The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 81
I knew from an earlier post on her channel that she’d been drinking. The post read: “Brunch drunk and loving it!” Maybe she’d sobered up. Maybe not.
Juliette: Are you writing?
Me: Huh uh. Slo mo Sunday. Y tu?
Juliette: At work. It’s slow. Reading, mostly.
Me: Let me guess: Asimov?
Juliette: An online article. Village Voice archive. About these two… well, here: (link).
I open the link. Fascinating. About these two artists who fell crazy mad in love with each other during the Warhol Factory era in N.Y.C.. They later moved to L.A., then jumped from their downtown hotel room. 14th floor. An apparent double suicide, according to the cops.
“Well,” I wrote, “art, love, liquor and drugs. Figures. There’s no connection but it reminds of when a friend and I decided, circa late ’80’s, to investigate the murder, (suicide? accident?), of actor George Reeves, TV’s Superman.” I told her the story, punchlined it with my friend and I getting busted by the Beverly Hills Police Department. All charges dropped an hour later.
Juliette: Ha! Your tome of priors. You should have investigated the fiance. Doubtful the Altadena cops would have cared.
Me: Oh, that’s right. She was a suspect, yeah?
I looked at the time. She’d just closed the shop.
A curious peek at the ghost. Was she trying to scare me away? Express her fear of intimacy? Was there a difference? Was my response a diversion, a detour set up to keep us from going down that road at all?
Mike thought he knew. We’d opened an unquestionably fragile line of communication after several year’s estrangement—an aftermath of the film project he’d killed. Shaky and tenuous as it was it was necessary, because within the sacred, selfless wheel of compassion, acceptance and forgiveness were harmonic elements. So I listened.
Interesting POV. He said it was as if she and I were attempting to surgically deactivate our hard wiring, and that while we couldn’t help having fallen for each other, truth is we were exactly like his friend, Joe, and that to people like us, the art making process was a far more eloquent expression of our time on earth than caring for the happiness of another—any other—despite the depth of our love.
It was like saying: You can’t eat the banana because the banana isn’t there. Or, you can’t eat the banana because you don’t possess the necessary digestive enzymes. Your body will reject it. Stay away from the banana.
I wanted to cry. It was just a banana.
And besides, Mike’s a sociopath.