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My friend died this week.
We had worked on a book together, a book he wanted me to write about his paranormal experiences. I spent hours on the phone with him, listening to him talk, asking questions, taking notes, typing like lightning. Turning his experiences into stories. He told me about his most terrifying moments. About all the odd things. The funny things. The ridiculous but true things. The uncomfortable questions. His changing theories. He told me about his quests to figure out what was happening. His years of research. His life, his family that he loved so much. I tried to get into his head, tried to write with his voice, thought about his stories all the time so I could tell them accurately, do them justice as a storyteller.
At one point we delved deeply into one of one of his experiences, and soon after, he was watching a documentary while he was at work. In the documentary they showed a place that he’d been, a place something had happened to him, the place we had just been spending time talking about. He told me he felt so sick when he saw that place on his screen, he left his desk and went into the restroom. Locked the door and sat on the floor, shaking, sweating, trying to get himself together to go back to his desk. I wondered if working on the book was too much, if my questions were too much, because the trauma that he turned into interesting tales was real. Palpable. After that, he wanted to make the book more theoretical, more academic, more research based. I disagreed and tried to convince him we needed to tell his stories to establish his experiences before shifting gears to discuss research techniques and theory.
The project ended slowly without being completed. Not in disagreement, just faded out. He said he needed more time. He occasionally sent me lengthy emails discussing in depth various aspects of his research, but he still wasn’t ready to get back to the book, and I never pushed him. I knew the most terrifying moments of his life, I would never push. I was willing to wait until he was ready. Or maybe he’d found another writer and that was okay too.
When I heard he’d passed, I had this flash of him picking up his guitar, putting it down. Picking up his game console, putting it down. Trying to draw with his computer tablet. Putting down the stylus. His pencils. Notebook. Nothing is working anymore. None of the usual tools of his everyday reality work now.
He sees something in the distance. He moves toward it. In recognition, in expectation. He’s about to get all his answers.
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I'm so sorry about your friend. I remember you telling me a little about this book project. I hope he gets his answers.
Lisa Mitchell Parker
Those last two paragraphs... I'll be thinking of those for awhile. That was beautiful and while I don't know him, somehow, I feel like he'd love that those images.
Hug. I'm sorry about your friend.
Thank you, Lisa! I appreciate you reading this and your comments. ::hug back:: glad you are here!
by Erin; ; Report
docilefuct
I had a close childhood friend pass away years ago. We we’re inseparable. We had a lot of paranormal experiences together. The last time I spoke with him, my phone glitched out right after our call ended (which it never had before or since). Then the next morning at 3am I had got the news he had passed. He was very spiteful towards Religious Institutions in his life. A month after his passing his mother told me she put a crucifixion neckless on his framed high school senior photo then witnessed it, within a half hour, be mysteriously flung off onto the floor. He was my best friend. I will always miss him.
I’m so sorry you lost your friend. I think it’s comforting to know we retain our opinions about certain things when we move on. Your story makes perfect sense to me.
by Erin; ; Report