What defines friend?

I’ve always felt that a true friend is one that, even if you don’t speak to them for a very long period of time, when you finally DO speak to them, the years fall away like they were never there…you pick up where you left off. Even if you have to get to know each other again because you’re both new people…the years fall away.

I lost a friend this weekend.

Marcelo was the origin of so many extreme emotions when I was younger, some of them his fault, some of them mine, some of them no one’s fault…just the fault of the world and the way it worked. Being friends with him reinforced that I was just like everybody else, captivated by him, and at the same time it confirmed my individuality, believing myself to be part of an inner sanctum that saw a more intimate view of who people were and why they did what they did. Was I really? I think I was. Whether I saw those things clearly is another question entirely. Whether I was even capable of that is a third.

All my memories of him are so extreme…extreme joy, extreme anger, extreme desire, extreme fun, extreme embarrassment. Extreme confusion. And learning…even the learning was extreme…learning what I could do, who I could trust, learning how out of control I was because subconsciously all I wanted to do was please other people.

This was the time before I knew how to speak up for myself. This is when I was Kat, or Kitty…before I was Mowgli. I guess you could say Marcelo midwifed Mowgli into existence. Mowgli was born of extreme circumstances…I was sure I was insane at that point. Sure that my extremes were all my fault, my beliefs false, but not knowing where to turn. He put me through paces physically and mentally…all of us watching TV together and doing pushups and situps through the commercials…all of us sparring all the time…waiting on line at the movies doing reflex exercises…and mentally jumping through hoops, trying to remain friends, trying not to fall in love, caught in an undertow so extreme I was drowning.

Mowgli was born when when I realized the only way out was to go THROUGH and come out the other side, despite the pain, despite the chaos. I am who I am because I fell in love with the creature at the center of my maze, and rather than wander forever, I refused to stay and came out the other side.

Come to think of it, Marcelo taught me that too. We were sparring in his basement, and I got him into a corner. I was tagging targets (not many, because that motherfucker was FAST) and he EXPLODED out of the corner, punching THROUGH me so I had no choice but to get the hell out of the way. I actually got a bruise that day that was the shape of his fist on my chest near my heart. I got the dots of his knuckles on me, I could see two, maybe three. I remember thinking it was fitting. And we all celebrated our battle scars by drinking. He taught me that too…if you can’t go around it, go through it, and celebrate the scars afterward.

I remember the cost of leaving was knowing I might never speak to him again. It was like gnawing through a limb caught in a trap…I screamed, I cried, I was suicidal. But I did it. And I always missed and craved and wished it didn’t have to be the way it was. I accepted my loss, but recognized its value. I learned to do what I needed to do, despite pain, or desire, or love. I learned that from him. And Mowgli was born from that pain.

Recently, meaning just the last month or two, we started emailing. I was wondering what it would be like to see him again…to see where I came from. Would I fall in? Was I strong enough? He would be proud of me, I thought…like a brother or a father. I wanted him to be proud. I just needed more time, I thought. More time to be mentally prepared. Soon, I thought. Soon enough…maybe in a month or two. Why rush it?

He passed away this weekend. I have done without him for so long…but I always thought I would come full circle. I always thought we would be back to drinking again, Underwater Boyz all, doing shots and laughing at ourselves, making up impossible stories. I was looking forward to it.

Now it feels like I better get back to sparring…he’s got all the time in the world in the Summerlands to hone up…and if I don’t practice now, he’s just going to kick my ass and laugh at me when I get there.

I had a road planned in my head…and now there’s a big ol’ pit in the middle, like a meteor struck it.

I have to figure out what to do next. I still have a pair of his jeans. I have to figure out if it would be appropriate to bring it to the funeral and place it in the casket, if there’s any kind of a casket. It has his artwork and graffiti and safety pins all over it.

Now I think perhaps what is most appropriate is to give them to his son. I ask you, the Underwater Boyz, and the Crue…what do you think?