"The only constant is change."
Heh. Ain't that the truth.
When I was a kid, sixteen, seventeen years old, I thought it would be great, GREAT, if I could somehow buy a mansion with hundreds of rooms, one for each friend of mine, or person that had made an impact, or even just those I enjoyed partying with; great conversations and memories and times. I would gladly have somehow supported them so that they could stay with me and I wouldn't have to look back on the memories of my life, but actually have them, right there, to be relived.
I know now, as I did then, that this wasn't plausible, possible, or kind. See, these people each have their own lives and goals, comforts, and momentums, and so we may get to pass like two ships in an endless ocean, or even travel aside one another for a time. Eventually, though, we each peel off in our own pursuits and directions, and the mates we had once aren't always eternal.
I am now old enough to know that those friends that would sail with me for a time won't necessarily sail with me forever. I had a friend, Erm, who once referred to our pack as "the fellas". Not "The Fellas", like some pre-packaged boy band from the Rat Pack era, but "the fellas", the way he said it full of endearment and personal meaning. There were several of us, ten or so, that grew up and fought and laughed and ran together. You ever see those scenes in the movies where a group of guys is cajoling together, each one with his own unique relationship with each of the others? That was us, "the fellas".
One by one, over the years, as girlfriends became wives or bones of contention, or as careers or jobs or goals or financial hardships or just plain life in general pulled us in one direction or another, we strayed from this pack, we fellas did, sometimes abandoning it altogether. Some came back; some did not. That is that.
In the past few months, I've been running into or hanging out with or talking to old friends from that pack, or second or third versions of that pack, Erm included. It's been good, I suppose. Cathartic, in a way, but awakening, too. You never can step in the same river twice.
Some are married - so am I - and others are out there, exploring alone. Some are married and exploring alone... perhaps this is a more adequate depiction of myself.
...
Have you ever seen a movie where the protagonist rides off into the sunset or towards a new adventure until his features become indistinct? It's a common ending; the audience rests assured that, wherever this hero or that couple goes, they are going on with their lives. All is well, it is assumed, and then the audience gets up and leaves, continuing with their own life.
Have you ever heard a song that doesn't just end with a dramatic finale, a definite endnote with resonance becoming nothing, but instead just continues to rock on or flow forth, continuing but growing fainter, not ending but just going somewhere else?
Life does continue, even after that song ends, and the fellas? They're still out there. Like different frequencies on the same path, we'll no doubt cross one another again. But will it ever be like it was, with all of us drinking and laughing, cooking fish and being young?
I still feel young. I still look young, to a point. My mind, though... I'm an old man sometimes, and when I drink now, I drink alone. Instead of making jokes, I write.
I've got new groups of friends, new fellas, not replacements, but good ones.
But will it ever be like it was?
No.
Heh. Ain't that the truth.
When I was a kid, sixteen, seventeen years old, I thought it would be great, GREAT, if I could somehow buy a mansion with hundreds of rooms, one for each friend of mine, or person that had made an impact, or even just those I enjoyed partying with; great conversations and memories and times. I would gladly have somehow supported them so that they could stay with me and I wouldn't have to look back on the memories of my life, but actually have them, right there, to be relived.
I know now, as I did then, that this wasn't plausible, possible, or kind. See, these people each have their own lives and goals, comforts, and momentums, and so we may get to pass like two ships in an endless ocean, or even travel aside one another for a time. Eventually, though, we each peel off in our own pursuits and directions, and the mates we had once aren't always eternal.
I am now old enough to know that those friends that would sail with me for a time won't necessarily sail with me forever. I had a friend, Erm, who once referred to our pack as "the fellas". Not "The Fellas", like some pre-packaged boy band from the Rat Pack era, but "the fellas", the way he said it full of endearment and personal meaning. There were several of us, ten or so, that grew up and fought and laughed and ran together. You ever see those scenes in the movies where a group of guys is cajoling together, each one with his own unique relationship with each of the others? That was us, "the fellas".
One by one, over the years, as girlfriends became wives or bones of contention, or as careers or jobs or goals or financial hardships or just plain life in general pulled us in one direction or another, we strayed from this pack, we fellas did, sometimes abandoning it altogether. Some came back; some did not. That is that.
In the past few months, I've been running into or hanging out with or talking to old friends from that pack, or second or third versions of that pack, Erm included. It's been good, I suppose. Cathartic, in a way, but awakening, too. You never can step in the same river twice.
Some are married - so am I - and others are out there, exploring alone. Some are married and exploring alone... perhaps this is a more adequate depiction of myself.
...
Have you ever seen a movie where the protagonist rides off into the sunset or towards a new adventure until his features become indistinct? It's a common ending; the audience rests assured that, wherever this hero or that couple goes, they are going on with their lives. All is well, it is assumed, and then the audience gets up and leaves, continuing with their own life.
Have you ever heard a song that doesn't just end with a dramatic finale, a definite endnote with resonance becoming nothing, but instead just continues to rock on or flow forth, continuing but growing fainter, not ending but just going somewhere else?
Life does continue, even after that song ends, and the fellas? They're still out there. Like different frequencies on the same path, we'll no doubt cross one another again. But will it ever be like it was, with all of us drinking and laughing, cooking fish and being young?
I still feel young. I still look young, to a point. My mind, though... I'm an old man sometimes, and when I drink now, I drink alone. Instead of making jokes, I write.
I've got new groups of friends, new fellas, not replacements, but good ones.
But will it ever be like it was?
No.
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