Monday, April 09, 2007

From Garret.


I knew then that you knew me well, that you observed subtle shifts in my tones, the subtle motions of my mouth when I pressed it tightly in self-absorbtion. We were both joyous and floating forward, tumbling into the motions of youth with vigor and excitement. We were eager to live, eager to see.

I am also noticing a change in my momentum. Things I once looked at, convinced I understood them, I now look at with a hint of confusion. That's a good thing, though. I am less self-involved, more genuine. You know, honestly, sometimes when we would stumble together down those cobblestone roads, half-smashed from too many needless toasts, I felt that we were almost Joycean, or at least you were. I am different around you, you know; I'm much more confident. On good days I feel like the Buck Mulligan to your Dedalus, on bad days I feel more like Haines.
It is certainly something to be able to communicate with your fellow man, with those others who feel things as wholly and as completely as you do. It is certainly a rare treat to find someone with whom you can let your personality unfold naturally and honestly. But, I find the indulgence a bit too much at times. I am not so good at opening up; I am not so prone to letting anything in. I build myself in an image of who I want to be and I try to be that person whether I am or not. That can be rather transparent, I find.

I am also noticing a change in my pace. I move slower now, not because I must, but because I feel like we missed things. You remark on my observant nature, on the material things I made you more aware of. But, I was not nearly as observant about my own life. I let things fall to shatters while I laughed as if I didn't care. It is funny to tell you this because you always felt everything so supremely. The more I feel things, the more I pretend I don't. This doesn't go over well with the women, I'll tell you.

I remember the way you spoke of Anna, how you always spoke of her. And I invented her, my image of her, based on your descriptions. I doubt she's anything like I imagine her. I always wished I could adopt your passion, as you wished you could adopt my casual approach. But, perhaps you did not notice the cringes which crinkled my brow when you looked away. You see, I have spent all these years alone, with very few people to speak to seriously, to speak to simply and safely. That is perhaps why I wrote to you again. I was lucky to find your address.

You see, people live inside me because I cannot make them. I always envied you your creative center, your need to be more than yourself. I was always myself and no one but, and lucky, at that, to be myself at all. And I have struggled through these maddening moments when I wish, more than anything, that I could see myself reflected through someone else's eyes. It is in those times of weakness that I eventually turn to someone who I do not mean to turn to. This time it is you. I don't know if you expected this in response, but you've always brought out this tone in me.

Your recent confidant,