Digging in the Attic

Recently I've become more interested in reconnecting with people from my past than meeting new ones. What a queer bond history is. I've been thinking about why we lose touch and feel like we have nothing in common with those closest to us. Intimacy is a fickle bitch. Our closeness begat intimacy and intimacy faded. Suddenly, everyone seemed on opposite sides of the spectrum. Our differences appeared fundamentally irreconcilable.

I could never understand how you could prefer the recording of The Pixies' Doolittle to the obviously superior engineering on Surfa Rosa. Then I met people who'd never heard of The Pixies. Of course, I'm using seminal records to illustrate a point. Not to suggest that my relationships are based on bands, but if we were talking about song writing, you may have a point. "Gouge Away" might be the best end to a b-side ever. Ever? Ever. I used to think that these arguments mattered. Hell, I probably still think they matter. My point is this: when you get really close to someone they start to appear intolerable and wildly incompatible. Only when we step outside of ourselves, or outside of them, do we see how similar we always were. We come from the same place. We grew up the same way. We lived together. We loved together. Now we're on opposite sides of the planet.

It's been a painful lesson to learn. Closeness exacerbates everything. It's an unforgiving microscope. It isn't until we encounter the rest of the world that we realize how well suited our friends and lovers are for us. It's embarrassing how much we have in common. It's an odd bit of perspective that usually surfaces after marginalizing those important to us. And when we're on our lonely islands, we think fondly about our little family back home. History isn't much, but it's all we got. And sometimes, that's enough.

Welcome back to my life. I've missed you.