To Rachel
“It is useless to attempt to reason a man out of what he was never reasoned into.” —Jonathan Swift
How long ago was it that we met? It must have been just over six years ago, our freshman year of college. I was immediately drawn to you somehow, with your long dark hair, darker eyes, and furtive manner. I remember telling you that I thought we were very similar, you and I. You seemed to disagree. You were right.
A deep friendship developed between the two of us that year. It was, of course, a very tumultuous relationship (you with your hyper-sensitivity and me with my delusions of darkness), but somehow we both liked it that way. You once told me you’d rather feel miserable than feel nothing at all, and it seemed that whenever things got too calm you felt compelled to stir them up again. For my part, I admit I was constantly doing things to set you off for my own amusement, like a boy shaking up glass bottle with a wasp trapped inside. It was just so easy to do; I really couldn’t help it. What seemed to surprise both of us was the amazing ability you had at stirring me up.
I liked to say that our relationship was based on mutual fascination. We’re pretty unique individuals, we two, and we recognized and valued that in each other. We had much to learn from each other and much to teach. I never really thought of you romantically with any seriousness at that time; I couldn’t tolerate that level of capriciousness in a real relationship, not to mention the fact that I still had a girlfriend at the time, though that relationship was dead in the water even then… You certainly weren’t ready for a relationship at that time, either. I’m not sure you’re ready even now… It seemed one of our favorite topics of discussion was just how much of a disaster we would be if we ever were romantically linked, though underlying it all was a desire for it to actually happen, I’m sure. My best friend, who was dating your roommate at the time, liked to call us “a relationship on the verge of reality.” Ha ha.
you show up and the world is wild
i want your pearly hand in my hair
we make a strange and furious pair
i want you pearly in the middle
i know your heart*
That was when we started our internet correspondences, as well. I remember you had me annotate an email I wrote you, explaining why I said this there or what that lyric quote here meant. You later became quite adept at the art of the email, my best friend even remarking on how wonderful your emails were. I was very pleased when you claimed you learned everything you knew about writing them from me.
Then a year passed, during which I was gone. When I came back, God and I were no longer on speaking terms. You and He, however, were as chummy as ever, which made things a little awkward for us. Somehow things chugged along, anyway. We were busy with school and didn’t spend as much time together as maybe we should have. You dated people and dumped most of them when they tried to kiss you. One lasted a little longer, I recall, but not so long, really. I, for my part, consistently assailed you with indifference and apathy, which I have always regretted. I did make an effort to be more careful with your feelings, however, and not upset you just for the sake of amusing myself. I wonder if you noticed? I still seemed to inadvertently set you off quite regularly, anyway.
I made a tape for you at one point, intended to show you that not all the music I listen to is dark and depressing. I wanted to demonstrate to you that I use music to explore all of my feelings, the bad and the good. I wanted to show you that I enjoy pleasant things and have pleasant thoughts quite frequently. It frightens me sometimes when I see myself reflected in your eyes. You said you enjoyed the tape very much, and that it helped you fall asleep at night when you were scared. One of the songs I included on the tape was “Little Wing,” by Jimi Hendrix. I told you the song made me think of you, and you seemed pleased by that. Thus Little Wing became my nickname for you.
At one point you told me you loved me, in an email. I had no idea how to respond, or what you meant when you said it. Words and phrases never seemed to have the same connotation for you that they did for everyone else, and I was unsure as to what kind of “love” you were talking about. And how was I to react when you were telling me why you could never be with someone like me one day and then professing your undying love to me the next? You rescinded your declaration of love later anyway, claiming you were confused. It was hard for me to ever consider you romantically when I was constantly getting such contradictory signals from you where such things were concerned…
Gradually we moved from talking about how a relationship between us would never work to talking about how a marriage between us would never work out. How it evolved to be so (not) serious, I don’t know.
Then, about two years ago, you left to spend eighteen months in South America. Knowing your temperament I at first thought it was a horrible idea. Then I changed my mind, reasoning that the experience would either break you or smooth your rough edges, making you into a truly stellar person. Either way, you’d be forced towards adulthood at last.
We wrote letters. We wrote emails. As it turned out, the experience didn’t break you, and I very much liked the person you were becoming. However, your relationship with God was only deepening, while the memory of my relationship with God was fading more every day.
Then one day, about four months ago, you came back. Suddenly we had to deal with each other, with us, again. Feelings began to arise. Some had been felt before, but some seemed new. Yet still, there was the question of religion. Obviously given the gap between your monstrous devotion and my deep skepticism, any marriage between the two of us would be strained at best. Yet somehow some part of my emotional, irrational heart thought maybe, just maybe, it could still work. My brain overrode these romantic notions, however, frequently taking the form of the little white bat from Anastasia, saying, “This can only end in tears, sir!”
Apparently you were having similar conflicts, as you told me not long after you came back that you could never talk to me again. You said you didn’t trust yourself around me, that you were worried you might give in, or some such thing. I could always count on you to choose the most dramatic of all possible choices. I did manage to talk you down from that ledge, reassuring you that I would be reasonable enough for the both of us and that our relationship was too valuable to toss away so casually. We’d done just fine for six years in a platonic relationship, and there was no reason to assume it couldn’t continue.
Though I suppose the relationship wasn’t strictly platonic. We never said romantic things to each other. We never referred to the other as our girlfriend our boyfriend. We only ever discussed the reasons why we weren’t a couple. We hugged a handful of times before long periods apart, but we rarely touched and never once held hands, much less kissed. But somehow we had a weird, intellectual kind of love.
I realized that your attempt at cutting me off was, in a strange Rachel way, another confession of your love and desire for me. I realized that if I made a strong play for you at that time, I could have you. You had left the window open for me and asked me to swoop in. My rationality prevailed, however, and I realized you and I would be more than volatile enough even without including religion in the equation. With the religious component thrown in as well, I knew there was no possible way we could ever be happy together. Thus I saw my chance but chose not to take it, instead doing my best to steer us back towards calmer, platonic waters.
Anyway, we both successfully cooled off and remained on speaking terms. Even if you named Sonnet 147 as the way you felt about me.
Then Ian came along. Ian was the first guy you went on a date with after your return from South America. Before long you were dating him seriously. I didn’t mind so much, really. It would be much easier for me to keep my romantic feelings for you locked in their cage if your own romantic feelings were being distracted by someone else instead of constantly trying to get at my own.
But then you got engaged, a mere four months after meeting him. You asked me what I thought, and I told you. I said that you can’t make an informed decision about marriage after knowing a person for three months. The relationship is still new at that point, and neither of you really know how you are around each other yet. You have to wait until things aren’t fresh anymore and see how you feel about each other then. Even then a great deal of caution and patience is called for. Perhaps you think the Spirit is telling you that it’s the right thing. I would like to caution you not to confuse the voice of the Spirit with the urging of your libido, which you have so vigorously silenced all these years. It has ways of making itself heard, no matter how you try to muzzle it.
I told you that I would support you in your decision, however, and asked you to send me a wedding invitation. You thanked me for my input and said you would. You said, “I’m not telling you goodbye. Just that your littlewing is trying to learn to fly.”
Then yesterday your most recent email arrived in my inbox. You told me how you and Ian had been going through boxes of your old things, in order to figure out what to keep and what to throw away. You came across a collection of letters I wrote to you, including the annotated email from so long ago. Ian was apparently hurt by the look on your face as you read my words. You felt this needed appeasement, so you gathered all my letters, and everyone else’s, and then you and Ian burned them together in the backyard. You’ve emailed me to tell me all of this and to tell me that this time you really will not ever speak to me again.
Somehow this feels different from the last time. Did you tell Ian you’d cease all communication with me? You can’t very well change your mind then, can you? You always did enjoy playing the martyr. Your kids are gonna hate that. Anyway, I will respect your wishes.
You said that while going through your things, Ian made you cry when he wouldn’t stop laughing at your dolls.
I’m a bit surprised you told me that. You know what I must think.
You said you don’t want to ever give Ian a reason not to trust you.
Well, Rachel, I feel that at this point in your relationship, the point where you are engaged to be married, you shouldn’t need to prove your trust, and Ian shouldn’t need to feel jealous about the likes of me. I don’t need anything from you that should rightfully belong to your husband. This is not healthy. By now trust should be understood; it should be integral to your relationship. If the trust isn’t there now, I doubt it will be there later, whether I’m in your life or not.
You said you’d send me an announcement, because you promised me that already.
Please don’t.
You said you have valued our friendship more than you can express.
Not enough, apparently.
You said you’d never forget me.
It seems you wish you could.
Have you seen Moulin Rouge? It’s one of my favorites. You’d like it, if you could get past all the parts that you’d hate. Is this letter the part where I’m supposed to say “Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love”?
I hope this isn’t because you’re still a bit in love with me. Because you really should have gotten over that before you got engaged. So instead you’re trying to purge it with fire now, is that it?
If I sound glib and condescending, don’t mind it. It’s just a cover. I’m actually very hurt by your words and actions. I think I may be angry as well. You’re unparalleled at setting off my emotions. It never ceases to amaze me.
I thought a lot about what to say to you in this reply. I’ve tried out and discarded various drafts in my head since getting your message. I think I’ve gone through all the stages of loss in the last twenty-four hours or so. Denial, anger, bargaining, grief… is this acceptance? I just can’t let it go without making some kind of response. I hope you read it. I’m sorry if I take a few jabs at you, like suggesting that after you read this you can print it out and burn it, if you like. Invite Ian over. Roast marshmallows. It’ll be fun.
and i’m screaming at the top of my lungs
pretending the echoes belong to someone
someone i used to know**
I’m appalled that you burned my letters. I guess that’s what makes this feel so much more serious than last time. I feel like I’ve been burned in effigy. After all, we had such a cerebral relationship even when we were physically in the same room; words and our mutual love for them was the foundation of everything we had. Burning my letters amounts to destroying the whole thing as if you wished it never existed. This is more than a slap in the face, more than a swift kick to the gut. It’s complete denial of my existence. Erasure. Irreparable damage has been done. It feels just like the song, “Smoke,” by Ben Folds Five. You’ve said: “We are smoke.” Ah, but I’m just upset. Don’t worry about it.
I hope you didn’t burn the Leonard Cohen album I bought you last summer. You can burn the tape, but not L. Cohen, please.
I’m worried about you and your future, Rachel. But obviously my opinions are irrelevant. Just remember you can contact me whenever you wish. I’ll leave the door open and the light burning for you. I would never shut you out.
what have i become?
my sweetest friend
everyone i know
goes away in the end
you could have it all
my empire of dirt
i will let you down
i will make you hurt***
The last two lines seem ironic to me now. Me having quoted you those lines once. But then again, maybe they’re not ironic at all.
I’m sorry I let you down.
I’m sorry I made you hurt.
I’m tired of fighting, Rachel. I’m tired of fighting for a lost cause.
it feels like i’m watching something die****,
ME
* Lyrics from “Untitled and Unsung” by Tanya Donelly, © 1995
** Lyrics from “We Will Become Silhouettes” by The Postal Service, © 2003
*** Lyrics from “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails, © 1994
**** Lyric from “Already Dead” by Beck, © 2002
–
Y. Funk was born to parents who were officers in the Foreign Service. He grew up in Egypt, Laos, Malaysia and Russia. He has a degree in French Literature, but his dream is to become a park ranger in Alaska. His favorite food is falafel and he is deaf in one ear, though he will not say which one. He is single and loves the ladies. He once had a girlfriend who was born with both male and female parts. The doctors and her parents made the decision to make her a girl. He was okay with that. They broke up for other reasons.
