Heath Ledger...

It stole my breath when I saw it, this freeze as it went from my eyes to my head…stopping in an instant to think it was wrong or misprinted. So arresting.

And it wasn’t just about the movies. It was the thought of a father, of a recent husband who somewhere, to an unknown extent had a grieving heart of his own.

It’s mind-bending, the thought…to have the best parts of you so visible…or what it would be like to find yourself in front of a camera and trying, just trying to be good, to be remembered. Then to be a small piece of a film that’s offered up to the world. To be offered up to the world. And suddenly everyone has a right to know and love, you…your life, or not, instantly materialized from air, from nothing.

He dealt make believe. And now, all that’s left, remnant memories…the life of a great and still budding talent coming to an instant and vicious halt. He had a pull, always had something of a pull, and now that he’s dead, I find myself realizing how easy it was to glance over the moment he became something else entirely, gravity, and in remarkable form, like a coat that takes time. Heath Ledger was a great promise far from ripe, an already rare talent and yet so far from realized.

He was a scientist on the brink of curing cancer. He was our hopeful to shatter record in the mile. He was a politician to rally sides divided. And the thought of a loss like that makes me sad. At the end of the day, all he was to us was an artist, an actor. But he was loved. The simplicity of it makes me sad.

I’m not going to come out and say he was too young, that it’s not supposed to go down like this. And I’m not going to fall back on crutches like, “this just goes to show.” Not a chance, ever…not how I’m constructed. Great and terrible things happen all the time.

Tonight, I rest with a heavy heart. Heavier than expected…and that seems to be the gathered sentiment.

We end on tonight’s final salute. Brilliant, tragic, brilliant…

Looking for Self at Home Depot Close to Midnight on a Saturday...

Long after my flirtation with losing grip had grown into a full blown reality, I found myself finishing off an Oreo McFlurry in the parking lot of the Hollywood Home Depot wondering what the hell I was doing there but thinking to myself, there are certainly worse places to be, things to be doing, people to become.

I knew what I was there for, thinking back, I think. I began in lumber, wound my way through gardening, kitchen appliances, piping…winding with grace, ease. When it comes to riding carts in the bulk-shopping super centers of world America, Home Depot shopping carts are a personal, hands down favorite. It’s a combination of three things really…

1. Wide aisles.
2. Sleek floors.
3. My enthusiasm.

The trick is to immediately load the front end with gallons of paint or something of the like...something very heavy. That way, while gliding the aisles at high speeds, there is no risk of the front wheels coming off the ground. This precaution, in turn, lessens the risk of the back wheels buckling sideways and throwing said rider from the cart, somewhat violently and spilling red paint, not blood onto the concrete floors. And all of this, in final turn, doesn’t lead to an embarrassing conversation between the rider and a graveyard shift employee of Home Depot about shopping cart abuse and the allowance of said shopper finishing said shopping experience.

I was there for paint, paint supplies, lacquer, urethane sealer. See, I’ve lately gotten into huffing, and hard.

Not really.

I wanted to paint something I saw in a dream. Kind of a cross between a color and place, peace and panic…and determined the first step in plan go about it would be to pay a visit to the Depot, late on a Saturday night. I also don’t believe in rational determination.

…

I’ve recently discovered my great fear...recently as in the last 10 hours. Now, let us play with analogy so as to aid in the illusion of self-preservation…

Let’s say I’m a basket maker…quite the noble trade, I assure. People need baskets. People will always need baskets. And let’s say that for the last 10 weeks, I’ve been making this amazing basket. Every time I look at it, blood fires through my guts. And when I feel it, liquid vitality. When I hold it, I learn a new shade of happiness for the first time, each time. Ah, pandering to drama…

But my basket is different. It’s not constructed entirely the same way other baskets are constructed. The handle doesn’t lead to a basin to place goods such as, say, shoes and apples. Instead, the basin and handle aren’t connected at all. So when you try to place goods beneath the handle, they fall, roll right off the flat surface. People look at the basket and say, “What the fuck? Why can’t you just attach the handle the right way like everyone else?” In my mind, I tell them it’s balanced. I tell them to hold the handle from beneath the basin, to balance the goods above the handle, because it’s totally skillful and awesome and who else does? They say, “But that’s insane, why would I want to balance the goods when I can simply carry them?”

It's an answer I know but can't yet speak. And that, friends, is torture.

…

This painting…or the image I see…

It’s light…and dark. It’s angry…and luminous. It’s like standing on clouds, waiting for the sun to come, to melt my footing away until I fall, forever and ever, wondering if the end is near, screaming, happy tears, laughter, loneliness…

It’s an everlasting love, at its peak before fail and the fallout all at the same time, a broken mess. It’s bitter then sweet, never bittersweet, never anything middle of the road, cowardly, balanced, medicated…

It’s an agitation of cool, a splinter in sexy, a kiss before the fight…in my head, my dream, my constant confusion.

My constantly confusion.

…

I need a nanny for my child. And by “my child,” I mean myself. And by “myself” I mean me…to watch me and tuck me in, to sing to me until I fall asleep and hold my hand as I cross the street.

Someone who doesn't once protest my treating every ounce and drip of this life as if it were a dream...and never once worries of the trouble ahead.