There they are, the kid born as Italy was advancing in the World Cup 16 years ago, on the anniversary of a riot and roller coaster, who taught me over and over again.
When we visited Elizabeth, they drew a picture with the words, the circle is round, it never ends, that's how long you are going to be my friend.
That was it, a magic circle that connected us with something larger.
They suggested I read Goethe, Sorrows of Young Werther, looking at the infinite, your face in a dream, in my sleep, between you and me, Beatrice and Dante, the sun and the moon, Lou Reed and the Perfect Day, the ocean and the sky.
And taught me about the Terror,
“Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death; - the last, much the easiest to bestow, O Guillotine!”
Revolutions can be rough.
They watched “But I'm a Cheerleader” with me,
“I'm not perverted! I get good grades! I go to church! I'm a cheerleader!” said Megan.
And we giggled.
And talked with Dion about Vietnam.
“He’s the OG guncle.”
And shared graphic novels, Call Me Nathan.
And looked for records at PREX, between madness and brilliance, Syd Barret’s the best.
Barret or Bear?
Barret looking for something, Bear wild, bear necessities.
Bear, the funny one, the one who moves faster, between bjj and Brooklyn, the one who hiked ahead with me on the Camino summers and rode with me to the Mermaid Parade.
Saw some mermaids, drank a slushie, it's time to bike home.
And reminded me about the big choices about dating vampires and werewolves, vampires obviously.
And showed me the beauty of the period rooms at the Met, gazing for hours at the Boiserie from Hotel Lauzon.
Who listened to podcasts on hardcore history, and showed me Kimya and AJJ, and rode bikes to the farmers market and got a cinnamon donut, and laughed with me.
And scootered to school with Ziggy, looking out for the guys mumbling in the darkness, and hung out with grandpa, and helped us all see it's ok out there…
And ate key lime pie with me at Valentino Pier in Red Hook, and cried with me when Doris, Elizabeth and Tim died.
And climbed in the trees and conspired.
And biked over bridges.
And showed me secret gardens when Dodi left.
And read about Julia Butterfly.
“If you’re the only person left, as long as your hope is committed in action, then hope is alive in the world,” Julia reminded us. “Nature's wisdom teaches us that where life is in motion, it's healthy; where it's stagnant, it's dying. But people have to interpret that journey in a way that's authentic for them . . . whatever helps you. We call it "finding your own true north"-- like on a compass… we're constantly looking outside ourselves to figure out if this is the right …But our true north is invariably inside us . ..”
Growing up, it's never easy finding your north star.
Trial and error.
One day, the kids veer off, onto their own path.
It wasn’t easy when you walked away.
Kids go everywhere with parents; independent thinkers find their own steps.
We fought.
Screams, way too many screams.
And you disappeared.
And forgave.
And you grew, turning 16.
And you found solace in the trees, biking over bridges, painting, reading.
I rode to DC for a bust.
And you invited me for a road trip up North.
Coffee in hand, we would cross the Brooklyn Bridge, up the FDR, a 9.68-miles up the east side of Manhattan, taking in the water, light shining, boats moving, looking at the city archipelago that welcomed you here 16 years prior, wondering what was in store for us, along Harlem River Drive, planning bike rides, up to High Bridge Park between 155th Street and Dyckman Street, moving over the George Washington Bridge, stopping to take it all in on the Palisades, chatting about the Ditchdigger who disappeared, eating clam chowder at River Station, Water Street, Poughkeepsie, ruminating on my best friend Walt Whitman, who hiked with Mary in the woods.
And stopping for a tour of Franklin’s house in Hyde Park.
Eleanor cried when her dog died, they recalled.
No tears for her husband, who left it all to us.
“There is nothing I love in nature so much as trees,” said Franklin D Roosevelt.
We sat looking at the trees he had planted, wondering about it all.
This is the best, you told me.
On the way back, you DJ’d and we talked about Tim and Elizabeth.
You played me “Trouble,” by Cat, from Harold and Maude, our Tim goodbye movie, those words when Maude finally leaves, Harold remaining:
“Trouble
Oh trouble set me free
I have seen your face
And it's too much too much for me
I've drunk your wine
You have made your world mine
So won't you be fair
Trouble
Oh trouble move away
I have seen your face
And it's too much for me today
I've seen your eyes
And I can see death's disguise
Hangin' on me
Hangin' on me”
And gradually, the Leonard Cohen songs followed:
“Come over to the window, my little darling, I'd like to try to read your palm. I used to think I was some kind of Gypsy boy before I let you take me home. Now so long, Marianne, it's time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.”
I guess it really is.
The records spun, the wheels turned, years passed from zero to 16 into the known.
Thanks for the day together.
Happy Sweet 16 rad.
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