now cracks a noble heart

It's interesting, this feeling of isolation, the knots I tie myself into. Tonight was Katie's memorial exhibition and, as ever, I spent the majority of the time standing by myself, feeling sort of like an island of one. I looked at Katie's work (which we will call inspired sort of twisted nightmare liberation dreams. I've not got a better way to explain.) and I felt this sort of profound loneliness and also this sort of profound connectedness. Yes, it's a bit of a paradox so I'll encourage you to think of it as a zen koan. Or something. So ok, separate and together and connected and not and it's all a bit confusing.

You know what though? I didn't cry for almost the entire time I was there (like seven to eight). You know when I did start getting a wee bit choked up? They had music on, all sorts but Bob Dylan's Forever Young came on and that struck something and I wanted to weep, weep unashamedly and think of all the most heartbreaking beautiful things I could think of. But I didn't. I guess despite being an island of one, I've got this bizzare connection to the rules that you just don't weep unless everyone else around you is too. Or something. I think, I think, I think maybe Katie would have enjoyed watching us.

Phoebe (who showed up, sitting on the stairs and staring and hurting, I can't explain but there was something very interesting to me about the whole scene) mentioned that it was sad that we only do these things when someone is dead. Katie would have wanted to see her work exhibited like that. But it would never have happened if she hadn't died. It's a sad irony of life.

I informed Phoebe that all my writing, photos, thoughts, everything, has been about this. And part of living where I do is that in being absent, Katie is all that much more there. I'm always listening for her heavy step coming up the staircase and I'm always waiting for that odd laugh of hers. But then I open the door to my room and her books are lying in a pile near the door and the police seal is still on that door, though I know the doors been open since. And there's a note to her parents from us and the note from her old roomate left last semester (a goodbye and an apology for leaving so suddenly) that seems so unbearably sad now. Next to Katie's name on the white board, someone had written 'coke whore' some time in January and that's been erased there and still I see it, like an awful secret we're all afraid of someone seeing. No one wants to know what happened, not really.

I think, I think we need a time to laugh. I think perhaps we'll all mourn and wander around and wait for her to come back, like she went on vacation. There was so much fucking potential and now it's what? Nothing, nothing.

You know what else? I'm sick of comments about how people deal with death. Mostly, I'm really sick of hearing how people deal with death weirdly. It's not weird, it's how people handle shit. Who are any of us to pass judgement on that? Ok? Stop it, it's one of those things that make me so incredibly angry. We all do things that are incredibly strange. Mourning is such a private thing, how dare anyone decide what is weird and what isn't.

Also? I've found I've got an odd sort of anger towards some folk who are indulging themselves in drugs and the like. Not a moralistic anger, just an anger at those who justify with the idea that anyone who doesn't do drugs just doesn't get it, is just too prudeish. The additude that drugs are really ok for you, that people who don't agree are just mean or stupid. Cut that shit out. Do your drugs or don't. But don't pretend like only you few enlightened types can get it, that the rest of us are just conservative nitwits. Understand that drugs can fucking kill you and then acknowlege that. And then? Keep doing drugs or drinking or smoking or what-the-fuck-ever you want or don't but if you do, don't pretend we just don't understand. Don't pretend that shit is harmless. It's not.

I'm angry and hurt and frustrated and so lonely. I keep writing this over and over, every story is just shell shock. She was nineteen, just nineteen and so fresh and ready to really explore the world at large and it's all gone. And still she's not, so present in being absent. Fuck fuck fuck.

But most importantly, I'm moving forward. And I'm writing. And I'm breathing. And christ, at least I'm angry. So fucking angry. But it's something, it's better than just empty, just hollow and full of god all-fucking-mighty.

This all is what it is. I don't really care if this is confusing to read. I'm just so raw right now, it's best to get these things down so I don't forget and seal up and then lose the rawness and chaotic feelings that perhaps might be helpful for writing or for dealing with the fucking world.

I meant to write a slightly edited version of this in the book thing they had out. I only wrote part. But here, what I wanted to write and then bed or something for me.

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night sweet artist, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”