The Festival of Hopeless

With excitement and anticipation I booked tickets to a Sydney Festival event The Giacomo Variations. As with last year's headliner event Rogues Gallery, it was virtuosos as the draw card which attracted me: in this case John Malkovich masquerading as the great lothario Giacomo Casanova. We the gullible audience found out only after the media outrage that this event, like Rogues last year, was booked by organizers sight unseen. It seems they were seduced by a big name too. There's nothing wrong with this. In festivals risks should be taken. That's when bright gems may emerge from the dust.

But not this time.

The production was stilted: enter, stand, sing, change coat, leave stage, come back, stand, sing, sit, talk, lie down, penis joke, leave stage, re-enter, change coat, more penis jokes.

Yawn.

The production was flabbily self indulgent. Dear John is a mere shower stall baritone. Let's stick to actors acting and singers singing. Crossing over is dangerous even in experimental opera. No journey, no redemption, no message other than "suffer this train wreck and cringe."

Yes the music was lovely, but I didn't fancy the idea of sitting in $125 seats for nearly three hours with my eyes shut. At least no one in the cast appeared drunk and could deliver their lines without prompting, unlike last year's Rogues debacle. The bar should never be set that low. Oh and did I mention the inaudible dialogue and the illiterate subtitles?

At least it made for an interesting debate: is it bad manners to flee the hall prior to or during the last bows? I opted for etiquette and thought it appropriate to stay and acknowledge the inspirational conductor. Thank you Mr Haselbock.

Home and the misery continued. The good news is that this week I learnt all about irony: a useful literary device for the wannabe writer, but not one that I’d employed often in this remote writing realm. I was on the receiving end of a massive dose of the stuff. It fairly knocked my socks off, but at least its ill timed perversity has inspired this next tale (of woe).

The email arrived last weekend. It was upbeat, urgent and promising, and I responded to the plea to contact the writer as soon as possible.

Reader, you will know from a past yarn that one of my New Year’s resolutions is to enter competitions. And so I uploaded two of my stories on to a Sydney Festival/ ABC website. The theme was hope: the stories were to inspire the readers with optimism and a sense of hope for the future. That amongst it all, through all the most intense vagaries of life, we can move forward (oops: might leave that to Julia G) and find peace. Maybe even joy.

The email was from the producer of the Festival of Hope. Low and behold, my stories had been noticed.

Discussions ensued for five days over the phone and by email. This was an agreeable person who sought my view about which story I thought most appropriate. She asked me about the thoughts behind my writing and she did a voice check to assess, presumably, the suitability of the vocal chords and the potential stumble-ability of this reader. She took the liberty of collapsing the two stories into one and sending me the edit. Deadlines can be most presumptuous. I was bemused, but gave my blessing. She confirmed my availability to attend a sound check for next week’s event, which would be filmed in front of a live audience and streamed live on radio around the country.

The UK and US rellies were primed. My sister found the link and timetabled a few hours of inspirational listening into her busy Monday morning in far away chilly London.

Be careful what you wish for.

I was simultaneously terrified and ecstatic. The birth of a new era, a sign of new things to come, a launch pad. The imagination ran wild as the nerves jumped. My stomach did a cartwheel every time I gave it any thought. I giggled nervously with a friend or two as I updated them during the week, and they booked to attend.

I planned the outfit with cousin Rosie, who wisely suggested I cover my arms and stay away from prints. I waited impatiently for my birthday this weekend when the extended family would come together and help me celebrate. I would tell them about the forthcoming event and watch them turn out en masse.

You may remember another of the New Year’s resolutions. Off I trotted down to the beach on a gloriously still morning to throw myself into the sea. I tumbled around in the froth and cursed the seaweed, grateful for this natural wonder perched on my doorstep. Like a cool bath, the water revived and refreshed and left me sparkling. I romped home, hope and optimism oozing from every pore. Even the prospect of some serious housework before an evening of festival music did not impinge on my levity.

Nor did the blinking of a waiting message.

“Hi Julie. Just wanted you to know you are off the hook for Monday night. I‘ve managed to fill the breach, so thanks for your flexibility and for being so willingly on standby. Looking forward to seeing you on Monday night. I hope you enjoy yourself.”

I was speechless. My guts sank to my ankles. My forehead oozed sweat and my head was pounding. I replayed the message. Hope? Don’t talk to me about hope! Nothing awkward there. She was jaunty, relieved; a job well done, the loose ends tied up.

I sought counsel.

“Ring her up. What a bitch.”

“Email right away. What was she thinking?”

At this low point, I must take time to thank the universe for friendship.

I sent a one liner expressing disappointment and howled in the bath, my very private sadness sanctuary.

Afterwards, as I vacuumed, second stage Kubler-Ross slammed into my chest wall. Anger kicked disbelief out the door and barking mad, I hit the keypad and watched outrage spew forth.

Hi there (unnamed ABC producer)

I just listened to your message again, and I must say I didn't believe I was filling in a breach as a "stand by." I believed it was a competition, that I had been shortlisted, and after much time spent sorting out which story and your subsequent editing to combine the two - this seemed to me that I was one of the two people selected. Not to mention the voice test and my commitment to attending both the sound check and the event. Perhaps I misunderstood you. But I think there was a lot there to misunderstand. I hope the night goes well.

Furiosly calm? After all I didn’t want her giving thanks for having averted disaster by disallowing an unhinged vixen on stage at this most dignified event.

Moments later the phone rang. A confused "what went wrong" tone followed by fervent apologies, deep regret and thankfully, some transparency. Had I known I was third choice to present and that one of the speakers was perhaps unable to attend I might have realized the true nature of the exchange. I didn’t misunderstand. I was hoodwinked.

Expectation, communication. The stars need to be aligned for hope to be possible and in this sad and sorry tale the stars were catapulting at lightning speed away from each other into an abyss. They weren’t friends, those stars. They were pissed off exflatmates who vowed never ever to cross paths again.

An evening under a full moon in a park full of ghostly gums and soaring bats did nothing to cheer my weary soul. The music was haunting and the dance jawdroppingly beautiful. But my mind was far away and I swooned in my ordinariness. A tad self indulgent, yes, but it’s an artiste’s life….

As morning broke and I brewed the tea, I gave thanks for finding my voice yesterday. It was my civic duty if nothing else; my meagre attempt to protect future hopefuls from the scorched earth insensitivity of “the show must go on.”

When It's All Said and Done

This ol' blog resembles its first cousin: the one that always comes to Christmas wearing a frocks and colourful earrings, sometimes sober in temperament and occasionally earnest. A bit moody, a bit funny, never too outrageous, always authentic.

Speaking of Christmas cousins, I had one visit every year until the last. She was never dull, that one! Through all her travails, she remained true to herself. We farewelled her on a scorching day just a few days after Christmas, in a quaint inner city church where a sombre mob lined the walls looking in at the altar. When yours truly rose to deliver the eulogy, I was shaking, just a little bit.

"This is a silly back to front church," giggled the smallest cousin to her tear-stained mother. She was used to the traditional rectangular church in her London parish, not that funny shaped round one in inner city Sydney.

And so it was that for the second time in my life, I stood up in a holy place, clutched a sweaty wad of notes and took the microphone.

And this is what I said:

"Jen was our Christmas cousin. She was born to a woman named Olive who died many years ago, and to Maurie, our uncle. We spent every single Christmas in Sydney, with her, her dad and until about nine years ago, with our Nan. One Christmas she arrived and announced she was never again to be called Jen Lynne, her name since childhood. From then on it was just Jennifer. We knew to obey!

Christmas followed the same format every year: Maurie brought the nuts and the glace fruit, Nan stringed the beans and our mum, Jen’s aunt, slaved all day over the hot stove. We all wore silly hats and told lame jokes. The turkey and ham were always warm, as was the corn and the plum pudding which was full of shillings and sixpences and the odd bottle top which Uncle Maurie always managed quite miraculously to almost swallow but always survive. We all fell for that trick for years. I think Jen was the most sophisticated of the five cousins: she cottoned on to the scam first and when she rolled her eyes, so did I.

The day passed in a contented, languid fog. Jen always loved Christmas and there was an empty chair just a few days ago when we all came together. It felt strange without her with us.

Other than Christmas there were holidays up the coast in Woy Woy where her dad lived down the road from Great Aunty Win and Win’s brother Uncle Jo. Jen spent many holidays with Win. It was a mutual love affair. They doted on each other. There was fishing before breakfast in the little tinny with Uncle Jo and again in the afternoon when they chased the blue swimmer crabs through the mangrove swamps. Sometimes I joined them and I have vivid memories of those early mornings, and the buttery leather jackets Aunty Win skinned and fried up for breakfast. I shut my eyes tight as I dropped the still alive blue swimmers into the boiler. It was worth their pain and mine for the crab dinners which we boasted about even though Uncle Jo caught most of them. We cycled around the streets in the lull of the day, and walked for hours sucking ice blocks, bored to death but not about to change anything. Sometimes we came home to Sydney on the train and I felt so grown up.

After the School Certificate she announced she wanted to leave school. Jen was in a hurry to get out in the world, to be independent and fend for herself. She went on to secretarial college in the city where she completed a one year course in secretarial skills. Her graduation certificate states she completed all subjects, including English, current affairs and psychology as well as achieving 100 words per minute in shorthand and 47 words per minute in typewriting. In her first job at the Coal Board in North Sydney, she found an unused electrical typewriter with a memory (quite the new high tech machine) and she taught herself and the entire office how to use it. She was no nonsense, clever and entrepreneurial.

Until she bought her first home in Alexandria she rented for many years over the bridge in Neutral Bay. I remember being surprised when she moved to the inner city after so many years on the lower north shore, but Jen was canny and knew a bargain when she saw one. She sold a decade ago to move here to Erskineville, where she lived in bliss with her beloved husband Charles.

I might add she also lived with, in turn, her three four-legged best friends Spike, Basil and more lately Milly. Despite her adoration for Charles, her husband of fifteen years, despite Spike’s negative attitude towards Charles and despite Charles’s serious dog allergy, she stood firm and the dogs stayed. Basil had quite the public profile in Erskineville: in fact rumour has it that when the nominations were due for the parish council at St Mary’s, one Basil McCann was nominated.

Sadly Basil passed away just before Jen: he was seventeen years old. One-eyed Milly remains, and she kept Jen company off and on at home and at the hospice during the last few weeks of her life.

So what did Jen love?

Firstly her cars: Maurie gave her the deposit for her first car: a Nissan two door sports, and she drove it for fourteen years, until the mudguards fell off and hubcaps rusted and it started falling apart. From there she started buying and selling, becoming a living breathing advertisement for the local car dealership. In her mind there was no better place to buy her various Mazdas, Mercedes and Holdens.

I headed straight there recently with pleasing results and Jen was quite chuffed, though she couldn’t believe I didn’t wait until the end of the month when the best deals were to be had.

Jen said that no matter how sick she became, she could always drive. She considered her car another room of her house. Her boot was full of loot which she sold in her capacity as a sales rep: candles, soaps, clocks and lamps. Her visits to us always came with samples of some product or another and it was always fun trying it all out with my girls.

What else did Jen love?

A bargain: Jen was a fountain of knowledge when it came to getting things done on the cheap. She pursued bargains all over the place, at home and abroad and woe betide anyone getting in her way. I remember when she sourced a side table for her TV. She searched the net, phoned around, found one at an unnamed Swedish homewares barn quite some distance from home. When she arrived the salesman couldn’t find the table. He copped it and I felt for him! When she finally sorted it, she proceeded to sell the old one despite its decrepit condition. This leads me to her next love:

Ebay. Not only did she buy bargains, she sold everything, garbage or not online. I was constantly astounded by her sales and she was constantly berating me for loading up the bins with my throwaways or even worse, putting stuff on the nature strip for anyone to take. She lived the saying: someone’s trash is another ones treasure.

Art and craft work: Jen couldn’t miss when it came arts and crafts. She came from a family of skilled dressmakers and her Nan and great Aunt Win were milliners and later on, fashion fitters and buyers. Firstly Jen mastered dress making and later moved on to folk art – painting floral designs on metal and timber, on just about anything really, and she taught classes in the subject. Her embroidery was legend and her quilting exquisite. Many of you here will be familiar with her work, and some of you luckier ones may have one of her quilts on a bed at home. She laboured for months, then invariably gave them away or donated them for charity. She created and produced prolifically: it was second nature to her. She seemed surprised at others reactions to her remarkable skills.

For the spectacular wedding between Charles and Jen in 1995, Jen sewed my daughter's bridesmaid dress. Two years later she made her first communion dress. That dress was so beautifully made it was passed around for years. At least six girls made their first communion in it and it survived many sessions of celebratory cordial and cake. Sewing came easily to Jen but she was bored by it. With her quilting came challenges and this is where she flourished. It was peaceful and satisfying sitting and watching her work: in the modern world her skills are almost old fashioned, though she never was. Her talents were extraordinary.

Her dogs: I’ve mentioned cranky Basil, moody Spike and sweet Milly: it is difficult to express how much pleasure the dogs gave Jen. She took at least one of them everywhere, including sneaking Basil into Mass here occasionally. When she became ill and finished work, it was the dogs which kept her company whilst Charles worked, between visits from friends, family and the women from her three beloved quilting groups and the coffee group. Membership of the latter was based on just one criteria: you had to be sick. It was a lively coven which overtook the local cafe every Thursday morning.

The Street: Jen loved living in her street. So does Charles, despite receiving two recent parking tickets for parking right outside his house. When our kids were little and Jen and Charles hosted Easter Sunday lunch, they couldn’t believe the play equipment was actually in the middle of the road! It was very special. Charles’s and Jen’s friends across the road and down a bit – you know who you are – have been a huge source of happiness to Jen for years. Like a big extended family really.

But most of all when it comes to what or whom Jen loved, most of all, it was Charles, unconditionally and passionately. He is quite simply the best thing that has ever happened to her in her too short life. Charles came along when Jen had lived alone for years, when she was steeped in her ways and despite old habits they meshed seamlessly into one another. Unbelievable really, considering that Charles stood her up on the first date! I believe she gave him one chance to redeem himself, and the rest is history.

Those who know Charles will be aware he has a finely tuned sense of the ridiculous, and he brought this out in Jen. She never laughed so much in her entire life as she did in the years she was with Charles. There have been difficult times during the past three years, but Charles has been her rock, and without him she could never have fought to stay alive for as long as she did.

Since the deathly diagnosis she and Charles managed four trips abroad, to Bali twice and twice to Europe. She was determined to visit Lourdes and return home with tiny bottles of the magic potion for all of us. She strolled Versailles with holy medals pinned onto her shirt and wandered Monet’s garden with Charles, the emerging artist. They spent time with cousin Lesley in London, where she say on the couch and finished off a gifted quilt. She dozed in the sun as they cruised the Mediterranean. Huge effort went in to organizing and participating in these trips and her determination knew no bounds.

Jen made the most of every opportunity and it would have been easy for her to sit back and feel sorry for herself. But she never did. She accepted her illness as a rather annoying disruption to her plans and kept busy convincing herself there was time ahead for her. We spent many quiet hours together over the past few years and it is was an enriching time, despite it all.

Rest in peace."

It's a little known truth that Christmas and holiday activities brings forth death. Since we ate turkey and pulled bonbons just a few short weeks ago, the grapevine has blurted forth about six other lives gone; at least six other eulogies made. Reminders to cast aside cynicism once in a while, live for right now and appreciate it all.

Happy Days

I went shopping yesterday. It was a special expedition with my friend, who for her own reasons has been unavailable lately. She was hosting a birthday lunch for a mutual friend, and invited me. Her usual response to "what can I bring" is "nothing." She is most generous and has a heart the size of Uluru. But her kindness is sporadic, because she is rarely around.

Here's Hoping for the New Year

It’s January. Wishing and hoping for a happy new year is futile without putting in some legwork. You know the saying: you get out of life what you put into it.

So, for me it’s all about the New Year’s resolutions. Sources of hope, but only momentary, says a true but sceptical friend. But in my mind you simply cannot have a happy new year without trying, and trying is a hopeful enterprise. December is the month to think about change and growth then bam! January has arrived and it’s all about The List.

In 2010 I made three New Year’s Resolutions:

*Drink more water
*Don’t rush, and
*Only use my bank’s ATMs

I drank so much water that I ended up in the urologist’s office and the less said about that day the better. But the good news is I have decreased the frequency of those early morning headaches. That expert on the radio was right: most headaches are caused by dehydration.

I managed to avoid rushing, except when compelled to do so by other people’s disorganization. It was important to learn that stuff happens sometimes and it’s better to be patient rather than flustered. But mostly I have tried to allow time to get places or complete tasks, and for this I generally feel satisfied. And I avoided calamity in that I didn’t fall over, crash the car or hurt anyone.

As for those $2 bank fees, I made it to October before I bailed. When it comes to banks, I concede defeat.

“So what’s your New Year’s resolution” I ask the beloveds.
“To be more awesome” replied the 17 year old.
“To cycle more” said the husband.
“To have my boyfriend sleep over” said the first born.

This year the list has grown. You won’t see clichéd rubbish such as “lose 20 kilos” or “get fit” on my list. Sadistic, unrealistic and designed to disappoint.

Resolutions are ways to reclaim control in a world full of chaos. Climate change, environmental catastrophes, personal grief, unlucky, chance events. My resolutions are practical, tangible demonstrations of hope, that when all else fails, small ways exist to improve health and happiness and maybe even make me a better person.

So what’s on for 2011? In no particular order:

*Maintain last year’s resolutions
*Always wear a sunhat
*Walk the dog more
*Compost
*Swim in the ocean more
*Enter competitions
*Where reasonable, don’t say no
*Put the seatbelt on straight away

In the end, it’s up to me. I won’t be burdened with guilt if I fail once or twice. For me it’s about trying and hoping for the best. That’s what makes me feel better. It’s all about hope, really.

Howling to the Moon

Dear Friend and Blogger Extraordinaire

It’s night time and the wolf is howling. I have just read your latest delicious offering and might I say we are aligned in our universe..."if you love something set it free..."

I fear I may have set a dear friend free, though not quite as lovingly as you recommend. I'm up late, trying to put the late night demons to rest, and I thought about you. It's been so long since we have spoken. You sound snug up there in your love nest by the sea.

Here is my sad story:

The troubles started quietly, gradually last year. Time crept by and now I almost can't remember what she looks like. It was the usual things: her work, her son, her life, her troubles and then she left town for Christmas and most of the holidays.

I wondered about her a few times over the summer. Lots of maddening self talk, trying to diminish my fears. I missed our wickedness, our disrespectful humour. She is one person (and you are another) with whom I can cheerfully lose it!

School and uni went back. What’s with those endless summer holidays? We loved them as kids, but I guess our parents went nutty, like I almost did. She’d made a strange decision in a hurry: to send her son into high school in the epicentre of her phobic fears: the flash eastern suburbs in this brassy show-off town way down south from you. For years I've listened to her barbs about that place. From the price of the coffee to the calibre of people in the overblown mansions nearby. Inverse snobbery, I think it's called, but I’ve always thought it was plain old envy. Suddenly the child was off to a boarding house smack bang right in the middle of everything she had always hated. In an imperious tone, she told me the subject was off limits. And so we moved on.

Just once and after countless appeals did she visit briefly, to pick up some school gear that I received from a neighbour. Money has always been tight and she seemed grateful for the clothes. I gave her a belated Christmas present. I had splashed out on an artwork months before and I was sure she would love it. We offered her lunch. She had already eaten. With hindsight I can say there was an awkwardness which I chose to ignore. I was the giver. She received my crumbs. No wonder she fidgeted. She tossed her hair, and continually inspected her nail polish. She wanted out. In a hurry.

My birthday came and went. She sent a text. I ignored the lack of reciprocity in the gift giving stakes. We had always acknowledged our special days, so there was cause to worry. Easter holidays came and went, and by now all phone calls had ceased. Like two tech savvy teenagers, random texts and occasional emails became our only form of communication. I ignored the bizarre group emails that arrived from her at all hours of the day and night. I wondered how she found time to read and forward so much online crap when a quick coffee was out of the question. Every attempt to meet was thwarted. Cancelled coffee dates, impossible schedules, work, work, work.

I threw skepticism out the window and visited the psychic, a sweet warm natured soul with concern oozing from every pore. She looked at me with wide eyes and delicately pointed out the obvious.

"Julie" she said, "She is letting you go. She is bidding you farewell. It is time to say goodbye. Nothing is forever. You have fought hard to keep her and you have lost. Surrender her to the universe."

“But how to acknowledge her birthday?"

"Just a card, Julie. Wish her love and all good things. But no more texts or emails. This must stop now for you."

Another learned but delightfully batty friend advised me to tread lightly and watch her dance. My friend might have been dancing, but I wasn't seeing the steps.

So the card was sought and purchased. Lovingly handmade Thai silk on paper, just a simple message written with the favourite pen. Home delivered, courtesy of the L-plater desperate to clock up her night driving hours accompanied by her tired and fraught mother. A bloated text the next day thanked me for the card, congratulating me on my taste in stationery but warning she was too busy to meet.

Am I stupid? Yes I am. I waited a week and in a solitary and somewhat lonely moment I flicked her a text. I had discovered a self destruct button deep down inside I never knew existed.

"Coffee?"

Another wordy text detailing her busy, busy life. My head was pounding and my stomach hurt. I pulled down hard on the blinds and lay on the bed in the darkness while the sun shone outside. I curled up my toes and thrashed in the sheets. I thought for a while and headed to the computer. I would write a furious email. All about hurt and betrayal. I would tell her about how her egocentricity pounded my senses and made me feel sick. I would remind her about my role in her messy life and the times she'd said that if she ever left town, I’d be the only person she would miss. I would ask her if she had hung the painting I gave her for Christmas, and if she hadn't, could I have it back. I would tell her I missed our friendship so much it hurt.

But I didn't write anything. I went back to bed and picked up the mobile.

"I give up." A short bitter text, a silent scream, and before I could hesitate, I pressed send and watched it light up the room.

Our friendship has been reduced to adolescent texting and I feltl ashamed. I consoled myself between moments of self loathing that I had tried to call her many phones. She never picked up. She responded to all messages via text. I dropped by her house often and I wrote to her.

I was astounded to receive a reply almost immediately.

"Don't give up!!! It will get better when.....actually maybe it won't because......." (Please note exclamation marks). Was she laughing at my melodrama? Was it panic? Was she surprised at my neuroticism?

By then I was thinking she might be crazy. I know I was. I consoled myself that losing this friend was better than dealing with a maniac. Maybe she needed medication. Perhaps she was wrung out and exhausted. Then she astounded me again. I waded through her text with mounting fury as she confessed she was busy, but guess what? She had never been happier! She was loving her work for the first time ever.....I felt queasy and as troublesome as it was to read tone into a text, I decided she was releasing me from feeling responsible for her. She was bidding me farewell, just as the psychic had said. It was uneven, our friendship and she was tired of the imbalance. But she didn't want me to quit the friendship yet.

“As I said, I give up.” And with these few words on that tiny screen I vowed I had just written my final text to her. The psychic would be happy.

And so I embark on the story of this melodrama with curious offspring who are growing up and struggling to grasp the rubbery rules around adult relationships. One is currently strung out by the conflicting messages of a wayward friend and I’m not confident I can help her. In a desperate moment I bleat “Don't ask me about friendship. What would I know?"

Many days have passed and the phone and computer are message free. I wonder what she thinks, but I must tread lightly, give her space and respect her decision. I feel outcast, abandoned, neglected and outraged. The void is brutal. I have a constant headache. I visit the doctor and talk about my woes. I walk away with swag of prescriptions, but I ingest no pharmaceuticals because deep down I know it is the stranglehold of grief.

And I take the time to wail and rant to anyone who will listen about the perils the internet and mobiles: convenient vehicles for the maintenance of superficiality and the wanton destruction of the meaningful.

One evening as I stirred the pot and chopped the contents of the fridge into a salad, there in the cool air around me was a radio segment about terminating friendships. I marvelled at the timing and the relevance of this topic. It was as if the broadcaster is speaking directly to me. I am a miserable egotist these days.

As the broadcaster and the expert massaged the self esteem of every caller, I was gobsmacked by their judgementalism and arrogance. They had dropped friends because they didn’t like their moral code. They abhorred their mate’s chosen lifestyle. I marched around the kitchen ranting to myself like a barmy witch. Make way for my outrage! I headed to the computer and punched out an email to the producer, suggesting that in the interest of balance they should air a session on the friendship bereaved. We who have been abandoned.

I descended into the bad friendship abyss. I had disempowered her. I was infected with a helping bug and it hasn't helped our her or our friendship. Even though we ate great food, saw brilliant films, hung out and constantly compared life notes, it wasn't enough to save us.

Silence from the other side of the trenches.

My body ached, my face was pink, my wheezing was worrying and my headaches never seemed to go away. The mind-body connection endured amid the fallout.

So here I am, Dearest. It is late and I am writing to you because I don't know what else to do. All I have left of a 24 year friendship is a photo of her on her website. Now I'm a stalker and that is way too scary.

And now I must try to sleep or my life will take a tumble.