brandon

And then you are going through your life, your week, your day, replete with your drama and exhaustion, excitement and routine. And then a call comes in. And things change.

My friend Brandon took his life. I don't even know how to write about it. I sit here with music piping into my ears that reminds me of him. The most perfect harmonies, dramatic lines, intense guitar licks. Those all belong to him. Always have. Those purest of memories, long days listening to loud, loud music, watching him slip and slide in his white socks across the marble floor, long, stringy hair that whips back and forth, or, if if was long enough ago, long, brushed hair that smells of PertPlus, black sweats, a favorite white tee shirt. Brandon in his room with his Rolling Stones magazines, drum set, guitars, tapes and books and Cd's strewn about. Bed unmade. Alone in his musical world. Always ready to play us something new. Plays us a new clip from something tremendous. Talk about Steven Sondheim or Axel Rose or tell us how Lea Salonga was singing on the latest Disney soundtrack. There was always jasmine rice and toasted coconut in the kitchen. How I loved that. Just last week when Solomon gobbled down a rice cookers worth of jasmine rice, I had a sensory memory. He's always been there, Brandon. Pieces. These sorts of things don't come along but a few times in a lifetime.

And it's so hard to classify. He wasn't just a friend. He was more like a brother. But then for a while, like a boyfriend. Broke my heart harder than ever. Left me in a million little pieces listening to his tapes in my tiny, stuffy dorm room, longing, longing for home. The flower scented streets of Pasadena, our parents houses. Safety and swimming pools and music that we could play as loud as we wanted, whenever we wanted.

But heartbreaks generally mend, especially when you're eighteen. And we moved on. He came north and our friends joined forces in the Bay. Our memories begin to get hazy here. Life turned experimental, bohemian, loose, wild, unfiltered. But there were through lines. Music. Creativity. Attachment. Family.

After we'd all earned a few new notches on our "experience" belts, we found ourselves back home, a motley crew of old and new ready to try anything at a moments notice. Jeff was introduced to the group. When we've talked about Brandon these past few days he's talked about him being a, "really good guy." I like that. Because Brandon was so much. An artist. A genius. Intense. Beautiful. Brilliant. Creative. But he was also really, really good. He had such a good heart. He was loyal. Perhaps in a way more elevated than the rest of us. Brandon was pure. I remember how purely he loved me. Loved Hilary. Loved Patrice and Jason and Azure and Arpi. How much he loved our wild familial adventures. I have to believe that. That we filled him up. At least a bit.

Songs poured from Brandon. As technology advanced, his tunes became more layered, hours and hours on end spent in a dimly lit room, piecing together chords and drum beats.

But I digress. Sunday in the Park with George plays into my headphones. I remember how we could listen to show tunes together for hours on end. He was responsible for half of the things I studied in college -- dramaturgy and psychoanalytic criticism, poetry and the "eleven o'clock lift." The irony is, I've been trying to cultivate that part of my life again. After marriage, two kids and sixteen years teaching school, I crave to embrace that artist again. Hours spent in a studio, at a typewriter, images and movement and rhythm. Art. Brandon was art.

So we move from Sonheim to G 'n' R. November Rain pours into my ears. I have to look away from the screen just to catch a glimpse of Axel's very, very earnest expression on my YouTube. Oh how technology adds a technicolor element to grief. For the past few days I've been able to type in any number of song titles into my phone. Within moments I'll hear a note and whatever is happening will stop. Elie and Sol banging on pots and pans this morning when they were supposed to be eating eggs was completely swallowed up by Jeff Buckley. I cried, all pressed in close to the ipod docker and they banged and banged away, eager for a few more moments before I would needle them to get on their boots and grab their lunches. That's how this grief has been. Intermittent and wholly intense. Exhausting and rejuvenating. Some moments I feel so damn lucky to have this life. To have made it past my own demons enough to fully engage in this beautiful, blessed, day to day. Others I feel so pissed. So pissed that he cut us all out. So pissed that such a talent, such brilliance and goodness is gone from my world. Even if I hadn't heard his voice in years. He was there. He was so a part of who I am. There are only a few people who come into your life like that.

I pour through songs and pour through photos. It's ironic because the same pictures that I return to now are the ones that got me through that first year in college. Got me through or tortured me, one of the two. Those ones that showed our most pure moments. Our innocent and strange and unique love. Harmonies and shoulder rolls on the stage. Oh how I love how he moved. So very unique his head and shoulders and knees, feet ever firm on the ground until he got really excited and found himself on his toes.

I wish our fate had been different. He was so not the guy I'd reconnect with on Facebook. Our friendship didn't have the easy click of "Friend" to provide some sort of superficial closure. Some arc. Some return. Our friendship was lost in time and complexity, medications and moves, boyfriends and sisters and space and distance. Show tunes. Or lack, then, there of.

All I want now is that closure. That opportunity to hold him, touch his soft, soft skin and say, hey. Thanks. Thanks for all you taught me about the world. Thanks for your friendship. Thanks for the adventure.

I want to tell him that he had it all. That he was so much, so much, so much. Convince him that this world is full and brilliant and shining and he could make it. But I've always been an annoying optimist. I fear death more than anything. I fear being out of control, violence, darkness, grief. Maybe Brandon didn't. Maybe he craved to see the other side. God knows he's been thinking about it for years. The ultimate act. Morning glow.

So he's gone. And the closure that I thought I'd hoped a memorial would provide is not going to happen for me. But I'll go home. I'll sit with my sister and my parents and some friends. We'll listen to music and watch videos and share stories. We'll process. And next week everyone will gather in a more formal way and Brandon's life will be appreciated by all the players. I had him for a solid fifteen or so years, but the guy, the man, was thirty seven years old. There was Brandon the baby. Brandon the child. I thought about him when I was in the bath with Solomon and Eliana today. Thought about his baby pictures. Thought about his mama. His dad. How absolutely, unbelievably devastating it must be to lose your boy.

I thought about his sister. Their birth order and chronology so similar to my own children. I have lots of deep fears in this life. Losing one of my children is at the top of the list. Losing my sister is second. To complete someone like that, in that very, very unique way. I can't even bear to think about it.

So I look up from the computer and type, "Metallica" into my YouTube. Surely would not have seen that pick a few days ago. Good jesus these opening bars. I remember rain and tears and night time and sadness. The way music sounds when it's played really loudly on a cassette in a small, hatchback Honda. Or even louder in an old Cherokee. Which reminds me of how Brandon drove. Good god. I love that guy.

So many roles we played for each other. There was the time I found out my college boyfriend was a pathological liar. We were driving on the Bay Bridge into Berkeley. We stopped at a light. I jumped out of the car, found a payphone, called Brandon. He was there in minutes. And that was that. Saved. Drama-meter, high as ever.

I can't really handle Metallica. Too much. I'll take a little Poison. The cheese and over-done familiarity of the roses and their thorns makes this one a bit easier to stomach. It's been a long fucking day. This reminds me of the cheeseball in Brandon. The Brandon that I wish I could see messing around with my kids. Good lordy loo would he love Eliana. Her costumes and nappy curls and uber drama. The way she learns the lyrics so damn fast. He'd appreciate Soli's soul, the way he's such a goofball, solid, meathead. He could stay in the basement room and be all at home because it's kinda dark, but super cozy. He'd love Missoula and get off on how quirky and random it all is. He'd appreciate the talent in this town. How real and heartfelt. He'd come every year. Uncle Brandon. He'd probably love coming in the winter, his maudlin tendencies would savor the short, bleak days. Or he'd love the summer. A long tube down the twisting Blackfoot, PBR's and a bandana to hold back his greasy locks. We'd laugh that he was the only Asian in town, blast music, eat thai food, Panang and Pad Thai. He always liked Jeff. I'd appreciate his stamp of approval. It wasn't always easy to come by. But I always trusted his judgement.

Almost always. But I never really got that place in his brain. The depth of his darkness. And that's a whole other piece. I need to do some reading. I need to get it.

Right now all I can do is appreciate. Appreciate that I had someone like that in my life. Hope that he has found light and sunshine and the most perfect harmonies. Dear, beautiful, old friend. I hope it's really fucking amazing.