September 27th is a lot of things. It's Vince and Rebecca's anniversary. It's Liz Shepard's birthday. It's also Douglas P's birthday. You remember Doug. He's the shit who once told me he would be "all over me if [I wasn't] so fat." I read that line aloud once at a journal reading performance. It got him booed.
But mainly September 27th is the anniversary of Belinda's death. Those who were at Antioch that quarter will doubtless remember that evening vividly.
Two days ago, I happened to see Shingo at the store. Shingo casually mentioned that H.W.S.R.N. was gone -- really gone this time -- as in he moved to fucking California last week. Some of you have already heard about this from me. Most of you haven't.
I've got to say, it's fucking with me some. It fucks with my head to know we're never likely to be as close as we were two years ago. It fucks with my head to hear that Jenny, Justin, Shingo, et al had a chance to say goodbye to him, and that it was apparently of no consequence to him whether he had a chance to say goodbye to me or not.
The good thing, though, is that now I remember how wrecked I was at this time last year. I remember spending the entire month of October obsessively listening to Veruca Salt in my car and being both heartbroken and angry at him. Now, this year, I have a Veruca Salt concert at the end of the month with lilostitch and possibly la_nuque to look forward to. I think if Veruca Salt had come to Pittsburgh last October, I would have had a giant, month-long musical orgasm.
The moral being: last year, Veruca Salt was all about him. Now, it's all about me. Last year, I longingly listened to lines like "... used to touch him, now I could never kiss him, used to love him, now I don't even miss him ..." This year, I actually feel that way and wonder how I could have ever expended so much energy on a man who was obviously not looking for anything but a chance to get laid when he was drunk.
Today would have been Bob's 34th birthday. I still see him in every random 808 that crosses my path. I still sleep in his sweatshirt. A year ago, I went and left flowers at his grave. I haven't been back to the cemetery since.
We always knew he would die young. Just no one ever expected it would be as public and horrible as it was.