An Open Letter, Two Years On

Two years since Johnny left this world, and I find myself in a place I never imagined. That first year, I moved through life in what felt like a fog of magical thinking — refusing to believe it was real, convinced I would wake up and see him again, that this terrible loss could somehow be undone.

But as the second year drew closer, a heavier kind of grief took hold. Bukowski’s words captured it perfectly:

“and the sadness becomes so great

I hear it in my clock

it becomes knobs upon my dresser

it becomes paper on the floor

it becomes a shoehorn

a laundry ticket

it becomes

cigarette smoke

climbing a chapel of dark vines...”

Everything around me felt steeped in that sadness, as if even the smallest corners of the world conspired to remind me of the emptiness he left behind.

Yet today, on this two-year mark, the sharpness of that grief has softened. I find myself thoughtful, rather than broken. There are no more “what ifs,” only “it is.” I listen to his music, read the books he loved, occasionally wear his shirts — the relics he left in this world, still traces of him.

In the hardest times, Neil Young helped me find a way through the pain, just as Johnny did when he was alive. Harvest Moon always hit hardest:

“But now it's gettin' late

And the moon is climbin' high, I want to celebrate

See it shinin' in your eye

Because I'm still in love with you

I want to see you dance again

Because I'm still in love with you

On this harvest moon...”

Those lines brought him closer, made me miss him fiercely, I wanted to see him dance again.

And then there was ABBA — of all things — in those last months, that man of alternative music took such joy in The Winner Takes It All, singing along as I drove him to his appointments, and even once in Fort Tryon Park. It puzzled me then, but looking back, maybe he understood something I didn’t:

“The gods may throw a dice

Their minds as cold as ice

And someone way down here

Loses someone dear.”

When the EMTs came to take him away, he still fought to stay, exclaiming, “not today, not today.” That echo stayed with me, and sometimes I wished I could have willed that to be true.

But Bukowski was right, after all:

“Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I’m not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you’ve felt that way.”

This time, there was no turning back. And yet here I am, still standing, still carrying him forward, not with the crushing weight of sorrow but with a quiet acceptance. I will always love him. And I will always remember.

July 6, 2024. It has been a year to the day since Johnny left us. As this poignant anniversary approached, I wanted to do something symbolic and sentimental to honor his memory. Yet, I found myself unable to follow through. Even after a year, the disbelief that he is truly gone still lingers.

In my quiet moments of remembrance, I turned to his favorite music and books. I listened to the haunting tones of Diamanda Galás, the raw energy of Foetus, and the avant-garde sounds of Sonic Youth. I revisited the profound works of Joyce, the gritty realism of Bukowski, and the philosophical musings of Murdoch. These were Johnny's treasures, his escapes, and his passions.

Through these intimate encounters with his beloved artists and authors, I feel I have gained a deeper understanding of Johnny's essence—perhaps even more than I did when he was with us. His spirit lives on in these words and melodies, offering glimpses into the soul we dearly miss.

A book, The Year of Magical Thinking, that profoundly impacted me since Johnny’s death, was later adapted into a Broadway play featuring Vanessa Redgrave, which Johnny and I watched together. The play sparked deep conversations between us about death and its ramifications. Intrigued by its themes, I read Joan Didion's book afterward, and so did Johnny. The book narrates the story of Didion's husband's sudden death and the transformative effect it had on her character and beliefs in the subsequent year.

This past month, I revisited Didion's poignant work, seeking solace in her words. Grief, I have found, is an ever-changing entity—its presence unpredictable and often overwhelming. It is the embodiment of disbelief. Despite knowing Johnny has passed away, evidenced by his ashes in an urn that I often touch and speak to as if he were still here, accepting his absence remains elusive.

Our cats, Bathsheeba and Senbi, sensed the profound shift in our lives. Bathsheeba roamed the halls at night, howling mournfully, while Senbi, usually stoic, offered me her attention, which I gratefully accepted. They, too, understood that everything had irrevocably changed.

In my struggle to accept this new reality, I resonate deeply with Didion's words: “I could not count the times during the average day when something would come up that I needed to tell him. This impulse did not end with his death. What ended was the possibility of response.” This loss of shared moments leaves me often at a loss, unsure of what to do next.

Logically, I know Johnny is gone. He no longer speaks or walks; he is in a deep, eternal sleep, and this forms part of the disbelief. The hope that he might somehow manifest, that he might wake up, is not grounded in reality.

This past year has been consumed by the responsibilities of handling his estate, as well as his mother's, who passed away just three months before Johnny. Through this process, I came to realize that 'settling the affairs of the deceased' often feels like erasing their memory from the world. Everything that was Johnny (and Mrs. Gamble) now exists in fragments, no longer a cohesive whole.

I find myself yearning to hold onto something that was precious to Johnny forever, but what should that be? His books, music, films, clothes, and even his shoes (just like in Didion’s book, I have no idea what to do with his shoes) all represent pieces of him. Yet, these fragments feel both overwhelmingly too much and heartbreakingly not enough, perpetuating the sense of disbelief.

Before meeting Johnny, I had read Bukowski and sworn off his acerbic, gritty poetry, preferring something more nuanced. However, revisiting Bukowski after Johnny's death offered me a deeper insight into Johnny himself. The line, “Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you've felt that way,” epitomizes Johnny. He struggled with addiction but faced it with a determined acceptance.

In the later years of his life, Johnny embraced AA, which brought him face-to-face with the reality of his addiction. Yet, he approached life with a fervor, a 'look at this amazing world' attitude, devoid of bitterness. He also found solace in Buddhism, particularly the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh, attending his retreats annually. The simple yet profound words of Thich Nhat Hanh, “Because you are alive, everything is possible,” resonated deeply with Johnny.

In Johnny, Bukowski's raw acceptance and Thich Nhat Hanh's hopeful philosophy coexisted harmoniously, embodying a blend of Acceptance and Hope.

Johnny had an eclectic taste in music, finding solace in artists who resonated with his own struggles and triumphs. He was drawn to Nina Hagen, the German punk musician, and Diamanda Galás, whose music defies easy categorization—a blend of opera, punk, industrial, noise, and folk. Both artists wrote and sang about death and redemption, themes that undoubtedly helped Johnny through his most challenging moments.

He also had a deep appreciation for Jandek, an artist whose early works suggested he could neither sing nor play an instrument. Yet, over the course of 100 albums, you could hear the evolution of his skills and lyrics, a testament to his perseverance. Johnny admired Jandek for this very reason: despite his initial struggles, he continued to play and sing, embodying the spirit of an underdog.

Similarly, Hagen and Galás created music that wasn't for everyone—they knew this, yet they persisted. Their lyrics spoke to universal themes of struggle, acceptance, and resilience. Johnny found inspiration in their determination and authenticity, in their message to "just keep going." This music, with its raw honesty and emotional depth, was a source of strength for Johnny, reflecting his own journey of perseverance and hope.

I know this spans a wide spectrum, but I was grateful to immerse myself in Johnny's favorite literature, music, and cinema to understand him better, even after his death. In my moments of disbelief, I can reconnect with him by reading, listening, and watching the things he cherished.

To his close friends and family—Lisa, Matt, Alex, Ellen, and Jacki—I cannot fully grasp your feelings and thoughts, but I want you to know that Johnny's life was a testament to redemption and hope. In fact, when the EMTs came to assist him, he kept repeating, "Not today, not today." I was with Johnny in the ER before he passed. Although he couldn't speak due to the medical equipment, he turned his head towards me, and we stared at each other. His eyes were alert, still filled with hope. Not today. Even now, it feels like disbelief.

As I sifted through Johnny’s old papers, I found the crinkled drawings and faded assignments from grade school, I stumbled upon a treasure—a hand-made folder of poetry.

These poems were crafted during Johnny's third-grade years. Yet, the depth of emotions and the vivid imagery they portrayed was far beyond their age. It was evident that even as a child, Johnny possessed a unique and creative way of seeing the world. Here is one of my favorite:

Sheep

The clouds are sheep,

White and gray.

The wind is their shepherd

It can be cruel and

Push them until they cry

Or it can be gentle and

Let them stop and graze

On the stars…

My sincere condolences Rusel. I did not know Johnny but I could always feel the love you have for him every time you spoke his name. My thoughts and prayers are with you and the family.

RIP Johnny

This song is a tribute to the art Johnny loved, it became a beacon of hope, he so loved Bowie and especially the Hunky Dory album. Through this song (he played it on multiple occasions, real loud), I believe he discovered that even in a changing media landscape, the magic of art could still be found, if one was willing to embrace their own unique voice and let it soar.

And so, Johnny's life became a testament to the transformative power of art, as he continued to write his own story, while forever being guided by the timeless words of David Bowie's "Life on Mars."