Your Mark is More Permanent Than My Trusted Sharpie

I worry about a friend of mine. I've been a bad friend lately in the communication department, an area where we had previously logged bunches of IM hours. There were times in the beginning, when I was going half mad from my own personal demons, that I would call him and rattle on. He would listen, oddly enough. Perhaps because he was forced to. My pauses usually aren't long enough for even a speed talker to get in an objection.

Even though I'm a lousy communicator, I always think of him. After a brief chat this morning, I hustled off to work, stopping to drop Midget at school before picking up my first consumer. By the time that I'd reached my last pick-up, I was listening to Kelly Clarkson pour forth from my Nano, a tune called "Sober." While the song is about getting over the addictive nature of a intoxicating relationship, it struck me. The tone of her voice, the melody, I couldn't pinpoint what.

I sat in the car, listening to the sounds, my brain connecting the dots in its usual schizo pattern. My thoughts jumped to a song that should have been more apropos for friendship. That wretched thing warbled by Better Midler. I don't think I even need to say the title.

So I yanked out the pen that I have stashed in that compartment that normally would have been an ashtray (my car is a base model - not even "luxuries" like that were included) and scrambled for paper. The best that I could dig up was the envelope with my paycheck stub in it. If there's a special meaning to that, draw your own conclusions.

See? I told you it was on an envelope.

Rather than try and edit it so that it's less of a mess, I figured I would just copy it down here, word for word.



"Some people have wings
Looking to be lifted by the wind of another.
But what happens to those of us
Too low for a breeze to get under?
What does friendship represent when it moves beyond cliche?
How deep is the meaning when someone equals
more than a lyric in a sappy song?
How do you give thanks to the emotion stemming
from just knowing that someone 'gets' you?
How can I explain in words what you are for me?
How can I be that for you?
How can I show you that you'll never be low
because the love I embrace you with is inexhaustible?"



Lots of questions.

Later in my workday I ended up at a local bookstore, flipping through the pages of Blender and wondering why Andy Samberg was considered to be so hot, when my co-worker approached me with an astrology book.

"Ooooo... this is nasty," she exclaimed.

The book detailed the lesser points of the Zodiac signs. She was growling over something that had been written about hers, offended that it stated that a Pisces wasn't interested in sex as much as domination. She shoved the book over to me and told me to read mine.

I flipped to Aquarius. I thought about how my friend laughs at my interest in astrology. How he introduced me to MBTI (Figure it out on your own) and I learned to adopt it into my overall perception of people.

I read through the book. About how Aquarians like to study things. Dissect them. Tear them apart. Suddenly, the interest in MBTI, in spite of my personality type supposedly eschewing being classified, was making sense. All the questions that I ask. My narcissism, ego-maniacal ways and my inability to let anything go if I don't have definitive answers made sense.

Then I handed the book back to her and realized that it was just a book. After all, it claimed that I didn't know how to be a good friend.

Oh, wait...

PT, I can't be your wind because you don't physically have wings. I can't solve your problems because, well... I can't. Even if I could hold you when you cry, drag you out to drink when you're feeling anti-social, pop in a DVD and make you watch something crappy just to hear you bitch, or just play backgammon with you in person... you'd still have problems. I still have problems.

There are no answers to the questions. And since you know me, feel free to have a chuckle over how batty that's going to make me.


Love you.