<B>
<br>Theo Nassar</B>
Theo Nassar (bb560@scn.org) is, as her story suggests, a
native
Seattleite, recent and long-time resident of LA where she wrote scenarios
and scripts, now graciously returned to Seattle. We hope to see a lot
more of her work in RealPoetik.
"Kurt"
I climbed a mountain today for you Kurt, though you climbed a higher one and
jumped off. I had to do it, in your honor, took me less than half an
hour up and back down, yours took a nano-second. I got creosote all
over my hands from the mesquite, or was it chapparel, I don't know these
California plants, yours were covered with black powder.
The mountain rose 200 feet abruptly from the high plateau one of the Taliesin
Fellows said, he an apprentice to Frank Lloyd Wright, designer of the
compound if not the setting high above Malibu in the Santa Monica
Mountains. You would have loved it Kurt, something like our wonderful
Cascades, on a drier scale, spectacular huge rock formations scattered,
flung random. From the top almost made me think there was a God, but
back down again on solid ground, realized there isn't, unless he's
acronymed FLW.
We were all there (I get to go to such things, 'Hollyhock House' docent
as I am) to see Arch Obler's 'EagleFeather,' the aerie never built but
planned to be on that same top I had to quick down from through the soft
steep soil hanging on. Just couldn't stand. Being up there, the
overwhelming 360 degrees, afterall I'm afraid of heights, though usually
tall buildings, mountains I love planning the scramble arduous through
all the hazards, thinking each step out where best, a logical-intuitive
thing learned from my goat ancestors, cloven-hoofed.
Poor Arch, fantasy radio writer, besides "Bwana Devil" first 3-D movie to
lure millions back from T.V., lost his little son in a construction ditch on
the site, deep concrete mud quicksand, so he gave up on his dream. Why
did you give up your dream, Kurt, at that magical age, 27, Jimi also our
citymate died at, the hex age for Hendrixes, and several others of your
ilk: Rock Gods.
Earlier in the morning before the winding drive up, I stopped first at
'Patrick's Roadhouse,' to catch the article in the L.A. Times about your
wife, Courtney, she loved you, you know, but not enough to be with you
weeks only after your deathlike coma--heroin induced?--in Rome, her
career taking off like firecrackers, you would be proud of her, or were
you jealous, your juices dried-up, you gave all to creativity induced by
drugs (alcohol loosens me up, like now, but gotta go without, how can
the young do so much bad to themselves without harm, well some can, for
me, a glass or two of wine four nights a week, and my cholesterol has shot
up to 300 again, though stress adds to that and coffee, plus women
can sustain higher percentages of the fatty stuff it's said, you know
because of our own layer of fat skin-deep, the survival amount you
didn't have Kurt, that keeps us nurturing everybody, and sometimes have
enough energy left for ourselves).
The review of your wife's new C.D. release for her band, "Hole," was
four out of four, the top level of stars doled, said she used all--the
emotions possible, she let the rage shriek out it said, loud as your
little Baby Bean, Frances, 19 months old with a nanny in the next room of her
mother's hotel suite.
Why were you not nannied, someone watching over you like a hawk, everyone
knew you were suicidal, did they want you to go out like that? Oh sure,
everybody will say it's Seattle's weather, high bridges that make it a
suicide capital, forget that so many cancer patients go there to live,
but die, forget all the little Japanese grandmas who do hari-kari, and
the dour Danes, and other Scandinavians who inherit cultural
self-immolation. Besides you originally were from Aberdeen in Washington
state, near where 200 inches falls a year, not Seattle's benign 39 of
rain, same as New York City, less than Washington D.C., and Atlanta is
colder in the winter. But people don't want to believe such, well fine,
we don't want the hordes moving there anyway. It's O.K. going back where
I'm from, been down here in L.A. temporarily 10 years, what I gave
myself to try and 'make it.'
Funny, I've never heard your music, Kurt, though you were idolized by my
ex-boyfriend's son, as he did also 'Squashed Pumpkin,' or 'Melon Seeds,'
or 'Stiff Penis,' or whatever all those Grunge groups from yours and my
city up North are called.
Patrick in his Roadhouse this morning at that intersection of the Coast
Highway with Chattaqua was so damn irascible at first. I had to sit at
the counter for hashbrowns and over-easy, not being one of his famous
clients. Did you ever eat at the place, Kurt? Yours and my kind, tony
seedy, colorful.
Kinda like the 'Silverlake Lounge' you went to next to my fave coffeeshop
back in my fey neighborhood 20 miles inland, the 'Tropical,' Cuban,
artistic--to see the transvestites, were you in sexual identity crisis,
or only curious, you should see yourself in some of your last photos,
kohl-eyed and all, like a Queen.
Of course Patrick, at his 'Roadhouse' next to the Ocean, was pleasant and
fun that other time by chance I was elbow-to-elbow with a Mr.
Schwarzeneger, all of us breakfasteer's singing 'Happy Birthday' to
Arnold who leered and laughed when presented by friends with a bar apron
dangling an appendage cloth hand-sewn stuffed penile symbol.
Today's breakfast at Patrick's a bunch of trite old Irish songs kept playing,
ending with "I saw Ma and Dad in the Kitchen," becoming raunchy cute,
and Patrick started smiling in his hair now so white, his white legs
showing under the tartan shorts above the lisle high socks, and he even
graciously loaned me his "Calendar" section, so I could read about the
young couple who should have been so happy, with their lovely new
lakefront home up in the Emerald City, the Queen City on Puget Sound,
it's been a heroin capital for some years now, I just hope John isn't an
addict who I'm going to but didn't see any little holes under his long
shirtsleeves, besides he said wine is his thing, every night with
home-cooked gourmet meals.
The electrician working at your posh property found you crumpled, Kurt,
the note almost forgotten under the potted plant that spilled dirt all
over mixing with red. Did you want to go down as a legend, well of
course now you will, but they won't remember you for your music anymore,
because Legends rise above their music no matter how fine, and become
Gods, because we all need those so badly, so you sacrificed yourself for
us, huh, besides that you ran out of emotions, even the sad ones, even
the Gods have emotions though not the human kind they envy.
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