It occurred to me the other day that when I am really upset, I cannot compose my thoughts. It is like panic. It feeds upon itself and soon you are jibbering in a corner, talking to the dust bunnies. And there are many dust bunnies in this household. Metaphor? Yes. Reality? Alas, also yes.
So, when a well-liked co-worker suddenly died a couple weeks back, I was thinking, "hey, a serious topic for my blog." But, now I don't think so. It would be a great thing for a personal journal, probably. And I know there must be those blogs out there that are essentially the same as that, only public. But that is not for me, despite all the public blubbering that I do on the occasion of every funeral I attend. That I cannot help, it seems. I have tried. And, I admit, except for music of any kind, when I become inexplicably Pentacostal, the religious portions do cause my head to clear so that I can again practice self-control while contemplating those little hinged thingies that everyone likes to kneel upon at random intervals. This is the true meaning of saving grace.
You see there is no such thing as an uncontrollable, emotional outburst of a blog. You may think you see some evidence of this, given the state of the online content out there, but no. And you may be the biggest geek this side of the Silicon Valley, but you can control your blog. Trust me.
So, on this occasion, I thought I could channel this energy (*cue the woo-woo music*) into my much neglected blog. No can do. I could not find the words. It felt so meaningless. Despite what the religious will tell you. Despite what we all do to try and give it meaning, in order to derive some comfort. There simply is none. Possibly why it is so maddening in the end. Literally. It just is. And no one can tell me that there is a otherworldly "plan" or "reason" for a 35 year old to just die of leukemia.
And here I am doing what I said I could not.
But in the wake of that horribleness, I realized that what I could write about was a reconnection, not a terrible ending. Just yesterday, while wasting more precious moments of my life flopping about on Facebook (yes, I know), I found an old friend listed under a name that I should have known all along he'd use. We're talking an almost 25 years ago friend, someone from college. Then, this morning, he called. It was an amazing thing. It was like talking with a ghost, honestly, a ghost from my past. Almost not my past, but someone else's. I've never understood it when people say "it seems like only yesterday." Often even yesterday doesn't seem like yesterday to me. But twenty-five years? Another planet. I had antennae and walked on six legs back then. I have pictures.
How do you compress nearly a quarter century into an hour and a half conversation? They were mostly the reader's digest versions. But, that didn't matter. My memory has always been terrible, so there was a lot of reminding to do on his part. But the important part was that back then we had a lot of fun while running about trying to educate, find ourselves and get our social bearings simultaneously. There was a fair amount of Peyton Place in it too, as I do recall and try to remember when I observe my much younger co-workers winding themselves around the mystery of it all while trying to hold down a job that bestows many a bizarre schedule on a weekly and sometimes daily basis.
It was an oddly familiar pleasure. Talking to him, I felt small echos of the simple fun and exhilaration we used to have with the most mundane things and situations. Of course, some of it was fueled by extracurricular substances that enhanced the experiences, but I found a tidbit of bona fide nostalgia creeping over me. In many ways, back then, it was like being a two year old, for whom every little thing is a great new thing or show to behold. Only better, because you were a proto adult and had control over where and when and what you did instead of being put to bed by your parents at 7 pm. But that was another life, a communal one that allowed one to exist in a glorious privileged bubble, reinventing yourself as you went, opening the cookie jar whenever the mental munchies came upon you.
I didn't realize that I missed it anymore. I missed him, and all of the technicolor exuberance and crazy possibilities, all compressed in a tiny college petri dish. All these years later he summoned it back, just a bit, in between the years of sadness and loss, running, searching, and finally moving on. I remember feeling the loss of community upon graduation. Acutely. A rarefied four years gone forever. It was a kind of agony to dwell on it, even with the array of tattered feelings and charred bridges strewing the exits. In the end there were no Hallmark moments to cast a glow over us. Just a couple of middle aged cackles ruminating over our long ago shared past, and trying to fill in the second half a lifetime. He knew most of the words, the names, and places, while all I could remember was the decay of the metaphorical music. But I guess that's pretty good, considering.
No wonder I blubber at funerals. I may give them up soon.
