(no subject)
Started transferring my crap from my room to the spare room. I think it's going to be less traumatic than I imagined.
But I may choose to create a little trauma
In my big cupboard there are a couple of folders full of paper and a small box full of photographs. I have two options: 1. just move them to some other place like they don't matter because, well, they don't, or 2. look inside. And I'm reasonable sure that I'm going to pick that second option. I want to pick it, I want to see what's in there.
The photographs are from France, 1999. That's Lucy, Nadin and Vero, amongst others... Sam, Hannah... I could probably dig up a couple more names if I thought on it a bit more. I'm cool with this box, it'll be fun to look through. I wrote an almighty Vero entry a few months ago - just before season 3 of Diablo 3 - and if I had anything to say on any of it I most certainly wrote it then.
Now, I *think* there are two folders, and I think I know, loosely, what's in each.
The first is full of love letters from Vanessa. And I may have also placed the letter or two from Jennifer there. I'll leave through that stuff very quickly - in a matter of seconds - to check that it is what I think it is. I have little interest in rehashing Vanessa. You know, though, I'm not sure I've ever revisited that period of my life very much in writing. That's quite odd. It's extremely odd. Maybe it's because that whole thing ran its course. It's not that it wasn't awesome or interesting but it was, and this seems like a terrible word, solved.
--
The second folder, though, the second folder could be trouble. There might be trauma lying in wait.
The one thing I know it has are drafts of the letter I wrote to Ingrid. Give or take, Ingrid marks the time that I stopped going out so much and started cutting off ties to the outside world.
Even before looking at the drafts of the letter my fingers and mind are bumbling about, failing to construct useful thoughts to turn into sentences. There is so much to say that I don't even know where to start or how to go about saying it. Maybe I'll get back to it.
Also, in the folder, I expect to come across some other odds and ends of writing from back then. I think I have a short dream journal. I think there may be a few journal entries that I wrote and never bothered to put on LJ. Some odds and ends of thoughts, perhaps. That could be some interesting reading - I'd quite like to see it, especially if I really let loose with some honesty, maybe in a different way than I might to something that other people might read.
But something I did back then, from time to time, was write letters to people I knew. I didn't send any, but I went through the process of writing to them. I found it useful for getting some things straight in my mind, or trying to get perspective on something. Or just to free myself of a notion that was stuck in my mind, sometimes writing about it would set it free.
Some of these letters I wrote on my computer and lost them during a reformat or whatever. But some of them I actually wrote. And I don't recall which ones survive, and I don't recall what I wrote about. And I didn't necessarily pull any punches in these letters. And I wrote from the heart. Did I write to Claire after Harley died? I may have. Did I write to Amy? I know I wrote to both Eleanor and Jess about some really uncomfortable and painful crap. Did I write to Sam when things were shit? Did I write to Harley before he died?
And I'm pretty sure I'll squint with my bad eyes and read whatever I find.
Now, no matter what is there, I don't expect to break down or have any crazy moments. But I don't think it'll be like I'll read that stuff and just be able to brush it off completely.
And Ingrid, all those letters.
--
I know the first time I met Ingrid. It was during on of my first nights out in Durham with that group, I was sat in the Swan beer garden, about as distant from the pub as possible, my back to the river. She sat down opposite me, it was basically the last space near her friends. We talked. I'm not sure for quite how long, maybe just 10 minutes... probably longer. We had a conversation. Not some kind of all-night momentous affair, just a normal conversation.
Over months, many months, we interacted (can't think of a better word!) a couple more times, but only very briefly. And that was that.
A few months after Harley died I went to a house party. (and now I realise I've told this story, all of this, at least a couple of times in the intervening years but IDGAF). I arrived with Claire and I was... I was not unhappy about that fact that I was going to get to spend quite some time with Claire, and probably take her home and spend more time with her. I had leaned on Claire quite a bit in those months.
Some amount of time into this house party I spotted Ingrid and plonked myself down on a comfy chair next to her. We talked. And we talked. Everyone who had to go home went home (Claire included). Everyone who was just passing out at the house just passed out. Ingrid and I talked the night away. It was lovely. It was also momentous because it was the first time since Harley had died where I'd just had a good conversation with someone without Harley being a thing at all. We just talked about stuff, but not Harley stuff.
When it was late enough I left. I was going to leave, but just before I did, I turned around and hugged her. I... I fancy that more should have happened that night. What's that exchange from It's A Wonderful Life? "Youth is wasted on the wrong people", stop talking to her, kiss her. The night wasn't quite that, but... a bit. A bit like that.
I couldn't quite let it go. With some creepy stalker skills I managed to track down an address - well, not quite. I figured out her name and her college. I spent a creepy amount of time trying to compose a letter - and I have all of the mammoth drafts - and sent it. I was less sure about what I wanted to say in that letter than just about anything in my entire life.
I do this thing these days when I watch a TV show. Basically Kill / Marry / Fuck, I guess. But it's really the "Marry" that interests me. It's easy to fancy someone, and it's easy for someone to be annoying or horrible. But what character is "I could actually live with that"? I think when Ingrid sat down opposite me at the Swan the seed was planted. And after the house party... ah, I knew it, Ingrid may not be the exact one, but she may be the right type.
Like, most girls I've liked, I'd've been nervous about introducing them to my parents. The question would have been "Why does Paul like her?" - not that they weren't pretty enough, or smart enough, or nice enough, but why in particular. Ingrid, though, I think Mam and Dad would have just got it.
I don't need Mam and Dad to approve. This is not like I have overbearing parents who can veto my choices, or I'm afraid or need to please them. It's not that at all. They'd always have been totally supportive of anyone - Vanessa proved that, this complete internet stranger and they were totally on board. Vanessa was totally sweet, actually, she made sense in this way too I suppose! This is that my parents know me well, and they would have thought that Ingrid was a good fit.
...
And when Ingrid wrote back that was a good sign, that was an excellent sign. I actually have her reply quite close at hand. It has been close at hand for a decade - it's on my clip board. It's many years since I've read it. I don't need to read it.
It is a pity, I think, that it wasn't a year earlier or even a year later, that it took place. Things might be different, but this all just coincided with my withdrawing from the world in an almighty way.
--
I've wondered what she's done with her life. If I could remember her bizarre surname I'd probably have googled her at least a few times, but I don't. I'm reasonably sure it's on the letter she sent.
I wonder if she ever thinks about the dude that sent her a letter completely out of the blue? I wonder if she ever thinks about the fact that he kinda bailed out soon after? If not the latter, I'd like to think she occasionally smiles about the former.
I don't think I have a copy of the letter I sent. I wonder if I mentioned Recuerdos De La Alhambra in it, I know some drafts did. If it did... I wonder if she ever hears it does her mind goes to the same place as mine? Sometimes I wonder if the reason I've never *really* tried to get that piece back in my repertoire is because I know I don't really want to deal with that much Ingrid.
But I may choose to create a little trauma
In my big cupboard there are a couple of folders full of paper and a small box full of photographs. I have two options: 1. just move them to some other place like they don't matter because, well, they don't, or 2. look inside. And I'm reasonable sure that I'm going to pick that second option. I want to pick it, I want to see what's in there.
The photographs are from France, 1999. That's Lucy, Nadin and Vero, amongst others... Sam, Hannah... I could probably dig up a couple more names if I thought on it a bit more. I'm cool with this box, it'll be fun to look through. I wrote an almighty Vero entry a few months ago - just before season 3 of Diablo 3 - and if I had anything to say on any of it I most certainly wrote it then.
Now, I *think* there are two folders, and I think I know, loosely, what's in each.
The first is full of love letters from Vanessa. And I may have also placed the letter or two from Jennifer there. I'll leave through that stuff very quickly - in a matter of seconds - to check that it is what I think it is. I have little interest in rehashing Vanessa. You know, though, I'm not sure I've ever revisited that period of my life very much in writing. That's quite odd. It's extremely odd. Maybe it's because that whole thing ran its course. It's not that it wasn't awesome or interesting but it was, and this seems like a terrible word, solved.
--
The second folder, though, the second folder could be trouble. There might be trauma lying in wait.
The one thing I know it has are drafts of the letter I wrote to Ingrid. Give or take, Ingrid marks the time that I stopped going out so much and started cutting off ties to the outside world.
Even before looking at the drafts of the letter my fingers and mind are bumbling about, failing to construct useful thoughts to turn into sentences. There is so much to say that I don't even know where to start or how to go about saying it. Maybe I'll get back to it.
Also, in the folder, I expect to come across some other odds and ends of writing from back then. I think I have a short dream journal. I think there may be a few journal entries that I wrote and never bothered to put on LJ. Some odds and ends of thoughts, perhaps. That could be some interesting reading - I'd quite like to see it, especially if I really let loose with some honesty, maybe in a different way than I might to something that other people might read.
But something I did back then, from time to time, was write letters to people I knew. I didn't send any, but I went through the process of writing to them. I found it useful for getting some things straight in my mind, or trying to get perspective on something. Or just to free myself of a notion that was stuck in my mind, sometimes writing about it would set it free.
Some of these letters I wrote on my computer and lost them during a reformat or whatever. But some of them I actually wrote. And I don't recall which ones survive, and I don't recall what I wrote about. And I didn't necessarily pull any punches in these letters. And I wrote from the heart. Did I write to Claire after Harley died? I may have. Did I write to Amy? I know I wrote to both Eleanor and Jess about some really uncomfortable and painful crap. Did I write to Sam when things were shit? Did I write to Harley before he died?
And I'm pretty sure I'll squint with my bad eyes and read whatever I find.
Now, no matter what is there, I don't expect to break down or have any crazy moments. But I don't think it'll be like I'll read that stuff and just be able to brush it off completely.
And Ingrid, all those letters.
--
I know the first time I met Ingrid. It was during on of my first nights out in Durham with that group, I was sat in the Swan beer garden, about as distant from the pub as possible, my back to the river. She sat down opposite me, it was basically the last space near her friends. We talked. I'm not sure for quite how long, maybe just 10 minutes... probably longer. We had a conversation. Not some kind of all-night momentous affair, just a normal conversation.
Over months, many months, we interacted (can't think of a better word!) a couple more times, but only very briefly. And that was that.
A few months after Harley died I went to a house party. (and now I realise I've told this story, all of this, at least a couple of times in the intervening years but IDGAF). I arrived with Claire and I was... I was not unhappy about that fact that I was going to get to spend quite some time with Claire, and probably take her home and spend more time with her. I had leaned on Claire quite a bit in those months.
Some amount of time into this house party I spotted Ingrid and plonked myself down on a comfy chair next to her. We talked. And we talked. Everyone who had to go home went home (Claire included). Everyone who was just passing out at the house just passed out. Ingrid and I talked the night away. It was lovely. It was also momentous because it was the first time since Harley had died where I'd just had a good conversation with someone without Harley being a thing at all. We just talked about stuff, but not Harley stuff.
When it was late enough I left. I was going to leave, but just before I did, I turned around and hugged her. I... I fancy that more should have happened that night. What's that exchange from It's A Wonderful Life? "Youth is wasted on the wrong people", stop talking to her, kiss her. The night wasn't quite that, but... a bit. A bit like that.
I couldn't quite let it go. With some creepy stalker skills I managed to track down an address - well, not quite. I figured out her name and her college. I spent a creepy amount of time trying to compose a letter - and I have all of the mammoth drafts - and sent it. I was less sure about what I wanted to say in that letter than just about anything in my entire life.
I do this thing these days when I watch a TV show. Basically Kill / Marry / Fuck, I guess. But it's really the "Marry" that interests me. It's easy to fancy someone, and it's easy for someone to be annoying or horrible. But what character is "I could actually live with that"? I think when Ingrid sat down opposite me at the Swan the seed was planted. And after the house party... ah, I knew it, Ingrid may not be the exact one, but she may be the right type.
Like, most girls I've liked, I'd've been nervous about introducing them to my parents. The question would have been "Why does Paul like her?" - not that they weren't pretty enough, or smart enough, or nice enough, but why in particular. Ingrid, though, I think Mam and Dad would have just got it.
I don't need Mam and Dad to approve. This is not like I have overbearing parents who can veto my choices, or I'm afraid or need to please them. It's not that at all. They'd always have been totally supportive of anyone - Vanessa proved that, this complete internet stranger and they were totally on board. Vanessa was totally sweet, actually, she made sense in this way too I suppose! This is that my parents know me well, and they would have thought that Ingrid was a good fit.
...
And when Ingrid wrote back that was a good sign, that was an excellent sign. I actually have her reply quite close at hand. It has been close at hand for a decade - it's on my clip board. It's many years since I've read it. I don't need to read it.
It is a pity, I think, that it wasn't a year earlier or even a year later, that it took place. Things might be different, but this all just coincided with my withdrawing from the world in an almighty way.
--
I've wondered what she's done with her life. If I could remember her bizarre surname I'd probably have googled her at least a few times, but I don't. I'm reasonably sure it's on the letter she sent.
I wonder if she ever thinks about the dude that sent her a letter completely out of the blue? I wonder if she ever thinks about the fact that he kinda bailed out soon after? If not the latter, I'd like to think she occasionally smiles about the former.
I don't think I have a copy of the letter I sent. I wonder if I mentioned Recuerdos De La Alhambra in it, I know some drafts did. If it did... I wonder if she ever hears it does her mind goes to the same place as mine? Sometimes I wonder if the reason I've never *really* tried to get that piece back in my repertoire is because I know I don't really want to deal with that much Ingrid.