Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again..."
- "The Sound of Silence," Simon & Garfunkel

This feeling is familiar, and yet new. I've been struggling to categorize and catalog it for months, with no luck.

Mostly, it's exhaustion.

I have to finally come to terms with the fact that these last years are kicking my butt.

Part of the problem is that I'm very good in an actual crisis. Calm, clear headed, efficient, helpful, unflagging - you want me around when there's trouble. It's after the trouble itself has passed and the danger is gone, or the trauma is past, that I come undone.

Part of it is that there's nothing tragic going on. This is just normal stuff, a normal life. But, objectively, I have to admit that things are adding up.

Arbitrarily, let's pick the mark of three years ago. I've had three major surgeries in three years. They all went well. I recovered nicely. Still, I'm in residual pain, and fundamental things - for instance, how I walk - are forever altered. My endocrine system is shot, and my body chemistry has been forcibly altered. Those things are tiring, in and of themselves.

I have ongoing health issues, and I'm developing a deep, unwanted hostility and hatred for insurance companies. Not helpful.

My mother is gone. We'll soon come up on the second anniversary of her death. I have been unable to attend church on Mother's Day since she passed. So often, I want to call her, want to visit her, and I can't.

My childhood best friend passed away; he was 48. If you want to know how tightly someone is woven into your life, pull that thread loose. Sometimes it feels like everything will unravel. He touched everything in my life, from the time that I was 14.

My son left for college hundreds of miles away. It was easier than sending his sisters, because he's the third child, and we've Been There, Done That. It was also harder, because his older sisters attended public school and left the house at 6:30 am, often not returning until 10 pm or later. My son was homeschooled, so even when he worked 5 or 6 hours a day, he was home with us for hours a day. His absence is more noticeable.

Part of it is that I've been down the rabbit hole, and I'm together enough to recognize that I'm not there. I remember that a bit too vividly. Twice in my life I've had breakdowns so complete that they blackened the sky, choked the air with ash, just consumed everything in their path. This is not one of those times. (And for this, I thank God.)

There are times of great joy and deep contentment, and lots of normalcy, and I honestly think that I've handled everything well, but do you know how I can tell that I haven't? Or, maybe I have, but that hyper competent period is wearing off. Stuff I should be able to shrug off doesn't shrug. It gnaws at my extremities like some annoying, rabid animal.

"Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains."

The other day, I was thrown into mourning for the fact that my two closest girlfriends moved away after high school. I mean, I handled this clear back in 1984, and suddenly my middle aged self is in tears. What gives?

OK, maybe that's easy to diagnose. I keep seeing in my head two absolutely beautiful smiling brunet high school boys, and all the memories shared with them, and they're both dead now. As time goes on, there will be fewer of Us left, the ragtag community, the family we created for ourselves, the group of former kids who were my life in high school, who still populate my life now. We'll all leave each other sometime. I've become (probably annoyingly) effusive, reminding them how much I have always adored them. I fear becoming clingy and syrupy and maudlin.

Circumstances are preventing me from doing a lot of otherwise normal stuff, like auditioning. I was in a show, had just started rehearsals, when my mom passed away. I had the presence of mind to step down from a major role to a chorus role, but I had no business being in a show. My head was not in the game. I need solitude when I'm hurt - I'm like a canine who needs to find a den and lick my wounds. I stayed because I've never dropped out of a show, and I also hoped that doing normal things would help. During times of stress, I crave normalcy. I hoped that it would feel normal. I didn't even tell anyone that my mom had passed away until we were performing, and then I told all of four people in a cast and crew of dozens.

It never did feel normal. Months of rehearsal, and it never felt right. It felt empty. And good heavens, let's not even talk about the work I did. The work stunk. I also, for the first time in my lifetime, since I started acting at 12 years old, missed an entrance - missed an entire scene - during a performance. That's just unacceptable. That's more humiliating than being naked in public. It's horrifying to even admit. And yet, I think that maybe three people even noticed. I was only in two freakin' scenes - crowd scenes. I was so unnecessary and expendable, yet knocking myself out trying to do a decent job. Yet I was not thinking clearly enough to see that I should have bowed out entirely.

I hear that being intoxicated is like that - you honestly can't tell whether or not you're functional.

I recently looked back at the photos I shot of the show, and I was pleased to discover that they were good. That part of me continued to function quite well. That was nice to know.

I'm finally reaching the point that maybe I could handle a show. But, months of being wheelchair bound, and more time with my feet in casts, means that it's not an option. If I can't even drive, I sure as heck can't rehearse or perform.

Since I can't work on anything, I'm even less inclined to watch anything, because it's painful. So, I don't even see most of my friends' shows, which means that I'm missing out in all kinds of ways.

Maybe I'm not ready for a show yet. Ordinary human behavior is too difficult for me right now. People will be inconsiderate, annoying, self centered - you know, human - and it's just too much. I finally understand about "the straw that broke the camel's back." You just can't handle one more freaking thing. Any rudeness or nastiness or even just annoyingness pushes past the breaking point. And, you know and I know, life is FULL of rudeness and self centeredness.

I've always been very Greta Garbo, but I need to be alone even more now. It's exhausting to be with people. EXHAUSTING. Not depressing or unfulfilling, just so tiring.

It's not that I don't like you. Chances are, I do. I like people in general. I deeply love many people, personally. I just like them at a distance. Don't take it personally.

I'm perfectly OK with being flawed. (I mean, have you seen my housekeeping? Please.) But here's what I'm going to do, what will preserve my sanity and keep me from unleashing the dogs of war on random passers by, or people in my family who simply chose the wrong moment to be insensitive. Sometimes, I am not going to cope well. I'm just not.

I will burst into tears when the radio is on - some days, not at all, and some days, with virtually every song. And here's the thing - I'm going to stop being embarrassed or upset by it.

I don't want you to comfort me and tell me it'll be OK. I really, truly, don't. I don't want you to get manic in your efforts to cheer me up, trying to get me to laugh. It will just annoy me.

Most of the time, I am fine. Everything is great. Even things that hurt are small potatoes. I sit here in a climate controlled house that I own, eating every day, sleeping in a bed, showering - life is luxurious. I have family. I have friends. I love what I do, and I pretty much set my own hours.

And yet. Sometimes, life will shatter at a moment's notice. That's as normal and predictable as the sun rising. Sometimes, I will break.

Sometimes, I will also sleep too much or eat too much sugar. And you know what? I will not feel guilty.

And sometimes, I will regret having said all of this, because people still won't understand, and I'll feel exposed, and everyone will be awkward, and good grief, can I just live on a deserted island?

Sometimes, I just need quiet.

"And the sign said, the words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered
In the sound of silence."

First Concert Memories

I clearly remember my 15 year old self puzzling my mother by asking, "Can I go to New York City next month?" I knew the answer was likely to be no. But I had to take the chance, gamble on the long shot, that it would be yes.

I think it was the "next month" that threw her. It wasn't a nebulous, "some day" question. It had a deadline, and a rapidly approaching one. Still, I was 15, money didn't grow on trees, and New York was dangerous and 3,000 miles away.

"No! You cannot! Why do you want to go, anyway?" I'd never expressed an interest in New York City before.

"Simon and Garfunkel are reuniting and giving a concert in Central Park. It'll only happen this once."

My older sister never liked or understood my taste in music. She referred to it as "old weirdo music." She was a huge disco fan. I wasn't exactly clear on what defined disco - the explanation that it was "dance music" made little sense. I knew I wasn't a huge fan of her records, though. Mostly, I liked music that was 15 or 20 years old, or even older. I'd listened to my mom's records most of my life, and loved Ed Ames. I knew Tennessee Ernie Ford, Harry Belafonte and Robert Goulet. I loved the records my older brother and oldest sister had, too, lots of late 60s folk music. Those were the kind of songs I remembered my elementary school music teacher teaching us. In the early to mid 80s, when I was in high school, none of this was big with many kids my age.

Simon and Garfunkel were special. I couldn't believe they'd broken up, and it upset me that there was bad blood between them. Now, they were getting back together, but it was just for one night, and it was clear across the country! I remember clearly when I heard the announcement over my little transistor radio in our family's only bathroom. I leaned on my mom a bit, knowing it was hopeless. "But Mom! This is my only chance to see them, ever!"

It wasn't, as it turned out. Buoyed by the reception in Central Park, discovering that they could indeed work together again, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel planned a new album and a nationwide tour.

It may have been the memory of my out of the blue request two years earlier that made my mother receptive to the idea of letting me go. I'd never been to a concert at all, any concert. "And it's so much closer than New York, Mom! It's just in Oakland! I've been to Oakland before!"

Depending on who was driving, Oakland was three or four hours from home. That wasn't really the iffy part of the equation. The ticket price was doable, especially since I was the only child left at home and I had a part time job that earned me a bit of my own spending money. The kicker was that the friends I wanted to go with were Tony Perry and his brother Guy, and it meant two nights away from home to do the trip the way they planned it.

What they really wanted was a huge road trip with a dozen or more of us. We'd done that before, taking a trip to Disneyland. There were probably 20 kids and one adult.

             As it turned out, Bob, his girlfriend and Jeanette and his best friend Tim were the only other group going. They would go to Oakland in Bob's car and share a room. Tony, Guy, myself and a friend of theirs that I'd never met, named Kim, would go in Tony's car and share a room. Tony wanted to leave early, very early in the morning the day of the concert, so he wanted a huge sleepover at his and Guy's house the night before. That way, we could all get ready and leave together. Oh, and by the way, his parents were gone somewhere, and wouldn't be supervising this sleepover. I told my mother all of this.

             And, my mom said yes. "We cannot tell your father where you're going," she insisted. She remembers telling him that I'd gone on a church youth group trip. Dad would have just burst a blood vessel or something if he knew the whole plan. Granted, it all sounds like an invitation to disaster. But it wasn't.

Thankfully, my mother knew a great deal about all of us. She knew who drank, who took drugs, who was having sex, and with whom. She knew because I discussed it with her. She knew that I was not only doing none of the above, but that to a point they all toned it down around me. She knew that Tony did not drink or do drugs. She trusted his driving, even if he occasionally went a bit too fast for her. She'd ridden with him through Los Angeles traffic and nine hours home through the desert. She knew we wouldn't be doing any "fooling around." She knew we were all genuinely excited about the concert, not about unsupervised time together. If we wanted that, it could be had without a trip. So, the answer was yes, I could go.

The night before we left, Tony and Guy had us all over for a party. The question of who would sleep where in the 4 bedroom house was solved by deciding, we'd all sleep in the kitchen! The sectional sofa was pushed into the corner of the kitchen. They dragged what looked like every mattress in the house out, and shoved them all together in front of the sectional. We all sat on them and watched TV. I set up my camera and took a time delayed photo of all of us, piled on the huge bed and grinning. When at least half the kids went home, those of us sleeping over grabbed blankets and bedded down for the night.

We were all facing different directions. I was next to a guy named Pat, someone I barely knew. Tony's and Alicia's feet were at my shoulders and ribs, their bodies pointing away from me. I think Bob was at my feet, across the bottom of the mattress. I was near the seam where two of the mattresses joined, which actually helped keep me from rolling too far. I was trying so hard not to touch Pat, not to kick someone or be kicked, trying not to snore (which I do) that I actually slept very little.

The only thing resembling impropriety was that two of us, on what was ever after called The Big Bed, kissed after the lights were out. (Not me, by the way.) That was it. There were no hormonal surges on display.

I was still tired in the morning. It was dark when we left to go pick up Kim, since she hadn't slept over with us.

I had to drop Tony and Guy around the corner to wait, and pick up this girl that I'd never met, by myself. She lived with her grandmother, a woman who didn't particularly like Tony, and she had told grandma that she and I were going alone.

I was told all of this pretty much as we were pulling over and the boys climbed out. It was unnerving. Our parents knew what we were doing, and I wasn't prepared for this. I was told where I'd supposedly met Kim before – I don't remember where it was - because they were sure I'd be asked. They left out the important stuff, though.

Kim's grandmother asked where we were staying. Kim whispered, "Aunt." "I guess with Kim's aunt," I said, as grandma glared and Kim hissed, "Your aunt." "I mean, with my aunt. She lives pretty near the Coliseum. But I've never been to the Coliseum before, so I'm not sure how close, " I babbled. We tried to hustle out of the house as quickly as we could.

I was completely unnerved and growly when we picked up the guys. "You didn't tell me we were supposed to be staying with my aunt! I almost blew the whole thing right there!" I griped about having to not only be deceitful, but also trying to match the story they'd obviously concocted together but left me out of. But, now we were all ready, the station wagon was loaded, and we headed out over the Sierras.

Kim and I sat together in the back. I was actually a bit nervous about her. The Perry brothers tended to make girls swoon, and if she was going to spend the weekend mooning over one of them, it was going to be annoying for me. Luckily, she was nice, levelheaded and not swooning.

Like many brothers, Tony and Guy were in some ways the same and in some ways vastly different. Money brought out one of the differences. Guy liked to collect it for its own sake, to just look at it and enjoy accumulating it. Tony spent it freely, sometimes much too freely. I don't remember how much money Guy had on this trip, but he frequently fanned out the bills and sat looking at them and recounting them, despairing when their number dwindled.

The three passengers took turns in the front seat, and I was in front when Tony and Guy got into an argument about money. We were all buying our own food and souvenirs, so those costs were flexible, but we were splitting the gas and hotel cost evenly. Tony had just filled up the station wagon in Sacramento and asked us to pay him for our share of the gas. Guy fanned out his bills again, complaining that "if I give you that much, I'll only have (X number of) dollars left!" Tony argued that Kim and I had pitched in willingly, and Guy argued that that ought to be enough. They went back and forth, getting louder and angrier, until Tony pulled over at a scenic overlook, got out of the car, went to the passenger door and forcibly snatched money out of Guy's hand. For several more miles, Guy sat fanning out his money, counting it and whimpering. Poor Guy was miserable.

I don't remember where we stayed. It was in Oakland, someplace sensible like a Travelodge. I can't remember if we worried about being too young to rent it. At 17, either Tony or I could pass for being of legal age. The room was in Tony's name, and he had enough gift of gab to smooth it over if somebody questioned our age, I'm sure. It's only as an adult that it occurs to me that we couldn't legally rent our own room. We'd done it before, at Disneyland, and I wasn't worried about doing it again.

I don't remember where Bob, Jeanette and Tim were staying. It was either in the same hotel or close by. They, like us, got a double room and split the cost.

After checking in, we crossed the bay to spend our day in San Francisco. We did the tourist thing, hanging out at Fisherman's Wharf and Pier 39. I had my camera, as always, but I didn't want to take too many pictures. I wanted to save them for the concert, hoping that I could get some good ones there.

As performers ourselves, we watched the street performers with interest. We sat down on a planter to watch one, a charismatic juggler. Tony was a very good juggler himself, often juggling knives or his fire sticks. Balls and juggling pins were OK, but too boring for him. As we watched the San Francisco juggler, he handed his fire sticks to an audience member, a teenage girl three seats down from Tony. After he lit them, he said to her, "OK! Now, juggle!" She looked horrified, and the crowd laughed. We all speculated about what the juggler would have done if he'd handed Tony the fire sticks, because Tony would have stood up and juggled them.

Tony had painted a design on the back of the ivory sweat jacket he wore that day. Tony loved to design commemorative clothing. He did most of the T-shirt designs for our drama guild, and had designed our black satin drama guild jackets. This design said, "Simon and Garfunkel" in multicolored letters, and had the date, 1983. We ate dinner that night someplace like Denny's, a spot where the concert techies were also eating, unbeknownst to us. Also unbeknownst to us, Tony had virtually duplicated the official tour logo on his jacket. He discovered that fact when he was paying for our dinner and one of the roadies approached him. They had already paid, and were leaving the restaurant. "Come on, man, you've gotta get on the bus. We're gonna be late," the man told him, and tried to herd him out the door to the tour bus.

Tony was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He looked at the bus loading in the parking lot, at the shirts and jackets they wore, and at the man trying to hurry him out. "I'm not a roadie. I'm just a fan. We're going to the concert tonight," he told him. Walking back to the table to tell us the story, he was already kicking himself. "I shoulda just gone with them! Nobody would have known! I could have gone backstage! I could fit in. I could find a job to do." For the rest of the night he would periodically say, "I can't believe I didn't get on the bus!"

I don't think I'd ever been in a bigger crowd than the crowd at the Oakland Coliseum. I was amazed that we found Bob, Jeanette and Tim. I couldn't believe how many people were there, and I couldn't believe that I was actually one of them.

Our seats were on the bleachers somewhere on the right side of the stage. We could see the stage itself, but they had set up a huge movie screen above the stage so that everyone would have an up close view of the show. I can't remember what the age of the other concert goers was. I doubt that I noticed. Tony had either just made a friend – not at all unusual – or had met someone he already knew, because I remember talking to a blond man, close to our age, whose ticket was for the floor of the Coliseum.

I honestly don't remember if there was an opening act. I doubt it. I remember clearly that when Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel took the stage, the roar was deafening. Their first song was "Cecelia."

I don't remember who I sat next to or who was around us. I was amazed that I was there, really there, hearing these legendary men sing. I snapped photos of the stage and screen and listened to the songs I'd known all my life.

The blond man came back, asking us if we wanted to go down on the floor with him. It was much closer to the stage. I was worried that we'd get in trouble, that we'd get kicked out, that the other fans would be angry. My timidity was overridden, (actually, blatantly disregarded by everyone else,) and we walked down the bleachers between fans, excusing ourselves, and were led to a spot near the center of the floor, so close that we could almost see the expressions on the singers' faces. Whoever we were next to there was welcoming, not angry, at our appearing there during the show. We cheered, we sang along, we had a great time.

At one point, Paul Simon brought out and introduced his wife. I didn't recognize her – someone had to point out to me that she was Carrie Fisher. As well as all the old stuff, the duo sang some music from their new album. Even though I don't own the song and it's been many years since the concert, I can still hear the chorus in my head from one new song: "Maybe I think too much, maybe I think too much." They didn't chat too much with each other or the audience, and there were a couple of glimmers of the rift that had kept them apart. Responding to the applause after one number, Art said to the crowd, "How about us, huh?" The crowd cheered, but Paul snapped at him, "I wrote the song."

          I took more photos, hoping they'd do the sight justice. Someone told me not to bother, that they wouldn't turn out, but I took them anyway. They did turn out surprisingly well, too. They were a bit gray, and the stage lights washed out the faces a bit, but they were still pretty good photos. I wish I could find the negatives, or even the prints today. One hung on my wall when I was a kid. They're probably in a box somewhere.

At one point Tony turned to me. "The bad part about this being your first concert," he said, "is that it will ruin any other concert for you. Nothing else will ever be this good." I wondered if he was right. Even if he was, it didn't worry me.

I think there were three encores, but it may only be two. As they sang one of their final numbers, I turned away from the stage to look at the crowd. I'll never forget that sight. The stadium was full, packed, with people singing, waving lighters, sharing the moment with the singers and each other. It was amazing.

I don't remember seeing anyone intoxicated. They were probably there somewhere, but they didn't ruin my night by being near me – or at least, being obvious. Even as we all filed out and left the parking lot, everyone seemed to be smiling, happy and courteous.

I bought a commemorative program, two T-shirts and a small button for my jacket that just said, "Simon and Garfunkel." I think I planned to tell my dad that they were gifts from Tony and Guy if he asked, but I don't think he ever did. I wore them often, too. I'm wearing one shirt in the drama guild photo in my senior yearbook.

I was exhausted after the concert. We went back to the room and got ready for bed. We'd asked for a rollaway on the theory that somebody might be squeamish about sharing a bed. We didn't use it, though. Tony and Guy slept in one bed, Kim and I in the other. I no longer really cared if I snored or if I kicked Kim. I needed sleep more than I needed vanity.

At some point, I became aware of an annoying noise. It didn't go away; it got louder and louder. Finally I was awake enough to identify the sound – someone was knocking repeatedly on our door. Nobody else woke up. I literally stumbled out of bed and toward the door. I barely had presence of mind to look through the peephole. It was Tim.

I probably said something deeply unwelcoming, like, "What are you doing here?" It turned out that Bob and Jeanette wanted privacy, leaving Tim nowhere to sleep. I invited him in. I think he or I woke one of the guys. I think he slept on the rollaway, or maybe the floor. I was asleep again in about 60 seconds.

When we got back home the next day, I had to settle for telling my mom, "It was great!" in a whisper. The details had to wait.

A month later, my newspaper advisor let me write a long, wordy review of the concert for the school paper. I still have it somewhere. She rarely, if ever, cut my work. It was very sweet of her.

I put the pin on the collar of my favorite jacket. On the other side, I put a Beatles button. A friend of mine named Angie personified the era's popular punk music. She had the spiked hair, fingerless gloves, black clothes and T-shirts from groups I didn't recognize and whose names, not to mention lyrics, were often profane. My buttons caused her to roll her eyes. "Get with it! Listen to something recorded this decade! Forget the music that's been around since before you were born!" I didn't, though.

Just a couple of years ago, a friend asked me if I'd ever consider letting my kids do the same thing. He knows how fiercely protective we are, and wondered if having teenage daughters changed the way I thought about the trip. If I thought there was a chance there would be sex or drugs or other recklessness going on, it would be a definite no go. But, I told him truthfully, "If they were all going to behave the same way we did, you bet I would let them go. In a heartbeat."

A popular party game among members of our church in the small town we lived in years later was a "Guess Who?" game. Each person wrote down on a piece of paper a little known fact about themselves. The host would read them out loud, and the party goers would have to guess who each referred to. One woman frequently put that she'd never had a cavity. My husband often said that his two front teeth are false. I almost always wrote that I've attended a Simon and Garfunkel concert. Given that I was only born in 1966, no one ever guessed that it was me.