Another Funeral

I'm watching MSNBC's coverage as Teddy Kennedy's body makes the trip from Cape Cod to the JFK library in Boston, where his coffin will lie in state. Michael Beschloss said the images from the compound reminded him of that first time we watched a procession leave Hyannis Port, when JFK left to assume the Presidency. This is the bookend, the end of an era running from 1960 till today. It's not just that Ted Kennedy is gone, but that so much else, so much that has been part of the culture that shaped me and everyone else in their 40's and upward, becomes part of history as well. Our own deaths are somehow contained in this funeral as well as the Senator's.

Well, that's a perky little paragraph.

August Sunday

Usually, I identify with Morrissey when it comes to Sundays. They can make me feel sick inside, for no particular reason (Heads up, all you therapists!), especially when it's quiet on the friends front. But, add the right music and Sunday becomes a holiday. iPods are great things, but I love 'found" music, the kind that shows up on the radio as a happy surprise. I've had a good run so far this morning: Steve Earle, Van Morrison, Itchycoo Park and Lowell George singing Spanish Moon. I remember listening to that same song on my Robert Palmer cassette, and being eleven and wishing I could play piano like Lee Michaels. Do you know what I mean? I have no idea just how I found all that music; it certainly wasn't what my parents listened to. That's a lie: I know what it was. It was the radio, radio at all hours, through moves across country and stays on South Pacific islands. I'd stay awake in my dark bedroom listening to Handel's Messiah or Bill Cosby, or The Seeds -- whatever the late night DJ would play.

I can't listen to the news anymore: too much doom and gloom, too many talking heads batting nonsense back and forth. I need music. It turns a morning that could have become a pity party into brunch, with a cheese omelet, sourdough toast and sweet tea almost fixing themselves as I sing along.

What we learn in the middle of the night

I've been waking up around 3AM and rely on the BBC World Service to lull me back to sleep. I was listening to a discussion that featured a Turkish artist when I suddenly thought his voice sounded familiar. In my student days, I auditioned roommates and met a handsome and self-effacing guy who sat on my sofa and said he was a science major at Harvard, a concert-level violinist and had recently finished his first novel. Anyone who can say that and still seem likable is worth knowing. Andre moved in and that Turkish artist - famous now - was one of his closest friends in grad school. Two beautiful boys.

I moved to New York and lost touch with Andre, but saw him once years later, when I returned to the West Coast. He was kind enough to invite me to a party. I dread parties because I'm shy and am always sure I won't know anyone there, but I remember the strings of lights and good conversation. I didn't see him after that. I didn't think I was as interesting as the rest of his friends so I didn't call, but I thought about him every once in a while, like tonight.

I typed his name into the Google search box and learned that he died almost two years ago.

He was wonderful and I missed knowing him. Why didn't I keep in touch? Why haven't I kept in touch with so many people? I think it has something to do with my wandering childhood. My father's job was such that we never spent more than a year or so in a place before moving again. Just enough time to start to make friends and then lose them.

When my mother lay dying, she said to me, "You don't cling." It was a complement. I think that I never learned the art of holding on - or was too afraid that if I did, the other person would let go.