a pennys worth pt. 2

It's been two years today since Lucian died and a little over six months since I wrote about it.

Finishing "A Penny's Worth" was a lesson in itself. In the process, I was expecting to feel like I'd broken through some kind of wall. Or at least monumentally different, that my own writing would provide an answer to a question I wasn't sure of. I at least hoped for a sense of conclusion.
What I felt instead was that I was the same person with the same experiences with the same troubles. I had simply organized them and tided up these elements. The best way to convey it would be to compare it to a bookshelf. Beforehand, it had been cluttered, books stacked randomly, some stuffed in sideways, maybe some random papers or coffee mugs. Writing about Lucian has put it in order; it's all the same books, but now they are organized, spines lined up so you can easily pick through them and remember everything they have said.

And just because I've written it doesn't mean I feel any less anxious or confused by Lucian's death. I have to constantly remind myself of the yarn, the knots, the pennies. It's like I'm always working to catch up with my own well-being. I can expect to feel happiness only momentarily. Similar to the act of writing the memoir, it was not as if I had moved completely forward, never to slide back and revisit these emotions. I've gone through maybe month long periods of simple joy in and of itself and I've gone through periods of having to put all of my will power into convincing myself it is not all hopeless repeatedly in one day.

And I've pulled myself out of it before. Even on days when I really do not want to feel happy, telling myself any thing I do will only be a veiled distraction from "the Truth". Who knows what that is, but I do know I don't want it to be able to seep into my bones and smother my ability to enjoy myself.

Over time, I've stocked arsenals and created escape plans for days like these. Though I believe in letting myself feel what I feel, good or bad, to their full extent, I know I often have to take direct initiative to eventually find my way back out. One specific example would be writing lists, which I sometimes title "RX: Happiness" or "RX: Get Over It". They include tasks, hobbies, people to talk to and goals to accomplish. They don't always "cure" my directly but often help get me back on track to feeling okay. I remember the first one I wrote the summer after Lucian died and it included "Stop drinking coffee and stop reading Ernest Hemingway". My most recent was written two days ago over a breakfast I forced myself to eat but had no appetite for. The list is still in my backpack and suggests that I "sew button back on dress," "pet the cat," and "don't sit in bedroom too much."

I remember, for maybe a year after Lucian died, my efforts to squander this darkness (and somehow cheat death, I had secretly hoped) was feverish. If each moment was not filled with a "productive" activity or thought, I could feel the anxiety creeping up behind me. I carried my knitting, a book to read and for more social situations, a deck of cards, everywhere I went. I would often leave cafes, friends' houses or other get-togethers because it wasn't "fulfilling" enough. At home, I would continue knitting or sewing or listening to talk radio, isolated in my nervous elitism.

During the fall semester after Lucian's death, there was a week where my left eye twitched continuously. I never gave my eyes a rest because I was constantly reading or writing or knitting or sewing. Even walking to class or do errands had to be filled with music or phone calls to check in. I had to gather knowledge and accomplishments around me, attempting to find shelter in them.

But I wasn't necessarily any unhappier than I am now, about a year since I pushed myself so hard. I don't really think of periods of my life as completely happier or sadder than other parts. It's measured more in my awareness and grasp on my own well-being, how successfully I can force myself out of bed and eat breakfast on some mornings. The last few months it seems the feverishness has flipped, focusing my efforts towards relaxation and satisfaction in small, seemingly insubstantial moments. Who cares if I stay in Saturday night to joke with my housemates, lingering at the table long after dinner only getting up to refill our cups of tea. It doesn't matter if I "learned" or "created" anything because I was feeling something, simply happy. A few months ago, for example, I had a few friends, Bettina, Zach and Shelby, over for dinner. As we stood around the sink washing our dishes I said matter-of-factly that I wanted to go on an adventure. We threw around some ideas but in the end we didn't get farther than the corner store to buy sweets. We all walked Zach back to his house and as we were saying goodbye I apologized that our hopes for the night had not happened. He took a bite from his doughnut and waved away my apology with one hand. "I had a good time, anyways. I mean, it's nice hanging out with you guys no matter what we do."

Yesterday afternoon I listened to the radio show "This American Life" as I knitted a hat for my housemate. The episode, titled "How to Rest in Peace", is about how people have dealt and still deal with the loss of parents to murder and suicide. The first segment focused on a man named Jason Minter, who, at six years old, heard his mother and her friend being shot to death by robbers in an adjacent room. Throughout his life, he grew more and more obsessed with his mother's death. As a child, he worried about security and built weapons and traps. After studying Film in college he decided to make a documentary about his mother's death. He visited the crime scene, talked to police and even one of the accomplices of the murder trying to learn all the details. When the interviewer asked Jason what his hopes were for completing the documentary, he replied, "My hope is to cease to obsess over that day. You know, I hope to not think about the murder twenty-six times a day, maybe once a day or once every two days." He then changed his mind a little, reflecting that, "I wonder if I should intensely focus on my mother and, not forget about the crime obviously, but try to stay away from that as much as possible mentally and not make the rest of the [documentary]. [I] never really thought of [my] mother as a real person, she's been this event, or this horrible thing that happened to [me]. Not that she was a horrible thing, but she was a victim of this horrible thing, which has in some ways defined my life."

Yes, I am still the same person with the same experiences and the same troubles. I have most of the same hobbies, such as knitting and sewing and reading and writing, but like Jason, I have realized the importance of how I approach these activities. If they are done out of fear, because I am running away from something, I have failed in my attempt to escape that thing since it has such power over my daily life. Instead I should focus on Lucian and his life and what that has taught me. I should live each moment of my life, not because it will get me somewhere or teach me something, but because it is something that will make me happy in that moment for whatever reason.

Yes, I still think of Lucian whenever I see pennies around. I don't pick them up nearly as often, though.




POSTSCRIPT: Now here I am, having finished writing even more on the subject only moments ago and, like I said in the beginning, I now feel a little lost because I am the same person sitting in the same chair at the same desk with the same experiences and the same troubles. I've realized that I am grateful at least that I was consumed by this feeling to write and write and write for hours. While I was writing I didn't feel the anxiety or the uselessness but could feel all of my thoughts fall neatly into place and pour out of the tip of my pen.
And here I go again, to repeat the process over and over again.

a pennys worth

Here is a piece I wrote for my nonfiction class about my friend Lucian who passed away two years ago today. It's about grief, death, happiness, anxiety, pennies and knitting.

I pulled my jacket tight around me as I walked from the San Francisco State campus to the bus stop. Though not a student, I spent most of my freshmen year there visiting friends from home who were. It was the beginning of the fall semester and I hadn't made many friends at my own school, the University of San Francisco. After graduating from a strict boarding high school and spending the summer at home, I found it very hard to leave once again. For the first time, I had felt settled in one place. But, the fall inevitably arrived and I was uprooted to another city.
As I turned the volume up on my iPod I heard a rattling close behind. Lucian glided next to me on a Razor scooter, put his arm around me and leaned his head on my shoulder. He was nonchalent with his affection, as if the most natural place for him was in a friend's arms. I offered him one of my headphones and he shifted his head to listen to his music.
We walked the rest of the way to the bus stop in silence, my feet stamping out a steady four quarter notes per measure while his struck the pavement every third beat, pushing himself forward on the scooter.

Lucian and I first met while home in Santa Cruz through mutual friends. I was unsure about his confidence. He approached strangers, including me and my group of friends, with ease and comfort, immediately diving into conversation. “Who is this kid? Who does he think he is?” we thought to ourselves. Maybe it was just a reflection of our own self-consciousness, that we were jealous of how effortlessly he expressed himself and connected with those around him. I started seeing him all over town and with mutual friends more often and, after leaving for college, his easy friendship was stable and comforting.
Our main group of friends at that time, the beginning of our first year of college, consisted of Lucian and me along with four or five other freshmen boys. Though I was known to be maternal, I was still one of the guys; we sometimes likened ourselves to Wendy and the Lost Boys. Our plans, whether for the night or for our lives ahead, were made enthusiastically. Hands waved in the air, spilling bear on the ground beneath. “I know this guy who lives on Church St., you know, near Dolores Park,” one of the Lost Boys told the group while I was visiting them at San Francisco State. “I ran into him and was talking about how much I would love to live there, and he was like, 'You know, this apartment is opening up in the next couple months'. Why don't we all move in together? Or at least in the same neighborhood!” We all agreed and started to plan out our room arrangements immediately. “We could have barbecues in the summer! And go out together every weekend!” another chimed in.
After the conversation died down, I realized that the night had grown late and the buses were no longer running. I had no way of returning to my own room at the University of San Francisco. Luckily, Lucian, whose roommate was out of town for the weekend, offered his room to me.
“Goodnight, 'lil Lu! Sleep tight!” I whispered to him from across the room. He hated when people called him that, but I was given special permission.
He laughed from underneath his orange blankets, “G'night, Jenny.”

____________________
Journal Entry, January 3rd, 2008, 1:00AM
“I am so ashamed that I still went through such mundane rituals as undressing and washing my face. I feel like in the face of this loss, I should recognize it in some way more concrete than words shared over the phone.”
___________________

At first Lucian didn't die. He was on vacation. Or taking classes back at school. Maybe it was a big practical joke. We were all waiting for him to come back because we knew it wasn't him. He was not the one they wrote about in the article and he was not the one lying in the street. I remember the night it happened I was on the phone with my friend Nick. He said, in a business-like tone, “Someone said it's just a rumor, that he is only injured. I'll call the hospital and if they don't know anything about it he must be fine.” But we knew. The longer we remained rational, double checking all of the facts, the longer it would be until it was all real. As I sat on the shag rug in the bathroom, that hint of hope felt like a gulp of air between swells of waves. So many plans, assumptions and expectations were swept up with the current. We had planned a road trip for that winter, to live together next summer, to know Lucian for the rest of our lives.
I held my toothbrush but could not bring myself to stand up straight in front of the mirror. Nothing felt more obscene, more inappropriate at that moment after hanging up the phone than just brushing my teeth. That action would delegitimize the whole thing-- it would prove that this was just like any other day. That, when it came down to it, no matter what happened. I would still end up committing myself to these mindless tasks. Yesterday, Lucian was alive and today he was not; there was a significant change in my life but no physical signifier to make sense of it.

I remember the first penny was in a basement, hiding beneath a layer of mud. This particular basement had been converted into a music venue; the building, which was accessible through a nondescript door on Mission St., also served as a record store during the day and bands played in the basement at night. I was leaning against an old wooden workbench. The room was loud with buzzed mingling and I kept myself removed, perched in my mind's lighthouse; my eyes, like the steady beams, scanned the rooms, straight, uninterrupted and halfheartedly. I tapped my toes in a small puddle on the basement floor. I thought about how much Lucian would have liked this place, with its darkened alley entrance and the punks all brown with dirt and sun. I could imagine him in front of me, smirking between sips of beer, his expression honest and engaged.
An orange circle peeked its way through the mud in front of me. It was just a penny, but I held my breath for a moment before bending down to pick it up. I wiped it off on my sweater, turned it over in my hand to make sure. It was old and damaged, the way old silverware looks after a spin in the dishwasher. I ran my fingers over the sharp edges.

A friend of mine had told me about pennies in late January, a few days after I returned to San Francisco for school. Her aunt believed that, through pennies, the dead communicate to the living. After her father passed away, the woman began seeing pennies, especially during moments of deep introspection. She had a poor relationship with her father but had felt, through the appearance and placement of pennies, that he was attempting to apologize, communicate at least. The legitimacy was questionable, unfounded, but the possibility was enough for me to hold on to.
I don't really know if there was some sort of supernatural force behind these pennies. To be honest, pennies had been lying around, glinting at me from the pavement my whole life. Either way, their golden presence became a source of comfort for me. It meant that, maybe, Lucian was still around in some form. He was still saying hello and I'm okay and I think you will be okay.
In a wave of students marching across the street to class, head bowed against the wind and chin hidden in my scarf, I would find a penny's orange oasis upon the concrete gray ocean. I would kneel down, scoop it up, plunge my fist into my jacket pocket to hide my secret treasure from the murky depths.

____________________
“Now, if you see a bike that does not have traditional hand brakes, you think to yourself, well, just use the coaster brakes. Well, these bikes don't have a coaster brake. The crank just keeps rolling so the faster you go, the faster the crank goes and the harder it is then to stop that momentum with your legs. In some cases, it simply can't be done.”
KSBW Channel 8 News Report the day after Lucian's death, January 3rd, 2008
__________________

After setting my bike down on the sidewalk, I walked to the corner of Jessie and East Cliff, the same street I had ridden with Lucian before. It had been about a week since he sped down the nearby hill going 25 miles per hour without brakes or a helmet. As Lucian reached this corner, the delivery van in front of him turned right without signaling. He struggled to stop by slowing down his legs, but the velocity caused the bike to spin out from underneath him. His body hit the ground, followed by his head and the back tire of the van ran over his chest. It continued down the street, lazily turned left, indifferent.
And there I was, a few days later, in the same spot. The nearby fire hydrant was covered in peeling paint, wilting flowers and handwritten notes dampened by the recent storm. I pulled a sharpie out of my backpack, kneeled beside it and wrote his name.

The last time I saw Lucian was New Year's Day. My bike wheels clicked with content as I walked it to his front door and knocked. Lucian answered, his cheeks all apple, rounded in a grin.
“Look at what my mom made me wear.” I tugged at the poofy white parka. “She wouldn't let me leave the house unless I put it on so the cars would see me, she said! I feel like a marshmallow.” Lucian laughed and shook his head while I looked down at the jacket. “So, how's your New Year's Eve so far?” I threw my parka on the couch and used a sleeve to wipe the sweat from my temple. Nearly all of the flat surfaces in Lucian's living room had small, fist size sculptures of human faces that he had made. Each of them seemed slightly contorted, their features a little longer or droopier than normal, like in a dream.
“My day's been pretty good, actually. I decided to read the paper this morning in the back yard,” The weather had been unusually warm for the end of December. “...but I ended up just taking a nap in a sunny spot on the lawn.” He paused to put on his backpack, “Well, I'm ready to head downtown, you?”
Lucian rode in front of me, he was faster and more experienced. He had built his bike himself from spare parts. It was lightweight, neon green and all his own. We couldn't hear each other over the noise of the traffic and whooshing air so we settled on singing the theme from the musical “Sweeney Todd” in our loudest and most operatic voices instead.
At the crest of a small hill we could see the black silhouette of the eucalyptus trees as the sun set in violent oranges and reds. I pedaled faster and caught up with him, “Look at that, Lucian! Woo! G'bye 2007!” He screamed along with me, punching his fist in the air as we descended East Cliff St.
Later that night, after Lucian and I rounded up several friends in town, we returned to his house for the countdown. With all of our arms around each other in the living room we shouted at the muted television, daring the New Year forward. The next morning we said goodbye in his driveway. I don't think we hugged. It didn't occur to me at the time-- this is the last time you will ever see him-- so I put on my jacket and swung my leg over the seat of my bike. “I can help you fix your bike,” he said, examining the tires. “We'll make a project out of it.” He looked up and smiled. His generosity, his desire to help, was boundless and effortless. I couldn't wait to become better friends with him over the coming months. “Cool, sounds good. I'm going to my grandparents' tomorrow, but I'll see you when I get back,” I said. The clock hand pushed me steadily forward, down the street and farther away from Lucian.

____________________
“He law and puffed his lips out with his breath
And then-- the watcher at his pulse took a fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little—less--nothing!-- and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
were not the ones dead, turned to their affairs.”
“Out, out” by Robert Frost
____________________

During my sophomore year in high school, I went to the corner drug store to pick up some toothpaste. After grabbing a basket, my thoughts were absorbed in the different brands, claims, success stories. This decision seemed very important and I dedicated myself fully to choosing one of the options. I heard a crash to my right. My neck instinctively swiveled and I saw a middle-aged man face down in the linoleum floor. The pale skin of his exposed hands looked so fragile and human in the fluorescent lights. I stood there rigid, the metal basket filled with cardboard smiles resting on my elbow.
“Someone call an ambulance!” screamed a woman kneeling at his side, her eyes bulging. I heard the voice of a cashier shout, “I'm calling 911 now!”
I stayed there for a few moments weighing my options. I supposed I at least shouldn't just stand there staring. I wasn't needed, I should get back to shopping. I slowly turned, forcing myself along with each step. I walked into the next aisle and pretended to look at shampoo bottles, unable to suppress my sense of guilt.

The pennies kept me company. They were more than a financial gain. They were a collection. They were greetings. They were reminders. They were crumbs on a path. Even the pennies already found spoke to me. From my pockets or scattered on my desk or dropped on the floor, they continued their conversations. On similar walks, I would reach for something in my bag or slip my hands into my pockets, retreating from the cold to find something tickling my knuckles. I would thumb the smooth sides, flipping it through my fingers to say hello again. Half the reason I picked them up, paid so much attention to them was because I felt it was a way to communicate back. To ignore its presence, I believed, was to ignore Lucian. The first few times I passed them up I felt incredibly guilty. Once or twice I retraced my steps back to pick it up. I wanted him to know I still thought of him, was still aware of him, that he hadn't slipped into oblivion, been forgotten. Maybe all I was doing was picking up pennies, but it felt like maybe death wasn't a total eclipse.

There came a time when Lucian wasn't alive anymore. He definitely wasn't dead, though, but somewhere on the way to being there. This point occurred a month or so after we all arrived back at school for the spring semester. The reality hadn't hit us yet, but his absence was no longer a novelty, something to get used to. But he still felt present. While scrolling through my phone book, I would still instinctively pause at his name, ready to hit dial, to hear his voice. There were times when, upon orchestrating plans for the weekend, my mind would automatically weave Lucian into the scheme. I would imagine him arriving in his bright green shirt and pierced ears, how he would interact, his presence one string among hundreds of the night's tapestry. Without him, it would simply unravel.
It was like, if my life were a picture, Lucian was cut out. The scissors had left a space in his shape behind. Yes, he was absent, but his outline was not. His outline signified that he was once there, that he had existed, that he had left a mark.

____________________

“Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?”
Andy Warhol
____________________

I sat up, I brushed my teeth, I buttoned my shirt, I looked in the mirror, I folded laundry, I did the dishes. Within each activity I said a little apology to Lucian and sent them in the creases of my cotton shirts and the soap bubbles in the sink. I mentally crossed off time on the calendar. It was time subtracted from my life. Everyday I grew more anxious, putting every action in the context of my mortality. Merciless instability loomed behind all of my plans. After agreeing to meet with friends for dinner in a couple weeks, for example, I wondered if I would even live through the days between.
Even the important things, the fun things, that I had before looked forward to were mocking reminders that no matter how I live, no matter which route I'll take, I'll end up in the same rut. I had entered a room to find that all the doors and windows back out were locked. I could spend my time however I pleased, but I was still entirely trapped.
The pennies piled up on my desk. I was careful to keep them separate from the other ordinary coins. They would taint Lucian's pennies, like rain to an inky letter—his message blurred and fuzzy by association.

A few days after his memorial service I found myself at home on the couch. I had spent most of my days alone, confused and fearful. I had a skein of golden yellow yarn that had been tangled and dragged into a mess by the dog. My mind's swiveling lights for once halted, remained focused and sure. I sat on the couch slowly unraveling it. I concentrated all of my energy and attention on the movement of each hand, the simultaneous curling of each knuckle, my breaths growing deeper and more consistent. I allowed myself to become lost in the yarn's knots. All that was before me was this sinewed nest of wool. Hours went by until I tamed it, rolled it into a ball the size of my fists.
I started to knit, casting on each stitch by twirling my wrist and running the yarn over the top of my fingers. The first few stitches always resists being knotted. But a few rows in, the yarn lets out a breath, grows flexible, offers itself up to my crooked spider fingers. I arrange the wool, centimeters at a time with hundreds of knots. Examined one at a time they are so inconsequential, minuscule, petty annoyances. Stringed along, in a scarf or hat, these knots create beautiful patterns. Looking back on the knitting, making each knot was necessary to the whole. It is beautiful, worthwhile that you spent time making the knots because, when you see them all together, you know they amount to something and that they are yours.

A penny is hardly worth anything. But they are the building blocks of our currency. They are necessary to dimes and dollars but we take them for granted, in some cases even throw them away. As I picked up more and more pennies the months following Lucian's death, I began to reflect on my newfound collection. Each penny, golden and forgotten, was like the menial tasks that had been building up all around me. I could ignore them, I could walk past them everyday, I could toss them aside. Or I could take each one for what it was worth, hold on to it and admire it. I could allow myself to find little joys in the simple, everyday actions I had beforehand found myself trapped by. Whether it be the warmth of the water running over my hands in the sink or the dull rhythms of the knife against the counter, slicing each onion. If I collect these actions, like I collect my pennies, they will inevitably lead to other events, conversations, discoveries of greater worth. I started picking up pennies I had burrowed safely in my room and slipped them, one by one, into the porcelain piggy bank.