Why is the Measure of Love Loss?

TERRY K

in the grand tradition of poppy tiz and inappropriate email notifications...you can stop here if you wish.

my beloved terry %^&*&*(%^%%))*&&$@late last week. i don't know when. i don't know how. i don't know why. i do know where...the hills of abruzzo. 'cause that's terry.
i am beyond bereft and doubt i will ever want to talk about it. a very bright light (we're talking a super trooper) is gone from my life. just wanted to let you know so that in a couple months you don't go "how IS that terry" and i have to say, "dead."

ok. love you. don't try this at home.

tons,
me

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Above is the email I sent to my siblings Wednesday last. To say the least, I did not meet the writing deadlines I had set for myself. I couldn’t cross the line of death. And before you ask, yes, I webding redacted the particulars of his passing. T’ain’t none of your business. Read Il Tempo and translate if you're curious. As I correctly projected, I don’t wish to talk about it. And I’m not going to make it easy for you.

Because it hasn’t been easy for me. (I love to share the wealth. Really…no thanks necessary.)

I will not write of his wraith, but I will of Terry’s wrought life...as i knew it. Glorious Terry whom I met almost 28 years ago. Snapshots of Terry—in no particular order other than what my pan-fried brain proffers…(and if you click on the links, you'll know just how pan-fried it is)

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My first dance party at Yale with the cast of Grease. I was Patty Simcox (aka, Patty Sucks Cocks) and Terry was Doodie. Terry, Penny, Scott, Tom, Tommy, Eddy, Rox, Charlie, et al and I had such fun moving generously through space to the Jackson 5 that it became a nightly post-rehearsal event. We could take over any party. And we did. Eventually Terry and I went rogue, a virtual Wang Chung Fred and Ginger. We did flips, we did splits, we climbed tables and walls. We were so outrageous, an entire dining hall full of Yalies broke into applause when Terry dropped me on my head. Terry hates that I tell that story. But I hate that Terry is dead, so we’re even.

Not.

Late night port and Chopin nocturne dates. This was quite a novelty for someone raised on Velveeta (and that someone was NOT Terry).

Napping. Terry was a great napper. As was I. (As AM I since I heard of his passing. I’ve slept 48 hours in four days. Epic.) Together, we were unstoppable. Similarly sized, we could spoon both ways. I have never met a comparable nap master and doubt I ever will.

His Deerstalker cloak and cap. Oh damn, he was eccentric and adorable. Yale’s own Sherlock Holmes.

Terry grinning, “Coming to my party?” as he pulled a flier from his cape. Everyone remembers this, yet I have no recollection. I never got a flier. He just assumed I’d be there. I love that assumption.

Terry writing, “Starring %&*)&%#)_&%$” on every Choruses of the World poster on the Yale campus.

Terry swapping underwear with me at Avery Fisher Hall for the Choruses of the World concert to help alleviate my juvey jitters. It was a little daunting to make my AFH debut at 19. He understood. Lucky we were similarly sized. (Okay...my butt was bigger even then. Shut up.)

Terry treating me to the Empire Diner post AFH so I could see the drag queens. And have a Windex cocktail. All to alleviate my post-show jitters.

Terry dressing me in his clothes so I wouldn’t have to walk the walk of shame the morning after his toga party. Does anyone have the flier I never received? I’ll pay a pretty penny.

Terry making his own holiday cards, loaded with shiny shit that would shoot out of them, along with three dimensional boingy shards and antennae. Design marvels.

Terry sending postcards of Michelangelo’s David to my parents’ house just to test Poppy’s love for him. I got in trouble. Terry got love. (This was especially funny as I had an ex named David who Poppy hated and called "David Who?")

Terry watching in disgust as I piled a piece of pound cake with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and a cherry on top.

Terry asking, “Why don’t you just manually apply it to your thighs? That’s where it’s going anyway.”

Terry manually applying said pound cake to my left thigh. Guess where the cherry went?

Terry and I laughing.

Terry explaining to me in depth that although most people attend Yale to learn and some go for life experience, I was there to give pleasure to others. (This could have confused Velveeta girl.)

Terry and I attending the Branford Ball in matching tails. We were androgy-hot.

Terry residing in a different college at Yale every year. This was virtually impossible to accomplish and only his vast charm could have cooed this coup.

Terry and I in the chorus of the Yale School of Music’s production of Die Fledermaus. Our onstage romance was so dear, famed Maestro John Mauceri asked us to tone it down as we were upstaging the principals. Our executive decision? We were doin' just fine and we should keep up our dear work, all the while waving to the Maestro.

Terry, BLONDE, as the Emcee in Cabaret. Funny, heartbreaking and apocalyptic all rolled into one.

Terry and I finding one another backstage in the Provincetown Playhouse by singing the Papageno Papagena duet.

Terry and I drinking cappuccino at his home away from home, Café Dante.

Terry putting up with caffeinated me.

Terry saying "wach auf" to me in the antique featherbed in his parents flat in Geneva’s Alte Stadt. You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve been awakened by that joyous, open face so full of possibilities for the day.

Terry and I swing dancing at Lincoln Center Midsummer Night Swing. We had such fun behind the barricade, they let us in for free.

Terry and I diving into one another in our manic monkey ways.

Terry welling up when he discovered we’d been in London concurrently and he’d missed seeing me perform.

Terry and I speaking our strange mix of German, English and Italian—Germenglian.

Terry declaring, “I don’t remember Yale. I remember you.”

Terry’s handwriting—his script an art form in and of itself.

Terry visiting me my last trip to London.*

Terry’s origami lecture notebooks. Oh, I’d give my left arm…

Terry lecturing at NYU on homo-eroticism in Mussolini era architecture. He rocked. I titled it “Balls to the Walls.” Terry kissed me.

Terry kissing me goodbye—always in the rain.

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This is what I have. When all is said and done, I guess it’s a lot. But it was supposed to be more. Terry lived life fully, whimsically and eloquently. And I believe he made everyone feel as I did…like the only person in his world.

This is what I have.

Mein Liebling Terry,

Mi sento la mancanza di te più di posso immaginare. I am sad and so sorry. Finché ti vedo, spero dass Sie die beste dance party ever mit Lynette haben.

I love you, my Papageno.

The measure of this loss is love.