This day unfolds and I “create” what I can out of it. Up and around me lies the pretty hills of Marin and Fairfax. The sun came out today and for a moment, I felt the impulse to walk on those hills, sober and alone, creating joy if possible. But will joy follow me there, or the sinking feeling in me that loneliness will have a greater say in the matter – and the reality of needing to share life with others is too strong for any philosophy to overcome. I am hurting today. A kind man just complimented me on my open-mic acting show last night. I did Gollum and Bipolar Hamlet. He said it was fantastic and honestly that strange man, who’s name eludes me, may be my only social outlet this Tuesday, this wretchedly lonely February day. The cursed Nazarene I believed in for so many years has decided he has better things to do than grace me with his presence. In his absence, I have befriended a ghost named Rod, who was outcast like Satan but asked to “rejoin” Heaven last month and was allowed entry, but on a probationary trial run which I know he’s going to blow, being drunk most of the time and causing trouble.
Rod and I clicked right away, with his obsession with Pesto, Liza Minnelli, and Hydroplanes. It is our desire to combine the three and fly above the water with the infamous daughter of Dorothy. Rod is a hell of a conversationalist.
“Rod, why do we spend our lives basically within our own minds, projecting things onto other people and seeing oureslves in them? Why am I trapped in loneliness and eternal longing to connect but always coming up short?”
“Oh, that’s easy. You’re an outcast.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You are an outcast. Always will be.”
“Well that’s fucking great! Couldn’t you lie at least and tell me everything will be okay?”
He flies ahead to the next tree and perches himself about ten feet up.
“Get down, Rod. This is serious. Why am I an outcast?”
“Because in the spirit world you did something bad to God. So did I, I was an outcast too. Could be worse. You could live in Haiti or Africa. At least you’re an outcast in Marin county. So shut the fuck up and quit whining. I need a drink.”
We head back down the trail and Rod follows me to a bipolar support group.
“You going to tell me what I did to God?”
He smiles and laughs. “Sure, you ate all of his fish and chips one night and lied about it.”
“Fish and chips?”
“Don’t laugh. Fish and chips are serious subjects in the afterlife. You’re lucky to be here at all.”
I stop for a moment to ponder this absurd and painful truth, that all of my suffering and struggles are because of fish and chips. I shake my head as Rod and I turn the corner and head for the Golden Gate Bridge. Sickly enough, he likes to watch people jump from it. Maybe I need a new ghost to hang with.
