I’m haunted by Ghost Ship. Weird, isn’t it, that it had that name? It really became it’s namesake.
At night, between sleep and dreams, I think I was in the fire. Then I realize I am not dead, I wasn’t in the fire, I wasn’t even ever in the building.
This tragedy has very much affected me on a personal level. All those artists — I didn’t know them. I could have known them. I could have been them. They were beautiful, they were creative, and they were trying to find a way to be in a world that doesn’t value who they are and what they brought to all of us. They didn’t think about safety codes because, but who would? They lived in a beautiful space, and artists have been living in warehouses for decades.
I look at their pictures and miss them, even though I didn’t know them. Their names and faces are becoming familiar to me.
In the past, I drove by the Ghost Ship and thought how I would like to go in and find out what it was about, but never stopped.
Everything I do seems insufficient. Yesterday I went there. I couldn’t get closer than a block away, it’s all cordoned off. K. went with me and I brought a sign and flowers that I left at the memorial. I had a surreal moment when I saw people photographing what I wrote.
I read other peoples notes. The ones that really got me said, “I kept calling you and you didn’t answer.” I feel so sad, so endlessly sad for all the victims and their loved ones, and helpless in face of the tragedy and sorrow.
This is the note I left:
“Every artist creates
a world that has never
been seen before.
Here we lost many worlds –
an entire galaxy –
and are left with
a million broken hearts.
Rest in peace,
my lovely friends,
whom I’ll never meet.”