people are strange
January 31, 2014:
Early this morning I became aware of something startling and unexpected. It was quite a shock that left me crying for hours. I finally realized what I needed to do to cope with this information and how I could honor the memory of someone that had such an great impact on my life. I started writing and before I knew it, I had a story about how some amazing people and events pushed me to be the writer I had dreamed of since I first picked up a book. I'm not sure if anyone will care about such a personal experience, but I wanted to share:
Today is a strange day. I woke up early in pain, sick, I didn’t to go to school today. Instead I watched the water run down my wall as the rain grew heavier, when I looked outside the dirt roads had turned to rivers. For some reason I found myself on the internet looking for traces of a friend I had not heard from in a very long time, I'm not sure what made me think of her. She does that a lot though, disappears. I wont hear from her for months and then one day I will be in her studio apartment, drinking wine and sharing our deepest darkest secrets. Sometimes she'll paint, and when she does—she almost always paints on me, my clothes, my shoes, my purse, my bicycle helmet. She doesn't ask permission, but that's just how she is and I don't mind. I don't know anyone else who knows her, so when I find myself telling someone about her—the only word I know to describe her is strange. I would even tell them, she was the strangest person I had ever met. I would add, “She isn't trying to be strange to be cool or whatever, she just is strange.” But that's why I loved her.
I remember when she first came in to my life. I had wasted my first two years of college on film studies, what the hell was I going to do with that? It was suddenly obvious that I should be studying literature, my first love in life since I learned to read had always been books. Not that it made much more sense to the security of my future, but I knew in some sort of way that it had to make more sense. Then I saw her. She was in both my linguistics and British literature classes, both held a few hundred students but she was the one I noticed. She was thin and pale, her clothes were usually a short skirt and a shirt or jacket that she had altered. A certain fragility accompanied her almost childlike voice and gentle movements. There were her thin lips that always carried a shade of red lipstick, but what really stood out were her glasses. They were shaded, like a pair of sunglasses, so you almost never saw her eyes clearly. Eventually I would see her eyes a few times, but it was bizarre to be so close to someone who usually remained somewhat hidden. I thought she was beautiful and there was something about her. I was intrigued and wanted to know her, but in my mind she was “way too cool” for me.
The following semester, I took two classes from the most remarkable professor, he told us to call him Dr. Dan. It was almost funny how passionate he was about literature and before you knew he'd be shouting spiritedly about something in the text. I never looked at Huckleberry Finn the same again. Textual analysis was a small class, but it was in the huge auditorium of American literature that I found her again. We were also separated in to smaller discussions once a week led by a TA, somehow there she was in the same one with me at the same table discussing the likes of Edith Wharton and Henry James. I don't recall how I struck up a conversation with her or if I even did, because I'm painfully shy and hardly ever know what to say if I can even get the nerve to. I just know that somehow my fantasy of befriending her had become real.
I didn't see her often, but we would hang out occasionally or e-mail. Despite the lack of actual time we spent with one another, it was one of the most intense relationships I ever had. I just never knew what to expect with her, she was unlike anybody I had ever met. I felt like my typical conversations or common frivolities would not suffice in her case. I was almost always uncomfortable or nervous in her company, because I didn't know how she'd react to anything I did or said. I like a person who challenges me though. I suppose I was intimidated by her, she was highly intelligent and I discovered she was also a brilliant artist. She always had a lot of complex questions for me that I didn't know how to answer, or maybe I did. I just wasn't used to having to talk about such deeply obscure matters about myself. I think I was scared she would realize I wasn't a very interesting person like her and leave me behind. It would have been easy for her to do, there was something about her that screamed “I don't need any of you,” and she really didn't.
She frequently referred to herself as a hermit. Her apartment was a cave, the windows were always covered in blankets. She would isolate herself for long periods of time, just painting on canvases or the walls and even the carpet. One time she accidentally cut herself and did a painting on the wall in her own blood. Sometimes she would let it get dark and not turn the lights on, but continued to move around blindly and I didn't understand how she was not afraid in the creepy basement all alone. Her only source of companionship was her black cat named “Velvet,” who regarded the same personality as her owner by taking comfort in only her presence. Anyone else frightened her and she would remain hidden most of the time, including the time she was left in my care when my friend left to visit her mother and father who had moved abroad to Europe. She brought me back a gorgeous scarf and I returned her most precious belonging.
We would walk around the Lake of Isles late at night, once I invited her to a film on one of my comp tickets when I worked for the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Film Festival, another time she randomly played The Exorcist on mute while playing music instead and we just watched. When she asked me to go to a show at the underground music venue, the Medusa, we somehow got lost on the west bank. When we finally found the yard littered with beer cans, we caught the first act that was playing with their backs to the audience as they screamed out their songs. The band that she had been waiting for finally went on stage and announced they were playing a 25 minute song. I was startled when everyone started moshing in such a violent manner that I was sure someone would be killed. But she was in the middle of it and seemed free of a care. I began to panic as I noticed the building was deprived of any ventilation and I couldn't breathe, a matter of moments had led the room to be drenched with sweat. When I tried to escape, I found the door had swollen and I was stuck in this death trap. I had to wait till someone on the other side wanted to get in and worked it open. I waited for her outside, until she came out wet and breathless.
I enjoyed all her peculiarities, they gave me an entirely different way of seeing the world. The activity she seemed to enjoy the most with me was painting while asking me to talk to her. She said it soothed her and inspired her to paint. I never knew what to say, fearful of sounding stupid even though I could have probably rambled a bunch of nonsense and she would have loved it. She would also demand to hear about my writing which was almost non-existent. I think she could sense my passion despite my inability to commit words to the paper. I would talk about my ideas and the kind of themes I wanted to write about.
When Dr. Dan offered extra credit in my textual analysis class if we wrote a short story, I immediately decided to do it but not for the extra credit. I knew I needed to take the opportunity to have him read something I wrote, because I needed his feedback. I knew it would be what I needed to hear. I finally forced myself to pound something out like I had been trying to for almost the last 15 years of my life, it was called “Everyday is Wednesday.” I found it easier than I expected, perhaps because my story was true and it was about the circumstances that surrounded me in my early twenties. I gave it a lot of edge though and people that don't know me very well, might not recognize that it was about me. I anxiously awaited the analysis of the man I had asked to write my reference to study abroad in Ireland. I had walked into his office and immediately apologized “I'm sorry I don't participate in class more, but could you write me this reference?” In his most genuine voice he reassured me that it was okay and said “I can tell you are listening.” As if it counted just as much, my heart soared. I felt like he really understood me, yes, I was listening and not just being a lazy student. I was as engaged as the people that felt like they had something important to say every five minutes, but I just wasn't as vocal. It was like all those times I went to parties and people asked why I didn't talk more, I would simply say “I’m listening.”
He returned my paper with notes that were as enthusiastic as his lectures in class. I could see him punching the air in excitement like he did, every time he stopped to rave over a line with his blue pen. That draft is one of my most prized possessions that I even brought with me to Africa to serve as a reminder. Of course there were some questions and suggestions that made complete sense and I was already editing the story mentally as I read his critique. He ended by saying: “This is a voice I, as a reader, could spend more time with...It reads much like a pause poem, or 1980s minimalism. Is there more? You must submit this version at least to the Ivory Tower. Genuinely interesting, potent, enthralling. Keep writing and reading. Please.” It was the perfect review from a man that spent time in New York with award winning authors, just enough criticism to know he was not completely messing with me. I knew who else I could share it with that might appreciate my sense of tone and plot, which is not for everyone as I'm well aware.
She read it and then she would make me read it to her, more than once. It was extremely flattering, because I knew this girl who hardly ever left her house would never do anything she didn't want to. She would lay her head back and occasionally stop me to make a comment in her sweet hushed voice. She really was my biggest fan, and she would talk about how she was going to force me to write by making me submit pages to her every month. I couldn't believe this girl that I swore was the next Frida Kahlo, or Edvard Munch, or Salvador Dali, or Vincent van Gogh, or Pablo Picasso, or all of them together--truly admired my work as well. I would tell her about me and my troubles and all the bad decisions I made and continued to make. Her response was that she believed it was the storyteller in me that did all those things that other people might find...strange. Yes, that's a poor excuse to make for one's poor choices that often led to my own personal hell of chaos, tears, and hurt feelings, but it sounded so right when she said it.
I was too weak and timid as a writer at this point, how would I ever publish if I couldn't share with anyone? Let alone actually not be so critical of myself to even write in the first place? I often wondered if the dreams I had as a girl were unrealistic. The girl that would pretend to clean her room, but really be reading until mom or dad walked in. She would throw her book and start shuffling toys around. The girl that pretended she needed to take hour long craps and really just read on the bathroom floor when she was supposed to be doing chores, and then flush the toilet before exiting just to make it believable. I had finally met two people that had inspired me to find that courage, two people I trusted the opinions of more than most.
She frightened me in some ways though, because she existed in another world that I didn't understand. She was very detached from the world I was familiar with, but she would call me in the middle of the night to leave several voice-mails about how much she cared about me. She talked about us going to graduate school, writing and painting together. I realized I was one of her closest friends and she told me that, she didn't really “know” many other people especially not other females. The problem with that was she worried me, not only because of her seclusion but her complete disregard when it came to risk. I'm not going to go in to details, but I don't want people to jump to conclusions. If anything, it was really her personality that concerned me that she was prone to danger. Who was I going to tell if no one really knew her? Her family wasn't around and I also felt like it wasn't my business.
She revealed a lot of things to me that I knew I was part of a small handful of people that had any inkling about. I knew there was still so much I didn't know about her, because she was forever a mystery so what place did I have to say anything? Sure she was prone to bouts of depression like we all are, but she seemed mostly content to life live as she did. She did not seem like she wanted any interference and I think she would have never forgiven someone for trying to stop her from living the way she wanted to, because I think that's all she really wanted.
Perhaps that is why, when I punched her name into Google today and found an obituary from a month ago—I was not completely surprised. It was still a shock and I cried for a couple of hours, my mind racing with all sorts of thoughts of grief and guilt. She was only a year older than me. I don't know what happened and I'm not sure I will ever know, because I don't know who to contact or whether I even feel appropriate about it. Perhaps I should let her remain the mystery that she was. The fact that it wasn't all that surprising to me, makes me feel like I did something really wrong and now she's gone.
I thought about one of the last times I saw her, she asked what made me laugh. Before I could even really answer, she said “life is just a joke” and I wonder if this is some sort of joke. I did see her one time after that, at the grocery store. I walked up and said hello, but even in the middle of shopping she seemed to be lost in her own world and I don't think she noticed me She didn't look up or respond. I was working anyways, so I decided to leave her be because maybe she didn't want to be awoken from the trance she appeared to be in. A part of me worried she was mad at me, because I think that about all my friends when I haven't heard from them in awhile. I had given her no reason to be though, our last parting had ended lovingly and that was the last I heard from her. I also remembered the one time she called me worried that I was upset with her for her frequent “disappearances,” so I found anger to be an unlikely reason for her absence.
I still can't help but feel like it is my fault. Whatever happened to her, maybe I could have done something. I guess I'm not sure what, she was unreachable unless she wanted to be reached. She usually had no idea where her phone was and I had sent her an e-mail a few months ago to see how she was doing. I even mentioned worrying about her when I didn't hear from her very often. I didn't really expect a response any time soon if she was in one of her phases, I knew that if she wanted to be contacted she would be contacting me and not vice versa.
I found a journal entry from April 14, 2013 that recalled several vivid dreams that I had at some point in my life. One of them was about her: “I'm worried she's mad at me for being neglectful, but I'm not thinking about this as I search the zombie waters. (In my dream, a flood had taken over the city and creatures of the dead prowled below.) Then I see her at the Asian buffet, she's been okay except for her fingers. (It appeared she had been slicing small bits of them away.) (Then) we're at a show, a crowd of people but she is going ahead but I'm too scared to, I move towards the back of the line. Why do I always do this? She'll think I'm a loser.” I'm not sure I'll ever be able to fully convince myself that I didn't let her down in some sort of way.
If I hadn't introduced her briefly to about three people (it was a rare and stressful thing to see how she'd interact with another person), I think I'd almost wonder if she was real or if she was a ghost. The girl I had secretly made my muse had become the sole adorer of my work. She was like some imaginary friend I had created to make me feel better about myself. As mysteriously as she came into my life, she left it as well. She didn't even call me by my name, she had decided I was Nora Moon. I never met someone who gave me such profound motivation to write, and that's why today I decided to write. To write more than I have in a very long time, other than the record I keep of my experiences in Africa for family and friends. I wanted to write about the stories she had given me. I already know that if I am able to publish someday, I would like to dedicate something special to her. I knew that a long time ago. I just wish I could have handed it to her instead and said, “This is for you, because of you.”
I'm sorry I didn't write more for you when I had the chance. I'm not sure if you would like this story, but I want you to know that I'm going to write more because you've shown me one last thing. There is only so much time and if life really is just a joke, I'd like to laugh at it before it laughs at me.
I remembered one last thing about her as I watched the water spilling down my wall today. One time it flooded in Minneapolis, the rain came through her walls and destroyed a bunch of her paintings. I couldn't believe how calm she was about the destruction of all that beauty she had worked so hard to make. She just kept on painting. I realize that when life takes away one beautiful thing, you may never replace it but you can always find another beautiful thing to remember it by.
I loved a strange girl who disappeared, but I will always know where to find her.