I didn't cry when the towers fell, but I am crying now. I can't stop thinking, Warren is going to die and leave me alone here. Chuck is dead and George is dead and soon there will be no one left, except those six billion other people, but I don't want them, I only want him. And I want to yell at him for being stupid enough to smoke until he was forty-seven, and to get clean just in time to die, and to face death with such calm acceptance when I can't stop crying, I can't stop. How can he do this to me, when I always thought there would be more time?Warren, like me, is half Jewish. He chose to announce the news of his impending death smack in the middle of the High Holidays, though I doubt he was thinking about them when he did it. The announcement was made on September 12, five days after Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, when the names of all those who will live another year are written in the Book of Life. Warren's name isn't in the Book of Life this year. Of course, mine might not be either.
Also. Isaac is in town. He claimed he would call me this weekend. So we could talk. He is trying to move back to New York, though I don't understand why, he was always afraid to live here, even before last September. I haven't spoken to him in seven months, though I think of him every day. I need to know if he still thinks of me....
Fuck. Stupid, messy drama. Stupid heart. Why can't I be a being of pure clean selfish intellect, like a psychopath or a vampire or something? Then I could bewitch some rich old guy and smother him in his sleep and take the money and go on a 'round-the-world cruise to watch the humpback whales breach and the icebergs calve and to have a lot of sex and drink a lot of gin and lean over the rail watching the sparkling water glide by and not give a tinker's dam about anything. I sure wouldn't be in this room, trying to edit dull technical copy over the deafening noise of love-sex-death, love-sex-death, clattering through my brain like a train over its tracks.
I've been trying to write a letter to him. It is not working. I'm thinking of saying, Fuck it, and just writing, "Dear Mr. Zevon, It fucking sucks that you're dying, and I'm really pissed off. The world will always feel a little lonelier to me without you in it, though we only ever met for five seconds that one time I sneaked backstage where you were talking with your friends. Remember? I stammered, 'I'm not supposed to be here,' and you said, 'You're the only one who's supposed to be here.' God, why can't someone who sucks die instead of you?"
That comes close to expressing how I feel. Ideally, I'd like to say that I love him, for some value of the word love; but how do you say that to a stranger without sounding psycho? On the other hand, what does he care if I'm psycho? At this point, what can I do to him?
Total word count: 53,178