At the party, I found myself in the same place I've been in about a dozen times. Someone was talking about the Golden West and I got so excited that someone cared about the only thing I can bring myself to care about, I dived right in. The only problem is it always yields the same result. Like I said before, it's not really depression, just this huge void in my life, recognized.
I don't like how I've gotten to be this way, this trauma junkie. I feel like I'm slowing down for a car wreck every time I dive into the discussion. A part of me knows I really should just distance myself, try to get away from all the message boards, all the media, the negativity, and just be Cat. Not Cat, defender of the honor of the might and noble Golden West (or should I say Kathy Zimmer?). But, I'm just not there, I just can't do it.
The thing about that bar is that it was so irreversibly intertwined with my life that I can't get it out, especially not now when she's sinking more and more every second. It's the mark of a true theater kid, irrational attachments to spaces. I genuinely missed the Shuler when I left Raton. When I found the Golden West, the El Rey, I felt that loss lift. New theater, new space, new home. Screw that noise about that place being my second home. It was MY home, especially after I stopped paying rent in June. I can't tell you how thankful I am that the El Rey is still standing. I don't want to imagine where I would be if that was gone too.
Reality is slowly sinking in about it. All of it. I went through 2 weeks of shock and awe and now I can feel the reality sink in. It's. Not. There. Anymore. It's sad, but maddening all at the same time. I'm not there, but I'm getting close. Even today when I stood in the Saloon, it didn't feel real. It just looks so different, I still can't believe it's the Golden West. I listened to a lot of Elton John last night and had a nice hour-long cry (by the way, best sentence in this blog, by far). It was terrible, but in a way it felt like I was progressing. I honestly haven't had a good cry about the fire since it happened, just little bursts here and there. But the thing that scares me is the anger I feel coming on. About 70% of it has to do with my own personal objections to the management of this whole debacle, the other 30% coming from internet speculation.
It hurts a lot that it's becoming warfare. I almost enjoyed the mild rivalry we had with Joe Anderson and the Launchpad (which you know, give me a break, we were nothing but a mosquito compared to that empire). It was fun, high school sports. And trust me, I loved that place just as much as the nest person. Burlesque, suspension, some of my first punk shows. I've had some great times in that place. But now it's a blame game. If we would have taken care of the rags the right way, it never would have happened. If Joe would have had a firewall and a roof, it never would have happened. If someone had answered my phonecalls at any of the 5 hardware stores I called the day before about applying linseed oil, it never would have happened. If we would have hired someone to do the floors. Your fault. His fault. My fault. Kathy Zimmer's fault. This has nothing to do with fault and everything to do with pride.
I adore Aunt Virginia, Kathy's aunt who turned the Saloon into a saloon and turned the El Rey into a nightclub. She is the definition of a tough, old girl. Sometimes, I can just see her running around that theater, the way Kathy does, taking notes, yelling at lazy security, monitoring her bartenders. It really is a fantastic image. And I keep asking myself, what would Aunt Virginia do? More than anyone in the world, that is HER bar, her theater. And the answer is, fight to the death.
That makes trying to turn my back on this divine mess that much harder. I want nothing to do with a battleground. A scene war? That is so impossibly far from Cat-territory. But it's hard when it involves one of the true loves of my life.
I love the way I feel when I laugh about it, breaking up those terrible insurance-related conversations with little inside jokes and memories. Like when Daniel dropped Patrick to the floor. Or Pornogate 08 in the office. When the pigeons got through the roof and were nesting on top of the tin ceiling and we could hear them cooing. Kathy's freaking Christmas carols over the holidays. Kyle's unofficial 21st birthday party with Nothington. After hours with Le Chat. I'm smiling right now.
That's where I want to be, able to relive it all, without having to drudge 13 paragraphs (metaphorically most of the time) of somber babble. To remember how great it was, to think how great it might be again.
I know a good chunk of it is all the other stuff going on. New job. New room. Sick pets. Sleep deprivation. Adultness. Maybe it would all make sense if everything else was clear in front of me, but that's never the case.
I really am trying my best to not late-night blog, not listen to sappy Elton John, instead go out, be social. But sometimes I think you need a little sadness to get there.
I just miss it.
No comments:
Post a Comment