Selma and I are away in Monterey teaching our Destuckification Retreat, so this post is one I actually wrote several days ago.
Correction.
It has occurred to me more than once — actually, about twice a week — that I have done something of an injustice to my friend who is dead.
It’s been a couple years since he killed himself, a year and six months and eleven days since they told me. It gets better. I don’t cry every day.
But the impression I have given of him here is one of sadness. And that isn’t fair. Or true.
I told you about the International Day of Borekas and Repression because I was the one who needed it.
And because, at whatever conscious or subconscious levels I was looking for signs of unhappiness with the world on his part. Some sort of reason or justification for why.
I have at least eight years full of memories of my friend who is dead. And the only one I told you about was the only one where someone could go to find a sliver of sadness.
And even then it was sadness tinged with funny. Even then, it was my sadness and not his.
Here is what I remember when I remember.
I remember happy.
A short skirt and a long jacket.
His last apartment. An unlikely little space in a kooky building in Neve Tzedek. From the broad rectangular window you can see all the way to the sea.
I’m cross-legged on the couch, making notes for a yoga class I have to teach the next day out in Ra’anana and not wanting to leave Tel Aviv.
We’re listening to Cake — the Comfort Eagle album.
And he’d just bought it and he’s over-the-top joyful about the short-skirt-long-jacket song. Jumping around. Singing along. Clapping. With that grin of pure delight.
I want a girl with a mind like a diamond.
I want a girl who knows what’s best.
I want a girl with shoes that cut and eyes that burn like cigarettes.
And I kind of never got into that album because my ex-husband had absolutely loved it, and anyway I’d been deep into the yoga thing and listening to nothing but mantras in Sanskrit for at least a year but I was there and for the first time I really heard the song and it was perfect.
Hummus. Again.
We both have a day off at the same time and of course it is absolutely vital that we go have hummus right this second but how often do you get just the right hummus day so we have to go to the really good hummusiya.
If it were early in the morning we’d go to the old Syrian guy in the shuk but it’s afternoon so we’re going to that one hummusiya in Yafo.
And we drive. For some reason. I can’t remember why he had the car.
The place is packed because it’s always packed. And the guys who work there are seriously happy to see him because everyone who knows him is happy to see him always.
I make him order extra zchug because I’m not in the mood for the usual “oh look the white girl thinks she can handle the spicy” jokes. And he gives me his. And we’re happy. Because day off + hummus + everything is good.
And everything is funny.
We’re at the bar I used to work at. When I was still working at the other bar.
Between the two of us we probably know everyone there.
And for some reason, everything is funny. We’re actually laughing so hard that it’s difficult to breathe.
Lots of things are hard for me. My divorce. Money scariness. Whatever the latest crisis du jour is.
But right then everything is funny. Made more funny by being bearable, and more bearable by being so funny.
And I remember things other than HAPPY.
I remember concern.
Like when there was a terrorist attack across the street and no one knew what was happening and everyone was freaking out.
My friend was the one who took control of things, who made the calls to find out what was going on, to let people know I was okay.
And worry.
About me, of course.
And cheering-up.
Ending up at this complete dive in south Tel Aviv. There was live Greek music and total drunken chaos.
It would have been my wedding anniversary except for the divorce. And apparently my plan of Private Bitter Moping was not acceptable to my friend, who knew that live Greek music at a dirty hole in the wall was going to help. It did.
Also, I knew half the people there because it was all old guys, Moroccan cab drivers and Iraqi fruit sellers, who tended to frequent the same kinds of semi-disreputable places where I invariably worked.
I remember making a toast to something. Knowing that it wasn’t going to hurt so much.
And of course the general existential angst of being in your twenties and not having plans.
All the wondering you do about what you’re going to do with your life and with whom, if at all, and for what reasons and how any of it was supposed to work.
And support.
For everything.
For my writing that I refused to tell anyone about. Standing up for me at work when my boss was being an ass.
And not getting along.
We had the hugest fight once. And then some non-fights that were really fights. And then months before we could really work stuff out.
Oh, I can see him disappointed. And annoyed. And frustrated. And anxious. And upset.
And getting along again.
We fixed things. I can see relief. And forgiveness. And caring. And respect. And love.
I remember so many things.
Here’s the thing. My friend who is dead was quick and funny and loving and bright and enthusiastic and ridiculously talented.
I remember him in so many ways. I remember him being energized and I remember him tired. Contemplative. Happy. Listening. Upset. Distracted. Silly. Curious. Busy. Bored. Teasing.
Inventing a song. Cleaning. Resting. Coming. Going.
But not sad. Not depressed. Not someone who didn’t genuinely like being alive.
I get that there may never be a why. That it’s just going to be my own learning to stop asking for reasons, to stop looking for things to blame.
And my memories are full of good.
Memory and coming back to what was.
This isn’t me choosing to remember the good stuff. It’s not me choosing the good over the hard. That’s not what’s happening.
It’s me remembering what was. Or, what was for me.
And what was is rich and layered. My what was covers a broad spectrum of emotions and experiences.
My writing about sadness was one tiny corner. Maybe not even noticeable in the frame. It was where I needed to go when I needed to be there.
I remember sitting on the roof.
I remember doing the [lost dance of spirals] while the sun was setting over the Mediterranean.
When I dance now, I remember that it is the dance of anger and the dance of joy. And the dance of remembering.
When I let everything move, I can remember loss and I can remember pain and I can remember that everything is beautiful.
Comment zen for today
What I don’t want
I am not looking for advice. In fact, I have already given what I need to receive, in the form of these tiny bits of wisdom.
What would be useful
Love. Time. Space. A cup of tea.
Follow
You friend seems like a wonderful human being to me, in all aspects.
Internet hug and cup of tea for you.
Isn’t skilled writing on the Web amazing? I can feel so much of what you’re saying over here in the UK. So there’s the love, the space (4000km?), the time (8 hours?) so why don’t you pop the kettle on?
.-= Mike Walters´s last post … A short conversation with made-up me =-.
Havi, thanks for this post today, and thanks for the song. They were both reminders of things I need to hold on to right this minute, today.
May you have tea and the memory of the entirety of his beautiful being.
.-= Julie´s last post … How to Explain Why You’re Leaving =-.
*breathes*
*weeps*
*breathes again*
*hugs*
Thank you for sharing this.
.-= Kathleen Avins´s last post … In which I am a secret agent of change =-.
damn.
i may need a bourbon instead.
here’s to you, havi.
.-= Tami´s last post … There are Monsters all up in there! =-.
Hoookay…
I cried, but… how can I say this? I cried, but thanks for making me cry and for having put so beautifully what I seem to have held inside so long — soooo long! — since my sister died.
I grow lemongrass in a pot outside. I’m going to make you a cup.
*tea*
I love your blog. Thanks for sharing a very touching tribute that should resonate with anyone that has experienced loss. I know it did for me.
It was good to read about all those Israeli places. I love Neve-Tzedek, and Abu-Hassan at Yafo and Tel-Aviv in general. I miss my old apartment in Arlozerov. I don’t think I could go back to live there, but while you remembered the happy, you made me remember the happy too. Which is… well, happy.
So thanks.
.-= Chen Shapira´s last post … Notes about Hadoop =-.
To you, a cup of tea called Time Heals All Things.
Can’t stop crying. Oh shit. Can’t stop. And I want to read a book of this. By you. K? ‘Cause this shit bypasses all the bullcrap blah blah that people call writing. I’m hungry for this: straight to the heart. Love you, Havi. Love you so much.
Hi Sweetie,
Thank you for sharing so much magic and love and funny and dancing….. and love (again)…. so much love…. for him, from him, for you, for us, for the cabdrivers and hole in the wall bar dives. It just all keeps going around and around in one big swirl of heart thumping sweetness and life.
You are love.
He is love.
We are love, together. ( Is this from a Beatle’s song?)
Hugs and tea and of course… CAKE!!
Chris
.-= chris zydel´s last post … The Problem With Dragon Love: The (Sometimes) Torturous Path To Your Creative Treasure Trove =-.
“Ich werde keinen Versuch machen, dich zu trösten” […] Ich weiss, dass ich das nicht könnte. Aber ich will Dich daran erinnern, dass ein guter Mensch nie sterben kann. Du wirst ihn oft wiedersehen. Du wirst ihn auf der Straße sehen. Du wirst ihn in den Häusern sehen, überall in der Stadt. In den Wein- und Obstgärten, in den Flüssen und Wolken, in all den Dingen, die uns die Erde wohnlich machen. Du wirst ihn in allem fühlen, was aus Liebe und für Liebe gemacht ist – in allem, was wächst und überquillt. Die Gestalt eines Menschen kann verschwinden oder uns genommen werden, aber das Beste an einem Menschen bleibt hier. Es bleibt ewig hier.”
Sorry – this is actually English in the original text (from the “Human Comedy” by William Saroyan) but I haven’t managed to google the translation but it I know will work for you in German. And it is not meant as advice.
And here it is red wine instead of tea.
Much love and thanks for sharing this.
I’m really glad you posted this, Havi, because I needed to read it.
I have some Stuff in my past that I’ve dealt with to the effect that it no longer hobbles my daily life. At the same time, I struggle with how to think about it. I feel a lot of pressure to “only remember the good parts,” but that makes me feel like I’m disrespecting the Me that had to go through the bad parts.
Instead of feeling like I need to re-write how I remember these things, maybe I can just tell myself, “I can remember the good, I can remember the bad, and (as you put it) ‘everything is beautiful.'”
I hope your week away is going well. Safe travels home.
.-= Michelle´s last post … How to Make the Most of Your About Page =-.
*raises cup of tea, chai with a bit of honey for me, opposite your cup of chosen tea*
Cheers.
.-= claire´s last post … The tallest I’ve ever been =-.
Havi,
Thanks for the song. I got up, away from my desk and danced in my bathrobe. Really what I needed. Love you.
Dana
.-= Dana, Spicy Princess´s last post … A Valentine’s Day full of Eroticism =-.
Oh, thank you for sharing.
And for writing
“and of course the general existential angst of being in your twenties and not having plans. All the wondering you do about what you’re going to do with your life and with whom, if at all, and for what reasons and how any of it was supposed to be.”
which is pretty much where i am. eading your blog post reminds me that… in all the awkwardness of having no goals and no direction; this is what i will remember. the being clueless together and the toast. and the moments wouldn’t stand out so sharply if not for the awkwardness and the friendships wouldnt be so important if not for the openness that comes with the vulnerability of no-direction-ness.
and the people that sit with you when you are down and out and sad and lost and drag you out to a bar with life music and a collection of rogue cab drivers are the ones that matter.
I am agreeing with Heidi… i want to read a book of this!
*heart* and hope you are having an amazing retreat
Here is a cup of tea my friend.
May light eternal shine on your friend.
.-= Shawna R. B. Atteberry´s last post … Early leaders in the Christian faith: Dorcas, Lydia, & Phoebe =-.
xoxo honey pie.
.-= Sonia Simone´s last post … How To Write For Regular Readers =-.
Havi, I’m making you a cup of tea so we can sit quietly and sip slowly and think about the people who are gone and not talk about it unless we want to. Hugs.
A toast…To absent friends.
And tea. Tea is good.
What a joyous tribute. Lots and lots of love and tea to you.
.-= Sandra´s last post … Grand Canyon Pringles =-.
Here is a cup of tea for you…Blessings…
wow-
what an awesome spot you’ve gotten to with this where you can remember the complexity of the relationship you shared with him – which is in the nuances of the things that you remember.
how great that you’re remembering this in a way that feels more real for you.
hugs for you havi – you never cease to amaze me with your brilliance and sensitivity.
xoxo
Beautiful, Havi. I feel the rooftop — is all I can say. I feel the whole city around it, and you two in it. Thank you.
S
.-= Sarah´s last post … Hello from Vermont =-.
Love.
.-= Andrew Lightheart´s last post … Conflict resolution: a tentative manifesto =-.
Thank you for this beautiful, healing writing. I offer you a cup of linden tea. I’m now fixing one for myself as my heart has been broken open again by your words. Raising my cup to you, to your friend, and to mine, who also made everyone glad when they saw him.
.-= Kate T.W.´s last post … A Month of Moondays =-.
I’m sure you have already noticed that when one of us is finally able to speak the memory, filled with joy and pain, laughter and anger and all the in-between, the memory becomes alive.
You ask, not for advice, but caring support and the peace to shift pain into loving memory. I wish you all of that, and offer you a thank you.
.-= Julianne Fuchs-Musgrave´s last post … Awakenings =-.
Oh, hugs and tea for you.
Some deaths never make sense. Every time you say “my friend who is dead” I think of my friend who was killed by a drunk driver. Senseless.
But yeah. There was so much more to him than that.
.-= Riin´s last post … Silvery updatiness =-.
The best gift my father gave me before he died was the memories of him, good, bad, sad, and joyful. I get to remember him as a human being and not as a placeholder or as an excuse for why I became the person I am. The flaws were as much a part of him as the many strengths.
His body’s dead, but his spirit and his memories remain with me.
God bless and keep you and your friend. May you always have the conversations and memories in a safe place near your heart.
Memories are a joyous thing.
*hugs*
.-= Katy´s last post … Is Your Facebook Account Acting Sluggish? =-.
What a beautiful remembering….I can see the rooftop at sunset. Tea to you….
.-= Susan´s last post … The Middle School Antics of Mental Health =-.
Thank you for this post. As a suicide survivor (damnit, always awake in the morning!) it’s nice to know that some people are capable of remembering their lost friends with joy and not judgement.
Short Skirt Long Dress was just what I needed to hear today, because as an unemployed paralegal, it reminded me of how much fun I used to have when I worked in the financial district of NYC until losing my job in early 2001. My choice of attire, not my credentials, got me the job. The construction workers loved me, the coffeewallahs loved me, and oh boy did the lawyers love me. 😉
I think I’ll go get dressed…in a short skirt. Long jacket too, right? It is January.
Dragon Pearl Jasmine, with a chaser of “Sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell…”
And a hug in remembrance of your love.
Since no one said it yet, and it seems to be appropriate:
“May his memory be for a blessing.”
And it sounds like it is.
So so much love. To you. And to the memory of your friend.
And tea.
.-= Elizabeth´s last post … ode to joy, volume 4 =-.
Love, hugs, and tea. A delicious cup of cloudberry tea – it feels appropriate.
.-= Josiane´s last post … Taking action instead of resolving to do so =-.
“Ich werde keinen Versuch machen, dich zu trösten” […] Ich weiss, dass ich das nicht könnte. Aber ich will Dich daran erinnern, dass ein guter Mensch nie sterben kann. Du wirst ihn oft wiedersehen. Du wirst ihn auf der Straße sehen. Du wirst ihn in den Häusern sehen, überall in der Stadt. In den Wein- und Obstgärten, in den Flüssen und Wolken, in all den Dingen, die uns die Erde wohnlich machen. Du wirst ihn in allem fühlen, was aus Liebe und für Liebe gemacht ist – in allem, was wächst und überquillt. Die Gestalt eines Menschen kann verschwinden oder uns genommen werden, aber das Beste an einem Menschen bleibt hier. Es bleibt ewig hier.”
“I won’t try to comfort you” […] I know, that I’m not able to do that. But I want to remind you that a good person can never die. You will see him again, a lot. You will see him on the street. You will see him in the houses, everywhere in the city. In the wine-country and vegetable garden, in the rivers and the clouds, in all those things that make our planet livable. You will feel him in everything, that is made out of love and with love – in everything that grows and flows over. The form of a person may disappear or be taken from us, but the very best of them stays here. Forever here.”