“IT’S THOSE DIRTY CONSERVATIVE RAT BASTARDS, THOSE GREEDY, HYPOCRITICAL SONS OF BITCHES!”
Whoever said my grandmother wasn’t opinionated was…well… dead wrong.
12th January 2008
Grams insists upon a trip. Anywhere, she says.
Being in my Clash phase, I’d like to throw in an overused cliché: “London Calling”. Yeah, I know, that’s not what the song is about. However…I’d like to see Big Ben. Write about it, rather.
Is Big Ben the tower? Or the bell?
14th January 2008
I can’t imagine not being able to write. Being physically unable to pick up my blue ballpoint, my muscles not willing to grip the thin cylindrical form between my left middle finger, pointer finger, and thumb.
Grams seems to be convinced that it’s the dirty rat bastards running this country that are keeping her from writing, providing a perpetual writer’s block that she has no escape from, other than to leave the country itself.
She can’t grasp the fact that she will never write again; her arthritis has made her fingers give up on her…on her heart.
Writing’s her heart, you know.
This is horrible. She can’t travel. But…oh, I wish so much that I could indulge her last wish.
This is…really…her last wish.
It’s scary to write that.
15th January 2008
Another appointment with Grams today.
I suppose the tears staining this page are proof enough.
She’s dying.
“A rare form of leukemia,” Dr. Spencer said, scratching his comb-over with the tip of his Ticonderoga. “Shows up in stages, muscles shut down first. What we thought was acute arthritis are the earliest signs.”
Okay, Vy. She’s had a good life—traveled the world, participated in strikes and protests. She threw a rotten tomato at LBJ with Mom in a papoose on her back. She rode a motorcycle through the South of France. She skinny-dipped in the Mediterranean.
Her stories, they’re true. They’re autobiographical.
“How long?” The clichéd phrase slipped out of my mouth before I could catch it. (What is it with clichés, lately?)
“Six months…perhaps.” Spence, you’re killing me.
No. He’s just giving Grams the death sentence.
What will I do without her?
17 April 2008
This studio apartment seems smaller. As I look around…the skylights aren’t raining down their usual sunrays. The bamboo floors aren’t…as bamboo-y. She’s not at the roll-top desk, scribbling on bits of crumpled paper. She’s not in the kitchen…its tall ceilings are not camouflaged with steam.
It’s so clean. Barren landscape, to be exact. Yet, without her, it’s so small. Its like I’ve crawled into a hole, shriveled, like her hands the last time I touched them.
What will I do without her?
…She went quickly, cleanly, like putting the cap back on a pen, I wrote, a letter addressed to the mother I rarely see. After the diagnosis, it was like she knew. She was prepared…she was ready…she knew it was time. She looked at death the same way she looked at a blank page…as though it were a new adventure. It is a new adventure…it’s Grams’ adventure…
The letter I received back was short, to the point:
Violet, she talked of cremation. Of being flung in handfuls over the Seine. You know this as well as I do. I leave it up to you, however. She loved you better.
(And this would be why I don’t speak to her…the resentment, the bitterness. That’s another story, however.)
So, I called Matt.
“No, I will NOT. I refuse.”
Thanks, there, buddy. What kind of gay best friend gives up a chance to go to Paris?
“Ya gotta do this for yaself, Vy. See if you can ever be happy again. She’s been your burden for far too long.”
Whatever the hell that means.
I guess it can’t hurt to leave the rat bastards behind, for a couple of weeks, at least.
But, what will I do without her?
19 April 2008
Grams has been at the funeral home for three days.
I went to visit her before…well, when she was still intact.
Her hand was as wrinkled as a used bedsheet. Her hair, gray, long, wavy, flowed over her stark white nightgown. No shoes…she never wore shoes. I honestly cannot remember the last time I saw Grams wearing shoes. Her feet are hard and callused, despite the scrub and lotion I used on them every Wednesday.
Am I losing it? No, I’ve just lost her.
What will I do without her?
“Okay, I’m ready,” I said, with one last stroke of her hair.
22 April 2008
LaGuardia. Grams is sitting next to me.
Well…she’s in a turquoise urn.
We’re taking her trip.
Last call for Northwest flight 1432 to Charles de Gaulle, boarding now, the loudspeaker says. I can see the flight attendant speaking into the microphone.
“Come on, Grams. Time to go home.”
23 April 2008
Do I feel bad about splurging?
This IS the money Grams set aside for this trip…
I have three rooms, a butler, a masseuse, and unlimited champagne.
The good stuff.
Did I mention the view of the Eiffel Tower?
I think ten more minutes in the Jacuzzi will do me good…aaahhh…
24 April 2008
Paris feels like home to me, too. I love it here.
The smell of urine is only apparent on the oldest buildings.
This is a walking city. Just my type. I do love walking. Strolling along the Champs-Elysees…the gardens in April are magnificent. I’ve never felt so collected in all my life.
I squinted up at the Eiffel Tower for what seemed like hours. The sky was such a brilliant blue…not a hint of a cloud in all its vastness.
I felt like I could do anything.
Walking through the city…I came upon the bridge. Grams’ bridge. La passerelle Debilly. She loved walking, too; it’s right that her bridge would be a footbridge.
The turquoise urn is empty, now. Grams is home.
25 April 2008
I’m not wearing a beret or a black-and-white striped top. I am not carrying a baguette under my hairy armpit. I’ve resisted the stereotypes, the cliché of Parisien life.
It was hard.
So, here I am, sitting at the café around the corner from the mansion that is my hotel.
Grams’ city is just as she left it; exactly how she said it would be. My creative juices are flowing like never before. I can barely write fast enough, nor do I write with my trusty blue ballpoint any longer. A charcoal pencil will have to do…I can only draw as fast as I can write.
27 April 2008
I have not yet regained my bearings.
Why have I become so much more proper?
I lost some sketches yesterday. I ran in to someone in the street…dropped my books…another cliché in the making.
As I bent over, I looked up at the most beautiful man I had ever laid eyes on.
“Oh, allow me to assist you.” His English accent was peculiar to my ears accustomed to French. A welcome change, I might add.
We ran after as many as we could; the day was windy and overcast. (Paris is still beautiful, even under gray skies.)
“Where are you staying?” He asked. I guess I’m an obvious American.
“Right over here,” I replied, pointing around the corner. I still can’t give the hotel justice in my pronunciation, so I didn’t attempt it.
His name is Pierre. He followed me home. We talked about nothing; everything.
I still cannot believe this meeting.
He is French, though studied in England. He now runs a publishing house.
He has the most striking blue eyes. Rough hands, firm handshake. A toothy grin. A sunkissed glow. Shaggy black hair that is long…but not too long.
“Bonsoir, mon cherie,” he said, kissing my hand. “I’ll make sure we meet again.”
I’m weak in the knees…and I’m sitting down.
1 May 2008
My world is upside down.
Matt said I needed to find happiness in Paris?
Well, if anyone, HE would appreciate the irony that is Pierre.
Lets just say, when God (or Buddha) closes a door, he always opens a window.
“Come to Valencia with me?” Like he even had to ask. A private jet, more champagne, the Mediterranean…a yacht.
Grams was loaded, I’ll give you that. But, compared to Pierre…I will want for nothing.
No, it’s not too soon. No, I am not an emotional wreck. He loves me, and I him.
Where is my birth control?
3 May 2008
Oh, the Mediterranean in May is…heaven.
Especially on this yacht!
However…I haven’t seen much of it…besides the master bedroom.
Let’s just say that when Pierre lays a woman down, she does not get up easily.
How much of a cliché can my life be right now?
5 May 2008
Pierre asks if I am surgically attached to this journal.
“Of course not!”
A moonlit dip in the Sea…our sun-ripened bodies look rippled under the surface of the water.
We are hungry for each other…ravenous. Always.
It’s beauty, art. I sketch him in bed. In the sun. Sleeping with a book over his eyes. Pure magic.
21 May 2008
Spanish doctors’ offices are not friendly places.
French men who studied in England are…hardly any better.
I felt something. I missed…how do I say this?
I’m not one anymore, but two. A child.
“No, no. Absolutely not. I will make arrangements.” He was pacing. I was cowering, afraid that my fantasy vacation was over.
My fantasy life. Wasted. Gone. Empty.
28 May 2008
On a plane home.
What home? Well…Paris, for now.
Pierre is gone. Forever.
The baby is…not.
I refused.
Bringing a child into this world is a new beginning. A replacement for the time taken up by Grams.
I am no good with idle hands.
This trip to happiness was certainly a trip.
But, happiness was not the destination.
As it happens, not all the rat bastards in this world are American politicians.
But, that’s another story.
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