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MaybeACoordinator has passed away - Official Farewell Thread


Brisketexan

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3 hours ago, Brisketexan said:

Now we’re getting to the place where I get fucking pissed at him. Last conversation we had, I told him that he had to put the fucking bottle down. It was clear that he had no such intention.

I don’t understand addiction. I guess I’m blessed that I don’t. But I still get to be pissed off that it exists, and that it takes people from us. I’ve buried more people than I ever expected due to it….so, there we are.

Addiction is really, really hard to deal with. Alcohol addiction is particularly sinister, since it creates both physical and mental dependency; even if you can convince your brain to give it a pass, your body will fuck you up. Serious alcoholics can actually die if they stop drinking.

I'm glad you don't understand it, and I hope you never do.

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1 hour ago, Brisketexan said:


John knew a SHITLOAD of big names in the biz. Shit, for a bit, we were trying to get Steve Earle to give him a talking to, because he’d listen to Steve.

John Nova told me that when he was a kid, Steve Earle attempted to teach him to shoot, but concluded that the kid would never be an outlaw. Also, that the guns mentioned in Devil's Right Hand were from Earle's collection.

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Sometimes talent can enable addiction and illness just as surely as a loving family or well meaning friends. I didn't know him but we had a few friends in common and met a few times. Oddly, I never put it together until after the fact that the "John" I met was John Nova Lomax, who I thought was a brilliant writer and a great reporter. I also didn't know he was @MaybeACoordinator, whose posts I liked and whose avatar I enjoyed very much.  What a talent he was.

It's no consolation to @Brisketexan or John's many friends, but I think his published work will stick with us for a long while and maybe grow over time, I think. To be pored over, anthologized, referred to and laughed at, and with.  As maddening as I know it was to watch him destroy himself, in a way he'll outlive us all, like Auden said about Yeats and others, that:

'Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,

Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit
Lays its honours at their feet.

Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.'

Ironically, Auden excised those three Stanzas from the poem. And yet, memorable writing has a way of sticking around regardless of the author's intentions, good or ill 

Edited by Bozo_Casanova
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On 5/9/2023 at 2:27 PM, MonkeyDoughnut said:

Gonna be missed around these parts.

Didn't know him but he was quite the story teller. As we near Mother's Day, a story he wrote a decade ago about his mother that gives you some great insight into his life:

https://www.houstoniamag.com/news-and-city-life/2013/07/of-unknown-origin-july-2013

 

Damn.  Rest in peace, John.

This article shows him being dealt a pretty fucking shitty hand.  Most of us can't imagine the weight of that burden.  Doesn't absolve him of responsibility for his actions but I can start to understand how we are here.

His brilliance is obvious and I can only imagine what he overcame to have the impact that he did.  My heartfelt condolences to all of you who were lucky enough to know him.

My submission to the playlist: 

That Wrecking Ball by Watchhouse (formerly Mandolin Orange)

I've taken to leaning these past few days
A little too heavy on my walking cane
Cause I'm afraid she's swinging my way
That wrecking ball


Now with all my ducks in a row
With one pull I could let them go
Not to lose, just to show
I could catch them all
But every man bears a burden
His own beast by the horns
That he hides from the world
When he's young and strong
Looking over his shoulders
Half tattered and torn
Still standing tall

But every year rolls on like a runaway train
Every beast grows stronger as the pendulum swings
To and fro, and on she goes
That wrecking ball

I've just seen that rock of ages
I've just held my savior's hand
We danced on the water
With my head on her shoulders
She swore to never let me fall

And wouldn't time seem so kindly
If every bright eyed girl could be more like you
And shelter me me
From that wrecking ball
That wrecking ball

 

Edited by 40acredropout
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9 hours ago, Brisketexan said:


John knew a SHITLOAD of big names in the biz. Shit, for a bit, we were trying to get Steve Earle to give him a talking to, because he’d listen to Steve.

Steve Earle knows more than I could ever imagine about loss.

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46 minutes ago, Brisketexan said:

Indeed.  Among the surreal experiences in my life was the series of conversations some months back with one of John's dear friends and John's ex.  We were trying to think of some way to get through to him, and we discussed at length getting Steve involved.  I remember as I hung up one night, I told my wife "well, add 'trying to figure out if we should get Steve Earle to perform an intervention for a friend' to the list of shit I never thought I'd do."  In the end, we discussed the fact that Steve had already talked to John.  A lot.  And his ex suggested "he didn't listen to Steve before, he won't listen to him now."  And she was right.

Don't know why this one hit me so hard, but last night, when I got home from a whirlwind trip, I cried.  I got the call from my wife when the news of John's death hit while I was on the road.  I did what I had to do and worked the rest of the day.  But as I got inside the peace and quiet of my home, it all washed over me.

John and I weren't big buddies in high school -- we were friendly enough, but his best friend didn't really care for me, so we didn't run around together that much.  We got to be friends later in life; we shared interests, and John was a smart observer who loved sharing his latest realization with me (sometimes his realizations were crap, and I told him so, and usually we'd get a chuckle out of it).  Sometimes text messages, sometimes long phone calls, but always interesting.  At times, he shared some deeply personal things about his private life; not the dramatic things that he wrote about so well, but some of the ordinary losses and pain that exist as punctuation in most people's lives.  They seem mundane in their clinical description; they happen to so many, but they are no less profound, and can be turning points in life.  Some of them served as such in his life, and not for the better.  But him telling me about them helped me understand him more.  Of course I won't share any of those particulars, as they're not mine to share.  But I did realize and appreciate that he felt safe telling me those things.

The last time I saw him in person was summer before last.  We spent a week down at Surfside, he was living relatively nearby.  He'd kind of discovered that area after long talks with me about that part of the coast.  He came and met us on the beach, sat down in the shade of our canopy and shot the shit for quite a while.  He looked like hell.  But age is a bear, and we knew he'd done some hard living, even setting aside the booze.  This was about 2 months after my mother died (who John had met as well in his time down there, as they had a beach house in the area - and John and my mother related to each other quite easily, as she too was a child of alcoholics and wretched tragedy).  He said something that really meant a lot to me: "I've really come to think of this place as Brisket family country.  Every time I'm at this beach, I think about your folks, and how y'all just sort of seem to belong here."  John didn't know it, but my parents' intent is -- once my father passes as well -- for their ashes to be mixed together and scattered in the surf, there off of Follett's island.  John observed a truth about my family that we hadn't even shared with any outsiders; he just knew it, by eye, experience, and a soul that was gifted at picking up on such things.

I - and quite a few others - tried to help John in the past year, as his decline became acute.  By and large, he wouldn't have it.  And last night, I beat myself up about it, from about 5 different directions.  I beat myself up because of my fucking ego and savior complex and bullshit belief that "maybe I can get through to him when nobody else can," which led me to keep trying to get through.  I beat myself up because, for someone with a fucking savior complex, I've proven that I can't fucking save anyone (I've tried to help more than one addict who was dear to me; every one of them is now in the ground.  Looking at the data, the worst thing in the world for you would be for Brisket to try to help you beat addiction).  I beat myself up because I didn't make enough of my time with him; there were phone calls I didn't return, or calls I cut short because of work.  Then I beat myself up for beating myself up and making any of this about myself in my own head.  It's not, and that's an egotistical and arrogant thing to do, ESPECIALLY with respect to someone like John, in whose life I was just a minor character.

In the end, I'm just sad.  I enjoyed becoming his friend.  I was looking forward to continuing to be his friend, and to hearing and reading more of his pointed and well-crafted thoughts on all manner of things.  He helped me be more comfortable with my Houston roots, with being a child of SETX and oilfield trash and the flashiness and trashiness and authenticity of the Texas Gulf Coast.  I know he did the same, and more, for countless other folks.  And now we've lost him.  This universe is a cruel bitch.

Beautiful words, brisket. Thanks for sharing. 

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