the instances swimming around in my head are the instances in which

1.

A man I once cared for far more than I knew was wise to, complained about his relationship with his ex: they were total opposites, she was a horrible communicator, he always felt like she had one foot out the door. Sick of hearing about it, I finally asked him why he even went out with her in the first place. His response was sure and quick. She's beautiful.

The ease with which he said it and the fact that he had never said as much to me, made me acutely sad. Not only for me, but for him as well.

2.

My office is next to an adult English Language Learners' class in Chinatown. Every day I hear them shouting in unison, with the enthusiasm of a grade-school calisthenics class things like
HELLO!
GOODBYE!
WHAT IS YOUR NAME!
Each phrase is shouted with the same absence of intonation that comes, well, with a group of people shouting random phrases while staring straight ahead at the dry erase board where a woman with a pointer taps each word printed on it.

As the semester progresses, so do the complexities of the phrases. And I don't know if this is the entirety of the class, or if things like conversation and comprehension are just done at a more hushed level.

But today what I heard was
WHERE ARE YOU GOING FOR DIM SUM!
and
I LOVE YOU!
and really, what more do you need to know how to say?

3.

In searching for a third instance, I must now admit to both you and myself that there is no three. At the end of the day, this is all I can really offer. But, this I know: things usually come out better in threes. So use your imagination.

Love Hard, Fight Beautifully

I read that the other day in the lobby close to the elevators of the office where I work. It's part of an art exhibit–I'm not exactly sure for what–but it's a phrase to which I find myself returning daily. Like when my boyfriend and I fought all night on Valentine's Day. Or when I talk to my New York friend, who had a New York meltdown and left it all behind–the job, the apartment, the collection of short stories he couldn't get published–to move in with his relatives in sunny Los Angeles and is suddenly feeling a helluva lot better. But mostly I think of it because this last week has been hard as hell for me and for a lot of my close friends.

Cayce lost the fight last week and we miss him horrbily. He left behind a wife of some twenty years, two boys young enough that they still take baths together, and siblings as close as they make 'em.

You think you know grief. You think you know loss. And then along comes something that is as impossible to understand as Einstein's theory of relativity. And that's the thing. What one day seemed impossible to understand eventually grows to become something you just accept as true. And I guess, that's where I am with it all right now. Things are in the process of becoming true. And it's not an easy place to be.

I first met Cayce at film school many years ago. I was a graduate TA for a class that was small on a good day, and more like an intimate yet uncomfortable job interview on a bad one. I don't think I ever prepared harder for a class, and I don't think I ever ended up flailing more. Cayce was the only student who actually tried to respond to my questions. The only one who attempted to engage with the readings–even if he hadn't read them. And the student for whom I ended up teaching the entire course. Cayce encouraged me, as best as one of your students can, by, at least, acting like he was getting something out of the class. Years later, Cayce himself would become a teacher: a much more relaxed, genuine and knowledgeable one than I ever was. And from that first encounter, Cayce turned me on to more films, music and obscure Internet sites than seems possible for one person to be aware of. If you asked any of his friends, students or colleagues you'd hear the exact same thing. Anything Cayce championed was something worth investigating.

Cayce, his wife Chela and their boys, Django and Taj, made a home not far from mine. There's was a home I would visit, not just for the free meals and lively conversation but for the open door policy, the unlimited sustenance and playtime with two of the most mischievous boys I've known. I loved nothing more than to visit Cayce when his wife was out of town and watch him, overwhelmed with the boys, trying to give them a bath and put them to bed, and they, in turn, knowing just how to work the crowd to their own benefit. Trying to act the role of the father, you could see Cayce was clearly no match for them. And at the same time, you could see just how much he loved it all.

I could go on and on about Cayce. About how he was the best Sasha Baron Cohen impersonator I knew, about how when he left you a phone message it was so shit-your-pants funny you collected them all, or about how when he loved something, be it a song or a film or a new drink at McDonald's, he proselytized to such effect, you soon found yourself praising their merits as well. But it breaks my heart too much to think about. To realize the memories I have are the only ones I get.

Cayce was rock and roll. He was unbridled affection. He was for real when nothing else was.

And he was loved. And he was beautiful.