Journal entries from my early twenties dedicated to River.
February 7, 1997
This is a prayer for you my stranger friend, I love what you had to give. Sadly I relate to a tragic end, for it could have been me as much as anyone; it could have been me but it had to be you.
Jude #7
August 19, 1997
Quite often I find myself gazing upward remembering the year of lost innocence, not just for me but for everyone who followed. I believe that we had so much in common but I cannot be sure as I know only what I see and hear. Too many times have taken me back to false happiness and it is there that I feel closest. What a shallow statement to make, but not if perceived in the right manner. It is during these “phases” that depression is at its worst and the need for an escape is mandatory. There is no dark side, there is no hidden secret, there is no false identity, it was nothing more than human nature and society as we know it is ignorant to believe otherwise. Death can do so much for an ego and isn’t it ironic how a person can become a legend only after life is over? Come on, and I thought I was being shallow for considering drug use as means of a connection. Beauty was obvious, and from this beauty we expect perfection, we believe in the impossible, and when it became painfully aware that perfection cannot be obtained, we criticized. Not even in that famous circle could reality find his way, it’s like the eye of a hurricane, in the middle there is only oblivion. Like every other face in the crowd I was left in disbelief, finding answers leading to homicide rather than a simple series of mistakes. Yes, it was all too much, but using death as an excuse for money and ratings only concludes my theory. We thrive off misery and misfortune, and like vultures, we glide through the sky waiting for tragedy to fall to the earth and then we race to finish the remains.
Untitled
August 23, 1997
I had a dream you were God. My fear was with you and your sacred heavens where eternity was nothing more than one day.
Clockwork
October 30, 1998
It’s four in the morning. Four candles sit still waiting for a breath of wind so they can dance. Listening to the Cowboy Junkies. Enjoying another serene night while twilight continues to sleep. Tomorrow is the anniversary of a lost soul. Five years has it been? Another sun has kept you in my dreams. My shellshock was finally cured a short while ago, maybe a month. There is a heavy load I now carry. The most beautiful beach, enchanting forest, or highest mountain could not free me from all burdens. Some things are not meant to be forgotten but we are born again through pain.
Poster Child
December 11, 1998
Tanned by the sun. Golden. Surfacing waves chase the shore, white foam left behind, seagulls flock to feed. Slender fingers barely touch tips, nervous habits. Night fall cast in the background, curtains hang low, painted frames survive. One arm carries a jacket, another bare. Perfection. Shadows play a part, the mood is heavy, a one-sided face. Pensive. Delicate features, defined muscles. Beauty. Remember the time. Too many secrets. Cover-up.
Letter to River Jude
January 5, 1999
If it could be arranged I would like to see you again tonight. My God it’s been too long. I imagine your eyebrows are still perfectly arched, your dimple, your careless hair, your breathless voice all still perfectly intact. Do you remember the last time we saw each other? We were at your house, and for some reason the electricity was out. How many people were there that night? We ended up passing out in the back room, and the next morning when we awoke to find a for sale sign in the front yard, we strolled over to a nearby Oaktree and waited for the sun to set again. Four more hours remain until the morning haze creeps in through the window. I’ll meet you there.
Relating?
February 20, 1999
I can see you in me, or me in you, whichever you choose. The music that once filled your ears with mellow tones of melancholy still plays on through mine. It’s a great feeling to dose yourself with the relaxation of valium, the creativity of marijuana, and the warm glow of a candle that rests on an old cassette player. There is nothing better than serene nights spent alone engulfed in personal expression and worldly echoes. Ancient ancestors whisper a family secret that is too well hidden to ever surface again. But this cannot be so, for those of us who have lived through secrets of the past know how prevalent they are.
Sequel
August 9, 1999
It is time again to drop a verse for my stranger friend. In summer’s hold we continue to swelter but in the shade of a nearby forest I sit content with the breath of your breeze. Lazy today from too many excuses digested to alter the pain of whatever. But I was near even past the clouds or at least the first layer. Someone said you were faking, that you had the heart of a hypocrite and the appetite of a carnivore. They got the best of you even after the game had ended. All has not been well. Your presence is needed now more than ever to steal the show with your intensity and grace.
Verses for Him
August 10, 1999
Never have I seen such beauty in a dream where wishes are redeemed and you were still alive. But all the daises scream and every Redwood leaned to catch just one last scene, how will we all survive?
Kind mother bow your head tonight for the first was the first to go. Brave father arm yourself to fight for we shall reap what we sow.
Little girls with preteen boppers stealing kisses from their bedroom walls. But you touched my heart, you were more than just that. Hollywood agents fill their pockets selling your image to the porcelain dolls. But you touched my heart, you were more than just that.
Unmentionable
August 11, 1999
To look at the situation from a different perspective is a road I would like to travel only once. Every day I dwell in the path of your tragedy that took its toll on a kindred spirit several years ago. The world was dumbfounded, or at least those of us who cared. We are dangerously close to the new millennium which saddens me for I hate to leave the nineties behind. This was your era and in this generation you were made a leader even if not by choice, but too many punches were thrown leaving you to grasp for the sidewalk. In one single second you were immortalized. Forever young. Forever beautiful. Time no longer has the ability to cast its voodoo upon you. Already at twenty-two I have lost meaning and excitement for each new day. Just imagine what twenty-two more years will do. We shall never have to witness you go through this. You will always be graceful and authentic.
Holding Out
August 11, 1999
I am cursed. Little girl dreams trick me again by changing masks and disguising their voice. Well, it’s not so much about you, it’s about deceit from long-time friends. Carelessness. I had not realized I was having a bad day until it was over and sometimes there is no one to talk to even when surrounded by loved ones. Especially. I hate talking about or even writing about the reasons that I’m down, and behind backs, close to tears. It just sounds so pathetic to me after I speak my dwellings aloud or confess them to paper. I am stronger than that, right? These petty mishaps are not worth suffering but finally I’ve learned that you can’t fib to your emotions. So yes, I am affected by the news of your marriage plans scheduled for next month.
Another face from the past came back into “the big picture.” Finch is back in Humble (I had no idea he left). He’s this guy that I started seeing three years back until I discovered he was screwing my good friend Crystal on the side. She ended up winning, one, because I don’t play that game, and two, because I didn’t sleep with him. We weren’t that serious but I really liked him and for the life of me I don’t know why. He’s not my type at all, I mean, I’m not even attracted to him. Anyway, the day I got back from New Mexico Kenny calls me and says that Finch is back in town and would really, really, really like to see me. So I go over to Kenny’s place and we’re having a good time talking and laughing with each other. He makes his flirtation obvious and as I’m leaving he says, “I’ll see you again. I’ll make sure of it. How about this weekend?” Kenny’s having this big party Friday and Saturday, and after tonight I will not be attending. Kenny’s girlfriend told Jena on the phone that Finch is engaged to be married in a month but to not tell me because Kenny would get mad. Kenny has been my good friend for the last ten years, he and Finch are acquaintances. Well, let’s hear it for the buddy system. Yeah, maybe Finch thought he was going to get a piece but what’s in it for Kenny? So much for having loyal friends. I’m sick of being alone. I want to experience what everyone else has. I’ve never been in a real relationship. I’ve never even been given roses, or even weeds.
I have my fantasy man hiding in my bedroom closet waiting for a human form to occupy. He is soft spoken and his tongue bares depth. His frame is defined but slender, and his hands, oh his beautiful hands. They are gentle and careful with fingers that are blessed with length and smoothness except for the tips which are calloused from strumming a guitar. Maybe he even plays the piano. He would have to with hands like that. He moves with natural grace and believes that we are all worth the universe for life is a gift not a chore. His spirit is free and heart true to whomever he holds dear. When he kisses me my body melts but those hands mold me back together connecting me with his body giving me strength and assurance. So far no one has come close.
Regulars
August 19, 1999
I had a dream about a killer snowman the other night.
Where have you been since the last time we talked? Have you seized from visiting my dream or can I just not remember?
I have not yet apologized for such bitter terms. In you I found a connection that has never existed outside of my circle. We never saw it coming did we?
Frantically searching for the shaman who will intervene this terrible nightmare and return me to that familiar yet unknown land of utopia.
Change of Pace
September 10, 1999
Mid-September makes her way for the last time this century. The days have cooled off just enough where an egg won’t fry on the cement. A nice breeze turns into a strong wind and then settles down again. This is the time of the year that I love the most. A familiar smell seeps into my nose leaving my body and mind wide open for nostalgia. I can’t put my finger on it. My summer strut is now an autumn stride.
I saw you on A Current Affair. The segment was called “Twisted River” so you can imagine what they had to say. Dug up from your past and aired all over the country was your private tribulations regarding premature sex. They wanted you to have been molested. They wanted you to “dance with demons.” They wanted you to die from an overdose on a cold sidewalk outside of a popular night club. It has all been a play on words.
Seven Year Anniversary
October 29, 1999
Where did you go on an early Sunday morning? Among big wigs, plastic masks and covering white sheets you stumbled around anonymously. But I would have followed like a hidden camera to see you running to catch your breath. What did you find in that room with a view? Overlooking the city that hovers like your ghost where ghouls wait to greet you and the witches brew is tasted, but I heard a spell that was cast into your ear. Where are you now as the days push us near? Halloween is dressed up like a bad memory this year taunting your favor like a de-ja-vu reborn, but I can still remember what a time it was to have you with us.
Verses for River
October 31, 1999
Maybe I just wasn’t properly prepared for the occasion. Sometimes there is nothing that can be said.
Washed away. Clean off a table for two and swallow the leftovers. I keep you in my closet well preserved.
You said nothing could bring you back to a dying world, but there are chores left to be done. There are songs left to be sung.
Just a day away and all the things to say on a passing cloud you lay with resting wings in evening’s ray it’s just a day away.
With Love
December 29, 1999
I wanted to write you a verse or two before this century is lain to rest. “I have come a long way since whatever” it’s true, but enough about me this moments for you.
I’ve written a page about a mile long ranting and raving about what has been done but all the while your wishes were ignored and we were wishing for an explanation. What have we been wishing for?
All was not in vain, just like dancing in the rain, all was not in pain, in the sunshine feel no shame.
Catching Up with River
June 4, 2004
I miss him. Older now than he was when he died, I realize with every year I age how young he was when we lost him, and how the tragedy seems to worsen with time. You would be turning 34 in August, and as I near my 27th birthday, I wonder how it would have been had you lived. What roles would you have taken? Where would you have gone with your music? Would you be married with kids? Would you have given up Hollywood altogether? I want to hear what you would have said about the state of the world. I want to hear you rant and rave about Bush politics, environmental issues, bad music polluting our airwaves, no-brainer blockbusters and everything else under the sun. Like an obsessed fan I keep you in my thoughts when my mind drifts to the climax of my generation, our generation. Clichés drift off my tongue as I confirm the dizzying effects of time. A steadfast progression that the young, no matter how hard they try, can never quite grasp until they’re looking back on their own year wondering “where did the time go” and realizing that ten years is really not so long.
Widows of Phantom Brides
February 21, 2006
You keep waiting and it finally comes, in unfamiliar territory, you find the strangest doors.
If I ever have a love of my own, I hope he looks and acts and dreams exactly like you. Tainted throwbacks sporting suntanned rings, I hope I have the pleasure of taking first. Coupled misery and faded passion monopolize social circles and remind me of my chosen status. To grow old alone puts the fear in even the strongest, but at least my time will be my own, and my passing will not induce sadness, but if it does and I give in to brides in wedding dresses, I hope to leave behind a widower just like you.
Letter to River Phoenix
September 8, 2016
So, what do you think about all of this? Your story is finally being told, the true story, as much as it can be anyway. I knew it wasn’t a drug overdose. Anyone who looks at the research and really takes it to heart, well, you know the rest. Maybe someday in the near future your music will finally be released along with your last movie. Maybe your name will once again grace the airwaves. Maybe your name will once and for all be cleared of the lies that taint your memory. To be honest, if I knew that telling your story would bring so much chaos into my life, there’s no way I would have pursued it. Even now, as the smoke slowly drifts away and I am finally left with a clear path, I’m still apprehensive when presented with the material. But your friends never forgot you. They dedicated their lives to your memory in the hopes of one day fulfilling your dream of exposing and conquering the enemy. As an outsider, I was clueless to how dreadfully difficult this dream was to see to fruition. You once said you wanted to “take the devil’s gold and use it for God”…My dear River, consider it done.
The Apple and the birdcage 