The day I found out you died, I was really sick. A preemptive body survival tactic that I have since seen repeat itself. On the day I found out you died, I travelled six hours to the island you lived on. I arrived on a wide open farm in late day sun and found her (your sister) (my sister) sitting cross legged in the grass. I hadn’t been to this place since I was a child. Stoned and scared and sleeping under the stars. No one had told me how you died yet. Her dad hugged me hard; “She loved you so much.” I know that. I wanted to cry, but I was so sick I couldn’t feel anything.
For five years, I work on creating something (CAMP) that will suffice my brokenness. I hear of people creating, releasing, and feeling better. The act of sharing this film with the world has been painful and humiliating. That’s how it feels. The worst of it came from a sound system fuck-up during a screening in Los Angeles. I couldn’t watch, so I paced commercial Glendale until my friend Vera found me, fed me cigarettes and told me she’d had it just as bad. That this was just how it feels. That evening, I sat on the floor of a family friend's house in Venice Beach, counting my clothes and folding them up nice. My dad came in and told me the experience of watching my film was horrendous. I said, “Yeah, I know.” He sat down and told me, “At the end of the day, she’s still dead.” I said, “Yeah, I know.”
My best friend, Jillian, texted me to say we had two new cool reviews. She was talking about Drinking and Driving, the film we made together and premiered earlier this year. The film is slowly making its way around, with maybe four or five screenings so far. I’ve become addicted to reading what people have to say about Drinking and Driving, not for the hopeful praise, but for the simple confessionals of teenage boredom and small-town lust. These people talk of corner stores and pining after your best friend. Big things disguised as small things, like house fires, secrets and kissing. My favorite review so far is from someone named Tina. She writes something about how “you haven’t messaged in days, that must mean it’s over,” and then 52 lines of “everything is ending.” I text Jillian back, “Have you read this?” Everything is ending, everything is ending, everything is ending. She says, “I think we are breaking people.” I feel warm. I hope she is right.
The first time we hooked up was in the attic of a vacation home I had a job cleaning at over the summer. We both had boyfriends and we weren’t supposed to be up there. I was half blacked out and your nose started bleeding. I remember rings on your fingers, and the spots of blood on the sheets. In the morning, I walked back to the tent I was supposed to be sleeping in and begged for his forgiveness. The tent is hot, I feel like a monster, everything is ending. I think you knew this problem would repeat itself, but you wanted me to stay anyway, and I’ll always love you for that.
I’ve gotten in a bad habit of telling audiences after CAMP Q&As that if anyone has something more personal to tell me, I’ll be smoking outside and would love the conversation. Then I walk outside, become distracted by my own feelings, and find the quickest way home. It’s not all bad. I met a boy in Berlin who loved the film. He told me about the bands he liked and shows he had been to. He said people kept mistaking him for me in the lobby of the festival. We watched the closing film together and we have kept in touch since. My friend Leonie showed the film in Vienna too, her friends gathered in a circle outside of the venue afterwards; everyone had questions. I drank wine spritzers and rolled cigarettes and answered their questions. That felt good.
Two summers ago, two weeks after I had finished shooting CAMP, you and I went to a music festival together. We took your grandma's car and stuffed your cousin and her best friend in the back. When we arrived, the beach stretched far, and we shared a blanket. I tell you once again that the film is about her (your sister) (my sister), and you nod; you already know. We have been placed here for these brief moments, but you reassure me, she always knew. We take edibles and roll around in the sand like kids. Our tent is the only one on the beach that has no lights. We call it CAMP SAD, and then we die laughing.
One more confession: I got sick again last summer. My friend Lea was shooting her movie here in New York City, and she bought my train ticket down. My pupils got really big from cough medicine and I couldn’t sleep right. The week was intercut with a guidance of hands and cameras. I’m holding one for Lea, and Louise is shooting Castration Movie Anthology ii just down the block. I come back to the apartment late and walk up to the party. It’s already over, and I wonder where that girl is. It will be a soft year of wondering, where did she go?
Sometimes I can feel you on my skin, like goosebumps, and I wear you around my neck, for the angels. There is a deepness that comes in making, a burn that comes with sharing.
Man, I don’t want you to leave me. I am learning, please give me a moment to breathe.
All images courtesy Avalon Fast.
