Rest in peace, my friend

You were the first person in my life to openly mock my taste in music.

“Is this fucking Candlebox?!”

You were incredulous. You burst out laughing and started headbanging in my doorway. “Oh man,” you gasped, still laughing, “I wish I still had my long hair.”

In all fairness, it was Candlebox. And I was blasting it. I had the front door and all the windows wide open when you walked in and I suddenly wondered if I should be ashamed. Maybe the neighbors had been judging me too? “Am I supposed to be embarrassed?” I asked, glaring at you. “I like two of their songs.”

Obviously, I have never been cool. And college was no exception.

“Oh no. It’s cool. They fuckin rock.” You smirked with winking sincerity and threw up the horns.

Well, my old friend, I’m playing them while I write this because I know it would piss you off. And I wish I could fight with you about music again.

Remember? That was the day you helped me move. You still had the Durango but you packed my cds before any of the furniture. My collection seemed to be a hilarious delight for you. I had devoted most of middle school to Mariah Carey and divided high school between R&B and country. My cd collection reflected that.

I boxed up my books while you chuckled to yourself, shaking your head while you packed, occasionally saying names out loud and laughing some more. There was a small stack you did find acceptable. John Coltrane, Miles Davis – Sketches of Spain. Billie Holiday – we argued about which ones were best on that album. Fleetwood Mac. I played Sara and As Long As You Follow on repeat that summer. 10,000 Maniacs. You couldn’t believe I didn’t have Our Time In Eden. But you couldn’t listen to I’m Not the Man anymore. “Have you ever listened to the actual lyrics?” you asked. “Fucking heartbreaking.” You gave me your copy since that song made you too sad and you didn’t want it anymore. “Seriously so fucking good though.”

You loved Blind Man’s Zoo, words I could’ve easily turned into a poem about your life. And you would’ve nodded in half-approval but cautioned me that it was a little overwrought. You were an exacting editor. Perhaps even a better editor than you were a writer. You should have written more. That was how we all became friends, remember? A mötley crüe of poetry geeks. See what I did there? You hated all the 80s buttrock I still love to this day. Maybe that’s why you were shocked when I started singing along with Elliott Smith. You open-mouth stared at me long enough that I had to tell you to keep your eyes on the road. We were both drunk. And besides. Of course I knew all the lyrics. I was a college kid marinating in my own melancholy. His drinking and depression resonated with me too.

You were a self-proclaimed music snob but you didn’t self-identify only by your expertise. I was young back then and couldn’t have known how many more self-proclaimed “experts” my near future held. You were devout, to be certain, but not stuck-up. You were also the only jazz aficionado with a vinyl collection who wasn’t also a douchebag. It turns out my twenties would hold plenty of those too. But by the time Limewire replaced Napster you were thoroughly irritated that any two-bit hack could accumulate – overnight, depending on their download speed – the same staggering music collection you had carefully curated by searching and saving for years. “It’s bullshit,” you had grumbled.

I didn’t understand your derision of the douchebag music snobs until I went on a date with a dj who wanted to do ecstasy with me. I declined and the night devolved into a parking-lot argument about pop music. He told me my little sister was obviously a fucking idiot consumer completely brainwashed by society and hit factories. The only reason she could’ve liked Outkast was because they were what the Machine told her to buy. She had to be a sheep with no taste. He seemed surprised when I didn’t kiss him goodnight. I don’t think I ever told you that story but you would’ve loved to hate that guy with me, his cult-ish devotion to electronic music and his disdain for any instrument he considered “traditional”. But you weren’t just a musician. 

If ever there really was a tortured artist it was you. But, thank God, not the performative stereotype. Not the open-mic-night/slam-poetry-in-a-coffeeshop type. You were perfectly content to disappear into your own drinking and depression and creativity until no one had heard from you in weeks. Everyone who was close to you was afraid it would be suicide one day. You were as glib about death as you were about life. And now you’re gone. And I’m here. Drinking coffee in my bathrobe. Trying to write about the entirety of a human life. If I let myself think about it long enough it’s surreal that some of us are here enjoying another day above ground. And if I let myself think about that long enough I feel guilty.

“Well then stop being so fucking Catholic,” you would tell me if you were here. Not with judgement but amusement. You were always open-minded about the fact that I believe in a mainstream Western religion. You were a true liberal that way, unlike the “progressives” who are only progressive about what they deem “progressive”. Even through your consternation you respected that my faith was my home. I don’t remember how it ever came up. But I remember you trying hard to process that anyone would choose it, let alone have a warmth in their heart for it that burns like an actual votive candle.

“No, I just. I, I didn’t know,” you stammered.

“Didn’t know what?”

“I didn’t know anyone did that anymore,” you said, genuinely surprised.

“Did what?”

“You know. Religion.”

I don’t know if we ever talked about Heaven. But you joked about not outrunning your demons forever. And look, you made it to middle-aged. Longer than you expected. Life was all fits and starts with you.

I remember an elaborately painted bathroom you had done on an a whim in a rental – vining flowers all over the entire bathroom – even the ceiling and the sink. Maybe venus flytraps? I can’t remember anymore. Maybe it was just colors and shapes. Or fruits. Or both. You grew bush beans and raspberries that summer and then moved. I don’t remember where. You had watched Blue Velvet again and started painting a Warhol-esque four-up of Dennis Hopper holding Isabella Rossellini by the throat. I’d never seen it and didn’t think I wanted to. “He’s not choking her. This was that scene where he was huffing nitrous, remember?” you kept brushing more blue along her jawline, assuming I had seen the movie, and a different shade along her cheekbone. I didn’t know the word ‘cerulean’ back then but I loved that painting.

I had only seen you paint walls before. The exterior of a large home in the woods somewhere way outside of town and the interior of an entire house near campus, some specialty non-toxic brand in a light sugary peach finish. You hated it. Actually you hated having to take any paint jobs to pay the bills when you wanted to do cabinetry and carpentry. You wanted to build your own house someday. I told you to call me when you did. I was proud of myself for responding with Fleetwood Mac lyrics but I don’t remember if you were impressed or not. 

Years later, when our paths had crossed again we were drinking coffee at a playground on a Saturday morning. You had insisted on spiking it. I had never had alcohol before noon. You were explaining how European cabinetry was different from American. “It’s in the lines,” you said, your voice suddenly animated as your hands gradually stopped shaking. “You know that ugly space around the cupboard doors we insist on having even though it looks like shit?” I always thought you were full of shit and exaggerating some irrelevant distinction. Then one day out of the clear blue nowhere you sent me pictures of someone’s kitchen you had redone. Clean lines indeed. The cabinets were impeccably beautiful and, to my suburban American eyes, starkly modern. This was before Ikea came to Portland. Before every new home was built with Scandinavian style kitchens. Before everyone held up “streamlined” as the aesthetic ideal. The elegance was in the minimalism. 

Do you remember the cd you burned for me that weekend? You called it Princess Heather’s Mixed Jazz Bag. The cd itself was labeled Princess’ Sacred Jazz Comp. A jab at the nickname my grandfather gave me before he died. It stuck and you thought it was hysterical for a grown woman and always used it in jest.

“This is actually so good I kind of don’t want to give it to you,” you reread your small blockish handwriting, 16 song titles meticulously printed with a thin sharpie. You stared at it long and hard before handing it to me with palpable reluctance. It was to be my education, my induction into the realm of “good music” since I had ignored my drummer dad’s well-informed taste in rock music growing up. I always meant to listen to it, mostly instrumentals, but, honestly, I never got through the whole thing. I’m sorry. But I know you never finished those Led Zeppelin concert DVDs I burned for you either! I know you meant to too. You know how it goes.

By the time our friendship had ebbed to facebook acquaintances the two-dimensional representation of your life looked happy enough. I had hoped you were. I always meant to reach out but never did. And it’s too late now but you would say, that’s ok. I never did either. 

And so, my old friend, here we are. There is so much more I could say. But for now I’m just going to leave you with Candlebox lyrics.

That’s right. Since you loathed schmaltz and had little patience for sentimentality, roasting you with lyrics from a band you found so laughably bad seems like the best thank you for your time in my life and a goodbye we always knew was coming. I know. Cheesy. But true. And fuck you. It’s for you 😉

Pain in my heart it is real
And I’ll tell you now
How I feel inside
Fuck you
It’s for you