So, the whole persona/ phenomenon/ phoenix that was Kaycee was a hoax.
There�s this movie entitled (aptly) �The Game�. It stars Michael Douglas, and Sean Penn� and involves a sort of real life role-playing fantasy. Basically, Douglas�s character forks over the big bucks to be entangled in a cloak and dagger web of intrigue, romance, and death� created for him by this company that specializes in bringing mental and spiritual resurrections (or a surge of vitality to those whose veins have long since rusted over at the insistence of apathy) to fruition.
I remember a few things about that movie; most notably: the line between reality and Something Else wasn�t tangible by any means, and, just when you thought the �game� was over and the Real World had somehow righted itself on it�s axle, all things surreal re-implemented themselves with a vengeance. In other words, he most certainly got his money�s worth.
For all intensive purposes, I feel like I have somehow, against my will, been placed as an extra on the set of this movie. Only this time, the �game� isn�t about mindfucking a rich, lonely CEO. It�s about mindfucking a bunch of well-meaning web-junkies instead.
Something�s not right here. An absurd area of my brain keeps thinking that Kaycee is okay, not dead; I should be relieved. Now I will have the chance to e-mail her, send her pictures, do all those things I berated myself bitterly for never having done before her untimely demise. Regret, I assure you, is a bitch. So yes, Kaycee isn�t dead, but it�s worse than that. Because she wasn�t ever alive, either.
I was sitting outside by my pool the other night; I believe it was the twilight after I heard the news. I was thinking about the letter Kaycee had written to my roommate�s brother right before she died; how she said she would be watching over him after she was gone. I was crying, and looking at the stars, and thinking how they never change, not from Fredricksburg to San Diego, hinging on nothing as insignificant as the huge gambit of thoughts that I have processed or skimmed over in my head while sitting beneath them. They are the closest thing to a constant that my limited senses can sense, yet several of them have been dead for hundreds of years. I looked at the stars, and suddenly, I could feel Kaycee. Like I can feel my grandmother from time to time� she had retained all her individuality, yet was wiser, stronger even, than she had been in her life on this earth. She could comfort me in the chill of San Diego�s cool early summer evening. Every whisper of anticipation, echo of victory, and dirge of defeat that the stars had borne witness to was now hers to know and accept, and the very certainty of this notion brought me peace.
And now, I am at a loss. That certainty has been stripped from me. Perhaps it should be comforting to know that I can bring forth serenity from within, but it�s not. Because that seems to be the only place it really resides. The stars practice the art of indifference with a precision bordering on vicious. Who knows where the dead go? My own instincts betray me to fantasy� if I can have the exact emotional connection I felt for my grandmother with a fictitious character� then that connection is something conjured in my cerebrum, not brought forth from those no longer with us.
There seems to have been an uprooting of my tiny seedlings of faith� and I can�t figure out who�s holding the metaphorical hoe.
Aesop, wise man that he was, never tried to pawn himself off as the fox eating the grapes. I never wondered why. Now, I suppose I don�t need to.
6:41 a.m. - 2001-05-21
Recent entries:
cliffhanger - 2005-11-12
Mary - 2005-02-08
Border - 2004-07-26
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