On one of the crappiest days I've had, I reached out to a mysterious social media follower. The screen name was one I didn't recognize. There was no indication based on wording of any of their post.
I finally had to ask...
And the person gave me clues. On the 2nd one, I realized, it was a friend I hadn't seen in years. A high school friend whom I've kept in touch with. She was my best friend in high school. And when I mean best friend I mean...inseparable. Though she was dating my friend, I was closer to her. I have no idea. Other than, I don't filter myself the least. I think it's a comfort level. She came from a wealthy family, owned horses. But, in spirit, she is an amazing person. Her pragmatic outlook on life made life tolerable. I think she liked the fact that I was emotionally open. Sort of a shell of that now. Because of possibilities. When I think of her, I recall the painful years throughout our first years in college. That was when I still hand wrote letters. I'd write her daily, much like my journal here. Jesus feels like a lifetime ago. Her memory was of me accompanying her to the hospital when her grandfather was dying. I don't remember much of it, other than it was cold. I'm sad that I don't.
We never...grow apart, just grew old while apart. There are very few people in this world that you are lucky to call lifelong friends. I spoke to a co-worker in his 50's who I mentioned this to. He was perplexed. Some people move forward and shed the past quickly. Which is really healthy when it comes to bad relationships. Though in their wake, they leave behind lifelong friends.
I feel scummy in Los Angeles. I talk down to people. Snap and snark. Get really impatient. It dawned on me...what a different person I am in Los Angeles.
Three other past friends contacted me recently to share memories we've had. One where I use to drive to the vintage guitar shop and pawn shops to hang out reading "Guitar World" magazine. Then eat at a greasy spoon diner. Or record our in my friend's basement. I don't remember it as vividly. My other friend was my college resident advisor. I've written incessantly about him in the past. He's seen the absolute drunkest I've ever been. Never judges. Never needles. He is the embodiment of Mister Fred Rogers. Kind, spiritual and what I think every immigrant coming to America should see, a man who loves his family, works hard and takes vacations with them. That's how my family was. Then my friend who reached out today. It was at the ass end of day...call me a pussy, but...I get choked up that they shared their memories with me. That I made some difference. That it meant something to them that I passed through their lives. I think about this daily in Los Angeles. Not that these relationships don't exists. We just don't have the emotional maturity to appreciate one another because lives are incredibly fleeting.
I recall taking frequent road trips to Fairmount Indiana. The birthplace of James Dean. A simple two hour drive from Cincinnati, Ohio changed many of our lives. We needed to clear our minds. To feel the open road. Way before social media, we did things. We saw the small parts of the world. I marvel at the simplicity. The only people who truly appreciate it nowadays are people from other countries. Anyway, I love the road trips, and sadden that I've not heard of the younger generations want to see America.
Friendship is so important. They remind you you were worth something. That you effected them. I hope to do more for others. Something I've forgotten. I'm grateful for friends who remind me who I was.
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