Hal dissed me.
Until recently I accounted Hal a dear friend as he’d have named me (I’m pretty sure) one of his. (I disguise his identity for he’s now enrolled in my soul’s witness protection program.) Something must have happened to change his feelings but what? Did I say something? Did I inadvertently wound? Did a third party slander me? Or maybe Hal simply wearied of me, “moved on” as we say.
I mention this not to whine or retort. If Hal detected himself in these paragraphs, I’d insist he (or she) was never meant. Friends, unlike spouses, pledge no troth, therefore can’t default. All intimacies wax and wane, but between friends there can be no forswearing for nothing is sworn. Similarly with makers am I forever falling in and out of love. Sometimes Faulkner or Saint Saens hits the spot, sometimes they make me gag. I’ve quit plenty of living friendships that chafed or bored – no big deal, the world wags on.
My interest here is in the delicate complexity of what we call feelings. Falling in love is often depicted: the kerplunk that alters all. Falling in and out of friendship tends to be less dramatic or definite. Shifts in sentiment may be suspected, not real. Friends may delude one another that the old flame hasn’t snuffed.
Feelings embarrass so-called adults. We expect shifting passions in our formative years, when we’re fumbling for where we fit. To be smitten is a schoolyard credential, no disgrace. But we’re expected to outgrow such “childishness,” indurate. Grown-ups don’t get their feelings “hurt”!
Only we do – all the time – if our insides haven’t withered. Makers are particularly vulnerable. The more entirely we expose ourselves, the more it hurts to be spurned. I may pretend a jaunty indifference to your opinion – take it or leave it, chacun a son gout. Don’t believe it. I dread your displeasure. Your smile buoys me. A wince stabs.
There’s an economy in friendships we insensibly track, so receipts and disbursements are kept in balance. To be loved unreciprocally can unsettle. I court regard – any maker does – and hate shortchanging any my words may have wooed.
Quit thinking about Hal, I chivvy myself, only my advice (as usual) goes unheeded. He’s on my mind and won’t get off. Maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe he has no idea he’s nicked me. Maybe he’s preoccupied with a pressing worry. Maybe he’s sick! The mystery turns vortex, sucking my attention. So does dog-pal Henry fuss with a rabbit carcass. Leave it, I command my nosey mind – let bygones be bygones. Leave it!
When Jane and I were courting – more accurately, when I was courting Jane – the question of marriage arose. Jane smiled: why would we bother? We weren’t planning more progeny, living together was no scandal. I insisted. Blame my insecurity, I explained. A friendship, even a best-friendship, was too informal to buttress me. A friend might wander off. I needed to bind and be bound.
Hal’s diss (if diss it was) boggles my self-perception. What other relationships might I be mistaken about? Maybe I’m living in a fool’s paradise. Maybe nobody likes me, they’re just humoring. In boarding school, convivial conversation seemed to shift when I entered the room: shush, here comes Carll. Was this still the case!
Insecurity, if it doesn’t harry us to a hermit’s hut, goads us to ingratiate. That’s the good news. Frantic for affection, I write to delight. “Love me” is these missives’ implicit subtext. My neediness humiliates me but, hey, maybe you’re needy too and we are not alone.
To hell with Hal.