Thought
of writing letters to people I've known in my life. Who would I write to? M. Connolly, P. McMorrow, C. Murphy, M., Fr.
Van Dorn, Mr. Raef, Mr. Mitchell, V. F., Mer, parents.
Just
thinking now that my life was very much set after Malibu. My friendship with Peter was the dominating
factor of my life there, even more so, I recall, than my family (well, almost). Peter pulled me out of my shell, perhaps
forcefully. Made me come out and
play. When he left, there was no one to
pull me out, and I became a full fledged snail again, eagerly exploring the
garden, but very quick to pull in if my sense of security felt threatened, if
too much might be demanded of my time or energy.
I
saw the same thing with Mike S. I
thrived on his need for my talents, felt we worked well together, what would I
do without his leadership (Peter same way).
Fact is, I guess, I survived well, did all right following a path of
less altitude. Which was right? Certainly the lower path was more suited to
me, low key, take it easy, etc. But the
life with high fliers was exciting, where the action is. I didn't mind it, enjoyed it very much while
it lasted. Could it have lasted longer?
Friday
29 May. Morning, 9:30. Feel somehow everything will work out, not
worried as much as before. Can always
sell the VW, sell our note.
Lovely
lunch. Two hours plus with Marjorie
Jones yesterday in Soho. I knew Marjorie
formerly as "Saw." She says
we're relaxed, not as hyper as Americans she meets. Cathy says we're always like that. I guess that's why we're here!
Saw
Phantom last night. We have seen the
major musicals within the last five years: Cats, Les Miserables, Miss Saigon
and now Phantom. Which is the best? Cats is character sketches, loose theme, love
the set. The "songs" (as
opposed to music) are superior. Le Miz
has a terrific story line, set against the Revolution, in fact it is most like
Miss Saigon: story of love against the battles, one old, one new. I do not remember the music from Miss Saigon
or Le Miz, although I remember we bought the tape of the latter and liked a
couple of songs, and after Miss Saigon we walked humming a few bars, but that
was it. Obviously Lloyd-Webber's music
stays with you longer. Phantom, like
Miss Saigon, has lots of action. I loved
the Phantom jumping all over the place, especially up on top of the building,
behind the carvings. There are only
three songs I remember from Phantom, so I would have to say that Cats wins on
music and sets, Le Miz on story, with Miss Saigon and Phantom close runners
up. The lead (male) in Phantom and Le Miz
is best, though the lead in Miss Saigon had a terrific voice, and I don't
really like the voice modulation, going up and down, in the Phantom's song,
hard to follow. Miss Saigon had a very
good story line, and beats out Phantom, closer to a tie with Le Miz.
Best
female lead: choices are the cats: Griselda, not much there; daughter in Le Miz,
I don't remember too much; Vietnamese wife in Miss Saigon; and Christine. Miss Saigon I think calls for greater
abilities though I think I liked Christine's role better (of course she lives
and is somewhat happy, as opposed to the suicide in Miss Saigon).
Worked
on a letter to Peter yesterday:
* * * * *
Dear
Peter:
For
some reason I've been thinking a lot about you the last couple of years,
wondering where you are, what you're up to, exploring your influence on my life,
all unanswered questions.
When
I think of you, a flood of memories comes rushing through my mind, as I
remember very clearly different episodes in our lives together after we moved
from Malibu until we moved to the Palisades and everything changed. It is hard to think that in that six years
(actually five if you consider the year I lived in England) so many lasting
impressions would have been formed, so many lifelong leanings and tendencies
would be shaped.
Particular
memories are clear: flipping bottle caps off of Malibu Canyon Road to the
ravine far below; swimming in the stream with you; walking to Malibu Toys and
Sports; you in tears, inexplicably, as a result of a sand fight you started,
when my handful of sand held a surprise rock; serving mass together; stealing
your dad's Pall Malls and Chesterfields for a smoke, then giving it up, as we
sacrificed the pack to the Blessed Virgin out in the gully behind the Colony;
hitch hiking with you back from Santa Monica; getting a cherry coke and fries
at the Malibu Drug Store; looking at our stolen Playboys at our fort next to
May Britt's house. What a time we had,
when I got to live with you for a semester in the 5th or 6th grade! How well do I remember the Saturday we spent
with D. and her friend, playing hide and go seek around the post office,
getting a chance to make out on the beach!
I remember too, still with shame, calling up V. and cussing her out,
egged on by you and who else? My father
didn't hit me or anything, just told me he was disappointed in me. I remember crying in the shower.
I
have thought sometimes over the years that perhaps I might have ended up a
priest if it hadn't been for your exposition of the material delights around
us, and talking me out of going to daily mass in the 2nd grade at St. Monica's. Then again I haven't been dragged into my
present life and somehow I think I was meant to end up with Cathy, with our
four beautiful children. Actually, above
everything else, what stands out the most in my mind is how proud I used to be
when you told C. and J., on more than one occasion, that I was your best
friend. It was an award of honor in that
group as we all fought for your affection, though, to tell the truth, I never
understood why it was me you singled out, other than the fact that we lived so
close. Remember when we actually mixed
our blood and became blood brothers? I
loved being your best friend and called you my own. It was hands down, no contest, for you were
the only one who sought that role from me.
But
if being your best friend was a little hard for me to figure out, what was even
harder to understand was how we fell apart, after we moved to the Palisades,
and how we made such feeble attempts to renew our friendship in high school.
When
I first started thinking about this time in our lives, I felt as if you had
abandoned me. Particularly when you
became good friends with Bob K., whom I didn't know, and who, I always thought,
cast a threatening eye my way, a tough guy, though maybe that was just the way
he looked. (I suppose I thought you must
have talked about me. It seemed at first
that if I ever spoke to you around Bob, he looked as if he could barely tolerate
my presence, though I think that changed more to benign neglect after you and
he became closer friends.)
I
guess I always expected you to reinstate our old friendship, make the
overtures. You had always done so
before. It was you who always came over,
called me up. Perhaps, you finally
realized it was easier and better to be friends with someone who could
instigate with you, perhaps you felt you had to work too hard with me, get me
off my duff, to "do something."
You must have realized that having a friend could be less effort with
someone like Bob than someone like me. I
used to hold that change, my loss, against you, in spite of our cordiality
(which, I admit, I think grew more cordial as we neared the end at Loyola and
goodbye for good, though I doubt we thought of it that way.)
In
the years that have gone by you presented a great puzzle to me. What had changed between us that had resulted
in our aloofness? I thought of it often
and loved to mine that time for clues.
But I suppose the answers are not that difficult. We were literally thrown together in Malibu,
living so close, our parents friends, you and I in the same class, beginning
with those long bus rides to St. Monica's in 1956. You were the type of person who was
gregarious, couldn't stand to lie about with no action planned, the opposite of
me. (Opposites attract they say.) And if I didn't need you, I welcomed your
need. It flattered me. I suppose that, like you, coming from a big
family there's not always enough time for everyone. To hang around with someone as fun and as
well liked by others as you were, simply flattered me so much that I fell into
your friendship blinded by our obvious differences. But, if we were different, we also had
genuine similarities and shared likes: living in the same place, big families,
Catholic schools, liked music, girls and walking down the beach to Malibu Toys
and Sports or the Malibu Inn.
I
suppose I let you lead me; it felt good, comfortable with you in the lead. My father let me scout out the way when we
went on picnics to Tapia Park, but, in truth, I guess I am more of a follower
than a leader, especially when my leader treats me as a good friend. (I have experienced this later in my life as
well.) Often my most productive times
are when I have followed a good leader. Often
I have been without and floundered. (It
is interesting to think that Jesus flatters us with his love, asks us to follow
him, and how we often ignore his friendship!)
Do
you remember how I always liked puzzles?
The Reader's Digest puzzle book, the Hardy Boys mysteries? You and me were a puzzle. Though perhaps not really. When we went our different ways in a wider
world, each of us was drawn to our own: you to the challenge of new friends,
friends who shared your interests and abilities; I to my solitude.
But
there is one remaining puzzle. Whatever
became of you? I attended the ten and
twenty year high school reunions Loyola reunions. The next one will probably be next year in
1993, 25 years! I wondered why you
dropped out of sight.
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