“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.”
Pericles
About 2 years ago, when I first started working at the Flynn, I got a strange phone call. At that time, I was still moderately terrified of answering my phone. It rang constantly and I rarely knew how to answer the myriad of questions thrown at me.
I was still trying to understand the intricacies of the Flynn (and two years later, I almost get them!). The caller was an older woman who wanted to drop off some items for us to use in our theater classes.
As usual, I was not sure how to handle this. Not sure who I needed to clear this with and if we even accepted donations of old clothing. She told me that her husband had died years ago. She had kept his treasured military hats safe and sound all that time. She was finally ready to give them away so other people could make us of them.
She sounded unsure of herself. Most likely a part of her wanted to keep these hats a little bit longer. They must have meant so much to him. And for her, they must have been like a piece of him, the last piece she had left.
After all, they sat on his head day after day, they probably still smelled of his shampoo. It must have been so awful for her to part with them. But maybe it was a necessary part of moving on.
“The key to change... is to let go of fear.”
Rosanne Cash
I have always had problems with moving on. I used to squeeze my stuffed animals so hard at night that their stuffing would fall out too soon. I had literally loved them TO DEATH. But I wouldn't let my mother throw my beloved animals in the trash. Oh no!
They meant something to me! I insisted we save them forever and ever for sentimental reasons. There is probably a big bag of love-worn stuffed animals rotting away in the attic at this very moment.
A week or so after our phone call, the lady dropped off two boxes of her deceased husband's possessions. Her daughter waited in the car and I ran down to take them from her. I thanked her profusely and made sure she was ready to part with them. She lingered for a moment and then said that it was the right thing to do.
I wonder if she got home that night and regretted it instantly? If she wanted to snatch back her husband's precious belongings to hold closely until the day she joined him? Or if somehow she felt lighter, as though a great weight had been lifted? Perhaps she was finally released from some sad state of purgatory caused by years of loss and suffering?
I took the boxes up to my office and proceeded to forget about them. I had many boxes littering my floor and they fit in fine amidst the mess. I never bothered to bring them up to the studio closets so the kids could enjoy them. It was part laziness and part selfishness that kept those boxes in my office over the next two years.
A part of me didn't want those careless kids to go ripping through her husband's prized possessions, unaware of their history or origin: heedlessly pulling out his white dress gloves with nary a scratch and instantly covering them in dirt; tossing his immaculate gold-braided hats around the room and denting their perfect shapes; roughly twisting the suspenders and plaid cumberbun that he once held so dear; instantly sullying his brighter than white Navy cap.
I didn't know what to do with this dead man's things. Part of me wanted to put them on display in a museum somewhere. They were so pristine and perfect, they needed to be admired and worshipped. He needed to be remembered! There had to be some way to hold on to him through these items that once mattered so much to him?
“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Why do I hold on to things so tightly? It probably has something to do with the fact that I have never belonged anywhere. Never had a real "home" in the traditional sense of the word.
We left my childhood home when I was 3 years old and never alighted anyplace solid again. Like a family of hummingbirds, we flitted from haven to haven, never stopping long.
In 33 years I have moved almost 20 times; lived in 20 different homes, apartments, dorm rooms and hovels; carried my crap around from place to place and state to state like a hobo with a stick.
You would think that I would be really good at traveling light by now. Perhaps my tendency to hold on to things too tightly is some sort of an adverse reaction to this nomad lifestyle. It is like that scene in
The Jerk where Steve Martin is being kicked out of his mansion:
Navin R. Johnson: Well I'm gonna to go then. And I don't need any of this. I don't need this stuff, and I don't need you. I don't need anything except this. [picks up an ashtray] Navin R. Johnson: And that's it and that's the only thing I need, is this. I don't need this or this. Just this ashtray. And this paddle game, the ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need. And this remote control. The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that's all I need. And these matches. The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control and the paddle ball. And this lamp. The ashtray, this paddle game and the remote control and the lamp and that's all I need. And that's all I need too. I don't need one other thing, not one - I need this. The paddle game, and the chair, and the remote control, and the matches, for sure. And this. And that's all I need. The ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, this magazine and the chair. [walking outside] Navin R. Johnson: And I don't need one other thing, except my dog. [dog barks] Navin R. Johnson: I don't need my dog.
Years later, Suzanne and I were switching offices in preparation for my departure from the Flynn. Once again, I had to face this man's boxes and decide what to do with them.
Suzanne advised me to take them home and use them in my shows. I longed to kidnap them and hang the hats on my bedroom walls. Create a shrine for this dead man that I never met. His hats were so perfect, so artful, and they held so much meaning.
Lately I have been trying to force myself to let go of things. Leaving the Flynn, releasing ghosts and moving forward instead of back. As nice as it is to wallow in sweet memories and drain them of every last bit of their tasty nectar, this activity soon grows stale. And in letting go of the past and the parts of it that I have been clinging too tightly to, I feel a great weight lifting off my shoulders.
“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”
Dr. Seuss
In this spirit, I am finally going to release this man's possessions to the kids. At long last, I'll honor his widow's wishes (I know, I know, what took me so long!?).
This summer the rambunctious children will no doubt rip through them and bend, dirty and crumple his perfect hats, gloves, suspenders and cumberbun.
But I think the old lady knew then what it took me 2 years to realize, you can't hold on to someone too tightly. You have to let go of them and accept that they are gone.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art; to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tomorrow is my last day of work at the Flynn and as of Friday I am OFFICIALLY an unemployed deadbeat! It will take a while for this BIG life change to seem real to me.
Between classes, rehearsals, creative meetings, vlogs, blogs, matinees, editing and script readings, I have a ton to do next week. I am guessing it will take a while for the full force of this shift from full-time worker bee to student bee to take effect.
Too many people are thinking of security instead of opportunity. They seem to be more afraid of life than death.
James F. Bymes
But in the meantime, I am looking forward to my goodbye party tomorrow night when I can take the time to relax, unwind and get liquored up with a grand group of people that have become like a family to me over the past two years.
Someone asked me today if I was sad to go. I am sad. So sad. But it is time to stop holding on so tightly. It is time to put on my fancy military hat one last time and then prepare to release my grip...
“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.”
Gilda Radner
Scott Walker is an American singer/songwriter who has been making dark, tortured, brilliant music since the 60s. Years ago, I was given a mix tape of his work by someone who worked at Amoeba Records and it changed my life. 
Walker's own original songs of this period (late 60s) are a late, last flowering of a dark Romanticism tinged with Surrealism and Existential angst. They are influenced by Brel and in some inchoate way, the writing of Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus and early twentieth century European thought, poetry, art and music (despite the fact that by then Existentialism was waning as a philosophical and literary fashion). 
Walker, who is 63, has one of the greatest voices in pop history, and in his younger days, when he battled orchestras as part of the sixties pop group the Walker Brothers, he was not afraid to use it. What he has lost—not much—in fullness over the years, he has more than compensated for by developing a unique, quasi-operatic style. He will twist a word, and a line, inside out, stretching vowels, leaving syllables to die in the air, gliding imperceptibly up and down his register. It is theatrical, designed to wring shades of meaning from diamond-hard lyric fragments. And also purely musical—if meaning remains elusive, and it often does, well, confusion still sounds gorgeous. 
If it is rare to find artists working at their creative peak into their sixties, it is rarer still to find one releasing his most radical work yet. The Drift is Walker’s first album in ten years and third in 30, after 1984’s Climate of Hunter and 1995’s Tilt. It will be followed by a documentary, Scott Walker: 30 Century Man, in which everyone from Radiohead to Brian Eno lines up to sing his praises. This extraordinary trilogy exists entirely in Walker’s own, self-invented musical world, and it is not an easy world to enter. The music is dark, velvety, and almost motionless, yet full of tension. Sometimes, it sounds like an aria; at others, like industrial noise.
And did I forget to mention, he looks super hot in tight jeans! Also, he seems to have a love for this one red scarf that he wears in almost every picture taken in the 60s. Hmmm. 
