"I am writing all alone"
There was a longer post I was working on when we'd arrived home from Midnight Mass, but I tired and wasn't doing my subject material - Church, homilies, issues of the Word being made flesh and such - justice.
Instead, let me wish you all a Merry Christmas. It hasn't been one for me, but hearing from many of you has improved it all the same.
The title of this post is a quote from Sufjan Stevens's song "Come On Feel the Illinoise Part II: Carl Sandburg Visits Me in a Dream" - I don't feel that way, i.e. as though I'm writing alone. It's just what happens to be playing now. Besides, in a verse or two, that part of the melody's lyric changes to "Are you writing from the heart? Are you writing from the heart?" I am trying.
Instead, let me wish you all a Merry Christmas. It hasn't been one for me, but hearing from many of you has improved it all the same.
The title of this post is a quote from Sufjan Stevens's song "Come On Feel the Illinoise Part II: Carl Sandburg Visits Me in a Dream" - I don't feel that way, i.e. as though I'm writing alone. It's just what happens to be playing now. Besides, in a verse or two, that part of the melody's lyric changes to "Are you writing from the heart? Are you writing from the heart?" I am trying.
posted by Wil at
10:37 PM
3 Comments:
Greetings to Wil, to his friends and family, and to what I can only think to call "his readership," those of you who visit this site purely to indulge in his intelligence and insights. This is Kristin, good friend of Wil's for quite a number of years now. I met him back in the Will days, the double ell days I now call them. Many of you reading this have known him far longer, and therefore have trouble calling him anything but Billy. I force myself to leave off the last l now, though I've often protested to the amendment, because it is Wil, not Will or Billy, who lost a brother this week, and therefore it is to Wil I offer this post. It is Wil, not Will or Billy, who at present is wrestling grief with bare hands and bleeding heart. And it is toward Wil that we have all rallied our support.
I am not speaking to him directly because, as he himself has observed, the public nature of this medium is such that one does feel a need to adjust one's tone to that of a lone speaker on a podium. Perhaps that is part of why I've never commented before on the numerous intelligent and thought- provoking and funny things Wil has shared with us via this medium. I'm not a big fan of public speaking.
So why now? I realized that I am in the somewhat unique position of having observed Wil directly as he steps up to deal with what he has termed The Event. So many of you wish you could be physically present for him. You feel, as I do now, sitting at a computer in my sister's very pink bedroom on Long Island, once again too many miles from him, that the only way you could possibly tell him how very sorry you are, the only way you could communicate to him the depth of your concern and love for him, is to look him in the eye for a long moment, doing so preferably while walking toward him, and to draw him toward you with strong arms. You want to hold him long and hard. You want to squeeze the grief out of him. You know you can't. But you want to try.
In part I am posting because I want to tell you what I have seen of Wil, what I have observed in him during my short stay at his childhood home in Syracuse this week, and in so doing bring you closer to him. I can tell you that I rarely took my eyes off of him, that this in fact got on his nerves at one point. I only now realize that I was watching so intently because I wanted to relay to you, and to him, something of what I saw in him as he grapples with the inconceivable.
And I write, ultimately, so that he can know that I saw, that everyone saw, what he hoped they would, that he is indeed, "One Strong-Assed Motherfucker."
(I'm going to give an aside, just briefly. Wil, I've told you that you captured Jon in your eulogy, and I meant exactly that. Jon is leaving. Jon has left. And what you did with your stories, what Melissa also did with hers, felt almost like a catching by the wrist, as if you were saying to him, "In a minute. Right now you have to be here for these people." You caught him and held him, so that we could all have just a few more minutes. It was breathtaking, and it is what I want to attempt here. I will fail, mainly for those reasons we discussed on the phone, namely that I am out of practice, but I have to try, because I want to bring you to those people who wanted to be there, who love you and need to see you).
I found it helpful to think of him in terms of the roles he played this week. He has pinned down a major difficulty in the grieving process, that as you attempt to do what you think is right and good and fitting, you must accommodate what everyone around you needs and thinks to be right and good and fitting. In attempting this, Wil wore a number of hats, and I have narrowed down the primary ones to include
Wil as Recipient and as the Received
Wil as Protector and
Wil as Life Participant or Meaning Maker
I may have to tackle these one at a time. Let’s see.
Wil as Recipient and as the Received
It’s a bright day in Camillus. There’s snow on the ground, making any wide open stretch of ground a reflecting pool of light. When we enter the funeral home, our eyes have to adjust to the dark. Vision becomes spotty. As his irises widen, Wil spots a small wooden box on a low table which holds a variety of instructional pamphlets on the work of the funeral home. They have titles like, Funeral Etiquette, How to Answer a Child’s Questions About Death, and even Preplanning Your Funeral, which pamphlet features a calm and happy elderly couple strolling through a field of flowers. Wil emits an interested grunt, the kind of high-pitched, “Huh,” you might utter upon finding a mint on your hotel pillow. He flicks one of each of the pamphlets out of its case and hands the stack to me. “Keep these for me, will you?” Watch him steel himself. Watch him ready himself to receive the flood of friends and family members waiting outside the door. Watch him ready himself to receive his dead brother. He walks into the room steadily, at a bit of a clip, his head bobbing slightly up and down in a consistent nod at the guest book, the pictures of the three kids on the right hand wall, the flowers, the casket, even the video tribute.
After a few minutes the family lines up to receive the mourners. I sit in a chair nearby. Wil is closest to the door now, though his place in this line will vary over the course of the afternoon. He is dry eyed. He even smiles at me once or twice. He looks toward the door. I don’t remember who came in first. But I do remember that as Wil received condolences, prayers, well wishes and memories, he tailored himself to the mourner, fluidly adjusting his facial expressions, his words, his handshakes and hugs to make the Received most comfortable, most comforted. At points he was the somber, steadfast son and brother, taking a hand, making eye contact and listening calmly, with gratitude. He would then turn to find a cousin approaching, and giving her his wide-eyed, eyebrow-raised “Can you believe this?” face for just an instant, grateful for the eyes of a peer, someone who also grew up with Jon, he would adjust his expression yet again into one of tender affection and wrap her into a rocking embrace. It’s possible that a few tears fall here. Who’s this next? One of Dad’s NIMO colleagues approaches. Wil is touched that he would come to support William Lobko Sr., and he once more extends his hand, nods, tears up for a moment but brushes it off because that kind of emotion doesn’t fit this particular interaction. He receives with dignity. He receives with grace.
Three times that I witness, four according to his count, he receives with deep grief.
I am talking to Baba. She is scolding me because I went out with wet hair. Natasha is explaining that Baba believes that anything cold that comes in contact with your body will cause you to fall ill with pneumonia. Don’t put ice in your drinks. Don’t go out in freezing weather with wet hair. For a moment we are laughing, we have almost forgotten. I look up to see Wil folded into Peter, his older cousin. Folded into him is the best way I can think to put it. Peter has him. Wil’s not going anywhere. Wil is sobbing. His eyes are closed, his shoulders shaking. I breathe with relief. Thank you, Peter. Thank you, Eddie. Thank you, Christina. Thank you, Phil. Thank you for receiving Wil.
Allow me to break here, as I hear my father has just arrived. More to come.
By
Anonymous, at 11:46 AM
kristin, as one of those not-there people wishing all the things you've mentioned the not-there people wish, thank you for this.
By
Jaime, at 12:07 PM
Wil -- bad at keeping in touch but I am keeping tabs. I'll be tracking you down soon, wherever you are.
Kris -- thanks very much for this. And thanks for being there. Even a strong-assed mofo needs someone to, as you so perfectly put it, receive him.
By
Anonymous, at 7:15 PM
Post a Comment
<< Home