Three deaths

[chipotle]

Over the last week I learned of three deaths.

One was a guy named Bob Marsh, a history teacher I had in high school, who retired the year I graduated. He was a good teacher, a science fiction fan, the county archeologist for 30 years, and a crusty old coot in the best sense. He celebrated his retirement by riding his motorcycle through the school’s main hall on his last day of full-time work. I’ve read that he died of lung cancer, but if I learn he really died in mysterious circumstances in a Tijuana bar, I will not be entirely surprised.

Another was a guy named Dave Pasquarelli. I worked with Dave at Kinko’s in the early ’90s; he was the other typesetter, a tall, lanky, bald and flamboyant guy of seemingly boundless energy. Dave left Kinko’s shortly after I did to come out to San Francisco. After I got here I found he’d become part of a fringe activist group that believes HIV has nothing to with AIDS and anything that says otherwise is deliberate deception borne of homophobia. I would have liked to have seen Dave, but not to get into that debate. Last week, I learned that he died in March of last year—complications from HIV, of course.

Many of you’d already know or guess who the third one was: Jacob Schmid. I can’t say I knew him well, since (probably also like many of you) I only knew him online. I “met” musewoozle and his character Ashentaine in such different contexts that I didn’t put them together for a while. I understand depression, but I’m not sure I’ve ever understood suicide as a response to it. I’ve faced moments where I couldn’t bear to see life continue as it was and couldn’t think of a way to make it better. Yet, to me it’s self-evident that death is the only state from which, definitionally, life cannot improve.

The month’s earlier funk snapped into greater focus for me before I heard of any of these deaths; now I find myself at a peculiar distance, analyzing my analysis. I’ve been dwelling on mortality.

Now, I know I’m hardly decrepit from age. I’m old enough, though, that the differences between my self-image—which settled comfortably around 21—and my physical self are hard to gloss over. I have a few too many grey hairs, a few too many nondescript aches, a few too many worries about teeth and eyes and skin. A few too many reminders that I’m 16 years past that self-image.

In 1999, I was living on my own, working at what I’d thought would be a career position (at least until I had a writing career). Six years later, and I’m back in a housemate situation, working as a contractor and remaining in debt. What? Shouldn’t I be married by now? Shouldn’t I own a house? Shouldn’t I have written a best-seller? Shouldn’t I have a stable career? Shouldn’t I have taken a few months off to bum around Mexico or Canada or Europe? When will it be too late to do these things? We like to say that it’s never too late—but in truth, at some point, it is too late, and we never know when that point is.

I’m not really sure where all this musing leads me. I’ve joked every so often about selling everything and becoming an expatriate. Of course, Casablanca is not the town it once was, coastal Mexico is getting pricey, and Havana is right out.

But who knows. Maybe it’s not too late, yet.

Comments

[traveller-blues.livejournal.com]

It's not about the drive to get somewhere. It's about what you want to do in the next window of opportunity. Some of us go for what's dangled in front of our noses; others make a plan and stick with it, blindly stumbling past other pursuits while after the one.

We all do it; we can't always be a hundred and ten percent efficient at how we're living, and we don't always know a good thing when we see it. Or a bad thing, either.

It's very, very, easy, to just let things ride and attend to day-to-day priorities; it's very hard to push the 'safe' and normal in order to adventure.

Adventure also tends to be pretty darn costly. But then again, so is getting whacked upside the head with car repairs while minding your own business.

It's balance and preparation and crisis handling, all mixed together.

-Traveller

[joshuwain.livejournal.com]

I feel the same way. At times, however -like now- I can do something that makes me feel just ... successful!

When I sit with friends and referee a really good game ... when I go for a walk along the river ... when I make mayonaisse from scratch, or pizza, or bread...

I just feel like I've accomplished something.

True, they're little things, but -for some reason- they seem pretty big in my own life when I evaluate them.

That's not to say that you should abandon those big dreams, but -well- en-route to them, it's good to have some incremental victories and happinesses.

Yours,
Sylvan (Dave)

[alinsa.livejournal.com]

I understand depression, but I’m not sure I’ve ever understood suicide as a response to it. I’ve faced moments where I couldn’t bear to see life continue as it was and couldn’t think of a way to make it better. Yet, to me it’s self-evident that death is the only state from which, definitionally, life cannot improve.

I think that this is one of those things where you just can't understand it if you haven't been there. Kind of like depression in general -- if you haven't had true, serious physiological depression, it's really hard to understand why someone can't "just be happy." Suicide is the same way, I think -- if you haven't been there, you just can't understand why that'd be preferable to "trying to make things better."

I think one thing is that to some, it's not clear that things can be made better. I can use myself as a good example of this; I was raised well in an unbroken home, I'm on year 12 or 13 of what most would call a pretty decent career, I make enough to support myself and two others in a reasonably good lifestyle, I've generally wanted for nothing, I generally have a great job (the last few months nonwithstanding), I've gotten everything I've ever wanted to get out of life, yet... I continually fight depression and misery.

I've been on antidepressants (well, still am). I've gone through quite a number of them looking for something that works (well, more precisely, will continue working.. the first one I was on did wonders ... for 3 or 4 months). At this point I'm so jaded on the whole medication front that I'm unwilling to do much beyond just stick with what I have, for the small amounts of benefit it provides, rather than the misery that comes with flipping through more psychotropic medications when they don't work.

I've pursued so many other things as potential causes for my inability to get myself on an even keel... health related, activity related, whatever... you name it, I've probably looked at it or tried it or tried to address it, without much success in finding a long-term solution to things.

So, at this point, I've pretty much come to the conclusion that things can't get better. There might be short-term things that will "make things better," but in the grand scheme, I'm just going to end up back where I am right now. I'm still hoping that I can find something that will let me prove myself wrong on that, but I have to be realistic, too...

So I guess what I'm saying is... for some people, things can't necesarilly "get better." Sure, maybe it just sounds like whining (especially the way things seem, with my life), and with many people, that's all it is... but it's not always that simple.


Shouldn’t I be married by now? Shouldn’t I own a house? Shouldn’t I have written a best-seller? Shouldn’t I have a stable career?

I think you, especially as a writer, should realize that life is about the journey, not the destination. Most people seem to be busilly focussed on the "end" goal of things (house, wife, whatever) rather than focussing on just enjoying themselves on their way through life. Granted, one can't live life without some thought to the future, but I think a lot of people forget to enjoy things along the way.

Is this you? I don't know. To be honest, sometimes you strike me as being much too live-now, don't-worry-about-future... and sometimes you strike me as being too much about the future and not enough about the now. I think, perhaps, that you go back and forth with yourself on that front, without managing to find a middle ground that you can live with. Perhaps.


...


Okay, that's enough psychoanalysis now. I'll hush. Hang in there, 'k? And feel free to come collect some snuggles any time you want them. Vixen snuggles are theraputic. *snuggles*

[chastmastr.livejournal.com]

Hugs. :(

[katrinahawke.livejournal.com]

Greetings!

It's never too late until the day you say it is... unless shit happens in the meantime. But, I am noticing that shit tends to be asked for, consciously or un. Goodness knows, been there, done that!

As to the Shoulds... should you? Only you can answer that one. Who are you asking? And why? Useful questions to ask....

Bright Blessings!
-K 8)