December 22, 2017
Dear James,
It’s been a bit more than a week since we lost you, but perhaps we’d been losing you for a while. The deep irony is if I were writing this for anyone else, it would’ve been you I emailed for advice on how to sound not cliché. Because I can’t do that, I’ll need to do something I’ll have to get used to – going off of what you taught me and using that knowledge to take wobbly steps forward.
When I called our mutual friend from college to break the news that you’d died, he sighed. “Fuuuuuck,” he said, drawing out the “u” out for several beats. It was an exclamation of resignation. Resignation that we hadn’t been able to save you, that we’d all failed.
The last time I saw you was in Union Square, playing chess with the semi-homeless Khmer Rouge survivor you called your best friend. I don’t know a single other person who could truly see others without all the classifications that society imposed. I recently read about two theories of human existence – the artichoke theory and the onion theory. The former held that man (or woman, #ThisIsWhatAFeministLooksLike), like artichokes, had a central heart that could be viewed if you peeled back all social distinction while the latter held that humans, like onions, had no central essence and if you stripped away all the layers, there was nothing left. I think you were in the artichoke camp. Not only did you see people’s central heart, but you also never judged them on anything in the outer layers.
It goes without saying that I miss you, but I’ll say it anyway. I miss your laugh – truly the best laugh of anyone I know. You laughed with your whole body, like your delight with a joke was so huge that it bubbled out of every toe, every finger, every curly hair on your head. I miss the way you spontaneously burst into Scottish songs when we walked from Columbia to Battery Park. I miss coming home to you smoking on our balcony, as though our apartment was a 1920s Parisian café that I’d stumbled into in the midst of Boerum Hill.
I miss your emails, when you wrote that Samantha’s cat Boris was your “resident lethal Russian highwayman in the body of an imaginative, aggressive, and devastatingly beautiful cat” and when you chastised the cast of Cloud 9 for missing rehearsal – “Beginning next week, Anusha and I have no good moral or contractual reason to feel constrained scheduling rehearsals when we see fit. Besides, you are all actors. This is the most noble form of human art you can aspire to. Rehearsal is a blessing, not a burden. THIS IS FUN, DAMMIT.” I replay your portrayal of Walter Burns in The Front Page over and over again to remember your comedic genius. The Crimson review – which didn’t do you justice - wrote of your performance:
“From his abrasive language to his overconfident swagger, Leaf creates the image of greedy, devious businessman. ‘Expose ‘em, we’ll crucify them!’ he says. ‘This ain’t a newspaper story – it’s a career! They’re gonna name streets after you!’ Leaf persuades Halprin with an overpowering tone and a gravelly laugh.”
Even the way you died had your eccentricity, your dramatic flair. I imagined you carefully choosing the spot, vetoing all NYC-area bridges as being too cliché. I’m sure there’s an Irish poem about Niagara Falls that drew you there that we’ll eventually find.
James, I failed you in so many ways, and I’m so sorry. I should have said more, reached out more, spent more time with you. I missed your play, Cockpit. I couldn’t find you a new roommate. I missed your 31st birthday party. I wish we’d been able to debate together or finish the parody of Eat Pray Love we always meant to write together (which we renamed, respectably, Gorge, Fart, Snorkel). Somehow, I convinced myself that you hadn’t grown up, and the gap between us had widened, perhaps irreversibly. It took your death for me to realize that you were much wiser and grown up than me. I’d spent my twenties painstakingly adding accolades to my resume and Instagram feed, spending more time crafting those artichoke layers, instead of removing my barriers and allowing myself to truly feel. You felt more in your 32 years than most people would in a lifetime, knowing emotion was the endgame. Thank you for reminding me of that. Thank you for helping my write the toast I gave at my brother’s wedding. Thank you for the impromptu Springsteen dances in our apartment. Thank you for loaning me your mattress. Thank you for getting me an autographed copy of Megan Amram’sScience...For Her! Thank you for encouraging me to take Dramatic Structure & Analysis and laughing with me about Robert Scanlan and his constant name-dropping.
You once emailed me – after we produced Cloud 9 together – that I was your rock. I hope you know that you’ll now be mine. You were supposed to be the great poet laureate and thespian of our generation. I know wherever you are, you’re writing and directing the greatest play ever written. I’m heartbroken I won’t get to see it, but please know I’ll carry your words with me every single day.
Cloud 9 ended in a song – “it’ll be fine when you reach Cloud 9.” I hope you’re on Cloud 9 now. I hope you’re free from the demons that dogged you here. As Don McLean said, “This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.”
I’ll give you the space below to find closure to your old life and start your new one afresh. ......
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Forever your mint julep, Anusha