100 Days December 9, 2009Posted by Richard Bolisay in RIP.
Three months—and it still hurts.
Of course it hurts. Regardless of time, regardless of how long we wait for justice, regardless of how many beautiful films pass, and regardless if all those wishes of yours come true—so much for the latter because you are not here—with us.
It hurts, still, regardless of all regardless.
By saying you are not here with us I should cut my head off on account of foolishness. You are here. You are always here. You will always be here.
I see you in the festivals I attend. I see you while watching the new film of Ray Gibraltar, probably beside me, eyes on the screen, gasping at the sight of how it ends. I see you in the magazine you used to write for; probably I’ll text you about it; will exchange niceties; will be awkwardly formal; will be awkwardly impolite; and you’ll ask if we can meet and I’ll hesitate because I just hate the world. I’m stupid like that.
I could feel you are reading my blog sometimes, after you passed on, not out of self-serving reasons but just that, a feeling. I don’t know. When you first told me you were reading it I kinda felt elated, but I felt embarrassed too. When you asked me what I think of your writing, I thought I said something stupid. That was a memorable night for me, I guess. We’ve known each other quite well in such a short period of time. Haven’t thought that a night could possibly be everything; only it couldn’t happen again.
I know how painful it will be afterward but I checked my email today to read your mails. Not too many, but still. (Up to now, I must admit, it’s hard to delete your messages on my phone, saving it for reasons I myself don’t know, but maybe I just feel better keeping a part of your past with me, in there, and if my phone gets snatched I know I would feel worse about losing your texts than losing that crappy phone I have.) I feel grateful for those links you sent, those recommendations, those words of encouragement (surely I always feel down), and alas, amid those, I found this curious message:
Date: Wednesday, May 6, 2009, 11:06 PM
how are things?
> we should get together soon and discuss things that need to
> be done in
> relation to this precious film culture of ours.
No, I am not reading the last four lines, but the first. The first.
How are things?
It hurts, still. It still hurts. Still, it hurts. Hurts, it still. Still hurts it. Disarrange these words whichever way and it will still come out the same.
That joke about the love letter turns out to be true. Only I cannot write it, no matter how much I try now. The love letter that cannot be written, how tragic. Like the films we love.
That song was right. There are more wishes than stars.
You were both.
I miss you.