "The Way We Were".  And you start texting me.

8:26pm
"Have a good new year.""With plenty of health."
"And warmth and good work and all good things."

8;53pm
"It's hard to find one's calling"
"Death, as I have learned, presses the question."
"Particularly our own deaths"

I tried to call.

"Ar dinner,  we are"
"Reverse word order"

"RToward the end of his life, Charlie Parker went to morgues to look at people.  He said he was "looking for a friend".  He would ride the A-Train for hours and hours"
"You are confusing him with John Coltrane")
Relatively okay.) (Response to R's mom)

10:20
"I am a dark soul.  Be careful"

No matter what I write to you, you are not responding to me.  I'm guessing (from experience) when you write to me on Fridays or Saturdays, that you have been drinking.

I tried sending you pictures of art I saw on New Year's Eve (I was wandering around Northampton)  No response.

I wrote to you, a week later, literally just "Hi!"

You sent back an email saying that you were going out of the country.  That day.  Which means that your plans have changed and that someone's mother is sicker than you realized.  It also means that maybe the jet lag is going to kick in like it did last time.  You won't be able to sleep for 48 hours, or longer.  And that makes anyone crazy. ("The difference between neurosis and psychosis is 2 hours of sleep").

I don't understand what you are trying to tell me.  And why you can't talk to me during the day, normally.  And I wish you could explain yourself.

And I'm not expecting that you will ever talk to me again.  (And I'm okay with that)

The Definition of Love

Dear Grown Man,

I remember when I was a young teen, after my Father passed away.  Trying to figure out a definition of Love.  Magazines and girls at school were going on about it, romance and sex and “the right one”.  There was also friends and family and my 8th grade teacher, who merited a special place in my heart.  But what was the common denominator?  Somehow I arrived at something so perfect, I’ve never been able to let it go.
If someone dies, and your world is shattered.

That is Love.

I have been lucky that many people have fit into that category in my life.  My best friend Julie, my Mom, the old neighbor lady Gladys with the 300 dolls.  
Love to me has always been measured in potential loss.
Not what I have at the moment, but what I am afraid to lose.

When she had her “whirlwind”, you referred to her as “a really messed up chick”.   No compassion. I saw her posting something on FB, “It’s disgusting” about the school shooting.  Maybe it’s a kind of amnesia, but definitely a lack of empathy and compassion.
You see, life is impossibly difficult for people.  And we are all pushed to extremes.  How we ultimately react is within our control (we hope), but there is unlimited rage out there.  

We need to be compassionate beforehand, before it gets to that stage.  We need to be kind.

After the whirlwind, when I went to Massachusetts and wasn’t going to come back, I thought about you. I thought about you constantly.  What if someday . . .

By then you had mentioned things to me.  We had brought up the subject.

Parking your car at Fairway, I said the word “S-------” out loud for the first time in 25 years.  I thought to myself, “You’re a grownup. You can say it out loud, just like anyone else, and it won’t mean anything.  It doesn’t mean anything to him,”

And you wrote me about the singer, who had written a song (maybe an album?) in a hotel room.  The lowest point in his life.  And I wrote back, “The next time you think about it, I have just one word for you.  DON’T”  And you responded with a line of question marks.  I reminded you how you had brought it up before, it was something you struggle with, correct?  “It turns out that it is very good to know you, Miss ____ ____.  Very good,”

And I have held those words as sacred.

Everytime I doubt you.  Everytime you run and hide in your cave and I am lonely and want someone to talk to, but instead I have to go back to my room and cry, I think of those words.

And so in Massachusetts, after you had stopped writing to me and I to you.  After I thought you had deserted me.  Before you told me that you had your worst episode in 25 years.  I thought about you.

I thought of you there, alone, in an apartment.  With real metal in your hands, not just the pantomime of a gun.  I thought about what it would be to know you were there, alone.  And hearing about it afterwards.

And then I thought about you calling me.  What if I had to do it all again?  To be the one to read the words that told me that everything was in place right in front of you?

(The horrible echo: “The antifreeze that I had bought to drink.  You wouldn’t have been able to stop me if I had drunk the antifreeze I bought”  Where is it now?  “Next To Me,” )

And this terrible horrible awful scene played out further in my mind.  Because you are taller and obviously stronger than me,  I could never wrestle it out of your hands.  The cops couldn’t break in.  But maybe I could talk to you.  Get you to put it down.  Get you to not feel alone. Diffuse the bomb.  Starting it all now.  As if anyone can save anyone else.  (At least I can try)

And then I thought back to not being there for you.  I had been planning to cut off all contact with anyone who had a hint of mental illness (diagnosed or not). Granted, with all my crazy artist friends, this would leave me tremendously lonely.  But I couldn’t take being that close to death. So what if we never spoke again? Life would be easier for us both, right?

And I realized, even if there was nothing I could do, that I already cared too much about you. (And about A. for that matter)  I couldn’t stop being friends (or trying anyway).  I would not be able to ignore you in the hallway, or turn my face away from your beautiful smile.

I don’t know what my role will be, or if it will cause me pain (or how much).  I love you too much to lose you.  And I will do everything in my power to keep you alive on this earth and in my life.

So I know that I email you sometimes in the middle of a workday, and you respond “Very Busy”.  But I wish you could figure out your other issues, so that you can respond to me when you are NOT busy.  And do some "work" from your side.  Because choosing to keep you in my life was a very difficult decision, and everyday your Depression makes it harder.  

And not having you as a friend is like not breathing.  It’s not something that I can do.  “You gotta go where your heart says go, isn’t that so?” said the great philosopher, Lyle Lovett.  And believe me, in Massachusetts, I was ready to let you go.  Speeding down a country road, trying to shake you from my mind.  But I couldn’t do it.  I wrote to you, saying how much I missed you.  And you wrote back immediately, saying you were just about to write to me.

I haven’t told you, but it was then that I accepted everything. Whatever your future holds, I’m there and I want to support you to be the best person you can be.  So I really don’t know what you are afraid of.  I think there may be a little agoraphobia, or you hesitate to “socialize” with people when you are feeling down.  You have darkness, I know.  

You asked me if I know, if I really know what it feels like to want to destroy yourself.  Trust me, I know.  (Someday, I’ll tell you my story) It’s all terrifying.  

And there is only one thing that can destroy it.

Invisible Magic. (i.e.Love)  The kind that will persist beyond all the petty annoyances and will remind us that we are not alone, no matter how crazy we think we are.

I still Love A.  I love you. I wish someone had been able to communicate Love to that boy who shot those 20 children and 6 adults.

And I cannot lose you.

What Happy Sounds Like

He awoke that morning to a Dark Place.  So Dark that any light hurt.  So he decided to stay inside as much as he could. Even Prince Charming had difficult days, and these were some of the worst.  His home was a familiar trap to him. The bed was his only place of refuge, but even that was a trap. He couldn't move inside his own body, and even if he did get up, he knew the Dragon would be waiting for him. So he pulled the covers up over his head as much as he could. But even children know this is not a way to hide from monsters.

He had to leave the apartment sometimes.  Briefly, for food. Or to move his Chariot twice a week for Alternate-Side Street Cleaning. The Enchanted Island had all sorts of magic, but not even the streets could keep themselves clean. You had to obey certain rules or you'd get a ticket. So, he got his car out of the way twice a week, and sometimes that was the only time he left his cave.

And on very lucky days, he heard singing.

It was a Lovely Sound.

One couldn’t tell exactly where it came from, the echo bounced around so that, even though it seemed crystal clear, it seemed to bounce all around.  Until you weren’t even sure if it was or was NOT coming from inside your own body.

There were notes as sweet as berries.  Words like “Love” came out sounding as if the singer were smiling.  A beautiful smile.  You could picture a locked-away princess, with only her echo to keep her company. Fragments of song were heard in the stairwell, in the hallway. He heard her songs coming out of windows. The sound was Happiness itself.

One day, when it hurt too much to move, he found himself drawn to his cave door, opening onto the hallway. She was singing, a beautiful, endless song.  Clearly this time, coming from the other end of the hallway. Never such a beautiful song before.  The kind that hurts your heart when it comes to an end. Enchanted by this sound; his curiosity overcame him.  

All he wanted to do was to touch The Happy Sound. He wanted to hold it in his hand, like a bird. Or to eat it, like an ice cream. He wanted it to hold him like a hug, or reassure him like a summer breeze.

He opened the door and began to walk down the hallway, to the unknown side, where light always seemed to be spilling in from outside, even at night.  His cave apartment was dark and damp, and every time he entered the building, he could feel himself turning away from the sun.  But this time, he walked towards the light.  Most of the apartment doors looked normal, quotidian & everyday-looking, even.  Much like his own.  When he got to the last one in the hallway, it was cracked open just a little bit, as if the sunlight itself had fingers and eyes and was wanting to peek out.

He was afraid and his heart was pounding.  The golden notes seemed to be coming from inside, but if he pushed the door open, would they stop?

The song seemed to be coming to an end.  And it stopped on its own.  Somehow, it had always started up again, as if it were a sound with a million verses.  Now his hand moved to open the door, if only to start the music up again, like a record player whose needle needs to touch down on the outside edge again.

The door moved a few inches open. There was a Girl, scrunched down, hugging her knees. On the floor of a long hallway in an apartment, much like his own, yet completely different.  If he hadn't seen her, he wouldn't have believed that she was the source. The way she looked didn't match the sound at all.


The Girl had long hair and big eyes.  In some lights and at some angles, certain times of the day, she could be considered beautiful.  But not here and not now.  Here she looked like a cleaning lady, or a babysitter. She seemed too tiny.  So weak.  As if all her breath were in the song, and without the sound, she was empty. 

Her eyes were focused away from him and looked even larger than they would normally appear, because they were shimmering with tears.  And to his surprise, she began singing again, without even noticing him.

He slowly backed away and went back to his own cave.

He wanted to talk to her.  He wanted to ask her why she was crying, but the whole idea only made him sadder.  And he was afraid to get more sad than he was already.   It was a swamp full of quicksand for him.  

He was afraid to find out that this beautiful pure thing, this lovely song, had come from a place of sadness.  A song as beautiful as that should only make people happy.  Especially someone who can sing it so well.  He wanted only  to know that the song made her happier, not sadder.

He wanted a song for himself.  That would only make people happy when they heard it.  He wanted to make a song that would make him happy.  But he knew his destiny was to fight his dragon and not make things like a tinkerer.

“Besides”, he thought, “there is no song in this world which could make me happy”.

“That’s what you think,” she thought, as the sound of his door closing echoed down the hall.