Talk About The Passion

Gods, I don’t know what it is about this trip, but I am deep into the memory banks. I’m thinking tonight about Becky. I met her during my year at DePaul and I haven’t seen her since. It’s been twenty one years. DePaul was one of those places I walked away from without even saying goodbye to anyone. It wasn’t intentional, it just happened. She was a brilliant young woman from Columbia, Mo. that I became very close to. We talked about everything as only 18 year-old people can.

She was an Earth mother with long beautiful hair that she would condition with olive oil or beer or some damn thing. She lived in a high floor in one of the dorms, I think it was Washington but I don’t think that’s right. It faced the West. I vividly remember sitting on her bed watching the sun set over the city, crimson tinged golden rays bathing her laughing face. She was young enough to still have some acne but she was so beautiful in my eyes. I remember that her boyfriend back home was named David. We were both loyal to our lovers which seems like such a foolish waste from the perspective of 2009.

We were chaste but intimate; fully dressed, we would spoon in her bed and bare our souls. We talked about books and the people we loved. We talked about our secret hopes and dreams. Her roommate was never around and Becky was my favorite person on that campus; the way I remember it we spent a lot of time together, but memory is a tricky bastard. She introduced me to the Commies and was part of my political and intellectual awakening. She laughed beautifully. She loved books so much.

Her last name started with an F. It wasn’t ‘Fails’ or ‘Falls’ but something close. I can memorize Hamlet in a handful of days but can’t remember the last name of a soul that resonated like a bell in my head. It’s not a measure of some lack in her but rather my own deficiency. I think it was a Thanksgiving but it could have been Christmas when I had her as a guest with my family. She couldn’t get home for some reason and I insisted that she dine with us. My mother loved her and asked about her for years afterward. I had a picture of her with a cat on her shoulder; Persi threw it out shortly before we ended up divorcing over a decade ago.

Thinking about her here tonight in this hotel room in sight of the St Louis Arch fills me with an exquisite wistful melancholy; maybe I’ve spent half of my life looking for her without even realizing it. I always felt so easily myself with her. Her face always leapt out at me from any crowd and just the sight of her left me elated with nameless joy. 

I’ve had ridiculous luck with this blog so far in terms of reaching the specific audience that I want to reach with particular postings. Of course, I don’t actually want to have contact with Joseph Farah or any of the other lunatics that I so enjoy giving a tweak to, but maybe I can get this mojo working. I have been streaking down the synchronicity superhighway with particularly breakneck speed these past few weeks and only seem to be building speed; I will fling this bottled message into the slipstream with a twist of my wrist confident it will find her. It has to. If for no other reason that I want to say I’m sorry for not explaining, for not searching, for not even saying goodbye. For not saying ‘I love you’. I was afraid but I still should have said it.

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