Old "Friends"
Today my cousin Rachel got married.
It’s funny how sometimes no matter how hard I try, trying to talk to people is usually like trying to do open-heart surgery blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back (it’s not only a dismal failure but leaves behind an undeniable bloody mess)… but there is that small handful of people who, when we see each other, no matter how much or little time has passed in-between, conversation is as easy as breathing and there’s no fear, only the enjoyment of being in each other’s company once more.
Rachel, out of all my relatives, is one of those people.
Which is odd, since almost all the people I intuitively connect are very much like myself in their personalities, interests, and the like. Rachel and I share love of the intuitive, appreciation for anything creative, but otherwise we are very different.
I’m inhibited; Rachel is anything but.
I’m quiet and reserved; Rachel is outgoing and all out there, no real secrets.
I’m a writer and musical artist who dabbles in visuals; Rachel’s a visual and tactile artist who dabbles in music.
I’ve got asthma and allergies; she smokes.
(As a final case in point, I’m bald; Rachel’s not. But I suppose that’s a good thing, all things considered -- unless you’re that chick from “Star Trek: The Motion Picture.”)
The last time I saw Rachel and talked to her was ten years ago. Before then, it had been a few years – it might have been the time I was making up pathetically stupid poetry and making her laugh, bless her heart for indulging me:
(Touching, huh? Hmm, maybe there’s a reason I don’t do well in mixed company…)
Of course, with familiarity comes all the terrible stories I had long forgotten.
Like the time I was supposed to get a haircut but really didn’t want to go, so Rachel and I went to a drugstore, bought a 69-cent pair of scissors, she cut my hair in the backseat of the car, and then we spent our ill-gotten gains on pizza and soda. (I didn’t think she did a bad job, but my feeble hopes didn’t thwart my parents from asking me where I had gone for such a rotten haircut. And within the next ten years, most of my hair had fallen out – coincidence or NOT?)
Or the time I stayed over there while I was away at school, and Rachel and Deb and I went roller-skating in their house-length cemented basement… while I supposedly wore a metal army helmet and repeatedly crashed head-first into things. (Needless to say, I don’t have ANY memories of that – coincidence or NOT?)
And back when we were six or so, and we were both planning to elope, and so we packed our toothbrushes for the arduous trip ahead. (I remember mine, it was a little gold brush with the neck and head of a giraffe. And Rachel, I think, was wearing a blue dress with white dots on it.) I’m not quite sure where we were going, but I doubt it would have been dull. And anyway, I’m STILL a lousy packer and like tacky toothbrushes (coincidence or NOT?)
It’s just funny how both of us have this complete acceptance and interest in the other, without having to do anything to keep the connection there. And her husband Kevin seems as easy to talk to as she is.
Thank God for e-mail. Maybe now I won’t have to keep talking about how we still connect despite long years of silence.
It’s funny how sometimes no matter how hard I try, trying to talk to people is usually like trying to do open-heart surgery blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back (it’s not only a dismal failure but leaves behind an undeniable bloody mess)… but there is that small handful of people who, when we see each other, no matter how much or little time has passed in-between, conversation is as easy as breathing and there’s no fear, only the enjoyment of being in each other’s company once more.
Rachel, out of all my relatives, is one of those people.
Which is odd, since almost all the people I intuitively connect are very much like myself in their personalities, interests, and the like. Rachel and I share love of the intuitive, appreciation for anything creative, but otherwise we are very different.
I’m inhibited; Rachel is anything but.
I’m quiet and reserved; Rachel is outgoing and all out there, no real secrets.
I’m a writer and musical artist who dabbles in visuals; Rachel’s a visual and tactile artist who dabbles in music.
I’ve got asthma and allergies; she smokes.
(As a final case in point, I’m bald; Rachel’s not. But I suppose that’s a good thing, all things considered -- unless you’re that chick from “Star Trek: The Motion Picture.”)
The last time I saw Rachel and talked to her was ten years ago. Before then, it had been a few years – it might have been the time I was making up pathetically stupid poetry and making her laugh, bless her heart for indulging me:
You make me cry
I want to die
Oh why, oh why,
Oh why can’t I
Remember why
You ate my tie?
Why not eat rye
With pumpkin pie?
But no, my tie,
You had to try.
You make me cry
I want to die
(Touching, huh? Hmm, maybe there’s a reason I don’t do well in mixed company…)
Of course, with familiarity comes all the terrible stories I had long forgotten.
Like the time I was supposed to get a haircut but really didn’t want to go, so Rachel and I went to a drugstore, bought a 69-cent pair of scissors, she cut my hair in the backseat of the car, and then we spent our ill-gotten gains on pizza and soda. (I didn’t think she did a bad job, but my feeble hopes didn’t thwart my parents from asking me where I had gone for such a rotten haircut. And within the next ten years, most of my hair had fallen out – coincidence or NOT?)
Or the time I stayed over there while I was away at school, and Rachel and Deb and I went roller-skating in their house-length cemented basement… while I supposedly wore a metal army helmet and repeatedly crashed head-first into things. (Needless to say, I don’t have ANY memories of that – coincidence or NOT?)
And back when we were six or so, and we were both planning to elope, and so we packed our toothbrushes for the arduous trip ahead. (I remember mine, it was a little gold brush with the neck and head of a giraffe. And Rachel, I think, was wearing a blue dress with white dots on it.) I’m not quite sure where we were going, but I doubt it would have been dull. And anyway, I’m STILL a lousy packer and like tacky toothbrushes (coincidence or NOT?)
It’s just funny how both of us have this complete acceptance and interest in the other, without having to do anything to keep the connection there. And her husband Kevin seems as easy to talk to as she is.
Thank God for e-mail. Maybe now I won’t have to keep talking about how we still connect despite long years of silence.
posted by Fortunato at 10:11 PM
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