the dreams feel like boundary crossings. i spent last night with friends who all lived in peterborough a few years ago. many of us were close; some, closer. some only moved away last month. it was beautiful to see everyone close and laughing again. at this point, only joel and myself haven’t moved away from this street.
we were celebrating the marriage of one of our dear friends, to a dear new friend.
i can identify three times in my life in which i really felt like i was part of and contributed to a close community of friends. once recently, with all of the music and dancing and trauma and life, in the middle of my survival kick, surrounded and held by, and holding those close to me. the first was this tight knit stoner crew in high school, all of us just barely managing to stave off disaster at every turn, at the whims of our damaged families and damaging minds, hurting each other and learning to love through music and drugs and art and conversations.
the other time included the group of people i hugged and kissed last night. through the trials, deadlines, exploits, successes, and failures of the university administration, the student union, the student paper, the songs, the shows, the organizing efforts, the performances, the conferences that turned into parties and the parties that turned into conferences, our identities, our pedagogies, our egos, our insecurities, our sexualities, our lines in the sand, our commitments, and desires were forged and marinated and taunted and taught.
at least this is how it all seems from my perspective, and with the minimal retrospective i’ve been able to accumulate.
which somehow, even in the thick of it, always feels peripheral. like there is an observer status placed on me — and maybe everybody feels this way.
like i’m constantly on a boundary. like i’ve always got one foot in this world, and one in another. one hand in control of the reins and the other barely holding onto my hat.
i’ve fought with myself for as long as i can remember to make a commitment to this life, to this side of the line, to a future of possibility and not a past of hurt. i feel like it’s only been recently that i’ve been able to articulate this desire.
and sometimes, when faced with the devastating beauty of what the difficult experiences of all of us have turned into, what we’ve made of them so far, like last night, it brings me such joy. but simultaneously, i get so scared that whatever semblance of certainty or balance i’ve been able to attain through all of this will just fall away.
i recognize my periods of being alone are important times for reflection and movement and stability. but they are terrifying. i know now it’s a matter of balancing the darkness with the light, instead of bouncing from one extreme to the other. too much of either only results in blindness.
the friends i have made are what keep me in this world at my lowest. i am lucky. i miss you right now. i love you.