Sunday, September 25, 2005

You don't know how much I need you and everything you are

Sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by sleeping cats and hugged by hot-oven baking warmth, I am listening again to Phoenix and falling a little bit more in love. I guess a truly great album is like a truly great person -- the more you encounter it, the deeper the commitment to unearthing it's best parts, the more intense the knowledge and the appreciation of it. Although, I am still questioning "funky squaredance".

Yesterday was a very confusing day. Stirring and inspiring and complex and hilarious and sweet-smelling and curious and sad and shocking and absolutely, absolutely heart breaking. Where to start?

I had a beautiful day -- it was a beautiful day, and I had it, threw it down to the soft ground and licked every luscious drop of life out of it. I spent a surprising amount of time with Jill and Tariq, surprising because at the core of it we really aren't "Friends", but "work friends" -- an entirely seperate breed of relationship. Jill and I met up to discuss our script ideas, but got little accomplished before Tariq arrived. Then, we chatted for a bit before embarking on an hour long exploration of the University grounds. I love the U of A in fall. The aggressively studious individuals with their large backpacks and intent expressions; the gorgeously golden and dark green explosions of autumn decorating the campus; the architectural dichotomies - old and young, clear glass and rich wood, left brain and right brain; the very taste of the air. We met up with Christie at the bus terminal, and then went for lunch at a pub/restaraunt called Room at the Top. There wasn't much time for awkward silences as Jill pretty much kept the flow of topics running smoothly (and quickly). Boy, can that girl can talk. Afterwards, we went and walked up and down Whyte Ave (sans Christie, who had to do some studying), then took the bus home.

I'm confused. I think I might have been (may still be) entertaining some slightly romantic ideas about T. I wish it weren't so. Maybe that's why I'm not committing to the idea. But there have been these pangs... these fancies... these brief lurching longings that I can't wholly deny - although, I will do my best to decry them. Lack of sleep? Overactive imagination? The irresistible allure of extraordinarily well-defined cheekbones? Today it was the seductive quality of a surprisingly smooth male voice delivering music to the masses (those who listen to campus radio mid-Saturday, that is) that made my skin shiver. Give me music.

But, he is not for me.

Lorraine called last night, just a bit after I'd gotten home. We covered the usual topics, until just before we said good-bye. Apparently Lorraine wasn't planning on telling me (she didn't want my writing-mood to be ruined) but her friend Dave had called her earlier and told her that an old coworker of theirs, who I was acquainted with, had committed suicide. God, that sounds so... scientific, so absolute.

Mike Faulkner. I will remember him. The first time I saw him working at Walmart... maybe Lorraine pointed him out, maybe I did... she introduced us and I felt my heart go pitter patter. He had a great smile, was kind of rough around the edges with shaggy brown hair and a bit of a 48-hour shadow. He came with us one night, out dancing to Barry T's. I'll always remember how, when Lorraine and Nicole were off slowdancing with some guys, Mike went out of his way to make small talk with me... I was so brutally, obviously shy back then, and he was so kind, and so sweet. I didn't see him again for ages. I always asked Lorraine for updates, and she filled me in on whatever information she was privy to. He went through a madly religious period where he was contemplating becoming a priest. Then, he did a complete 180 and turned into a barstar. During that time I did run into him once or twice at Cowboys, and was confronted with a very different Mike -- clean-cut, dressed all in black, with an earring and a smoother attitude. The last time I saw him was two years ago. He came into my store, and we chatted a bit, I tried to find a book for him without any luck. But, again, he was so kind. So sweet. After he'd left, my manager at the time (Yvonne) teased me about how cute she thought we looked when she'd passed by, and I remember blushing because it didn't matter if I saw him once a month, once a year, he'd always have that effect on me.

Lorraine tells me that he has been severely depressed for a long time... that he has been in and out of the hospital for the last two years. Foolishly, selfishly, arrogantly, I can't help but think that I should have been able to do something. Maybe if I had given him my phone number that day, or asked for his, or been braver at some point -- brave enough to encourage a friendship -- maybe I could have been the one person who may have prevented him from taking this one last hugely final step. I keep seeing his face and I feel my own face crumple as I try to squeeze back tears, and I wonder why I want to cry. It wasn't like I knew him. I didn't. It wasn't like he was someone who was always on my mind. I have no right to shed tears -- I haven't earned the privilege of mourning.

Yet, I can't help but mourn when I think of how I will never again be able to accidentally run into Mike at the book store, at Walmart, at Cowboys. He will never - at the whimsy of the fates - find his life randomly intertwined with mine, nor mine with his. I will never see him again. When I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying unsuccessfully to suppress this unworthy grief, I find that Mike -- his name, his face, his smile -- is there, an etched memory that won't fade. And I won't let him.

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