13 April 2010
Funny, how old messages linger; things I didn’t have and still want. I have this old fantasy of a best friend/lover. So old, it makes me a little sad to think of that lonely teen who dreamed of someone to explore life with, someone who also saw the world as a great adventure to be discovered. But as I grew into adulthood, something shifted—I don’t know how—but I became convinced that I couldn’t explore the world without a partner, that life was too dangerous for me to navigate it alone. And yet, here I am, traveling the world by myself. Now granted, doing all this exploring solo is hard but truth be told, I’m not alone. You see I have these amazing friends. I sit with a group of them now, my writing friends. Such wealth lives in this room, this shared joy and commitment to clear the space to write. And the writing; I can’t tell you how wonderful it is. We all slip into the past, the old memories and the movie starts, flickering first with an image, a child frozen in a leap, braids flying, mouth open with laughter, next the same child running down the walk to join the family, movements jerky as the film bucks and stops until suddenly the film is forgotten as that world fills the frame.
I am that child, playing with the new toy boat my mother’s best friend’s son Brian brought with him, one for him, one for me. He wakes me up early and we sneak out into the morning rain, boots and plastic raincoats and crouch by the biggest mud-puddle in our gravel driveway. We push the tiny boats back and forth and discover just how much speed they can manage before they tip over. We design towns, ports at sea on the shores and Brian tells stories of wars and strife. I listen in awe to these stories. My world is so sheltered; the wars I know are silent, internal and have no words nor a realized counterpart in the outer world. Brian has moved often and visited many worlds and is full of surprise. It is easy listening, adding bits to his parts, letting the story emerge and grow between us like a giant bubble in the air before it is released to float away. We are sitting in the mud now, oblivious to the rain when we hear my mother’s voice calling us to breakfast. She is quietly surprised, as I am a devoted sleeper, never waking early but she recognizes my hunger for friends and says nothing. That ease, that creation of story that Brian and I had, I marked.
Growing up, there were two or three lengthy visits when Brian would spend a month on the farm or I would spend two weeks with his family in New York. As we grew up, we changed and each time we got together it took longer to slip into that place where he would tell me what he was thinking and I would tell him what I thought. He was less trusting and angrier. When he did finally let me in, I was surprised to find how full of rage he was. I didn’t know how to move with that. But, as he pointed out, I was younger and still naïve, I would learn.
The last time I saw him was in college. We met in Denver and went skiing together at Winter Park. He was a much better skier than I was and I felt left behind. He was reading about Buddhism and studying with a teacher. He ate a pure diet the details of which I have long forgotten but his hair had turned bright blond again, no longer darkened brown and his eyes were so blue, his skin so pink and clear. Again I felt slow and left behind. He was adamant that he didn’t want to be a TBM, a tired business man, like his father had been. He was, he felt, on the path to something wonderful .
I never saw him again. Later I learned from my mother that he had become quite paranoid. He wouldn’t visit his family for fear that they would lock him up. He was homeless, afraid to stay anywhere too long, again for fear that he would get caught. Once he allowed his parents to meet him at a coffee shop but shortly into the visit, he became angry and left. Sometimes, he would call home and talk.
I don’t know where he stays now, what city, or even if he’s still alive, my friend Brian, who I used to create worlds with.
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