Old Friends

I recently had the opportunity to meet with an old friend of mine. We'd known each other back in San Diego, nearly a decade ago, and had kept in touch, off and on, through the beautiful creation of Mr. Gore. In the intervening years, my Old Friend's life had taken many exciting twists and turns, and gave him perfect fodder for his moving and descriptive essays. By comparison, my life had gone from breathless and exciting to resignation and ennui. My biggest passion these days is knitting, and although I love it, outsiders tend to snark.

So clearly I was ambivalent about meeting; I had grown old and overweight, and I wanted him to remember me as I was ten years ago, not as I am today.

Fortunately, Old Friend was able to disabuse me of that notion. Rather than the chicken dance or Bobby Brown (thanks a lot, Faith!) being stuck in my head, I now have a particularly lyrical bit of prose from the eloquently named band, Butthole Surfers (c'mon, guys! With a name like that, I can't even Google™ you!!!)

I don't mind the sun sometimes the images it shows
I can taste you on my lips and smell you in my clothes
Cinnamon and surgery and softly spoken lies
You never know just how you look through other people's eyes

Thanks, Old Friend. It was great seeing you.