long-lost people
Lots of weird things occur to me when i'm particularly tired, and a recurring one is people who I have lost any hope of contact with through simple accidents of time, circumstance, whatever, and who I was close to and sincerely cared about. None were specifically romantic; or, I should say, even if a few had an undercurrent of romance, their sincere and firmer footing came from simple human friendship. Currently, there are five which stick out--
1. Jillian Schroeder, from Minnesota, a long-term e-buddy who I was close with for roughly four years, and who knew me when I was at my worst and most selfish. I always appreciated her friendship; there's been no means of contact for roughly three years (probably more).
2. Mr. Murphy, my AP English teacher (though I never took that goddamn AP), who served as one of the first (if not the first) serious positive male influences on my life -- someone who I could unabashedly look up to, speak frankly with, and who had no desire to mold me, only to encourage that which saw was good in me. Having become friendly with him junior year, talking about bipolar disorder and literature, our conversations and his warm and honest mentoring lasted till I left Bennington. Haven't spoken to since I was 19.
3. Saskia, the Franco-Dutch girl, from my Emerson beat literature class, six years my senior, who I went out with a number of times and, being the sort of person I related to more than I could express, we lost contact through a combination of my masochistic avoidance and her self-necessitated isolation, and quite possibly her visa expiring.
4. Patrick, another e-buddy, was one of the few males I felt I could relate to readily at age 17. With his philosophical and academic outlook on most things was a precursor to various incarnations of my own self (which came soon after -- he was a bit older, had finished college), he was someone who I could treat readily as a peer, who I could learn from, and who, despite being among the more intelligent people of my age I had known, perhaps the most intelligent, online or otherwise, greatly admired and respected what I wrote at a time when I needed just that sort of reinforcement. Someone never slovenly with praise, he was able to look at it with a critical eye, see it for its flaws, and still show a degree of jealousy, imitation, and terse praise, all of which (coming from someone you admit to knowing quite a bit more about books and writing than you do) is the most sincere and flattering sort of compliment you can be given. He was never didactic, either, and though both of us were consumed by our own disorders and female troubles, he was one of the few genuine male friends I have had. I haven't had a means of contacting him in three or more years.
5. Mary, from Lowell, who I met when we were both 16 on the train coming back from the Sonic Youth. We exchanged screennames (which actually came into Jenna's possession, which she lost, and then got them from her friend who knew Mary) and talked online for a month or two, exchanged some writing, and fell completely out of contact for three years, when we started up a conversation on myspace about Henry Miller, not knowing that we'd known each other before (in a past life, or something). Eventually we hung out, figured all that out, made plans to see each other again. It never happened, and we stayed in touch by phone for a bit, until eventually we made plans and I backed out, having at that point in my life become so reclusive and chickenshit about even meeting up with friends -- let alone girls in a possible quasi-date scenario -- that I dodged a couple phone calls and we didn't talk again, except maybe once or twice, in which case I probably made some sort of tentative agreement to reschedule and obviously never did. Regardless, she was of the sort who (like Saskia) I related to in such a way which was too hard for me to handle, and I'm a bum for tossing off some of the better and more genuine bridges to friendship I've been offered, either looking only for a linear relationship, or looking only to spend time in bed with a book and my dogs (not with the girl, of course, what an awful thing to insinuate!).
There are probably more. There are, in truth, a lot more, half of whom I've contacted, never getting a response, and the other half with whom I've done the same. There are people, too, good people who I've never stopped caring about, who I don't talk at all with anymore and keep their email addressed saved somewhere (as they likely have stowed away mine), both sides looking for a convenient time for the memory to strike them just to say hello. Despite the fact that I'm only twenty-three ("only", ha-ha), these ideas of memories and past people are incredible striking -- I suppose I used to think that I'd instead by pining over some long-lost teenage love, and here I am, still quite capable of gabbing away with Corinne, Tiff, and Maggie, ruminating instead over has-been friendships that sunk into the ocean somewhere along the way. I don't think the past is particularly frightening, but I am scared to think of how large mine will become in even another few years; as of now it could probably swallow a goat. (Woody Allen voice: "The past is an ocean? Even if someone's past was a lake, mine wouldn't be Walden Pond, mine would be Lake Baikal -- somewhere in Siberia, with its own functioning ecosystem...")
1. Jillian Schroeder, from Minnesota, a long-term e-buddy who I was close with for roughly four years, and who knew me when I was at my worst and most selfish. I always appreciated her friendship; there's been no means of contact for roughly three years (probably more).
2. Mr. Murphy, my AP English teacher (though I never took that goddamn AP), who served as one of the first (if not the first) serious positive male influences on my life -- someone who I could unabashedly look up to, speak frankly with, and who had no desire to mold me, only to encourage that which saw was good in me. Having become friendly with him junior year, talking about bipolar disorder and literature, our conversations and his warm and honest mentoring lasted till I left Bennington. Haven't spoken to since I was 19.
3. Saskia, the Franco-Dutch girl, from my Emerson beat literature class, six years my senior, who I went out with a number of times and, being the sort of person I related to more than I could express, we lost contact through a combination of my masochistic avoidance and her self-necessitated isolation, and quite possibly her visa expiring.
4. Patrick, another e-buddy, was one of the few males I felt I could relate to readily at age 17. With his philosophical and academic outlook on most things was a precursor to various incarnations of my own self (which came soon after -- he was a bit older, had finished college), he was someone who I could treat readily as a peer, who I could learn from, and who, despite being among the more intelligent people of my age I had known, perhaps the most intelligent, online or otherwise, greatly admired and respected what I wrote at a time when I needed just that sort of reinforcement. Someone never slovenly with praise, he was able to look at it with a critical eye, see it for its flaws, and still show a degree of jealousy, imitation, and terse praise, all of which (coming from someone you admit to knowing quite a bit more about books and writing than you do) is the most sincere and flattering sort of compliment you can be given. He was never didactic, either, and though both of us were consumed by our own disorders and female troubles, he was one of the few genuine male friends I have had. I haven't had a means of contacting him in three or more years.
5. Mary, from Lowell, who I met when we were both 16 on the train coming back from the Sonic Youth. We exchanged screennames (which actually came into Jenna's possession, which she lost, and then got them from her friend who knew Mary) and talked online for a month or two, exchanged some writing, and fell completely out of contact for three years, when we started up a conversation on myspace about Henry Miller, not knowing that we'd known each other before (in a past life, or something). Eventually we hung out, figured all that out, made plans to see each other again. It never happened, and we stayed in touch by phone for a bit, until eventually we made plans and I backed out, having at that point in my life become so reclusive and chickenshit about even meeting up with friends -- let alone girls in a possible quasi-date scenario -- that I dodged a couple phone calls and we didn't talk again, except maybe once or twice, in which case I probably made some sort of tentative agreement to reschedule and obviously never did. Regardless, she was of the sort who (like Saskia) I related to in such a way which was too hard for me to handle, and I'm a bum for tossing off some of the better and more genuine bridges to friendship I've been offered, either looking only for a linear relationship, or looking only to spend time in bed with a book and my dogs (not with the girl, of course, what an awful thing to insinuate!).
There are probably more. There are, in truth, a lot more, half of whom I've contacted, never getting a response, and the other half with whom I've done the same. There are people, too, good people who I've never stopped caring about, who I don't talk at all with anymore and keep their email addressed saved somewhere (as they likely have stowed away mine), both sides looking for a convenient time for the memory to strike them just to say hello. Despite the fact that I'm only twenty-three ("only", ha-ha), these ideas of memories and past people are incredible striking -- I suppose I used to think that I'd instead by pining over some long-lost teenage love, and here I am, still quite capable of gabbing away with Corinne, Tiff, and Maggie, ruminating instead over has-been friendships that sunk into the ocean somewhere along the way. I don't think the past is particularly frightening, but I am scared to think of how large mine will become in even another few years; as of now it could probably swallow a goat. (Woody Allen voice: "The past is an ocean? Even if someone's past was a lake, mine wouldn't be Walden Pond, mine would be Lake Baikal -- somewhere in Siberia, with its own functioning ecosystem...")