Crowded with Love, Choosing to Care

Author's gripe: Ok, this is my second time entirely writing this blog. In some cruel twist of sadistic fate, the formatting on my entry got all jacked up and when I finally published my post it looked something akin to a Michael Bay film--one big mess. And yet, as I began to think of my current rantings that comprise this most recent shot in the dark, I realized that to some I may be a broken record. And while I take months off between posts to live in my cabin on Walden pond and brood I do think that perhaps a straight, linear reading of all my posts in order might grow wearisome for those who hate replaying the same song over again, especially if it's "All by Myself." And so, instead of ultimately apologizing for a blog that took me three days to write, I'll just reconsider renaming my blog to "A Shot in the Dark: Or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love My Solitude."

In the spirit of reading some fine posts lately, I've decided to take my own whack at the cherry tree of Blogdom tonight. It's been a while since I've put my thoughts down like this, but I've been thinking about writing here probably every week for months. Ultimately my problem is that for all my pontificating about the desire to record moving prose, all my thoughts suffer a fate similar to water that shoots out a broken fire hydrant--it flows right down the gutter and into the drain; a drain that leads to a sort of Room of Requirement in my mind where all the derelict ideas of blogs gone by take up space and collect dust. Joseph Smith used to bemoan the commandment to keep active minutes of his meetings because of his frustration at having to write everything down all the time. But he also said that if he had only followed this commandment from the beginning instead of dragging his feet, he could have saved himself from a world of hurt with solutions the Lord had already given him, if only he had written them down. For this reason alone dying should prove to be quite the journey as the veil is lifted and we can explore an undiscovered country's worth of past dreams and underutilized ideas and inside jokes.
There's a quote from Oscar Wilde in his brilliant play "The Importance of Being Earnest," intimating that keeping a journal is worth it if only to read something entertaining as you while away the time on the train. I'm sure that for a writer of Oscar Wilde's caliber this would be true. But in my case I think my failures to record my thoughts right when I get them have something to do with the fact that my journal was never entertaining to read. In fact, recounting the woes of a prepubescent Spencer never carried with it the sort of charm suitable for a leisurely ride through Wiltshire; more like a reader's digest version of Lagoon's Wild Mouse: it's painful, all too familiar, and makes you question why you keep standing in line. I guess we keep reminiscing in the ruins of our pasts because we thrive off the nostalgia of a time when we felt ourselves in the thick of things, even if we despise who we were...or who we became. This is definitely true as I find myself reading letters or fingering trinkets from past relationships; monuments to a very cool gallery of rogues. I can only imagine the liberation that comes with marriage as you do away with all the baggage of those unions that in the end made you work harder to move on from than to create in the first place. Even years later I find myself still smitten with a smile, or a look, or a word, just as much as I am still haunted by an evening, or an insult, or by silence.
Thankfully though (or perhaps, disastrously) I'm not the only one of my friends who is plagued by this crazy little thing called love. As time goes by and brothers take council in the hot tub to discuss "what the hell is going on with these effing girls," the bond of friendship is strengthened as we declare to leave no man behind until that day when--with our wife by our side--we are commanded to cleave not unto our father or our mother (or our Brotherhood) but unto she who's made her will our own. As bolstering as that pledge is, it still hurts to think that while the rest of our associations are kayaking just around the river bend with their own eagle-eyed soul mate, we're drowning in the ripples of frustrated love.
This sort of segues to a question that I've heard posed time and again by myself and others. What do we do now? How do we deal with the disappointment? For my own part, I can only throw my hands in the air. My track record is sketchy at best and I'm just choosing to deal with steady dating woes through abstinence until I can find my own Ramona Flowers (i.e. someone I'd be crazy enough to fight a Vegan for).
It's a vexing matter, this loveless epidemic. While not new by any means, it attacks not silently in the night, but on open field in broad daylight. Its handiwork is seen on the faces of its victims and when the night comes and others return to their lover's bed, the band keeps playing in your ear "you're alone! You're alone! You're alone!" Truly it's as Marco Rameus says in The Hunt for Red October, "It's a war with no medals, no victories, only casualties."
It reminds me of the final scene of one of Steven Sondheim's masterpieces, Company. The play follows a man named Bobby-womanizing, carefree socialite who's popularity among his married friends is the means by which he defines his life.
Throughout the play he wrestles with these same questions of loneliness, self-worth, and the need to be married for the right reasons. In the final scene of the play he is being seduced by one of his married friends, Joanne. As she whispers in his ear and tells him why she wants him she finishes by saying "I'll take care of you..."to which Bobby replies, "But who will I take care of?"At that moment the blaring, annoying, pulsating droning of his friends' beckoning breaks through the silence in a shocking fortissimo, reminding him of the one thing that has been his obsession the entire musical: "You're alone! You're alone! You're alone!!" In a cry of fatigued desperation he shouts at the top of his lungs. "STOP!!!" And then begins to sing the jewel of the show; a song about living, where he makes the realization that "alone is alone. Not alive." It's a moving and poignant ending to a show that forces everyone to grapple with the art of life, not just the existence of being.
At this time I am fully aware of the sensitive and very real pain of those who travel in our spheres who have lost hope of true love in this life. It's the reason why Mother's Day has more or less become Women's Day, and why roses are handed out to every female over the age of 18 during Sacrament Meeting, regardless of motherhood. The absence of companionship--for any reason--has forced many of those we love to reevaluate what it means to have a life of substance,a life of art. Over the course of the year I've kept up this blog, I have written a number of drafts that I meant to finish and publish here but that have, for one reason or another (laziness), gone down that drain. One such draft I found myself writing in my grandmother's living room an hour after the news had broken that my aunt had passed away. I think it ties in well with what I'm talking about:
Nov. 19, 2010
I woke up this morning, groggy and blind--glasses were in the car and so were my replacement contacts. After a night of Harry Potter all I could think of doing upon my arrival home at 3:30 in the morning was to stalk up to bed, take off my shirt, and check out. My sleep was peaceful,and I spent the entire night writing poetry in my dreams. I awoke to an equally pleasant morning, oblivious to the goings on of a night that saw births and deaths, accidents and parties, laughter, screams, and tears of joy and fear. I've often been told about the calm before the storm, a principle the extent of which exists for me only in the movies. But such was my morning. After an effort to locate a house phone amid the pish-posh of things we haven't put away yet, I called my mom.
"Hey Mom, how're you doing?"
"Not too well, Spence. I've been trying to get a hold of you all morning."
"Yeah sorry, my phone was dead. What happened?"
"Gerri died last night."
"What? Your cousin? The one with the heart problems?"
"No Spencer. Gerri my sister--your Aunt Gerri."
And that was it. A life extinguished. I showered and ran over to my grandmother's where the family had congregated. Cars filled the driveway and as I walked in all heads glanced in my direction and my whispered name reached my ears. My mother and grandmother rose to greet me with a tear-stained hug, their emotions breaking as I wrapped my arms around them.
Death in a Mormon family is a peculiar thing--there is nothing else like it really in any other culture. The funny thing I've noticed about Mormon families greeting Death is that once everyone is gathered and hugs and kisses shared, the next order of business is to send for take-out. It wasn't long before my aunt and uncle had returned with clam chowder and fries and we all sat around the table talking about Harry Potter and how unlucky it was that the next day was my uncle's birthday, considering the tragedy at hand. In the moment, what could be said? My Aunt Gerri was far from the Church, and those in attendance around the table were no better off in that respect. Most of Gerri's life had been a confused and muddled mess of addictions, depression, pain, and mistrust--making the reminiscing of happier times almost nonexistent. She turned into a bit of a recluse in her twilight years and therefore had few happy memories with anyone on which to remark (a case put into startling clarity by the fact that Aunt Gerri was not the first person I thought of when told by my mother [a side note, when Gerri's husband Dave died over ten years ago, my reaction was the same: "who's Dave?"]). But despite all of that, the mercy of God's love was present as familial closeness fused hearts together over Club crackers and Fresca.
The subject of Death has been on my mind a lot this week and it all begins with Willa Cather:
He thought of city cemeteries; acres of shrubbery and heavy stone, so arranged and lonely and unlike anything in the living world. Cities of the dead, indeed; cities of the forgotten, of the "put away." But this was open and free, this little square of long grass which the wind for ever stirred. Nothing but the sky overhead,and the many-coloured fields running on until they met that sky. The horses worked here in summer; the neighbors passed on their way to town; and over yonder, in the cornfield, Rosicky's own cattle would be eating fodder as winter came on. Nothing could be more undeathlike than this place; nothing could be more right for a man who helped do the work of great cities and had always longed for the open country and had got to it at last. Rosicky's life seemed to him complete and beautiful.
At the viewing I lamely stood in line shaking hands with my grandmother's friends, explaining that no, I wasn't Gerri's brother but rather her nephew and that yes, I was in Fiddler on the Roof. As we closed the casket my cousin played on his violin, a scratchy Ode to Joy from a 12 year old--as honorable as Taps, and all that Gerri would receive.
The drive home was accompanied with all the feelings of a silent car after a funeral, and as we gathered at my grandmother's house to support her I noticed that through the family room window grew a new sprig of blueberries; a fruit that has never grown there in all my memory. It struck me that in Gerri's own way her life had been full of art, and at her passing she would leave something made from nothing--a newness of life. (End.)
Whether it's love, life, or the lack thereof, when asking the question "what do we do next?" I submit that we live, and make art of our life. When in the gale of life's uncertainties, order take-out and then move forward. Pray that your eyes are opened to the purpose of your suffering, and know that they that be with us, are more than they that be with them. And then call me, and help me do it too. As Bobby stands in the spotlight alone he spreads his hands toward heaven and pleads for someone to sit in his chair, and ruin his sleep and make him know that his life amounts to something.
Luckily Bobby gives us a stirring example of what not to do, as he waits until he's melting in the crucible to petition Providence. We can make that step one. I'm grateful for a life full of those who learn to deal with trials positively, and spend their energies crowding me with love. This attitude of paying it forward and choosing to care (rather than being forced to), is what will make Zion from Gomorrah, where we shall be to all a brother and live after the manner of happiness.