  Internal Inventory I don't really know what to tell you. I spent the evening last night trying to write letters to sort everything out should anything need to be sorted. Loose ends need to be tied up as much as possible so that those less capable (read, everyone else) won't bungle it. Also trying to think of painless ways to do painful things with a minimum of cleanup after. This is probably why more Virgos don't actually kill themselves. I have a huge collection of things that I love that will mean almost nothing to anyone else, and yet I care where they end up. Who even remembers "My One & Only," much less cares that I saw it about six times and own the propeller that Tommy Tune carried around in it?
Or Sarah Brightman's double mask from "Phantom? " Sheryl Lee Ralph's shoes from "Dreamgirls" might be an easier sell, but probably not B.D. Wong's shoes from "M. Butterfly". What about the model for the set of Cinderella's house from "Into The Woods," the mining pick from "Crazy For You" signed by the entire original cast, my letter from Sondheim, my letter from Katharine Hepburn? My collected works of the Algonquin Round Table...most of them first editions, many signed. That Woollcott biography of Mrs. Fiske is damn rare, and how'm I gonna explain that the Jack Baragwanath (who was Neysa's husband) memoir is personally autographed to Robert Sherwood's wife...ugh.
The disposition of this junk is keeping me from swallowing a handful of...of... what? ...well, that's a whole 'nother issue. I refuse to jump from something. I'm not slitting anything. I don't own a gun, nor do I know anyone who does. Oh wait, I do, but I'm not talking to him. Partly 'cause he owns a gun. As evidenced by the inventory taken of my medicine cabinet, I haven't got a handful of anything that would induce the Sleep of Ages.
I had two aunts that killed themselves. One, who had Parkinson's and could barely hold a soupspoon, shot herself. She didn't have to, but she thought she did. The other was 98 years old and always said that when she got tired of it all, she'd walk all the way to the end of the pier behind her house and jump in the river.
That's where they found her. Can't really blame either of them. But, as I said, the gun thing horrifies me and, while drowning seems somehow more palatable, the East River's filthy and out of the question and the Hudson doesn't look like it would do the job. I mean, I can swim. So what does it mean? Does it mean I don't have the courage of my convictions? Possibly. Does it mean that I'm a big pussy? Sure, okay. Does it mean that I want to live.
I don't know. No. Yes. I don't know. I had a few dreams last night, as you might imagine. The one I remember the most took place in my apartment. It didn't look like the apartment I live in now, but it was meant to be in the dream. I've dreamt of living in that apartment before and always before there were rooms and areas within the apartment that I'd never come across before that dream. This was no different. In this dream I first noticed that my apartment was empty. Then I noticed that the service entrance (which actually looked like the service entrance in my real apartment) was open and some of my belongings were stacked there. I panicked and went back inside to see what was missing...nothing seemed to be. I then wandered into the back service hallway and saw through a hallway that doesn't really exist, some neighbors I'd never seen before.
One looked cute and was wearing briefs. I thought I'd get a better look if I went to the window in the back bedroom. I walked through the apartment to a room I had forgotten even existed. It wasn't really big enough to be a bedroom, but it was slightly elevated and had windows all the way across the back wall. Then I realized that they weren't just windows, but sliding doors. How had I never noticed that? I stepped up into that room, slid the door open and stepped onto a small terrace I also hadn't known was there.
The sun hit this terrace through some trees and it was so warming and pleasant that I stood there for a few minutes soaking up the heat. Then I looked around. Apparently in all the time I'd forgotten to check this back room, they'd built a pool. Full-size, in-ground pool. And all the apartments on my floor opened onto this pool area, which was white stucco, with pale brick accents. And flooded with light. The neighbor I had seen before was swimming in it, and others were gardening on their terraces, etc. I thought to myself, "I can't believe I'm leaving here now that there's this beautiful warm terrace and a pool to enjoy, especially just as summer's starting.
" I also remember wondering how long it had been there, and that I could've been enjoying it all this time. None of my neighbors seemed surprised to see me, although I didn't recognize any of them. I remember starting down the stairs from my terrace towards the pool to check the water, and then I don't remember anything else. Closer to dawn, I remember being half awake while this rapid-fire slide show went off in my head. So fast that not a single image remains. It was disorienting in it's speed and also in the fact that each image contained some full emotion that hit me fully but moved on with the next image/feeling. I don't remember any of it specifically, just that it happened. I couldn't get my ass out of bed this morning. My angelic puffin (who's real name is Dexter and who said to me in a dream several nights ago that he didn't like the pseudonym "Rex" because it made him sound common and he didn't need his anonymity protected) stood worried guard over me until I managed to sit up.
We took a short walk, I made us breakfast, I packed some books, I sat on the sofa and cried. Finally, I made the call I'd been dreading. I called the landlord to tell him that, even though I'd promised to get him this money by the end of the month, I just didn't have it. I said I could send him a check for $800 and I'd work on getting him the rest as soon as I could, but I honestly didn't know when or how fast that would be. Do you know what he said to me? He said, "You've sent in money when you told me you would, and I consider you a man of your word.
So I'll work with you on this. " A man of my word. Me? I don't know what to do with this information. And this from a man who very recently made me feel that my absence would be worth far more than my presence. Is he fucking with me? I got email today from a bunch of people, many of them bloggers, almost all of them people I've never met. They all said different-but-similar things: that I had value. These are all people I consider to be interesting, accomplished, intelligent...at least in their writing and in the information they've chosen to put out into the world. Man, I thought to myself, I've pulled some major wool over an internet full of eyes. I have value? I don't know what to do with that information, either. Jesus H., I just got off the phone. It was JSquared. Through him, the Universe has decided to pluck me up by the scruff of my neck and toss me into the second weirdest place I could be this weekend: "I have an extra ticket to the Tonys and the Rocky Horror Tony party after.
" What. The. Fuck? Now "Happy Couple Party" doesn't sound so bad. Nooooo, now my option is put on a fake Prada suit that I'll feel fat in and enter the belly of the Showtune Singin' Beast. I really don't know what to do with this information. It's not like anyone's gonna say "what the hell are you doing here? " I actually think people assume I go to these things all the time. But what if they ask "what are you in now? " Or even, "how are you? " I'm petrified of these questions. Last night I thought I was done.
This morning, too. I still thought so at the beginning of this entry. But it looks like, for the moment at least, I have to throw in the towel on throwing in the towel. I really don't understand it. I wish I had some sort of perspective or could just get a peek at the schematic. Something, anything...'cause I just don't understand it. It's easy to say, "let go and see where the current takes you," but it's not such an easy thing to do. It's not something that makes sense to me. Faith? As if. But given the fact that, strong desire aside, I seem ill-prepared to jump ship at the moment, and the fact that I'm being tossed all manner of weird life preservers, I suppose I might as well just "ride it out, girlfriend.
" Y'know, I was telling RJ the other night that, no matter how bad the movie or play or book, I always stick it out to the end. Don't know why. Maybe it's stubbornness or strong curiosity...and sometimes it's been rewarded. I guess I should afford my so-called life the same courtesy. 
