"What Do You Wish You Were? Do You Wish You Were The Silence On The Moon?"
An old friend of mine died in his sleep this weekend. I just found out.
I haven't spoken to him in years. To tell you the truth, I don't even remember his last name. But my memory of him just cuts and cuts. I can touch it. He was insultingly tall and foolishly skinny; I remember the way his waist felt when we hugged, and the way he smelled. He owned more gray clothing than anyone I'd ever met.
He would get drunk (I wouldn't) and we'd argue about queer theory. I would chastize him for not identifying as bisexual, even though that's what he was. He would chastize me for fetishizing labels, even though I needed them to survive. We'd both let rhetoric overwhelm ideology, each of us more ridiculous than we were intelligent. We would just scream at each other, until it became clear that we were only arguing because we couldn't make out. Then we would laugh.
One time I didn't laugh, and he was afraid that he had gone to far, that he had offended me deeply, so he grabbed my forearms and said, "You know I don't want to upset you. You know I think you're beautiful, and sexy, and smart. Don't hate me, please, you're beautiful." Our friends burst into hysterics. It was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. I laughed too. Then he threw up in an elevator. I walked to my room and cried.
It was the first time in my whole life that a boy called me beautiful.
I loved that kid, and (is this unseemly to say of the dead?) always imagined that, if he and his girlfriend hadn't been madly in love, we would have grabbed onto each other and spent a few good years arguing and laughing together. I think that's the reason we never became better friends.
I can't believe how much I don't know about this person, and how remarkably tiny my perspective on his life must be.
I can't believe how many people die every day.
My comprehension of it all is so puny.
I wish this person could have become old. The world would be so wonderful with an old version of this person in it.
Love
Dan
I haven't spoken to him in years. To tell you the truth, I don't even remember his last name. But my memory of him just cuts and cuts. I can touch it. He was insultingly tall and foolishly skinny; I remember the way his waist felt when we hugged, and the way he smelled. He owned more gray clothing than anyone I'd ever met.
He would get drunk (I wouldn't) and we'd argue about queer theory. I would chastize him for not identifying as bisexual, even though that's what he was. He would chastize me for fetishizing labels, even though I needed them to survive. We'd both let rhetoric overwhelm ideology, each of us more ridiculous than we were intelligent. We would just scream at each other, until it became clear that we were only arguing because we couldn't make out. Then we would laugh.
One time I didn't laugh, and he was afraid that he had gone to far, that he had offended me deeply, so he grabbed my forearms and said, "You know I don't want to upset you. You know I think you're beautiful, and sexy, and smart. Don't hate me, please, you're beautiful." Our friends burst into hysterics. It was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. I laughed too. Then he threw up in an elevator. I walked to my room and cried.
It was the first time in my whole life that a boy called me beautiful.
I loved that kid, and (is this unseemly to say of the dead?) always imagined that, if he and his girlfriend hadn't been madly in love, we would have grabbed onto each other and spent a few good years arguing and laughing together. I think that's the reason we never became better friends.
I can't believe how much I don't know about this person, and how remarkably tiny my perspective on his life must be.
I can't believe how many people die every day.
My comprehension of it all is so puny.
I wish this person could have become old. The world would be so wonderful with an old version of this person in it.
Love
Dan
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Dan Fishback is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non-profit arts service organization. Contributions in behalf of Dan Fishback may be made payable to Fractured Atlas and are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law.
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