I met my friend to talk about work. But what we ended up talking about instead was friendship. He said he was thinking of writing a book about friendship. I told him about an essay by Vivian Gornick that I recently read and that maybe he would like. It’s mostly about Gornick’s friendship with a difficult man named Leonard. It’s a sad essay. There is a moment when Gornick has farewelled Leonard and, going up the elevator into her apartment, she starts to ‘feel on my skin the sensory effect of an eveningful of irony and negative judgement. Nothing serious, just surface damage – a thousand tiny pinpricks dotting arms, neck, chest – but somewhere within me, in a place I cannot even name, I begin to shrink from the prospect of feeling it again soon.’ I told my friend that I had recently had a falling out with another friend and that I wasn’t sure what to do about it. He said that a lot of his friends are starting to die now and he wasn’t sure what to do about that either.
I got a text from my mother to say that my aunt, my dad’s sister, died. I remember very little about her, but I do remember her face well. She had a chin-length greyish bob and drooping eyes and a quick walk. Maybe she wore soft skirts and long cardigans. The last time I saw her I was maybe eight. My father sent me a message on Facebook (that is, he wrote it on my Facebook wall) to say that at the funeral he’d sung a tribute to his sister, and his singing was very off-key, but it went down very well. ‘In fact I was mobbed like a pop star.’
I sent a book of poems to a friend who lives in Nelson. Five days later he emailed me to tell me he had received the book. ‘This morning I had a huge list. So many things undone. I considered resurrecting a Hot Cross Bun recipe for the family influx this Easter,’ he wrote. ‘But then the mailman saved me from corporeal ambitions.’
I woke up feeling angry because somehow, while sleeping, I remembered that a while back I wrote a long, enthusiastic email to answer an acquaintance’s questions to help with a project they were working on, and they never replied to say thank you. I was angry all morning, and I cleaned things furiously. Maybe there were other things feeding into the anger, but that was definitely the main thing, and it seemed to me that the lack of response represented the whole world’s general absent-mindedness in the face of all of my efforts. My many great efforts, I said to myself as I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the cat’s door. Then I remembered that, actually, the person did reply. But briefly, and not for two months after my email. Somehow, this made me angrier.
Sometimes I have a thought: ‘Other people my age have lots of friends. Why don’t I have more friends? Why don’t I have a group of friends who I see all the time?’ At first I’ll decide that it is not because I am shy, but because I am lazy. Then I begin to argue with myself. Am I truly lazy, or am I genuinely shy? Perhaps the shyness has turned into laziness, over the years. It is important to be honest with myself about this.
I decided I would stop putting friends and family into poems anymore, even though I still wanted to. It seemed selfish, in the end. I wasn’t sure whether I could stop putting them into other sorts of writing, though. Whenever I started writing anything, it was as if they all just walked in and made themselves comfortable. Sometimes the entrance was more forceful, as if they abseiled into the room or crashed through a skylight. Then stood up and dusted themselves off. Then I had no choice.
A poet came in to my work, the author of the book of poems that I sent to my friend. He said, ‘Now, here’s something I know about you – you’re a swimmer. I saw you standing outside the pool the other day, with a girlfriend. Was that you?’ I do swim, but I don’t stand around outside the pool with a girlfriend. I go to the pool by myself and when I am done I leave immediately. Suddenly this was too complicated to explain, so I said, ‘Yes.’ Then the poet said that he had three unpublished novels and that he would be quite satisfied if they all vanished so that they wouldn’t be unearthed after his death, to retrospectively destroy his career. But, these three novels. Perhaps something could be done.