I’m standing outside the Pepper Place last night. It’s intermission time during the “Evening For Adults with Shel Silverstein” as put on by TNT. It’s a good collection of shorts — the easiest way to keep me entertained, by the way — with a good group of actors. Not brilliant, not mind-boggling, but certainly enjoyable. The main reason I’m there is also the exception to that last statement: Melissa, my ex-wife, is quite possibly one of the best actors I’ve ever known, and in many ways one of the best that I can think of outside of my personal contact sphere. The two scenes she’s in are show-stealers, and this is not an uncommon occurance — I’ve heard this from many people about many shows.

And I’m overcome with a little bit of sadness, because I had that and let it go (to objectify my ex for a moment). It’s something that a lot of my friends won’t let me forget, something my parents wouldn’t let go for a long time — something that I won’t let myself forget, too often. I will say that no matter what my frame of mind, I believe that she’s the best “significant other” I’ve ever had, the closest I’ve ever come to what I ultimately want. And there are times when I feel way too lonely, times that I’m convinced beyond a shadow of doubt that I made the worst mistake of my life by letting her go, that I pretty much committed (in my rather non-religious book, at least) the ultimate sin.

And then there are times like now, times that I regret that things didn’t work out, that we couldn’t make it work, that we had to work at it. But it’s for the best; a lot of good came out of it. I’ve been forced to examine myself more deeply, to dig toward the roots of myself, of my Self. I’ve gotten some good writing out of it. She’s returned to acting, which is quite possibly the best thing that she will ever do — and a gift to those who see her, as well.

I’m cycling really badly the past few days, from manic to depressive and back. Last night is a great example. Rapid cycling is a scary thing to me; it’s awfully close to hysterics, and the only time that I feel totally out of control of my bipolar disorder. It’s the only time I feel like my disorder has me, instead of vice versa.

Somehow this leads to thinking of Daniel. I had talked to Melissa two nights ago on the phone, one of those “we really should talk more often” conversations in which way too much is discussed in way too short a period. And I filled her in on the weird place losing her and Daniel in the same six months left me. She suggests that I practice opening up to people more, and it occurs to me that it’s not opening up that I have a problem with. It’s the futility of opening up to most people.

Why do we love who we love? Why do we trust who we trust? Why do we respect who we respect? Why are some people inescapable, and others you lose all too soon?

And so last night, outside the Pepper Place, I realize that one of the biggest draws about Daniel over fifteen or seventeen years was Big Ideas. Through all the bullshit, overcoming all of the traits that he has that I don’t like, beating out all the things that didn’t work about the friendship — what kept Daniel at the top of my most important people list was the fact that I could talk to him about all the billions of things that run through my head, the abstract ideas, the get-rich-one-day schemes, musical ideas, film ideas, story ideas, feelings, emotions — and he didn’t just listen. He didn’t just respond. He responded in such a way that — in agreement or not — my ideas were forced to evolve. He was a sounding board, but one that reflected the acoustics back in a new way. It was hearing from a fresh perspective. It was looking through a billion funhouse mirrors.

I don’t know if this is clear at all, or totally incomprehensible. But there was something unique about our interaction on so many things. It’s not based on agreement, or disagreement, or commonalities (maybe that last one, a little bit). The only thing that comes to mind in Analogy Land is a pace runner, someone who runs just a bit ahead of or behind a track runner to keep them moving forward all the time.

And that’s what’s missing from my life. A sounding board that reflects things in new ways to me, that forces me to keep moving forward. And to me, that’s a lot — because my mind is always racing, and if I don’t get these thoughts out, they fester in my head. And if they don’t move forward, evolve, then what good are they?

I have vivid pictures of my head exploding. Like SCANNERS, only less funny.

—–

A brief sidenote detour: my email horoscope just arrived. And it says this:

“You’re not used to grappling with someone who’s your intellectual equal, but admit it: It’s kind of exciting. Turning this competition to cooperation might be even more of a thrill.”

Somewhere out in Emailworld, there’s a really stupid person reading this exact same mail. And that amuses me.

—–

Something I realized in the shower this morning.

And stop that. I do more than soap up and self-gratify in the morning.

HAH! Did you throw up a little, in your mouth?

Something I realized in the shower this morning is that I’m a very fortunate person. I’ve known a lot of really talented people in my life — not just known, but come into close contact with and been liked or loved by them. I’m in a band with one of the most giftedly creative musical people I’ve ever known, and a really strong jack-of-all-trades with a good feel for networking. My friend David in Baltimore is a brilliant actor and one of the most charismatic front-person (musically) you’ll ever meet. Daniel’s got a brilliant ear and, often, an outside-the-box approach to music. Jessica’s a wonderfully creative visual artist. Melissa’s acting.

And it’s sad to have let so many of those people go. David’s in Baltimore and we rarely get a chance to speak, much less visit (we’re both of the starving artist variety). Jessica and Daniel have got personality traits that I just can’t cope with, and while that’s sad, my brain creates worlds in which they were able to overcome those issues and life is golden. Melissa and I are still friends, but you can’t ever go back comfortably once you do what I did, so we’ll never be as close as I’d hope in an ideal world.

But maybe that’s okay? I mean, of course it is, on some levels. It has to be okay, because that’s the way it is. Period.

So it goes.

But maybe it’s better than okay, too. There’s a song lyric: “Maybe departure’s good / makes room for more.”

Not sure where all this is going. Just trying to keep my head from fissuring.