The Brief People

disclaimer: names have been changed, and yet i still hope those two people do not happen to land upon this blog...


The “brieflings” rest somewhere in the middle—somewhere between close friend and lover. They are short-lived soul mates who can never be replaced. They are characters who play in short episodes of our lives. Though short in acquaintance, their impact is perhaps greater than we even realize at the time of our immersion into one another. As brief as they may be, their affect lasts maybe just shy of forever.
I cry when I think of him, David, and how we parted ways at the beginning of summer. He was leaving for Texas in a few days and I was leaving for Ireland at the very time we could have reunited. We agreed to write letters, though by the end of summer break, they had stopped arriving. I wanted his support as I prepared to leave the country, but I knew our time was over. We had fallen into each other too suddenly, and much too passionately. We crossed the boundaries of intimacy; ignored rules of heartfelt protection in order to spend a few extra hours together. Time is irrelevant when you are spending time with someone you’re in love with. We never touched. Only talked. And then didn’t talk. Just sat and let our minds connect without words. I would often stare into my empty coffee mug, hoping to magically refill it so I would have something to do during long awkward pauses. Of course this never happened, and I was always so impressed by his immunity to the effects of awkwardness.
He pulled honesty out of me, and I was more than willing to offer it to him. I can’t be sure, but I sometimes wonder if he fell in love with me. The way he looked so directly into my eyes. What he was searching for, I have no idea. But I let him ask and allowed myself to tell. By the end of our meetings, I was exhausted from revealing everything, from giving myself intellectually to another human being. The connection was intense, and my body was consumed by it.
There’s something intriguingly satisfactory about discovering emotional intimacy with someone else. Forget the rest of the world, and lose yourself to that person you believe compliments you most.
It is too good to be true. The relationship must end at some point, and when it does, you recognize how long it wasn’t.
If it had lasted, would it have been the same? If you had detected potential for a reasonable relationship, would you have treated it differently? The irrationality of the situation was part of what made it special.
I miss you. I hope to see you. I stop and stare whenever I see someone who looks remotely similar to you, but we haven’t found each other again yet. I sent you a letter and a postcard from Ireland. I wanted to connect with you, even from across the ocean, but they were unanswered. I can leave you alone I suppose. But what happens when I run into outside? I remember the sweet moments that existed if only to highlight love and to rekindle passion.
I met a very different “brief person” while I was over there. He was too smart for my understanding and I was forced to think hard before I spoke. Bart used his brain as much as he did his heart, and it was easy to lose track of all time. After hours of circling the city of Cork, I found my head heart more than my legs, as I had run a mental marathon in order to keep up with his intellectualism. Without it being our intention, we found ourselves wrapped up in romantic situations. Late night conversations on my balcony overlooking the river, a string of handwritten songs, strummed on the guitar with his deep voice serenading me while he sat in an aged, blue chair. He sang loudly, and without apology, my eerily quiet flat greedily soaking in the lyrics while I flinched from embarrassment. He scrawled notes to me on a piece of lined paper he set in between us during a course called Contemporary Irish Writing and sent me lengthy emails asking intimate questions about my character and what I was like growing up. I can remember the first time we touched. It may have been the third or fourth night we had spent talking until 3 a.m. He had a fifteen-minute walk back to his place and when I led him to the door, he turned and said, “I think we’re to the hugging point in our relationship by now…” I wasn’t expecting it and only offered the awkward “side hug.” I believe nervous laughter followed and he requested another one. I surrendered, gave into his arms and felt tiny. I tried smelling him, to see if I could trace a hint of Montana, but cannot recall ever finding any. He simply smelled like the artsy tweed jacket he was wearing with subtle support from a morning shower and the city streets.
Although I was not attracted to him, it was difficult not to get swept in the romance of finding such a deep connection amidst the bustle of a busy European city. Is it possible to have more than one soul mate? I believe I have many, many who connect with portions of my soul and have yet to find one who completes me. David was my philosophical better half, and I believe Bart was placed there to probe me spiritually. But I think I fell in love intellectually with both of them, and a part of me believes this love was reciprocated.

Bart once wrote the following piece about a moment we spent together:
Experiences remain in the mind like nebulous Knots - what one remembers is a tangled sphere of objects, emotions, derailed trains of thought, colours, smells. It's always incomplete. Untied strands try to float away from the Knot, held by the thinnest thread, waiting to be caught back into the Knot with a reminder from someone else who has a similar jumble in their own mind.
The experiences of the past are fragments floating around in the aether. Some are quite small (yesterday I had a bowl of seafood chowder for lunch - it had mussels and fish, and was a milky pinkish colour. I added a bit of pepper from the pepper grinder, but it wouldn't grind for some reason, otherwise I would have added a bit more. On the side I had a little brown bread and soda bread with a little pat of Irish butter),
But even these smaller Knots thread into larger Knots (my chowder didn't have any whole mussels in it, but hers had two, so she gave me one for mine. The mussel itself, a small black affair, was a bit slimy and altogether not the best thing I've eaten, but I was happy to try it anyhow. The meal cost seven euro. We both had water from a steel pitcher. The pitcher didn't have any ice, but the water was cool enough, and two thin slices of lemon floated on the top before we poured them into our glasses. The napkins were paper - and I never put paper napkins on my lap, only cloth - but since she did I followed suit. I dropped it on the floor once. An old man left his hat - a green, medium-brimmed fedora - on his chair; we didn't see it before he was long gone, unfortunately. An older waitress picked it up shortly after we noticed it, but I don't know where she took it. The café was above the English Market downtown. She was a little squeamish, if in a smiling way, about all of the raw meat on display in the market below, but I don't think it interfered with our enjoyment of the meal, as we were seated in a back corner. On the wall, mounted behind glass - as she explained to me after getting a better view - were several poems by famous locals like Seán Ó Tuama, some in Irish, some in English. One was by a Martin or Michael Sweeney - I commented that the name is actually fairly common in Cork. Another was a short bit about Japanese rain, probably selected from a longer poem. We talked a good while about various things, like an adventure she had for a writing project - as a barista she had encountered quite often over two years a certain trucker. The trucker always ordered six shots of espresso in his caramel macchiato, with extra caramel, and an extra pump of flavour to boot. He'd have these two or three times a day. He was apparently entertaining if sometimes crude. One day she asked if she could go semi-trucking with him, and he agreed. She spent a day just accompanying him on his travels, as he explained the fifteen gears and talked about trucking stereotypes and the truth. She took notes and was later able to write about it for her project. Her professor thanked her for putting so much effort into the assignment - though she had to get an extension on it. We talked about inspiration, and creativity, and our future plans. I expounded on my ideas of what an ideal friendship is, and from there on to marriage, and how I think that most marriages in this world are based on something upon which they shouldn't be based. We both toyed with the idea that art is often created in unhappy situations. She expressed that she didn't think she would be single for the rest of her life, and that she and God "had already worked that out." I said that I would be until I could be confident pursuing something, knowing where my life was headed. But I didn't know that I could ever "settle down" completely, and had to take that into account. I would only do so if that person was "worth it." She seemed amused or bemused by the idea of someone being "worth it," but I absolutely meant it, as I further explained. I could see into the kitchen behind her, and the wineglasses hanging from their holder at the bar area. She said she'd be drinking water the rest of the day. I asked if it was because the food was so salty, and she nodded. We paid for our meals separately - I paid with a ten and got three one-Euro coins in return. I didn't leave a tip; I still don't know whether or not to do that here.)
And even those larger Knots (I've only accounted for a handful of minutes above) tie into still larger Knots of hours, of days, weeks, months, years, and so forth. It might be easier on the imagination to call such things Threads, but the Threads are the most minute details (the powerful taste of the mussel) (the coldness of the soda bread against the heat of the chowder) (her nails are much longer than mine).
It would be hopeless to untangle it all. Time fades some of the colours, but some pieces stick for years and years, even for lifetimes. But some definitely fades. There is a strange urgency I feel now and again to write, to record these Threads and Knots of colour in the written word while their hues are still vivid and full of life. Sometimes, however, I feel profoundly that writing, or taking a snapshot, can spoil the experience slightly. Quality is, at times, sacrificed for longevity. This is only sometimes - but some things are so intricate that to fully attempt to unravel and categorize all of the component Threads would take a great deal of time - time that could be spent being immersed in the experience while it happens.

I did not know how to respond to these words after I first read them, but when I look back on the piece today I guess I realize how much we really impacted each other, and even though our relationship only lasted for about a month, I will never forget that means Ireland to me in some ways…
But the “brieflings” cannot remain in my life forever. Eventually the feelings of intimacy overwhelm me and I find myself close to a point of internal explosion. I am usually the first to walk away. The relationship ends, not necessarily in bitterness because there is a mutual understanding that our time together has ended. Bart and David are just two of the brief people I have loved; there are so many other men and women I have connected with over the years, and I am sure I have yet to meet. They are somewhat essential to survival and development as a human being. They help me to feel, inspire me to write, cause me to think…I believe they knock me back into an element of passionate living. A professor once told me that people believed the gods had created soul mates in order that we might spend more time looking for our other halves than rising to their level. They believed we had been originally created as whole beings and were then split in half and scattered about the earth simply because of the gods’ paranoia. Of course today it seems absurd to subscribe to this belief, and my professor was sure to offer that he thought a soul mate is half-destined, and half-created. Perhaps I just have yet to channel my energy into maintaining the intimate connection with one of my soul mates. Or maybe none of them were soul mates anyway, and so “brieflings” is what I am calling them until I decide.