Nine

Callie, you would have liked my friends Sean, Francisco and Lori. I met Francisco the day after I visited you. He was in NY for one afternoon only, and all we did is walk and talk. As he is a bit of a Warhol scholar too, I mentioned you. Of course he knew your name, which sounded so nice coming from his lips, natural, as if we all were old friends. He and I always went for epic walks together. Along the way we would stop to see the giant Serra piece at the Gap building, or sit in San Francisco’s smallest public park, which is only big enough for a bench and a magnificent view of the Bay.

All those times you were with us, though we had not yet met. Gravity. I found out last night that you took your own life. A great sadness is with me now, but I hope so much you were not heart broken, or sad, that in the last few hours that you could feel the love people had for you, and use it like a blanket.

A young man came into the kitchen who smelled so incredibly bad it was hard thinking a human could make such smells. He had blood all over his face. Turns out he is my new roommate. Franz told me he stole things from the room right off from when he arrived so we should be wary.

I have some questions and I see some things;

Callie always wore a black coat. Did she think about what her last clothes would be?

Was Jimmy on the bed with her, or did she close the door?

Did she think about her body, her arms, legs, warmth or cold?

What part of her life did she revisit last?

What did she face that for all her life experience she was not willing to face?

Was the love she felt and the love she received equal in measure?

Why is not love enough?

What weight do the banal events such as putting salt on food have in such a state?

What did she forget?

It has been unbelievably cold today. The sky a lead sheet sealing off the sun. Last night a nurse gave me a book on German history with great illustrations. At the end of the day Franz, Anna Maria and myself sat together as it grew dark. We were silent and with each other.

Is it not the great misunderstanding of Christianity to elevate Jesus to the status of a God? When it is said, “he died so we might live”, it is the same with people everyday. It occurs to me that I have a part of Callie in me so I might live. To separate this from the realm of human experience cheats us, makes us less.

Many things happened today. The stink-boy was kicked out of the hospital for stealing. I worked on sculptures with a fury and hope they come out okay. I had a good session with Otto and then went to visit Daniel and pay my phone bill. At home later there was a note from Cornell. Later in the evening I sat in the corner window with Jossi, the gay guy, an older Turkish woman and an older eastern European woman. We all were absorbed in our own activities and seldom spoke. It was just about company. One woman said to the other that I looked intelligent. The other asked her if I was British. Then she answered that she thought I was American. The other replied that I was too black to be American. At this point I let them know I understood them, and said I was from California, and that Americans were an ethnic mix. “Mush” she said. The other answered, “Ja, Mush”

This morning I woke and looked out the window. From this height I could see all the indentations in the ground where the water pooled, each body of water dancing and vibrating with rain. It is a very cold morning and I am thinking of so many women. My Aunt jean is in a hospital half way around the world in a room probably identical to mine, and in a climate and geography where she looks out her window and see the same thing I do. I think of my mother, and her battle with illness, I think of the death of my Grandmother, and I think of what my sister has been fighting with her cancer. I think of Callie, and with all of them I try to imagine what they have gone through, but it is hard to do this with people with whom you identify an image of happiness.