Ordinarily – I might look out my kitchen window around 6 pm and see Mark coming up the Filbert Steps with a book or books in his hand. It always gave me a happy feeling to see him. After hellos he would go to the couch and read while I finished cooking our dinner. Usually we ate dinner while watching Jeopardy. Banished to the bathroom to smoke – even then he took his book with him and continued reading – often he would yell out the answer to the Jeopardy question from that location. Fortunately, by and large, we enjoyed the same tv programs, PBS, documentaries, Nova, Front line, Seinfeld He turned me on to Curb Your Enthusiasm, although he liked some episodes better than others. He refused to raise his eyes from his book for Project Runway, but sometimes would for Antiques Road Show. This was our life, routine, since Mark got himself in the drug program about August 2007. He seemed content and I enjoyed cooking things I thought he would like. He told me more than once to let him know if he was invading my privacy too much, too often. I told him, no, I enjoyed his company. And I did. We discussed politics, books, movies, and he always made me laugh.
Recently I was at Trader Joe’s buying eggs and recalled the last time I was there with Mark. I was buying the more expensive “range free,” when Mark brought this to my attention. I said, “Well, I thought it was the least we could do to try and help out the poor chickens”
Mark looked at me soberly, reflectively, and said, “Now, you’re not thinking that those chickens are running around on a lawn somewhere, are you?”
“Well, huh …”
I always loved Mark, of course, but during these months I developed such a very deep love for him that even I was surprised. I thank God for this time I had with him, our friendship, but it makes it so hard. I felt such compassion, sympathy for the struggle he was making. I told him that the two of us reminded me of the old Mafia guy, directing his operations in Las Vegas from his old mother’s outdated kitchen somewhere in Kansas, while she scurried around making dinner. Mark would leave my apt sometimes as late as 12 pm. As he would walk thru deserted Chinatown, I always told him to be careful. He told me, “Believe me, I’m the scariest person out there!”
The books Mark read were as eclectic as the music he enjoyed. I remember when he was about 14 his blasting Beethoven from his bedroom. I told him the neighbors were going to come pounding on the door, saying, “TURN DOWN THAT BEETHOVEN!” At this moment I have to return to the public library for him: The Savage Detectives, Robert Bolano; We Came To The End, Joshua Ferris; The Rest Is Noise, Alex Ross; Stephane Mallarme, Collected Poems (in French); Debunking 9/11, David Ray Griffin; and Harlot’s Ghost, Norman Mailer, 1,289 pages worth. At one time he mentioned that he could not believe that the library let him have 13 books out at once!
When I returned from a month’s trip in Mexico, August, September, 2007, I found, to my great joy, that Mark had got himself in a program. Altho he never said, I knew he felt good about doing it all himself. He had to get very sick before he could begin taking the Suboxone, then get up very early every day for weeks to get to S.F. General for the pill and blood tests. If you know Mark well, you know getting up early was a test of fire. After some weeks of this he was allowed to get a week’s supply at a time. He was also required to see a counselor once in a while with whom, fortunately, he connected with. He was doing so well. He told me once that the chances of him sliding were almost nil … and then he did.
I called the clinic just so they wouldn’t think he had stopped coming. With all the people they have coming thru there I doubted they would remember Mark specifically but, to my surprise, his counselor called me and said they were all devastated. I tell you this because I was not sure when the “slide” happened exactly. But the counselor said that Mark had come in and they had talked about it, it was only once, and Mark had climbed back on the horse, so to speak. I know that because Mark was taking the Suboxone on schedule during his short hospital stay. That one time, evidently, was the one time too many, and he picked up the insidious staph.
I have a lot of Mark’s notebooks to go thru, some large and the little soft-backs he always carried with him. He rarely shared any of his poems – although he did write a couple wonderful ones for me as birthday presents. One that he did let me read was truly beautiful, something about a thorn or barb, very metaphorical. Since he let me read it, I believe even he thought it was good. I hope I can find it and share it with you all. Until then, I leave you with this one I came across and liked. It’s not that personal so I don’t think Mark would mind.
Waking,
we noticed the old words
had packed their baggage in the night
and with the only grace they ever mustered
stole away like the dead loves they had become.
Walking,
we noticed the old worlds
had similarly vanished, and with them
took the false borders, perspectives and limits
they had silently imposed
and in every direction possibility shone reborn.
