This essay was published in Bletilla: Memories Preserved From Times Lost, which can be found here
For a while I considered including the letter I wrote almost five years ago, back when we still lived together. The one about my relationship between the scent of cigarettes and memory. The strange comfort the invasive stench gave me as it reminded me of those close to me that smoked. The one where I described the first time we shared a single Djarum Black clove cigarillo between the two of us. And the night I smoked my last after becoming aware of your guilt for introducing me to the habit.
But that was five years ago, and there now exists two distinct eras of our lives together. The era of the radio station, where we met that night of the rookie party. Those countless times we loitered together in that empty space, throwing small parties on Friday nights. The era where I performed It Was a Good Day and read out essays from Vestoj live on air while you ate Rice-A-Roni in the back office. The days we would floor lay together during your regular rotation shifts.
And then there’s the era we exist in now, crossing that divide of time. Miraculously we are still in each other’s lives, despite how violently far away you live from the city.
Even still, I appreciate the time we get to spend together in the gaps between the various assignments you’re shipped off to. The fact that we’ve remained in each others orbits for so long is both unsurprising and appreciated. You will always be the first in my thoughts when I smell a freshly lit cigarette.
I often think about the times we would sit together in that crowded room. Lit with soft string lights and a weak old lamp, music softly playing from your computer as you sorted through CDs for regular rotation. I never did much of anything when you were around, preferring to spin around in my chair as we would talk. Back when we met for the second time, I was shocked a person from my past and his younger brother had followed me from hundreds of miles away. But that coincidence blossomed into reconciliation: a destruction of the wall I once had. Though I’m sure our meeting meant much more to me than it did for you, I never once minded. Just being there in your presence was enough, like sitting by a campfire. I’ll always find happiness in those private memories.
You may be asking yourself why I’ve given you this lengthy novel, fully knowing that you aren’t that kind of reader that would have any interest in it. Trust that I haven’t deluded myself into thinking you’ll get through The Brothers Karmazov in its entirety. It’s slow to start and is filled to the brim with historical and philosophical discussions on the state of 19th century Russia. In the midst of it all, a prominent struggle between faith and atheism is present in its plot. While the Russian Orthodox church has many differences from modern day American Christianity, the underlying biblical context makes it easily understandable to your or I.
There’s two sections in particular that I recommend you read, if nothing else. They relate to three of the many major characters in the story, so I’ll give you a little context on them. First is Ivan Karamazov, who is an intellectual and atheist, holding the conviction that “If there is no God, everything is lawful.” He contrasts greatly with one of his three brothers, Alexei; a young monk at the local monastery and a devout follower of its elder, Father Zosima. The first section I recommend you read is The Grand Inquisitor; a poem written by Ivan about the hypothetical second coming of Christ during the Spanish Inquisition. The second is the set of chapters that follow the life of a dying Father Zosima, and the path he took to become a lauded man of god. Not only are these two pieces masterworks of literature, but they intentionally have contrasting narratives to highlight the complexity of the Russian Orthodox church and by extension Christianity as a whole. It is because of this complexity that I chose to live my life outside of the influence of the religious construct you raised me in, and instead live my way in that is Christlike. Treating those around me with compassion and understanding, though inevitably having my own set of sins like any other man. While its an imperfect philosophy, it’s one that fits the most for me at the stage I am in life. I hope you’ll read these selected parts and understand more the internal conflict I have with faith.
There are some people you can look in their eyes and only see plastic. Eyes that desperately want to be seen as genuine and caring, but only on the surface. When we were alone your clamshell eyes never cracked- I couldn’t tell if you pitied me or wanted to be pitied. If there were any happiness found in those in that blistering gaze, I had no part in its unearthing.
Yet, I kept coming back to you. Because even your cold warmth was enough in a time I was surrounded my emptiness. It was because of your warmth that when I wordlessly left your life, regret consumed me. You never asked where I’d gone, but I should still have said goodbye.
I find it really interesting how our friendship in particular has endured this long. Over this many years and changes of circumstance. Despite us only ever meeting face to face twice while you passed through DC on your travels. I was expecting it to all come crumbling down the day I revealed myself to not be a 40 year old man and instead just a similarly aged weirdo. To me, it was more shocking that you didn’t realize, though I’m sure you had some level of awareness I was lying.
I often think of how different my life would be if we never met playing that funny block game with PhD students from Durham University. I would have missed out on the insane and interesting details of your life in Bushwick; like the roommate currently running a python breeding operation in your basement, or the time you accidentally brought up Puerto Rican independence to a bunch of Puerto Ricans. I probably should have warned you about that last one. Some of the most interesting conversations I’ve had took place in our messages, without a single word spoken aloud. As we’ve moved through the different phases of life and the frequency of our communication has waxed and waned, we’ve never truly left each other behind. I don’t even know if we ever could at this point.
