I've got three friends that currently are very important to me and although i don't have "that feeling" for them, I still think they've been pretty important for me this year.
One has very dreamy eyes. The other one has very sparkly eyes, vivacious, ferocious. The third one has the same eyes as Jennifer Aniston. Talking with any of them at any given time it's a joy, but when I get to speak to all of them on the same period of time, that's one of the few occasions where I can feel truly happy.
I usually pride myself on not being superficial/banal but there's something about eyes, about the look someone gives you that can say so much without actually having to exchange a few sentences. After hugs, I feel eyes are the second most pure thing in the world. Hugs and looks are such giveaways.
All three of these persons have changed my life in the last 3 years, sometimes in a direct way, sometimes in a very direct, clear cut way. Funny how sometimes it's not how a person talks or what they do, but just their presence (or absence) and the side effects of it.
The other day I almost choked when I thanked two of these 3 persons for what they did for me (they indirectly made me face a fear and get over a creative hurdle). I felt pretty good after that and maybe it's the holiday cheer getting to me, but that was a very emotional day.
I will be meeting with person #3 this next tuesday, for coffee, pancakes and general gossip (the expression in spanish is "echar el chal"). Of all three, it's the person I have least in common, but I still can get along with said person and if I get any Christmas gifts, I wish they are in the form of a continued friendship with three pair of magnificent eyes.
I met Katia when I was seventeen. It was a bit random, but then again, my life is like that. I was just hanging out with my cousin Ciro and our junkie friend/dealer extraordinaire, Monch. We had this stupid class about literary analysis and we were flunking it.
Still, it was top quality gear, man. Monch had this primo stuff and a hitter, so it was easy to conceal.
So there we were, laughing our asses off in a classroom, when I notice this yellow notebook in the seat bellow Ciro. I bent down to get it.
"Man, and I thought Joni Mitchell looked like shit" joked Monch.
You see, I have this problem with my knees, so I really can't crouch, I have to bend. And I had a predilection for baggy clothes.
It was 1994, man, cool Britannia and grunge were the fads du jour.
I flipped through the pages while Ciro and Monch took a big sized hit. There were little notes, small poems, drawings and song lyrics. I remember feeling an instant collection. Whoever owned this notebook had it in for Soundgarden, Counting Crows, Smashing Pumpkins and Collective Soul.
If I might stand in my soapbox for a bit, I'm gonna say that Collective Soul, Candlebox, Therapy? and Gin Blossoms are the most underrated bands from the 90s. Thanks, I'll be in 1994 all my life.
Anyways, I remember that I read the whole thing for hours. I felt bad, I guess, I was snooping around, but I couldn't stop reading. She was in love with some dude called Julio. Fair enough, she hasn't met me.
Powertripping. It so fuckin' rules.
Anyhow, Monch had the munchies (that's where he got the nickname), so we went to Don Chucho's Hot Dog cart in the back of the parking lot. He had the best (and unhealthiest) hot dogs ever. Sure, he supported the wrong squadron, but he always gave us a discount. It probably had to do with the fact that Monch always gave him a Henry of yeyo at the end of the month.
For the record, Ciro and I stopped hanging with Monch in 95. It got really bad.
Anyways, Ciro and I drove back to mine. He started living with my family in 92 because of a horrible situation in his house. My mum was very supportive and always thought of him as part of the family and my dad loved to discuss with him about astronomy. Me? I got the brother I've never had, and Ciro got the family life he never knew, so everything was alright.
"So, who's the girl who owns the notebook?"
"How d'you know it's a chick, C?"
"I can read you, mon brave. Spill the beans".
"Someone called Katia Miller. Never heard of her".
"I think she knows Cuchillo".
"Who?"
"Danny. The blonde dude with the Stanger".
"Does he know anyone called 'Julio'".
"Man, you might as well ask for 'Pedro' or 'Juan Pablo'. We know about 14 Julios".
"Well, this guy's special".
"You are funny when you are jealous, mon brave".
We fired up the SNES and beat the shit out of each other in SF2 until it was lights out. Back in my room, the moon crept in the floor. I love nights with full moon, even if it irks me that I don't know the name of the star that is sort of close to the moon. It's very bright and I wish I was as good with astronomy as Ciro.
I sigh. The way my room is built, the moon shines like a spotlight. I would sometimes just look outside while listening to The Cure ('Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me', of course) and just aimlessly wander in my head.
I thought about Katia. Even if I don't know her, the notebook told me enough. She has a copy of her classes there. I'll pop by and hand it over. If we click, it'll be nice. If not, at least I could put a face to the writings.
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