friendship

Music Monday | Tangled Up In Blue – The Whitlams (cover) of Bob Dylan

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If it is so difficult to begin, imagine what it will be to end—
Louise Glück

I am reading Geoff Dyer’s book of endings; The Last Days of Roger Federer. I have tried and failed before to read another book by Dyer that came highly recommended: Out of Sheer Rage. Perhaps, after listening to (because that’s how I read almost all books these days) The Last Days of Roger Federer, I will be able to return to it. I was attracted to this current book by its title and my adoration for Roger (as Dyer notes, it’s always just Roger despite not knowing him, only Roger), and also due to the fact that I’d failed to read his previous book. Although, it’s not his only previous book. Only the one I’d previously attempted to read. This new book starts in a fashion I particularly enjoy; short “chapters”. Though most people would probably refer to them only as paragraphs. Other authors whose work I appreciate for the same reason; Yiyun Li in Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life, and Lewis Hyde in A Primer for Forgetting. These short chapters are put together to form a whole picture based on seemingly small, dissimilar or unrelated snippets. They are the style of book I someday hope to write.

Dyer moves from an opening chapter on The Doors, to a second chapter about Bob Dylan and references his song Tangled Up in Blue.

I had forgotten this song. And, when duly reminded, had only the briefest inkling that it was originally written by Dylan (Dylan, not Bob—never Bob, unlike Roger). Instead, I was most familiar with a cover version by The Whitlams. The Whitlams formed in Sydney in 1992 and released their third album, Eternal Nightcap, (which really felt like their first) when I was in my early years of university. They toured university campuses with high energy but I preferred to listen to them at home, alone, in my bedroom with favoured songs on repeat. It is this album that boasts the cover of Tangled Up in Blue. It was my least favourite song on the album and I frequently skipped over it, preferring Buy Now Pay Later (Charlie No. 2), and No Aphrodisiac. But the reference Geoff Dyer made to a lyric from Tangled Up in Blue “We’ll meet again someday, on the avenue” reminded me of a different song by The Whitlams. It was on a later album, Little Cloud. And I used to play it incessantly on the piano when I lived in Queensland. It was called Keep the Light On.

I do not cope well with endings. Even when I have instigated them.

It is impossible for me to turn off my care, compassion, and curiosity for people I’ve had a connection with—who are or have been friends—regardless of whether they’ve hurt me. Or, perhaps, especially if they’ve hurt me. (There are a couple of notable exceptions to this but I won’t be revealing who they are or my former relationship to them.) I don’t know if this is healthy. But I do know that I don’t know how to operate any other way. I always just want to know that they’re well.

Music Monday | Nuvole Bianche – Ludovico Einaudi

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On May 14, 2014, I wrote this of you. The date is important because it would be less than two weeks later that I’d meet G.

“Thank you,” I text, after an arduous afternoon, “for everything. Always, for everything. Love you. xo.”

“Thanks for the bunny!!” you reply, referring to the chocolate-Easter-bunny-egg thing I’ve been carrying around with me for weeks because each time I see you I forget to give it to you and this time, I finally remembered.

I laugh to myself at your reply. But moments later, my phone beeps again. “I love you, too.”

This time, I don’t laugh. A smile teases my lips and I push my head back into the head-rest as I drive, listening to…something. It doesn’t matter.

It’s true, I say to myself because you aren’t here, I do love you.

And I wonder what might have happened if I’d gotten my heart together, stitched it up, only to let it burst wide open with love for you way back when your heart was curious. But these are idle thoughts. Merely observations because I don’t long for things to be different. And I wonder about all the things that have happened since. And the only truth I’m sure of, is that I am so grateful for your friendship. For your steadfast love and care. And, for you, looking after my cat.

On the weekend just gone, you came to visit us; G and me, and my cat. Years ago now, you introduced me to Ludovico Einaudi’s music and late last year I saw something pop up in my Insta feed: Ludovico Einaudi in his first Australian outdoor performance. “Come,” I wrote to you, “please? I’d love to see this with you.” So you booked flights and I booked tickets. And on Saturday night we sat entranced at the Sidney Myer Music Bowl through Einaudi’s latest creation: 7 Days Walking.

Of course, he couldn’t not play one of his most recognised compositions, Nuvole Bianche. And so in the encore, he did. As he played, I pondered the last eight years. You were so good to me at a time in my life that was particularly awful. When I was particularly awful. And again, I was reminded, that I am so grateful for your enduring friendship. For your steadfast love and care. And I love you.

Music Monday | Meet Me in the Middle of the Air – Paul Kelly

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I cannot find a reference for the following verse, so if anyone knows who to credit for the below words, please let me know. I’d appreciate it.

“The Measure of a Man”

Not “How did he die?” But “How did he live?”
Not “What did he gain?” But “What did he give?”
Not “What was his station?” But “Had he a heart?”
And “How did he play his God-given part?”
Not “What was his shrine?” Nor “What was his creed?”
But “Had he befriended those really in need?”
Not “What did the piece in the newspaper say?”
But “How many were sorry when he passed away?”
Was he ever ready with a word of good cheer, to bring back a smile, to banish a tear?

These are the units to measure the worth,
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.

Music Monday | Friends – Michael W. Smith

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Suitcase wheels whir and grate as I haul the rollaboard along behind me, running for the train. Two minutes to departure. And I still have to make it up a level, over the bridge and down an escalator to platform 15A. A lyric pops into my head as my feet beat against the white polished concrete floor of the bus terminal.

And friends are friends forever.

Conversations play out in my head, both real, and imaginary. Constantly. Mostly, I let them create scenes of their own accord and don’t pay much attention. But as I run, I replay the discussions I had over the weekend. I’ve been in Newcastle and Sydney for four and a half days, and due to my recent engagement, most of my talks with friends have centred around relationships, dating and marriage.

A question I used to ask prospective dates, I said to the friend I grew up across the street from in high school, was “How many close friends do you have, and how long have you known them?”

The answer was often indicative of how well a person could create and maintain relational bonds and boundaries. How well they could manage a relationship over time and all the challenges that came with it. How good a friend they could be. No close friends was always a worry. Short-lived friendships were a worry. But not making new friends was a worry, too.

Of the people I connected with this weekend, the range of time for which I’ve known them is between eight and twenty-eight years (or my entire life, if you count my parents). Long-term friendships require work from both parties; they need trust, respect, vulnerability, kindness and love to flourish. And I’ve always found that if you can be a good friend, you can be a good partner. But most of us don’t consider what makes us a good friend, nor what makes a good friend to us in return.

Although I don’t resonate with all of this song anymore in the same way I used to, it’s the one that popped into my head as I ran and the message is still meaningful.

A lifetime’s not too long to live as friends.

And I’m exceedingly grateful for mine.

White Male Rage and the Socialisation of Violence

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Content note: sexual assault and sexual violence

Today, Jessica Valenti wrote:

A cruel irony of sexual assault and harassment is that the traumas which frequently determine the trajectory of women’s lives are just as often unremarkable to the men who have inflicted them.

This is why, I suspect, these men become so shocked and enraged when they’re asked to answer for their actions: When they say “nothing happened,” it’s not just a denial — it’s that they truly believe the incident was not a big deal.

You can read the rest of the article here.

Women understand this all too well.

—

“Men are shit,” she declared while gazing out of the kitchen window as she filled her water bottle at the sink. I gathered the recycling in my arms to take to the outside bin. At almost 17, she’s already witnessed and experienced too much sexism and misogyny. I wanted to reassure her. Tell her it gets better. That boys grow up as they become men and stop treating women like objects, or lesser. That men respect women as equals.

But they don’t. Not always.

—

A few months ago, I opened a message as I switched on the car engine.

“Don’t message and drive or I’ll have to come down there and kiss you.”

My stomach turned. Sour bile rose in the back of my throat. I put the phone down and swallowed, anger burning in my cheeks. I’d just sent a friend a car emoji in response to his hello, a signal I was about to drive and unable to talk, and this was his reply.

“Inappropriate.” I replied when I arrived at work, my fingers banging the phone so hard I thought I might crack the screen. “I’ve explained to you before why those sorts of comments are a) generally unacceptable to women everywhere, and b) particularly unacceptable to me. Please don’t speak to me that way. I don’t like it and it’s not ok.”

Later, I received a text rant reply about how his behaviour was all my fault.

—

I am tired of explaining why “jokes” about sexual assault are not funny.

Imagine if he’d said “don’t message and drive or I’ll have to come down there and punch you.”

Threatening to kiss someone against their will is no less violent or terrifying than the threat to physically harm them.

I had already explained my personal feelings of dislike of that type of ‘banter’.

I had already explained my boundaries. Which should have been enough.

I had already explained my history of assault. Which I had hoped might evoke the seriousness of why that type of behaviour was problematic when my initial boundaries were not respected the first time.

But he still didn’t care. What he wanted was more important than how I felt about anything. And I’m sure, if you were to ask him, the whole thing was “nothing, not a big deal.”

I had previously explained it all twice and refused to do it again, so I used the block function to eliminate him from my friendship circle. He wasn’t interested in respecting my boundaries and I wasn’t interested in a friendship with someone who had so little respect for me.

Women everywhere are tired of men whose mouths say they respect us but show us by their behaviour that they really don’t

—

I am too tired to keep explaining things, so here is a memoir about how men and women are socialised into perpetrating and accepting violence.

Boys Will Be Boys