To Darkness

My sometimes favorite feeling, despite being a pretty happy human.

Grace Cathedral is a very pretty place. I was raised Catholic but identify as atheist / agnostic now. I won't yuck your yum but religion is not for me.

We saw the Mountain Goats perform at Grace Cathedral on Friday. It was a stunning show, the acoustics were amazing, and the space incredible. Seeing music can be a spiritual experience and not just when you’re on drugs (not that I would know!), so it was fitting to see music in such a sacred space. What I have always loved about the band, well really Darnielle, are his lyrics. Some people think he’s pretentious and complain about his voice, but you can not deny he is a talented writer. I especially appreciate the darkness in some of his songs. I like dark. It’s a comfortable place for me to hang out. And writing dark things kind of helps shake them out of you. If you aren’t familiar with his biggest hit, No Children, go ahead and give it a listen and you’ll see what I mean.

So with Mountain Goats lyrics rattling around in my head all week, I have been thinking about the early 2000s when I got into the band and when I was a little darker but in a good way. And it reminded me of Dave who is probably one of the darkest people I have ever known— but again dark in the best possible way. And then it made me think about this piece I wrote about him years ago, it was one of the first things I shared here but back then my only subscribers were my brother Mike and a handful of friends. So I thought I would revive it. You can read it and see a picture of Dave here but I’ll paste it below too. Enjoy! And be warned it’s not a happy piece but dark things can be the best things sometimes.

I sent this photo of me holding the bible to my brother and joked that my hand was burning. Dave would have appreciated hearing the first performer sing about God being a woman who f*ed other women in a church, it was pretty brilliant tbh.

The Mess of You

Doug grabbed my ass at your funeral. Although it’s generous to call it a funeral or even a memorial. It was just a sad gathering in a dirty dive on Mission street. We taped photos of you to the sticky walls with masking tape, half of them fell down before the night was over. Versions of you stuck to the bar floor, trampled on, picked up, tucked away in people’s pockets. Everyone clutching a different memory of you. 

Rick and I arrived early, to hang up the photos, set out the Trader Joe's snacks as if we were getting ready for a housewarming party. We put the postcards I had printed of you around the room, in the booths, on the rickety cocktail tables. I printed the photo of you sitting at your favorite bar, your hands clutching a can of old Milwaukee, a whiskey shot waiting to be downed, a half-smile on your face. I took that photo the week before you moved to New York not realizing that would be the last time I would ever see you. That’s always how it goes, isn’t it? There’s always one of those photos. The light in the photo is purple and blue and red and you are glowing in a way you never shone in real life. Your skin a translucent mix of muted neons. 

I didn’t meet your wife until your memorial. Although we started emailing each other while you were in the hospital. Machines keeping you alive. She would send me songs you had recorded and lyrics you had written, and it was comforting, this connection that I knew wouldn’t last. You never told her about us, why would you? Everyone blamed her for your death. Which I thought was weird since you were always the master of your own destructive life. I remember when you were dating her and still living in San Francisco. I didn’t give it long. But I never did with any of your relationships. You always shared the details of your sex life as if it was a movie I should watch. And I always judged how fucked up someone needed to be to be with you. Myself included. I was a proud card-carrying member, one of the messy women attracted to your darkness. I always liked thinking I matured past you but sometimes I find myself longing for one of those nights where we sit at the bar until we are so drunk we can barely walk home, drink more at your kitchen table while we play cards, listen to music, smoke cigarettes, share secrets and then have blurry sex. A half-awake half-drunk haze. I always relegated that kind of behavior to my twenties, except that I loved you in my 30s. And even still in my 40s. More so now that you’re not here to make me hate you. 

Doug arrived at the bar when it was just me and Rick, trying to bring some life to the sad place. We hadn’t seen each other in years and I could tell right away he was already drunk, he hugged me too long, was too happy to see me. I never told Rick about Doug, why would I? He didn’t even make it to the speeches. He stormed out within an hour or two of the gathering. But not before he had also grabbed Rick’s ass. Thoroughly confusing Rick who had never heard of the tornado of Doug. It was fitting really, you would have liked the drama. 

I tried making a speech, everyone was so funny and thoughtful and I wanted to go up there and share my version of you. But the minute my mouth opened, my face contorted, holding back a tsunami of tears, I let out an ugly cry in front of a room of drunk friends and strangers. I didn’t even get a sentence out. I remember Odessa grabbing my hand on the way back to my seat, telling me how much you loved me. I wanted to believe it. 

Now that you’re dead I’m wondering what happens to the story of us? Those middle-of-the-night moments when the entire city was fast asleep except us. I remember walking down Folsom street at 2 in the morning and finding a hidden six-pack in someone’s lawn. It was like the city was our playground, a simulation of our deranged minds. Who else will hold the record of us? I don’t trust my shoddy memory to do it justice. How can I prove it happened if you’re not here to verify? Was it a six-pack or an empty tallboy. If I can’t lock eyes with you and share a knowing glance how do I even know it happened. My favorite times with you were just with you. In the car, at your kitchen table, on your couch. Hours of conversations not logged anywhere but our brains. What happens to those memories now that you are gone? And who will hold that part of me that only you knew? It’s just fading like the covers of all of those sad novels you gave me sitting in the sun for too long. 

I have this burning in my eyes when I think of you sometimes. It’s the holding back of tears, the pushing down of sadness. I don’t want to deal with it. But I miss the mess of you. And the mess I was when I was with you. And the place we went that can never be visited again. That tiny kitchen on San Carlos street has probably been remodeled. The fridge is new and holds more than just cases of cheap beer. But I loved that time, that place when everything felt so possible. When we were just weeds ready to break out of the dirt we buried ourselves in.