Let me know when you have some time. I know we've both been busy, and that things are- oh, I don't know, strained. I just can't pretend anymore, what with these awkward, obligatory pleasantries, these force-fed exchanges, these diplomatic tradings of basic information. We part disappointed and just- sad, both of us recalling days, better than these, ones where I would sing to you as loud as I could, excited- giddy, even- while you stitched up my heart, thread after thread and with great care. But that's, well... that's not how it is now, is it?
Anyway, I didn't mean to go on this long before we've actually had a chance to sit down and hash this out. I'm very tired and it's late and I don't think either of us have the energy to endure the conversation we're about to have- not at this hour, anyway. Let me know when you're free- I hope you can find some time for me.
I miss you. Life is different here without you. Emptier, somehow... I don't know.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
So this is goodbye...
...a thought rejected and inverted, pounded and kneaded into an alternate reality where Time was sacred, held in reverence and attended to with tedious devotion, dusted and polished, maintained to the utmost. In the high tower of a lonely castle a beast broods over a dying rose, each fallen pedal another painful reminder of how much has been lost, and his posture sinks further. The saddest scene in any great film is not when the beloved character dies, but when the protagonist has to say goodbye. Parting is such sweet sorrow, except for the sweet part.
I'm no good with goodbyes. I left Portland with little fanfare. No going away party, no wrap-up conversations save for a few select individuals. The easy part for me was that no one knew I wouldn't be coming back; I bought a round-trip ticket, but I knew it was one-way. I said goodbye to my home, familiar faces, emberghost, the place where I grew up, the surrounding beauty, good coffee, x-girlfriends, all without saying a word. As good as I have it here, what with a fantastic job, super-cool girlfriend, bountiful social and home life, and a wonderful, endearing set of regal felines, the sense of regret and loss can be overwhelming when considering what I left behind. Several of the friends I've kept close over the last 3 years have the same initial question when we reunite over the phone: "When are you coming home?"
Home.
But it's deceptively nostalgic. Whenever I caught myself missing the glory days of high school, a quick trip to visit a former teacher, fighting my way through the hallways just to get to the classroom left me more anxious than ever to get the hell out. If I were to visit Portland now, expecting everything to be the same, expecting all the same smiling faces waiting with welcoming, wide open arms, I'd find myself just as out of place as I do at a Catholic mass or a Colombian holiday feast.
Why I will miss you so much is not due to the wry, southern charm or the whimsical, shotgun approach to debating my finer points. Nor is it your loyal, forgiving and focused, intentional friendship (though I can't say its absence will go unnoticed, either), or the constant attention and devotion given to any reaching piece of my own artistic expression, but that you make this place feel a little more like home. 3,000 miles from everything familiar to me, you make me feel a little less far away.
I'm tempted to feel somewhat sorry for myself. Plenty of friendships I've botched without any effort given to reparation before the opportunity expired. In this case I'd beat the buzzer, only to regret not doing it sooner. So much regret... it's become an unwelcome house guest firmly entrenched in the center of my sofa.
But you said it best, and there's nothing I can do without affordable time travel, so I won't rue it any longer (at least not in this particular entry, though I can't say how I'll feel when I wake up tomorrow). Instead, I'll avoid the temptation to fade the end of this one into the bleakest black, and I'll express my gratitude for having had a friend, graceful and caring, sincere and enthusiastic, poised and personable, thoughtful and giving, concerned and dedicated, open and warm, whom with I found so deeply entwined, fiber after fiber, into the threads, twisting and weaving as they do, of my daily life. You tend to show people the good things about themselves that they had long forgotten, and for the innumerable hopeless among us, yours is a rare and invaluable gift. With you gone, I'm afraid even the best of us will revert to our self loathing and depreciation, and you can take that as a compliment.
So is this goodbye? Nah, this is a thank you note. And well deserved it is.
One chapter ends, another begins, but the book is far from over.
I'm no good with goodbyes. I left Portland with little fanfare. No going away party, no wrap-up conversations save for a few select individuals. The easy part for me was that no one knew I wouldn't be coming back; I bought a round-trip ticket, but I knew it was one-way. I said goodbye to my home, familiar faces, emberghost, the place where I grew up, the surrounding beauty, good coffee, x-girlfriends, all without saying a word. As good as I have it here, what with a fantastic job, super-cool girlfriend, bountiful social and home life, and a wonderful, endearing set of regal felines, the sense of regret and loss can be overwhelming when considering what I left behind. Several of the friends I've kept close over the last 3 years have the same initial question when we reunite over the phone: "When are you coming home?"
Home.
But it's deceptively nostalgic. Whenever I caught myself missing the glory days of high school, a quick trip to visit a former teacher, fighting my way through the hallways just to get to the classroom left me more anxious than ever to get the hell out. If I were to visit Portland now, expecting everything to be the same, expecting all the same smiling faces waiting with welcoming, wide open arms, I'd find myself just as out of place as I do at a Catholic mass or a Colombian holiday feast.
Why I will miss you so much is not due to the wry, southern charm or the whimsical, shotgun approach to debating my finer points. Nor is it your loyal, forgiving and focused, intentional friendship (though I can't say its absence will go unnoticed, either), or the constant attention and devotion given to any reaching piece of my own artistic expression, but that you make this place feel a little more like home. 3,000 miles from everything familiar to me, you make me feel a little less far away.
I'm tempted to feel somewhat sorry for myself. Plenty of friendships I've botched without any effort given to reparation before the opportunity expired. In this case I'd beat the buzzer, only to regret not doing it sooner. So much regret... it's become an unwelcome house guest firmly entrenched in the center of my sofa.
But you said it best, and there's nothing I can do without affordable time travel, so I won't rue it any longer (at least not in this particular entry, though I can't say how I'll feel when I wake up tomorrow). Instead, I'll avoid the temptation to fade the end of this one into the bleakest black, and I'll express my gratitude for having had a friend, graceful and caring, sincere and enthusiastic, poised and personable, thoughtful and giving, concerned and dedicated, open and warm, whom with I found so deeply entwined, fiber after fiber, into the threads, twisting and weaving as they do, of my daily life. You tend to show people the good things about themselves that they had long forgotten, and for the innumerable hopeless among us, yours is a rare and invaluable gift. With you gone, I'm afraid even the best of us will revert to our self loathing and depreciation, and you can take that as a compliment.
So is this goodbye? Nah, this is a thank you note. And well deserved it is.
One chapter ends, another begins, but the book is far from over.
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