The Cerebral Mum

[As you know, I’m am struggling to figure out who I am right now so a little while ago I asked an old friend to tell me who he saw, both in the past and now, hoping that I would recognise something by looking through someone else’s eyes. This is the guest post he wrote for me. It made me smile. And left me with many things to think about. ~cerebralmum]

This is going to be a roughly chronological remembrance. A collection of moments that I hope will also serve to reflect your character as I see it.

I met you in 1994. I went to high school with L, your then-boyfriend. Before I met you, the main thing I knew about you was that you’d gotten my friend into Tori Amos. He was giving me a lift somewhere, and the CD was playing in his car. I was struck by the melancholy whimsy of Happy Phantom. I ended up a much bigger fan of her than he did.

The first time I actually met you is still vivid. We were on our way to the beach, L giving a carload of us a lift as usual. We stopped to pick you up on our way. As I stepped through the front door, you came thundering down the hall, wearing a pair of jeans that would comfortably have fit me, tightly belted, a clinging black singlet top, pigtails, and a scowl, bellowing, “We can’t go yet! I can’t find my TAMPONS!” L trailed down the hall after you smiling sheepishly and shrugging limply as if in apology. I failed to see what he had to apologise for – I was still laughing. So there you were: brash, unconventional, confronting, funny, honest to a fault, and, evidently, bleeding.

Early impressions: You were fun. You were loud. You were sharp. Incredibly observant. You were enthusiastic - it seemed like your energy was boundless. Sometimes you seemed to try on new personalities for a day or two, just to see what would happen. I remember thinking it must be tiring to go out with you. Your curiosity was huge, and it seemed like you’d talk to anyone about anything. You were idiosyncratic in your tastes - in music, clothes, literature, art, décor. You thought deeply about things, and considered your opinions. I relished your point of view on issues, and always enjoyed talking with you. You were always elbow-deep in some fascinating book.

I ended up getting to know you better, while you were sharing a house in Glance Street with another of my high school friends and C, one of your oldest friends. I spent a lot of time there – it became a home away from home for my close-knit geeky crowd. Many late night videos, talk fests, and parties. I went out for a short while with C. My first real heartbreak, that one.

I watched you working through a lot at that time. You read voraciously, taking what you needed and moving on. Lots of stuff on journeys and archetypes. I could almost see you piecing these things together, and making them your own, feeding back into your own narrative. You were bold and systematic in this self-exploration. More than anyone I’d met, you were committed to really looking at yourself.

You made things: decoupage, furniture, decorative pieces. It seemed to be therapeutic to you to make things with your hands. There was also a restlessness to your activity sometimes – an inability to stay still. You couldn’t stop moving. It seemed like the flipside of the therapeutic aspect. You didn’t necessarily feel better, but the movement gave you something to do. I heard about the cleaning at four in the morning. I saw for myself the overnighters on The Table.

You showed me your writing. You handed me sheets one at a time, watching my face as I read. I thanked you, and I still do, for sharing your voice with me. Reading your writing is like speaking to you.

I remember you curled on my lap once, sobbing and shaking while I held you and stroked your hair. You stopped and looked up at me, clear-eyed, and asked, “Are all your female friends fucked up?” I had to stop and think about that one. I believe I eventually came back with a lame “…not */all/* of them…”

I arrived late for the Epic Party. The wrestling was over, sadly. You pounced on me in the hallway, shrieking, and bit me hard on the neck. I was happy to see you too.

I remember the first time I saw your tattoo. It was a Vietnamese restaurant on Smith Street. One by one, you led the dinner guests to the foyer of the toilets to flash them your new ink, grinning. I loved it, and told you so. It fit you well: she is the youngest of the Endless, who sees more than people know, who knows delight and pain, and who isn’t as mad as people might think.

L ended your relationship in bad circumstances. In retrospect, it was one of the key incidents that made me look at him more closely and see that we were drifting apart. His new girl reminded several of us of you, in looks at least. One of us accidentally called her by your name in front of him while we were in Brisbane for his wedding. Oops!

(I’m not sure if I ever told you about his wedding. I got tremendously drunk at the reception, and came oh so very very close to standing up and adding an impromptu speech, because the “official” one mentioned that he’d met her on a cricket trip to Brisbane, but left out the fact that he was still with you at the time. I felt this was a terrible oversight, and barely kept myself seated. I later shook his hand on the dance floor and complimented him on his continuing excellent taste in women, and only avoided telling him how I would happily shag his wife because a good friend thankfully grabbed my elbow and steered me away.)

After everyone moved out of Glance Street, we largely lost touch. It was a totally benign neglect, at least on my part. I always asked after you when I saw C, and asked her say hi for me. I think you two didn’t see as much of each other in those days, as she moved to the bush. I got the odd update, but I didn’t see you for about ten years.

I met you again at C’s wedding. It was also my first meeting with Caspar. My immediate reaction was “Wow, what a cute kid!” closely followed by “Why did I lose almost complete touch with this person? I really like her!” My strong suspicion that you and my wife would get on well was confirmed.

Caspar doesn’t seem to have changed you so much as become a focal point for several of the attributes I’d seen in you before: your attentiveness, your creativity, your sense of humour, your gift for observation.

Seeing you again has been a great thing. From spending time with you in the flesh and following your blog, it seems almost impossible that there was so huge a hiatus in our friendship. I’m glad we’re back in touch.

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