15 June
1999
Michael told me that he mistyped my domain name at first: whirlygil instead of girl and sent my imagination "a beautiful yellow puffer fish spinning out of control..." It wasn't just the imagery that thrilled me, but the fact that he took those extra few keystrokes conjure it in my mind, too. Which, of course, got me thinking about Michael. We all have those lifetime-ago friends, people we've known under many circumstances, through oodles of misunderstandings, multitudes of renderings. And lately, I've just been missing one of those earlier versions of "us". The "us" that was proximate, spontaneous, and electric. I guess we've held onto the important parts: unending comfort and trust; the ability to pick up where we left off at any time and under any circumstance; the mirrored catalogues of moments that, when sent in a random email or left on a simple voice mail, can turn a day silly and bright. But there is something in me that clings to the days of running to the parked Fiat with its top down in the middle of a chance thunderstorm; the sheer bliss of me and him and a summer ahead devoid of expectations. I rarely share experiences with my friends anymore. We write reports and list accomplishments, but when we're face-to-face, we spend more time regurgitating the past than forging the future. Most of us live our lives teetering on the edge of real responsibility, but never take advantage of our freedom. There's always an obligation, some reason that it can wait, and our lives pass by in the interim, without those brilliant souls. I just feel too young to be stuck in an endless loop of nostalgia. In the liner notes of Saint Etienne's Good Humor, Douglas Coupland paints "a world where nostalgia is beside the point because we all live inside a bright glorious present." Can you even imagine? When Jim read this a few months ago he said, "A perpetually satisfying present is inconceivable." I tend to believe him, though I'd give anything to be proven wrong. biggest kiss... ...kristen |
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