The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 78

I knew from an earlier post on her channel that she’d been drinking. The post read: “Brunch drunk and loving it!” Maybe she’d sobered up. Maybe not.
Juliette: Are you writing?
Me: Huh uh. Slo mo Sunday. Y tu?
Juliette: At work. Slow here, too. Reading, mostly.
Me: Let me guess: Asimov?
Juliette: An online article. Village Voice archive. About these two… well, here: (link).
I open the link. An upbeat, fascinating opening. Then it takes a turn towards the macabre. Two artists fall crazy mad in love with each other during the Warhol Factory era in NYC. They later move to LA, then jump from the 14th floor of their downtown hotel room. An apparent double suicide, according to the cops.

Mike, like Jones and Liz, believed he knew something about all this. He and I had opened an unquestionably fragile line of communication after several year’s estrangement — an aftermath of the film project he’d killed. Shaky and tenuous as it was it was necessary, because within the sacred, selfless wheel of compassion, acceptance and forgiveness were harmonic elements. So I listened.
He said it was as if Juliette and I were attempting to surgically deactivate our hard wiring, and that while we couldn’t help having fallen for each other, truth is we were exactly like his friend, Joe, and that for people like us, the art making process was a far more eloquent expression of our time on earth than caring for the happiness of another — any other — despite the depth of our love.
It was like saying: You can’t eat the banana because the banana isn’t there. Or, you can’t eat the banana because you don’t possess the necessary digestive enzymes. Your body will reject it. Stay away from the banana.

I wanted to cry. It was just a banana.

Screw Mike.