[pictures: the past]

I wanted to share pictures relevant to parts three through six. I’ll split them up into a couple of entires so that this doesn’t become overly unmanageable (like my past sometimes seemed.)

This is the only picture I have of Brandy. In Part 3 I mentioned her tragedy, and how it affected our relationship as I descended into my own inky depths. I mentioned that she was engaged, but did not mention her wedding. This is a picture from the Jacksonville paper announcing their engagement.

On January 3, 1992, Brandy married her boyfriend, Mike. I was in attendance, of course, despite our diminishing contact, despite the hollow echoes that seemed to fill the spaces between words. I’ve always been smitten with silence, which often surprises people who know how verbose I can be.  It’s easy to throw words at someone, easy to strike up conversation, easy to prattle and hum–but when you know someone very well, when you are skilled at interpreting the spaces between words, the pauses and the lulls and the words unspoken? It’s something else entirely. Perhaps I am enraptured with quiet in the same way I love harmonizing vocals in music, because of the way they enhance.  Silence can be so beautiful.

Brandy had changed, and I had changed, and the difference wasn’t in what we said, but in what was not.

It was a small ceremony, dimly lit and hushed. I knew a couple of her friends, though only Tracy (who was maid of honor) and Mike with any degree of familiarity. When they spoke their vows, emotions crowded my thoughts. My eyes brimmed with tears of love; my heart ached with desire. Not for her, however, but for her happiness. I knew her secrets and pains, her blurs and stains, and at that instant, I wanted nothing more than for her to be free of them all.

To say I am not a religious man is an understatement. To likewise assume I am not spiritual, or that I do not occasionally send thoughts into the void, desperate for answers or resolution, would be incorrect. I am agnostic; I admit the possibilities, even to that which I do not subscribe.

At times in my life when I have been most suffused with raw puissance, I have closed my eyes and attempted to simply will; I ask, I bargain, I plead, if I am wrong, if I am mistaken, if there is something greater, to grant me some boon.  This was one such time; while my love ran rivers down my cheeks, I thought, "Please let Brandy be happy. I’ll trade in mine; if the price is that I am never happy again, if that’s the toll to purchase her peace, then do it, gladly, I give it to her. "

Her wedding day was the second to last day I ever spoke to her; the last time was in front of Wal-Mart a month later, her entering, me exiting, words promising reconnection, silences whispering that we’d moved on–and that it was ok. 

She looked happier than she’d been, but I won’t ever know if my plea was answered. In subsequent years, occasionally I would remember that moment at the wedding. I wonder if, perhaps, something was willed; the relationships I’ve endured, the failures and miseries, the lashes and beatings of mislove and unfaith.  They may simply be the bill for my audacity.

Above my computer sits a broken glass; a brandy glass, from her wedding reception. I took it as a memory, and was chagrined when, upon moving back home, it was broken, fragmented. It seemed to me later that it was more fitting that way.  As I’ve journeyed from one year to the next towards wherever I am meant to be, I look at it, and draw strength, and hope that I am not shattered in transit, too.

This is Chris. We were close; the Offworld summer, particularly after having immersed myself in memories over the last two months, is so bold and underlined at the moment that I miss him. He was my closest friend for many years; we were companions when we were the same, and grew apart when we were different, and I wish him only the best. We always had the knack of being able to pick up where we left off in conversation, as if no time had elapsed. I figure one day, that will happen once more.

This is another picture of Chris, and his pet potbellied pig, Gracie. I loved Gracie. She was adorable, although I will confess, that whole "eat like a pig" cliche is completely true. She was a joy. Sitting on the left is Scott, another good friend of mine, whom I’m still in contact with, although it’s admittedly sporadic.  Scott was/is one of the most private, quiet individuals I know, but a wonderfully caring and gentle man whose friendship has meant a lot to me.

As you see, my mullet eventually disappeared into a beard and long ponytail. Thank goodness. I can’t get over how large my glasses were–back then, the current styles and technologies didn’t exist. The jersey I’m wearing was Andy’s, as he played football in high school, and I wound up in possession of it after we lived together. In fact, I still wear it–it’s incredibly comfortable to work out in.  Almost like it was designed for that…  The yellow flowers were given to us by Rachel (see next photo) who enjoyed photography and took this one.

This picture was taken at Laumeier Sculpture Park, which is one of my favorite places, ever.  A lot of times, the Offworld crew would sneak into the Park at night; it was filled with intimate wooded trails; a press of trees would spontaneously open into a clearing featuring a sculpture, and then just as quickly the limbs would reach out and caress you, propelling you onto another trail leading to another isolated glen.  There were a myriad of paths, but we always wound up at a place that we called The Pool.

The Pool was the ruin of a swimming complex, once part of an estate named "Orchard Valley".  It was originally a cow pasture and stock pond, but was converted into a stone-and-concrete swimming pool (and, indeed, written about in 1934.) Judging by its size and the scenery, it must have been an incredible sight to behold.  In the 1980’s, the artist Mary Miss constructed wooden trellises and decking around the pool’s ruins. It was the perfect place to hangout in couples or groups; it was a retreat, a sanctuary. I wish I had photos of the entire place; it’s funny, considering how many nights we trespassed, that I don’t have more photos of us there. Some years later, they stepped up security a bit, but I’ve always wanted to go back with someone whom I loved, who would appreciate the simple quietness of being there under the sky with one another.

That’s Rachel. I haven’t mentioned her, I don’t think, but she was close to both Chris and myself.  She was deaf, which I only mention because I found it amusing when, after I began learning American Sign Language for the ARC, I learned that she didn’t know any sign language at all. She’d had hearing aids her whole life–when you hugged her, you’d get feedback, which always disconcerted someone who hadn’t been around her a lot. 🙂

I always nursed a crush on Rachel, who nursed a crush on Chris, but it was never anything angsty or troublesome.  The two of them had a brief relationship later in life which sort of tore Rachel up; I’m not going to get into it fully, but I was somewhat caught in the middle. Our friendship didn’t conclude on a good note, which saddens me. I tried to comfort her, but she wanted more, and was very demanding of my attention and friendship, and sometimes I didn’t respond to an email or a phone call until the next day–and she got mad at this, saying I wasn’t there for her, I wasn’t being a good friend, etc. It was sort of heartbreaking.

She was really a good person, at heart; she was very generous, very giving, and was the first person to open my eyes to the beauty of the environment, the world outside rather than inside. I regret that our last contact wasn’t positive, but I honestly hope she’s doing well, and that she was able to overcome her problems.

At the bottom was a saying of hers: "There are no ordinary moments." I used to snip quotes and tape them to the bottom of my photographs, and since that one was hers, and because it really was a glorious day when the three of us made our expedition to Laumeier, it seemed to fit.

(more pictures next)