RuKsaK

My friendship with Steadwards came apart in 1989 for a reason I can’t remember. Until then we’d stuffed the ravenous relationship for around five hours daily for five years. It was brimming with every intimate secret about us, stories of our sexual pioneering, feelings on music, films, real and then-believable ambitions to be superstars, a ton of laughing and a kilo of tears. This friendship was so jam-packed, so obese in size. After five years it could barely function like a normal one – it was so fragile and cumbersome. It had to explode or die and I can’t remember which it did in the end.
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On a bench made drunk by our sitting on it he told me he was gay:
‘I’m gay RuK.’
‘Fuck me! I didn’t see that coming.’
‘Really?’
‘No, not really – fucking Helen Keller would’ve seen that coming Steadwards!’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying you’re gay – your closet doors fell off ages ago.’
‘Does it bother you?’
‘No more than the size of your shoes you daft queen. I bloody love you.’
'RuK - are you gay too?'
'Fuck - no!'
'Oh, good - I really don't fancy you.'

He was the first I told about losing my virginity:
‘I’m glad I’ve done it, but blow jobs are better.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yeah – she’s sucked me off and swallowed about ten times and they were all better.’
‘It’ll change I’m sure.’
‘Well – I’m glad I’ve done it and am not ruling it out for the future.’

I loved him and can see him with his hair held in spikes, dyed red, eye-shadow and liner, and his grin with sex and humour travelling across it, revelling in our talking. I can see me doing the same – a mad tandem of a friendship. Taboo subjects themselves were the only taboo. We knew each other more than we knew ourselves.
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Regrets are not like friendships – they’re not so dumb or easy to feed. The genuine ones are prickly little bastards – hard to get rid off and best kept locked in metal boxes with huge locks. Killing one off releases a bit of you, expands your lungs and retrieves your stride. However, most people keep them caged and just open the box to throw in yet another every now and then. Regrets are prolific, we have more than we know, and nobody gets to heaven without a crate of them.

I threw another one in yesterday when I read this:

STEADWARDS. - Robert, aged 36 years, died tragically in London. Beloved son of Pam and Ronald.
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It’s a strange multi-hue of sensations that hit me finding out my old best friend is dead. I haven’t seen him for fourteen years and have no idea who he became or how he ‘died tragically’. I’m almost shocked I didn’t feel him die last week.

I’ve had fourteen years to get over a death which happened last week. Grief delivered aged-fourteen-years as a built-in freebie makes it more like dough – I can mould it how I want. I can almost decide the grief – play it my way.

Part of me wants to tenderly mourn in a few quiet brief moments – picture Steadwards’ faces, remember his words and music, his loves, hates and errors – as much of him as I can until it’s done. I want to scribble down conversations we had, look through old photos and feel it all in my throat.

Another part of me wants to attach it to myself – make his part mine – know more of his death, build my stories – build me. I want to take his death and chronicle it, manipulate it and own it. He’s dead now and our friendship is all mine – I’ve inherited a memory without a certificate. I can make it all I want. Now, and for my forever, Steadwards is mine.
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But, right now, I miss him more than I have in the last decade.
Steadwards – thanks for the memories.
Thanks for the regret.
Thanks for the more of me.

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Balloons, boxes and me