So once again, (as it tends to), my livejournal is running out of Paid Account. If you want to help out, as I certainly can’t currently afford upkeep, then donate here to keep this journal alive.
Sometimes I feel like I’m crafting obituaries when I describe people here. “He was a kind man, Mr. Haversham, tall and slightly too commonplace. We loved his newspaper clipping accent, me and Dave, and now he’s gone.” That said, I think I’m going to give a shot to talking about Mark, (leaving out as much description as possible), as locals have been developing a curiosity.
We met in 1999, my mother was somehow part of an African music festival event that he was doing the sound for. We went home together after to an Art House on Fraser St. that he was watching for the out-of-town owners and, after we got rid of Lidd, we stayed up all night talking. (I would be shocked if Reine’s mother was not friends with the artists who lived there, just to give you some idea of what the house was like). I’m not sure why we went back together after, except that maybe things just happen sometimes and occasionally personalities simply click. He says now that I was very shy then and it’s sort of true. I didn’t talk as much as he did, not knowing how to speak with people yet.
Fast-forward to a few weeks ago, after I’ve moved to Toronto and back, L.A. and back, Montreal and back. After I’ve singularly failed to escape from this place, actually, but have thoroughly lost touch with Mark anyway. I’m at a Timothy Wisdom party, having been invited by an acquaintance on the street, an anonymous e-mail, and Angus Ms. Spelt. Set between a funeral home and an industrial warehouse, I didn’t know the hosts, but I knew the house. People spill out of it when there’s parties, and everything on the main floor, excepting the kitchen, becomes dance floor.
On this dance floor, this most fabulous and exceedingly crowded place, I encounter a woman who stops me to say, “I have the other half of your sewing machine.” It’s an odd statement, but she’s right, she does have my old sewing machine. I’m surprised. We used to trade one back and forth to summers ago. To her left is Mark. We haven’t seen each other since before I moved to Toronto, but we recognize each other instantly. (Amazing if you factor in that he’s not tall anymore because puberty wasn’t finished with me last we saw one another and now I’m an entire four inches taller.) That quirk of timing goes “click” again, and now we’re best of friends once more, spending time too late at night and sleeping over more often than is strictly necessary for a basic social life.
I think we have a date in December, but I’m not sure how things like that work. I’m going to have to ask.