Lights, Diane

On our way to Philly, I looked to the side and saw a bunch of my friends and collaborators sitting quietly, collecting scabies (and the sundry and exciting skin disorders adventurous, working class New Yorkers are susceptible to on the Chinatown bus), and listening to their Ipods. Lights flickered across Scot's face, which was peaceful and composed, and DR's face was hooded by his cap, but concentrated on something. Maria sat next to me, listening to Tori Amos or something equally emotive. I was overcome with affection for all of them.

Now, the Chinatown bus may be a breeding ground for tapeworms and drug mules, but it also has a certain tendency towards deep and contemplative thought. Perhaps its the combination of the smell of chicken skin and lack of breathable air.

In any case, I myself was listening to a particularly hilarious episode of This American Life, about the complex and contradictory nature of a breakup. I wanted so badly to have deep thoughts so I thought of that book we had to read in college in our gender...something class, 'Maurice'. About the trials of a gay kid throughout his life, written in like 1926 or something. The only part I really remember, which always seems to a testament to either the human inclination towards multiple sex partners, or, more quaintly, the tenuousness of humanity or something, is when his closeted boyfriend freaks out on a lawn and starts a rant about homophobia. something to the effect of 'why can't love just end where it begins?' that it's not natural to love with procreation in mind. that there's something beautiful and singular about just two people, being in love, with nothing left to leave once they themselves have evaporated. i always liked that idea, found it empowering, even while my own thoughts and fears about romance and companionship vacillated. It's angry and righteous and rails against the conventions of strollers and ovaries and loneliness and all the blahblahmeow i'm supposed to worry about at some point, all the while i strut knowingly, my libido skyrocketing, but examine my tits in reflective surfaces for descent.

But I then thought of Diane. She was one of those non-blood staples at family events, my cousin's best friend since they were teens and thus when I was a toddler. She was warm and probably nicer to me than any of the people I was related to, to whom I shared blood and sat uncomfortably between on Queens couches, younger, smaller, unrelatable, odd? But Diane was a joy. Kind and engaged, big and lush haired. Recognizably a gem to me as a kid. She was at my grandmother's hospital bed and every other event the family shared.

She and Danny married I think at 30- they were robust and so, so happy. The few times I saw them together, I marvelled at the depth and realness of their affection. But Diane grew sick, tumor, struggled, and died by 32. Danny was there the entire time. 6 months later we heard that Danny died of a heart attack. These two people, with everything ahead, were gone. He didn't live without her.

I don't know how to attempt to broach the depth of that idea. I won't even try. i'm just genuinely haunted by that speech in Maurice- love sometimes ends where it begins.

Sufficiently goosebumped and emotional, I took off my headphones and signaled to my friends to talk to me. Topics- bus topics- flowed and stumbled, flickered like the lights on the garden state parkway, took me away from my ever calculating thoughts, of ones i dont even deserve to have because i'm looking for them.

i don't know what to say about diane and danny. they were too important for someone as small as me to try.