I wrote a couple weeks ago, in a post called Kind of a Dick, about my complex and conflicted reactions to my friend dying.
How to recap what I said before? He was a brilliant actor and a very good writer, and we created some excellent theater in New York City, back in the day. He was smart and funny and wildly charismatic. He was also a raging alcoholic, frequently unreliable, and a compulsive, unabashed serial liar. He was kind of a dick.
Anyway. He died. He died and left behind a long line of friends who were simultaneously saddened at the great loss, and reminded of the waste of talent and skill that was his life was. I talked about drinking with him, making art with him, and ultimately falling out with him.
I left something out. It started bugging me shortly after I wrote that first entry.
In the Spring of 2011 my wife and my kids, then 9 and 8 years old, took a train to California, to visit Disneyland and connect with some old friends.
We stayed with my friend who just died.
He was doing very well. He was sober, and constructive. He was getting steady commercial work, and in demand as an actor and and a writer. He lived with a woman who clearly loved him very much.
It looked like success to me. Doing the work you love, in a stable, loving environment. He seemed happy. He was doing good work.
Of course it didn’t last.
I talked to an old friend of both of ours last week, trying to pin down that part of his life a little more accurately. I’d assumed he lived in relative peace for a couple years. My friend told me it was more like 6 months.
That little six month window of peace and productivity—I won’t call it happiness because I don’t know that he was happy—is what has stayed in my mind, and what has prompted me to write this follow-up. He was doing what he wanted, and he was very good at it. I’m old enough to know that life rarely allows you to perfectly balance all the balls you are simultaneously juggling. Love, sex, art, work, family. Only occasionally does it all work out, and it never lasts. Hopefully you recognise your pure dumb luck at living a life running on all cylinders. Hopefully you enjoy it while it lasts. Hopefully you don’t fuck it all up.
I won’t say he fucked it all up. He was wrestling with some mighty demons, and ultimately he failed. He did produce a handful of very good plays, and performances. He was a very generous friend to me when my family came to visit, and he let us into his home.
It was the last time I saw him. We capped off the week with a marathon game of Trivial Pursuit, at which he was a savant (I think he lost that night, though). My family took the train home, and a few days later we heard a medical diagnosis that changed our lives. Clif lived well for awhile longer, but finally succumbed to alcohol and self-destructive tendencies.
I still quote him from time to time (“Never show the audience 100%. Always keep a little bit from them. Leave them wanting more.”) I think of him often. I’m sad that the creative window that opened up toward the end of his life, when everything seemed in balance, didn’t last longer.
I miss you, Clif. I’m sorry your life was imperfect. I’m sorry things fell apart. Most things are imperfect. Most things fall apart. I think that’s why you became a writer. To leave something behind you that had beauty and permanence.
You did.
Peace.
If you like my writing, consider buying a story:
April’s story: Prince Albert in a Can
March’s story: Fuck, Marry, Kill
February’s story: Veronica Scissors
My first novel, Life Under Water
My website: jeffmwood.com.
My Amazon page.
My erotic flash fiction series, Serious Moonlight (as J G Cain)