The Battlestar Galactica Love Fest, Part V: This is the End

One of the hardest things for anyone to do - in stories, and in real life - is end something that's beautiful.  BSG was hard, seemingly impossible to end; its end is famous because it was impossible to do well, and yet, it's pretty good.  It's a wild ending, and people at the Con talked about it - some loved it, some didn't (I love it) but many of the actors offered some variation of: "I thought it was brilliant.  Because how do you end such an epic story?"  (How do you end the Bible?  With Revelations, which is a real whiz-bang ending.) 

Endings are impossible, and yet inevitable.  All good things come to an end, which is a truism that I've always found profound.  We live in a world of limits.  I've talked before about the subtitle of this blog, the great game of hide and seek, the Alan Watts game of hide and seek, in which we've all forgotten we're little bits of God, and we're hiding here on earth as humans, and the great thrill of life is to discover who you really are, to live life knowing that you are playing the game of life.  We've set up the limits so that the game will be fun - but it ends, as all things do.

The last day of the Con began sad - the Dead Cylon Party was cancelled.  I never knew what it was supposed to be anyway, but whatever it was, wasn't happening anymore. Ticket holders got refunds, but Gold members got nothing, and I heard nothing about the vaguely described Mon morning Farewell Colonial Breakfast, which wasn't so much cancelled as just never mentioned by anyone.  It was all winding down and we wouldn't even get our goodbyes, now with the final party cancelled.  I tried not to be sad, but it was Sunday, and it was inevitably coming to a close.  I enjoyed the panels I attended, I had some great readings, I got my thumb-wrestling in with Richard.  But it was winding down; the weekend had been a whirlwind of camaraderie, divination, connection, humor - full of unexpected pleasures, unexpected challenges.

I've always loved the bittersweet end of a big event; I love nothing so much, in a way, as enjoying the feeling of sadness that some greatness is over, the feeling of being aware of moments becoming memory, as you sit there and watch.  The curtain goes down on a spectacular play, the friend waves goodbye as his van pulls out of the driveway, you write the last sentence of your play.  Now, it was time to pack up the sandalwood beads and colorful scarves, throw out my unused fliers - never had to hand even one out - and head to the bar for a final night of possible love fest. With no offical party, I worried that folks would begin to disperse, and I wasn't ready.

A Comicpalooza worker came over as I was packing; apparently a cast member had been "frantically" looking for me all day, wanted a reading.  That sounded promising, and a real reversal too - one of the actors was seeking me.  Boundaries and expectations had melted, reality had taken some turn I'd never had predicted; I went with the flow.  He led me over to the table - it was Rekha, though she was gone.  I left a note.  Went back to finish packing up, as I was almost done, a women politely interrupted me; she was Rekha's handler, could I do a reading?  Sure.  I went over to the tables where the actors had been, now all empty, tablecloths half gone.  Rekha would be with us in a few minutes, unavoidable delay.  I set up at the table next to hers.  Esai was there, at the table, still, maybe waiting, looking a bit tired, slumped attractively - it's possible to do, apparently - in a black hoodie, hood up.  I set up my cards, then sat patiently, my chin on my hands.  We'd said hello earlier, he'd kissed my hand - a real gentlemen; we said a few words and then sat quietly near each other, together alone, both of us lapsed into the still, silence of endings.  I watched vendors and guests trickle out, workers start to tear down pipe and drape.  It had been glorious, and now I was moving into a place of peace, of ending.

Until, five minutes after 6pm, bang!  With an offensive snap, a ton of fluorescent lights that had apparently been off flashed on - not that the Con was anything but utilitarianly lit to begin with, but this was yet even more rude, like the harsh glare of morning light when, hungover, you pull back the curtain.  Ugh.  Jesus.  We all flinched; I envied Esai his hoodie, he was compact, safe, in retreat.  The loudspeaker, silent all weekend, crackled to life and a voice announced it was over and we were to pack and exit as soon as possible.  The actual message was so almost brutal, in context, it would have irrevocably harshed my Battlestar mellow except it was so absurd, I had to laugh.

Rekha appeared; we did the reading.  It went very well.  I was relaxed, she was very responsive, very quick, nodding - I could tell she had maturity with these concepts.  You can tell when someone gets it, and she got it.  The Fool came up, Billy - the character whose death freed up a spot that her character replaced, a detail I forgot until she mentioned it.  The Storyteller appeared. This time I didn't feel foolish or presumptuous; after this weekend, I'd started to believe it was our show, co-created together, except for the tiny detail that she'd been part of the making and I'd been part of the merely experiencing, but it seemed was valid, what I was doing.  We connected.  She hugged me.  She said I had a gift; she said I had a beautiful soul.  I was moved, and bowed a goodbye, and moved off.

I went back to shutting down my booth, and a woman who'd been trying to get a hold of me all weekend finally appeared and we did a reading. We began to talk about personal things quickly - readings facilitate this, under the best circumstances - and it turned out she worked for the Pentagon!  She was fascinating - she invited me to dinner, which was great because with no Dead Cylon Party, I had no plans.

I had no idea just who I had agreed to have dinner with, but our mutual Gold Membership was an instant bond, and I was sure it'd be interesting.  As it turned out, it was the volunteers / helper dinner, led by none other than Richard - we were a somewhat ridiculous, somewhat charming group of 40 or so, following him, our tireless leader, us like a gaggle of baby geese, down the street to the nearest hotel that wasn't ours, where they were expecting us and could seat this many on a Sunday night, although naturally not altogether.  I found myself seated, not just not with Richard but also not with the woman who invited me - in other words, total strangers except fellow fans.  We had a fine dinner, all of us having, like me, all weekend simply eaten the bare minimum required as quickly as possible, trying to keep pace with the schedule. 

This little dinner episode was remarkable for a couple reasons.  First, Richard made multiple adorable and loving check-ins with all the tables he wasn't seated at; during one, he made us all promise to follow an old tradition of his, during a wrap dinner (or wrap-like event, as this one), in which every person offers a toast.  He asked if we felt we could do it, could we promise?  We promised, weakly with nods, so I promised collectively with assurance for everyone, as I had almost instantly inherited the position of leader at the table (conversation, dealing with the waiter, the bill, etc) as soon as we all sat down, something which happens to me all the time.  But as I tried to facilitate these toasts, my table-mates veered off, distracted.  Trying to follow the spirit of the "everyone talks thoughtfully in turn" that I felt the toast represented, I suggested we all offer up our favorite moment of the weekend.  This was agreed too, and started.  One woman thumb wrestled Richard onstage.  Another got to be a handler for a cast member and that was amazing. 

One woman - eerily similar to me in height, weight, style, age, bodytype, etc - spoke of how much she loved the two men when she as a kid, how she grew up with the lieutenants.  She articulated some of my own feelings, and then she went on to tell how she'd watched the entire show with her dad, who liked sci fi as well.  Then he died, unexpectedly, very soon after the show went off the air.  The show, to her, became inextricably linked with the last few months of shared happy experiences with her father, her final memories of him.  She told us the show has been her teddy bear her whole life - whenever she missed him too much, she put on the show in the background, as a way of being with her dad again.  So, I almost cried at that one.

That was one reason dinner was remarkable.  The other was that Richard was so sweet, so wonderful - he gulped a bit when he saw 40 of us standing around, waiting to join him, but he was never fazed, never missed a beat.  He stopped us on the street on the way there, all of us sweating in the early evening sun - he explained we couldn't do separate checks, could we agree to just split it all?  We could.  He shepherded us, almost literally, across the street, his followers, all trotting along.  He kept interrupting his own dinner to make the rounds from table to table, were we alright?  Was the menu OK?  He knew it was a little expensive (living in SF, I blanched only slightly, just because hotels are often overpriced, but it was obvious most of the others at the table were calculating internally to see if they could afford the $18 pasta or would have to stick with the leaves-you-hungry $8 bowl of soup), but it was the only place that could take us.  He clearly understood that everyone who wasn't at his table wished they were, which prompted this kindness - he told told stories, a joke, asked a question, and so on. 

This was sort of the final thing that made me love him - he was just so clearly a loving man.  He loved us when he did not have to.  The fact that he was worried we might have trouble with the bill....a man of quality.   His unchecked kindness and consideration inspired me, and I made up my mind to take up anyone's slack - I can absorb getting stuck with a short check.  But after I did all the required math for seven separate totals and everyone ponied up, we were flush and I didn't have to.  As so often happens, the more generous you are prepared to be, the less that eventually gets demanded of you. 

I walked back to the hotel by myself, glad for a few moments alone after the relentless group activities, and found Hogan - with Kate Vernon, her Ellen to his Saul, delightful - sitting outside.  Hogan gave me a cigarette and we wound down the evening.  People drifted past, said goodbye.  This was indeed the end.  No one had stamina for much.  It would be an early(ish) evening.  I relished the gentle coming down as much as I had relished the anticipation that preceded the beginning.   All great social events - from weddings to team builds to weekend workshops have a flow: the arriving, the mingling, the starting, the developing....the stage when you start to run into people you just met, I love that one.  The peaks, the moments we all recognize together that we're having a moment, the denouement, the wrap up, the goodbyes, the end.  This con was no different. 

I gave a few more readings - fans approached me in the bar - and I began to realize how exhausted I was, in body and spirit.  I had all but lost my voice.  One more guy wanted a reading - was it too late?  I wanted to say yes, it's too late, I'm beat, but what would Richard, tireless Richard, my inspiration, say?  How could I ever hope to be a dynamic artist on the go unless I said yes to these very types ot things?  I wanted to be that so obviously wonderful, loving person that everyone wants to be around, so I said, sure, one last reading.  But let's get out of the bar. 

We went to the cafe area where it was quiet.  I liked his looks, his energy.  We settled in, and I shuffled, laid out my cloth.  He surprised me by asking me how this deck had come about, in a way that suggested he more or less was asking about my credentials, which actually appreciated as an inquiry.  I explained this history of the cards, my process, what traditions I drew on.  We felt a rapport; I warmed up.  And then the reading went all magical - everything that came up seemed to speak to him, to really speak to him.  He may have seemed skeptical at first but instead something seemed to open up, in this reading, for us, and it was wonderful.  It was in fact exceptional, I explained to him; this doesn't happen every time, doesn't happen much at all.  The reading became conversation, dialogue.  He apologized for taking up too much time, but I insisted, this was what I came for.  We had our own feelings about the show, we had our personal experiences, our affinities with it - the cards were just a jumping off point.  We bonded over something we both loved.  It was the best reading of the entire event.

And it was the last.  I felt it end.  I tend to be the type to hold on too long to a good thing, so I have to actively remember to let things end, to let go when it's over.  We walked back to bar, met with some others, had a drink, chatted, took some pictures.  I wandered off and said goodbye to friends as they drifted off.  The ebb and flow was finally becoming all ebb.  People I'd never met before three days prior I was hugging farewell like long-lost cousins. Keep in touch, we said.  See you next time, we said.  Near the end, I went back to my newest friend - the one I'd had for two hours - to say goodbye, keep in touch. "Hey, where are you?" I asked. East Coast, he said.  "Gee, that's nowhere near San Francisco," I observed.  We let that sink in. "I wish it was Wednesday night again," we said.

And then there was nothing more to say.  I went back to my hotel room, and in the morning I packed, checked out, and headed to the airport.  I wrote in my journal all the way home.  I detailed every bit of pleasure and surprise and delight and joy from the weekend.  I thought about the liutenant sandwich I enjoyed being the center of during my Starbuck/Apollo photoshoot - free with Gold Membership! - and how they warmly embraced me, and how when I sort of purred a bit, Richard warmly said, "Ah, now don't you feel safe?" and I realized I did.  I thought about buying beers for Hogan, and listening to him jokingly say "godsdammit" for us.  I thought about Richard giving his final speech during the Closing Ceremony unconsciously waving a stuffed daggit he happened to be holding and talking about how profound the show was and how beautiful this community is.  I thought about all the incredible people I met - the pastor and the communications professor and the women who worked with generals at the Pentagon.  I thought, most of all, that this was a magical episode, something  special that would never come again - oh, you could assemble some of the same people, but not all of them and the breakdown in organization that caused the barriers to erode - that was unusual and we'd not see its like again.  Or I don't know - maybe we might but I heard a lot of people saying that this was the best weekend of their lives.  It wasn't that, exactly, for me - but it sure was something.

And that is all I have to say about that.  I realize that I took just about forever to finish this series and a ton of things have happened since that I've been dying to blog about but this damn story was hanging me up, so thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, and now back to my regularly scheduled life observations.