Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

I said everything in my prècis — the existence of which was ludicrously disclaimed upon written inquiries to Mr Spelling’s offices. All this time while ‘90210 tripping,’ Jeremy grows angered, I see his energy swell and become dirty yellow — like toffee that is rotten, his denial fueled my own flames. For I knew he had worked under Mr Spelling at that time, albeit a far lower level, and may easily be the one to have come across the stolen sheaves for his own wiles. Too, he knew Darren Star, the then-unknown scriptwriter, of this I am aware through research. Throwing a lit candle at me, JS said, ‘get out,’ and I did, leaving Jabba on the futon in front of the fire to baby-sit his flaccid knobby penis.

I coolly ransacked the house for themes and items to appropriate. In the Master Bed, I took jewelry which could only assume belonged to Sara. From what I have gleaned, she is a strong women and the jeweled items, tho of lesser value I assume than the ones she chose to take with her, will prove useful re: vestiges of energy I might choose absorb. I continued my perambulations, taking favored power objects: custom pens and stray coins, then: to the baby’s room. I took a mobile which hung above the crib (with poignant irony, for I knew the baby was blind). It was of the Blue Matrix genre and will serve as a potent ‘power object.’ I heard Jabba call my name as if in panic. When I returned to the living room, the scene was most bizarre — Jeremy having a seizure (crack-induced). There was blood on the sheets from a minor gash on his head where he fell. Breathing was stable, as, I assumed, were other vitals. I told Jabba to gather her things, which she shakily did. I pretended to call 911 to soothe her (I had already deemed it unnecessary). Now, if there is justice, I will create a new show: and call it Beverly Hills 911 !

You’ll Never Eat Me During Lunch …

Out of the hospital and into the fire. Well, E, you’re a real trouper: thanx for holding down the fort while Mama had her nineteenth nervous breakdown. I know you’ve been holding down something , nudge nudge wink wink. By the way, your visits were wonderful. You’re a very good boy and I’ve decided not to fire you. For now.

I am so tired. And feeling so upset …Did you know Gene Tierney had a complete collapse when Aly Khan wouldn’t marry her? Went into the nuthouse for a year and a half . (Had to have one hell of an HMO.) I read about this in Vanity Fair , while confined amongst detoxers and wannabe crazoids::::::::::Oh, Eric…serves me right for being so blasè about losing the baby. That’s actually what I tell people, isn’t that sick? I pretend I miscarried, I tell myself that. Oh God…Everything came home to roost. The stuff with my father — one morning I just couldn’t get out of bed anymore. You saw what I was like. They say I didn’t talk, not for a whole week— me ! I still sent Vidra tapes but they were blank (my own version of the typewriter shtick in The Shining ). Scared the tits off her. But she was my only link and I think she knew that. I never experienced pain like that in my life , never thought such pain existed, was possible. Not in this realm, anyway. Bill Styron knew what he was talking about (his daughter Susanna came to see me, so sweet).

I think once Vidra saw I was going to be okay, she was secretly thrilled about the Big Depression — I was having it for her because boy is she due. And it’s good for the book, you know. She actually said, “Write your way out of it!” Real rah-rah Iowa Writers Workshop crapola. But you know what they say: what doesn’t kill you scares the freaking shit out of you and possibly damages you for life! That you laughing, E? Hope someone is…probably you and God. You know, you were the only person I wanted to see. The only one who wouldn’t judge me. Calliope loves you too; I told her all about your visits and the variety of hilarious contraband smuggled in. And the Show and Tell! When I described your Prince Albert, she smiled this ridiculous affectless smile of total generational befuddlement::::::::::It’s good to be home but I need to work — and soon. I’ve got two hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars to my name and it don’t feel cushy as it might have a few years ago. Oops — time for my meds. “ Zoloft, it’s been good to know you … Zoloft, been good to —“I make the housekeeper walk them over in a tiny little paper cup, while I’m in the “dayroom.” (Gettin’ nostalgic for that ward, baby)::::::::: I’m Taping as Fast as I Can …and catching up on lots of reading: the Tarkovsky book, Elmore Leonard, Primary Colors , the Vidal memoir…came across Sexton’s To Bedlam and Back , inscribed by Grosseck, no less: “For Teorema and the Wolfe, these ‘Notes Toward a Final Polish.’” Fuck you, Katherine. And polish this . Message last night from Cat, the machine said four A.M. — :::::::::The part that was so strange was how I remembered everything about my father, how it came back so vividly — suddenly I was there , I could smell it, smell him —sitting with the bankers in that Nexus meeting, watching it like a movie: heavy steps coming to the door, asking if I’d bathed. I’d say no and he’d say the water was drawn. Always a bubble bath, like that would make it all better. The sound of his shower in the master bath as I sat and soaked and shivered, numb; I could hear it through the pipes. When the pipes would stop, so would my heart. A few minutes later he’s mixing a drink at the wet bar, swizzle-stick and chink-chink of ice. Honey? Out yet? Come on now, you’ll wrinkle like a prune — standing at the door watching as I climbed from the tub, hunching to cover myself…leading me by the hand to bed. My bed. Once the phone rang when he was about to start in and it was Mother. He used my pink Princess. She was in Denver and they talked ten minutes while I lay there nude, dreaming of Richard Basehart, Father rubbing my neck as they spoke, hand drifting down to brush my nipples, then between my legs as they finished up—“I just looked in on her,” he’d say. “She’s asleep”—she must have asked to talk to me — goodbyes and I love yous as he turned me over…Sleep well, darling. And hurry home . E, why did the Fool have to die?

In the shadows of my room I became Gelsomina and my father, Zampano, under the circus tent. You know, as a girl, I had a funny gift: when I went on planes, I could hear any song I wanted in full orchestral accompaniment, plain as day just beneath the drone. I could do the same with people — when it was half dark, I could make them look like anyone, anyone in the world. So I saw the Fool on his tightrope and wished with all my heart he would stop being a dysfunctional harlequin with a death wish and that he would rescue me. The thing of it is that when I got older, I came; Zampano made me come. I never forgave myself for that:::::::::Oprah, book me!

Hello, Columbus

[FedEx LETTER] My lawyer’s sending galimony as a way of saying thanks for the good times (I’m sure you’ll accept). We did have some, didn’t we, Stocker? By the way, if you intended to hurt me with your prank, you really screwed the pooch. When I told Calliope you shit in the doctor’s bag, she was charitably restrained; I don’t think she ever liked you. Said your “compelling infantilism” was a “Polaroid of Self-image”: feces in a pretty package. (A cry for help? But wouldn’t Sharkie cry for kelp? Alack, Tupac Sharkee is no more…) Everyone else I tell — and I do tell everyone — says you’re just a sick puppy. Really, Stocker, I expected something grander. A barbed word, a faux-Proustian paragraph or maybe a short story lobbed my way. That probably comes later. You might like to know the doctor’s bag has been assiduously cleaned and relined. Pargita now uses it as a script-tote; girl takes it everywhere. We’re going to Paris for the weekend. I told her I’d get her a new one but she’s adamant on keeping yours. Says it’s to remind me never to take anyone’s shit again. That’s what my lover says…