*

Last show thankfully as much of a success as could be hoped. The final stage truly such a strange one... Alaska, huh? Like the last outpost of civilization. I mean, really, it basically is. Finishing everything by singing right at the edge of the void. Fitting.

Sang the usual set, plus our usual pick (this go-round) of oldies classic cover tune for an encore. But Nathan and the rest were also such amazing darlings and practiced and rehearsed a Kate Bush tune with me. I wasn't sure I wanted to do it-- for one thing, I would NEVER want to go up there and butcher any of her tunes. Like god, imagine if she ever heard. Mortifying. For another, if we ever do any covers, they've almost always been in the soundchecks. Things to do for fun, no pressure. And yet another-- Running Up That Hill was released a year ago. Awkward for a cover tune. But do the lovely people of Anchorage Alaska know who Kate Bush is? No! And I was thankfully able to sing it decently enough that I didn't feel instantly embarrassed the second it was done. --I dunno. I just needed something fun and special and I love that they all understood that.

I succeeded at not crying at all ‘til the crew got on stage with me for the last encore. It took all I had, the entire time, not to collapse into sobs, even though they were trying to make me laugh. So many feelings, strong ones, so overwhelming. Grief over Ben. Grief over Nathan, even if I have hope for him and for us. Grief over leaving all of them (the crew, that is) behind. Being so fucking proud of them (I did get to tell them this, thankfully). Feeling so guilty around them this whole time, accepting I could never be trusted or really liked by them and understanding why, and there they all were, and I love them and they don’t hate me and I’m such an incurable idiot, etc. --Maybe we can keep in touch. Maybe it won't hurt to, maybe it won't just remind me of things I can't have again. The crowd didn't know it was the last show of mine for good-- they just thought they were the last stop of the tour. I didn't want to crush them, to feel thousands of people's disappointments at once. They'll learn soon enough.

Walter was there, unsurprisingly. But so was Lou. Ugh, there were times when I wasn't performing that I just wanted to cling to him like a child. Walt could've done so much to me, even that night and even the morning after, when we were preparing to fly back to California. He just put on as weepily camp a performance of "dear supportive manager that will DEEPLY miss our phenomenal, LEGENDARY, ~ONCE IN A LIFETIME TALENT~ of a lead vocalist, and did you know I discovered him myself" as he could muster. Blech. Whatever works, I guess. Jeffrey gave me a big weepy hug himself before we boarded the plane, as I could hear camera flashes going off. Ugh.

I wasn't sure what Nathan would want to do after that gig. I would have understood if seeing me would've been too painful. I wanted to see him, though. Dearly. Even with Walt around-- I needed to see him one more time, before we see each other someday outside of Bakersfield. And I was more relieved than I can express with words that he wanted to see me, too.

I don't know if I want to call the sex we had in that motel room "making love", but... well. I might not want to call it that, but it felt so similar to the first time Ricky and I had sex, or the first time Benny and I had sex after I told him I loved him. I didn't tell Nathan that I loved him. He didn't tell me that, either. I'm also not sure if he felt it was like making love. But it was for me, even at its roughest. Really, I think it was the most when it was at its roughest. I didn't want to let him go. My hands were clutching at him while we fucked, my nails were digging into his skin, I wished I could just hook myself into him or that he could wear me over him the way his guitar hangs slung over him. At least I gave him things he'll feel for the next week; bruises and marks that are still lingering on him even as I write this back at home. I told him I wasn't doing this to leave him behind and I hope that makes it even more clear.

Neither of us fully cried, but both of us got close (Nate might have truly cried). He held me, too. After the plane landed in California, beyond all the cameras, in as quiet a place as he could find. "You know I ain't far away, man.", He said quietly, into my ear. And I just said: Bakersfield. One month. "At least." At least. Before that, don't try to find me or even contact me. You might not even know where I am. I might as well be lost in the desert. "Fuck. You just always gotta be like that, huh?" --And he held me tighter for a moment. "I don't wanna let you go. I'm so fuckin' scared I'll never find you. I'm shit at this. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing." Sweetheart, I don't know what I'm doing, either. That's why I have to find out. Alone. And then you can join me, and we can find out together. I promise. So try your best for me. Alright?

He released me, then, but slowly. Hesitantly. Like I would disappear the second I left his arms, or like I'd cease being real. He shook his head (his eyes red with tears he didn't let me see). "Ten years, man. What a crazy fuckin' ten years." Neither of us could say anything else. We both knew if we tried, we'd just start sobbing on each other, but that was going to be a Bakersfield activity, most likely. So one more nod, one more friendly pat on the shoulder each, and we went our separate ways.

As soon as I landed on my bed I really did pass out. I thought I would. Woke up halfway through the next day. Had my usual morning line and used it to draft a tapering plan (need to share with friends once I'm satisfied). This might be the last day I use speed like I've been using it for the past few years. --So I did that, various other usual morning routine things. Exercise, shower, yadda yadda. Tried to have some breakfast-- just scrambled egg whites. Just stared at my fork for an entire minute. And that, for whatever reason, is when the tears started coming. I had to shove my stupid plate out of the way just to hide my face in my arms and sob until I thought I'd puke. It's so rarely in a place where it makes sense. Breakfast. Okay.

The sobbing is intermittent, now. I feel like I'll go from that to staring at nothing. I feel like a ghost possessing an immobile body and I can only just get that body to move every so often. I know it'll pass. It's like the time after Ricky, but not nearly so bad as that. I don't think. It's differently bad, at least.

I have so much I need to say to so many people... I don't know if they're letters I'll ever send (most are impossible to send). But I know I need to write them, at least. Even if it's just for me.

What a crazy fucking ten years, indeed.

PS: Lou called to let me know that there were a few "discrepancies" in some of the paperwork I filed during album release time-- financial ones. Not any that would've gotten me into any serious legal trouble, but some that would've made it awfully convenient, I think, for a certain person I trusted to dictate things to me truthfully. Unfinished business? Perhaps. Lou already took care of it, at least. Once a rat, always a rat. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice... etcetera. But there won't be a third time.

*

Ben,

You were so sure I was going to kill myself, and really, I don't think I can blame you. Up until halfway through last year, I thought I was going to kill myself, too.

I still can’t help but be angry. It still feels so painful. I still wish you were here-- and every gig this past year and change was just a reminder of your absence-- I hate that you’re not, I’m still angry with you for not being here. But I understand why you’re not. Looking through my old notebooks made me remember just how short the time was when we were both happy together, with each other, at the same time. Too much got in the way. I got in the way. We both wanted to hold on for our own reasons, and when things didn’t work, we didn’t know what else to do but run ‘til things changed or otherwise cooled down. You ran away on your truck and I ran away to clubs or other flings. Neither of us liked the other’s choice.

When it was good, it was so amazing, though, wasn’t it? I loved you so much, even when things weren’t so good anymore, but when it was good that love filled my heart close to bursting. You’re the only person, outside of one old boyfriend of mine, that made me feel so safe, so calmly happy at times but deeply excited at others (and sometimes both at once, somehow). I loved doing all I could for you; I loved making you happy, I loved making you proud of me. But it’s like you said-- I was impulsive, and impulsive in a way that drove you up a tree-- “Y'do all this pacing around and hemming n' hawing and then y’all end up doing whatever stupid shit pops in your head first anyway”. I could be a reliable co-worker/representative for the most part but I couldn’t be a reliable partner in other ways. I know there were times I had you worried sick. I know there were times that I did things purely to spite you, things I knew you would hate if you knew about them, or be hurt by; so frustrated at your absence that I lashed out like a kid.

I know I was feeling more and more constrained and stifled by what the sexual side of our relationship was-- by feeling as though I had to remain a person I barely was anymore-- and I know I was awful at talking to you about it because I assumed in advance what your answers would be and I didn’t want those answers. I wanted you but I wanted something entirely different. I was trying to find a middle ground somewhere, but I never found a comfortable one, and I don’t think you did either. I get it. I feel as though I've moved on already in some ways, but I still miss you so much it kills me. So I suppose I haven't quite moved on, yet. Maybe it'll just be time.

I do sometimes wonder if you think about me, and if you do, if you think about me with any sort of fondness. I know things ended so awfully between us, so I can't blame you if it's all hard feelings. But I'll always love you. You'll always have a place in my heart, no matter who else is there with you.

Always,

Julie

*

Ricky,

Again, long time no talk. I thought I was going to meet you soon, but I think you'll have to wait some. I know you won't mind, I just had to tell you.

Sometimes I do still wonder what it would've been like if we made it together. But I had so much I still had to learn. I loved you so much and you had no idea who I was. I was so desperate for you, for anything that would save me from what I thought I was, and I thought I was inherently dirty, disgusting, broken. I thought I had to create something so beautiful for you you'd never see the dirty, disgusting, broken parts. I was so terrified of you ever seeing them; mortified when they ever revealed themselves. I was certain you would leave me if you knew what I was really like, what my recent past was like, what I had to do to survive. But maybe you wouldn't have cared. Or you would have loved me anyway.

Far too late to do anything about it with you, of course. And I had no idea, at the time. You were the first man I lived with since Lorenzo; it was like going from living in a prison to living in Shangri-La. It always felt like that prison was just one or two steps behind me, always looking over my shoulder, breathing down my neck. And I never told you any of that. I never told you that you felt like my savior, sometimes. It was difficult not to see you in that light: you were so beautiful, so kind, so skilled; you loved me and you loved my singing, you wanted to be with me, you wanted to work with me. You never, ever hit me. Or even a wall, or anything. You never forced me to do anything to you, or forced yourself on me. I could fully trust you (and yet I still didn't). All those things felt like miracles.

It's funny-- that kind of relationship, the one we had together, is still the ideal for me. Music as love, love as music, making or performing music as making love, making love as making music. It's like you showed me a piece of heaven and I've just spent my life after you left trying to find it again. I'm not sure if I have, yet. I don't want to get my hopes up (he's an idiot). And maybe I need to find something beyond it anyhow, or find a new way of going about it. A more honest way, the way I was never able to be honest with you.

Maybe I'll visit that beach again-- the one we walked down that night before you died, the one where you held my hand and gripped it so sure, with so much love and faith. I'd want to go alone, first. Then maybe with someone else. I hope you don't mind that I like sharing the things you showed me with other men. I'm not trying to erase you. I'm trying to share you, almost. To feel your presence and know you're there with us, that you're happy wherever and however you are.

I'm not sure I can ever be happy for long. I used to despair over that and over how fast my moods change. In so many ways, I just wished I could be "normal", that I could do things the way other people could and feel things the way they did. I thought I had to, I think, to connect to them, to feel less alien. I often still feel like an alien, honestly. Maybe I always will. But it's not so bad anymore. I wish I could've reached that a lot sooner, I wish I could've shown you something more real. I'm still happy we had the time we did. You know I'll always love you.

Til we meet again,

Julie

*

Cryssie,

You were right about so much. Not everything, but SO much, and I didn't want to hear a lot of it at the time. I think I just have to learn things the hard way. Maybe you figured that out eventually, too.

I thought I could become the self I was with you again, embody him/her/them more fully than I ever could when I was living in that tiny room in your tiny apartment sewing dresses together out of thrift store clothes and shoplifted fabric scraps and sequins. I had the money to make myself look however I wanted to look. I had the resources to help people beyond just myself. I thought I WAS proving you wrong. I still hear your tired little laugh on your deathbed when I swore to you I never abandoned any of you. I wanted it all to be Walter's fault so bad (and some of it is, but not all of it, and I hate that that's true but I know it is). You tried so hard, not just for me, but for so many people, your whole life. You were braver than I ever fucking was despite barely having over a hundred bucks in your bank account (at best) at any given moment for most of the time I knew you. You believed, so much, that I could be brave, too. That you could teach me to be brave. Failing you always felt as bad as failing my birth-mother. I knew how to run from it, though, how to run from you, how to hide from everything, everyone, myself. That's what I knew how to do best. I don't know if either of us believed I was brave at all by the time you died.

But I think I'm at least bravER, now. And in the oddest ways, at the oddest time... when I thought I had nothing left in me at all. And for someone I was so sure wouldn't understand my help as help. Now I think I'm teaching someone else how to be brave. Or at least, I hope I can (well, I'm also probably teaching him how to fold laundry correctly, but we all have to start somewhere I suppose). I won't be nearly as good a teacher at that as you were, I know. But maybe you can guide me, somehow. If you feel like it. If you feel like relaxing with an entire party of queens, sipping as many espressos and eating as many blueberry-lemon scones as you want, I can't blame you. You already gave me so much, and you deserve paradise, sweetheart.

I'm so glad we found each other. I'm so glad you introduced me to La Rosa. To gayness. To LIFE. I have no idea what I would have been if we never met (and it was because of the rain, again... hmmm. --You wouldn't get that. sorry), and frankly, I don't want to know. I wish I could've given you back even half of what you gave me, but at least I was able to make sure you passed in as much comfort as possible. You gave me a new start, I gave you as a comfortable conclusion as possible (or in your words, I saw you off to the angels). Bookends. Maybe that's almost enough. Almost. I need to make sure LR stays alive, too. Then I'll know I've done enough.

I hope you know, wherever you are, that you really were another mother to me-- not just metaphorically. But truly.

Love always,

Julie

*

Mom,

I wish I could’ve cared for you in every way you needed. I wish you could’ve seen me. I wish I could’ve shown myself to you. I wish your love was enough and I wish my love was enough. I wish you could’ve seen me and loved me. You didn’t even have to understand me. Whatever. I just had to know. And I was too much of a coward to ever tell you and find out. I mean, you called me so many horrible things once you got sick, but I don’t know how much of that was you and how much of that was your brain starting to collapse under its own weight. I hate that I’ll never know. Some people can just pretend and remember things the way they want to. Sometimes I can do that. When I was young it was easy to do that. Sometimes I had to, to survive and not just go catatonic or something. But other times, and especially lately, everything’s just impossible to bury under anything, for any reason. And that's another reason I had to leave. I hope you would've understood that, too. I know you would've been upset by it. I know you would've pushed me to keep going as far as I could. But I did go as far as I could, I promise. Ten years. Every damn (sorry) album a platinum at LEAST. Sold out STADIUMS, by the end. All that made you so proud. I don't know why it didn't do nearly as much for me. It made me feel even more broken, another way you wouldn't be able to understand me.

When I was young I felt so, so close to you. I wanted to be like you, in EVERY way, but as a boy. Beautiful, stylish, strong, creative, disciplined, determined. But I didn't have the words for that, and no one would have been able to understand them even if I did. Not even you, I know. And I turned out to be like you in the not-so-good ways, too. Whatever you have is hereditary, I guess. Same damn crazy. I used to think I was able to keep that from you, but you had every knife and pair of scissors locked up in the house by the time I left for college. You knew-- we were both just terrified of that fact. You never knew what to do with the parts of me you didn't understand. I know why-- Tiago (good ol' granddad...)-- but it didn't hurt any less. I can admit that, now that you're gone. I wanted to be like you so desperately, I admired you so much, and you lamented I wasn't like the good parts of my father that I barely fucking (sorry) saw. I know you just wanted me to be like a "normal" boy, a "normal" man. You didn't want me to keep getting beaten by Tiago. You couldn't stop him from that once he was doing it. I never blamed you for that, I mean, I saw him beat you and I couldn't fucking (sorry) stop him from doing that and that feels far worse (I'm not sorry for hoping he dies painfully. Absolutely suffers. I hear he has emphysema-- perfect. I wish you understood that and hoped the same). --So I know you were trying to stop him from doing it before he could even get to that point. I know we all had to walk on eggshells. I'm sorry that I was just a landmine no matter what.

I’ll always love you no matter how much we hurt each other. We didn’t know what else to do. I wish we were able to figure out what else to do. We had a terrible teacher. I wish I figured out how to get you to understand that fully. Even once we moved out with Marv it was like Tiago was living in your head. Both of us were so used to eggshells that I think you married a guy who expected them. And he was still the nicest one (he slammed his fist into the table or the wall silently instead of screaming or punching us, it's a miracle! We need to get some more plaster for the wall, though, ha ha!). Like I said, we had a terrible teacher. And I know I have ghosts of Tiago, of the more sad and broken parts of you, of Lorenzo, probably even of Walter at this point, in my head. You were never able to get rid of Tiago. I'm not sure how much I've be able to do. But I know, now, that I need to always try.

I had no idea how much I was going to be able to write to you, and honestly. I still have so much to think about. I can't think about everything with the choir director yet. There's too much else to scratch that back open. But again, I know that comes back to: you had a terrible teacher. Maybe that's part of why I want to be a good one, for people. You tried your best, and I want to take your best and add it to Cryssie's best, and Pammie's best and Casey's best and Ricky's best and Benny's best and Lou's best, and do something good with it. Even if I can't "be" good. Maybe that's just a lost cause.

I wish we had more time together, when you were still lucid. I wish we were able to talk more-- and talk HONESTLY, for once. Maybe we can, in here, now, the way I talk to Ricky sometimes. There's a lot of pain with you, though. And that's hard. It's not a simple kind of pain, like what I feel for Tiago. For you it's more like... I know you did the absolute best with what you had, I know you loved me, and you still hurt me. I still have no idea what to do with that. It makes me dizzy to try and understand-- and honestly, I'm dizzy for quite a few reasons right now, but you don't have to know the details, dear.

So for now, Mama, I need to sign off and take a break to ~convalesce~ (a cute Jeffrey five dollar word for ya). Until we speak again!

Love you ALWAYS,

Julie

*