Simplicity/ Little Poet, Dancing Gypsy

I don't know what kind of mood I'm in today. I've been feeling more in the mood for quiet contemplation, spending my days with a computer or notebook on my lap, writing about my life. I still want to work on An Ocean Between, but I don't feel that same urgency that I did earlier this month. All I really want to do is pass my days quietly, letting things fall together as they may.

I've been thinking a lot about all the things I wish I could be, and all the things that I've lost. I'm missing my high school friends, and I keep wishing that I had kept a blog then, so I could have some scrap of who I was to look back on.

I miss simplicity, and a sense of immediacy. Although I like having my whole "rich inner life" thing, I wish I could be more connected to the physical world. I read some posts in this blog http://www.theglassdoorknob.blogspot.com/ and I it had everything I feel I have been missing. It reminded me that being poetic isn't all about complexity and verbosity. Poetry is intensity.

I'm not intense!! (waa!)

The author reminded me of this girl, Astrid, who I was friends with at the beginning of high school. I think I was jealous of her, even though I didn't realize it then. She was so beautiful, like one of those voluptuous priestess Final Fantasy characters, and everything around her seemed sacred-- the pen she balanced between her fingers, the green apple she bit pensively, the jack-o-lantern she grasped in both hands. She had white skin, wide, expressive eyes, a soft face, gold hair, petulant lips, and a permanently contented expression, like a Buddhist monk. Unlike me, she always spoke quietly. She never seemed very hurried. We got along very well, even though she didn't share my sharper side-- the part of me that makes politically incorrect jokes, says stupid things for the hell of it, and writes blog posts with the title "Whore Shit Fuck! Revolution!!!"-- and she was sensitive to the extreme, saving spiders from eminent slaughter, adopting neglected textbooks, and pouting when Fallon made jokes about aborted babies. Fallon never liked her; she thought that Astrid was a fake bitch, and resented her theatrics over the lives of insects.

As for me, Astrid's sensitivity made me uncomfortable, but I didn't blame her for it. I never really believed that she was "fake" as so many people accused her of being-- I thought she always seemed like a sincere person to me. I enjoyed the quiet days we spent together. I visited her house a couple of times, and we went trick-or-treating together one year. We both appreciated the colors of autumn, the beauty of innocence, the joy of discount books, thrift stores, and sexy photographs. She told me that she wanted to own an art studio, and I told her I wanted to be an author. When I look back on this now, I cringe. Her writing was unquestionably better than mine, and she must have known it-- mine, at the time, was hopelessly juvenile. Yes. Even worse than now. She had one of those pensive and tranquil natures that allowed her to really connect with everything beautiful in the world. I always thought she was one of the wisest people I ever met.

We started drifting apart when we were sophomores, around this time of year. Right before the election, we had a pseudo-argument about George Bush and John Kerry, which ended when I said something somewhat tactless. It really wasn't that bad, but it hurt her. I guess I should tell you what happened-- we had had a mock vote, and Astrid had changed her vote at the last minute from Bush to Kerry (when I look back, I find it remarkable that she ever considered voting for Bush- she of the "No Blood for Oil" t-shirts), but Bush still ended up winning. Afterwards, I came up to her and asked her why she changed her mind, and she said that Bush reminded her too much of her father. Then would have been the time to say something nice, but, being both an Idiot and a Republican, I said, "Well, at least your vote didn't matter in the end." Or something like that. Ok, maybe it was that bad. I was referring to the fact that I was glad that Bush still won our election, but... yeah. It was a dumb thing to say.

Astrid, being divinely sensitive... I don't know if she ever really forgave me for that. I don't remember if I tried to apologize. I was embarrassed that I had said something so tactless, and I guess I hoped that if I didn't think about it again, the problem would eventually go away.

I wonder if she still remembers. I'm friends with her on facebook, and she still seems like the same old Astrid. Effortlessly wise, a better writer than I will ever be, beautiful, and spirited. I wish I weren't so afraid of trying to strike up old friendships. But what I'm really afraid of is to find out what she remembers me as. I've changed a lot since early high school, but how could she know that? She ended up leaving for another school at the beginning of junior year, and I only saw her once since then. I was standing on line, waiting to take the SATs, which was a right bag of fun, when I saw her standing a little ways ahead in line, her hair short, bleach blonde, and streaked with light blue. She used to have this really long, beautiful hair that was the color of honey, before she decided to cut and dye it. I thought she looked fantastic either way, but she used to say that she missed her long hair. Anyway, I said hi, she said, hi, we might have exchanged a few "how are you"s, but, altogether, it was a very awkward meeting.

Later that week, I laughed off the encounter with friends and Fallon, who is always a very generous person except when it comes to Astrid, used the opportunity to remark that she always knew that Astrid was a bitch. I might have even agreed-- I think I was bitter that she didn't remember me more warmly. But, now that I've left all the old conflicts of high school behind me, I realize that I was angry at myself-- I take the full blame for the fact that our friendship fell apart. I sometimes find myself thinking of how wonderful it would be if we were still friends, and curse the fact that I'm too cowardly to try talking to her. I know why, too. She's a reminder of everything I hate in myself. I'm rash, crude, judgmental, and even ignorant. Those qualities might have been more pronounced in my younger self, but they are still there. Astrid is a constant reminder of the costs of my flaws.

I'll leave you with this piece of poetry I wrote with Astrid in mind, over the summer. I envisioned her as the title character, and I also tried to write the way she would. I didn't do her justice in either sense, but here it is:

Little Poet, Dancing Gypsy

Who were you last year, Faina, and
did you sleep beneath
willows? sky? me?
Do you remember the carnival--
the fires in the tents and the smoky
skin I kissed, the pristine arches
of feet, and the dancing, swirling
carousel when I led you into
me? And the cherry-bursts
of fireworks; the lemonade lanterns
of fireflies that perched like stars
in the branching midnight of your hair?

I’ve long forgotten
your spider-thin hands, spinning
my fortune round in your
crystal ball, the musk of your
voice as you sang my future,
etching your lines in my opening
palms, and your palms--
how they were dipping bowls
brimming with stars, swirling
cards that sifted through folding
fingers tracing the life told
in the spaces between

galaxies
of freckles strung on my neck
and the silences
sundering my words.

And I’ve lost the red string
you laced around my
finger, and the poems
you branded into parchment;
the way they
tasted--
the blazing, briny ink
of your tears.

What was my name last year,
little poet, dancing gypsy?
It seems to have fallen
somewhere through the cracks in my palms.
Did it sing like fireworks
blooming on your tongue?
Or did it sting like a knife
and the pomegranate juices of your own
blood?
Oh, but I wish you would speak it,
so I could
remember.