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When all of it makes sense

published: 2010-05-05

It all makes perfect sense. One singular hour bridges the gap of thirty years and quite elegantly connects then to now.
Back then, she and I were eight years old. We were best-friends. We went to an all girl’s school and wore purple uniforms. Shoulder length hair or longer was to be tied up in a ponytail. No jewelry. We were taught Latin and psalms and the French teacher (mrs. Valentine) liked to slam a ruler in the palm of our hands. Especially my best-friend’s. Despite the uniform, she stood out. Quite aggressively so for a girl aged eight. She got the solos in the school choir. She won the piano competitions. She acted, she drew, she could touch the back of her head with her toes. Her Dad was Toyah’s manager, a punk-icon thirty years ago. And her brother, her brother allowed us to watch Halloween and the Exorcist. Sometimes, we were allowed to sit in his room when he was home from boarding school with friends. They were on LSD and listened to The Doors. We’d sit there wide eyed, listening to their incomprehensible conversations about their trips. Later, one of those friends was admitted to a mental hospital as he was convinced he was Jezus.
She never passed an exam. I always did, and whenever humanly possible I’d help her cheat. Eventually, she became a gymnast and went to the Olympic games for the UK.
We lost touch.
Yet thirty years later I am watching her husband perform in the coolest venue of Amsterdam. He has a beard and wears a dress. His music is intoxicating. A deep hallucinatory drone. He doesn’t look at us, nor smile. His mouth barely opens while singing. It is deeply intense. She too is in a band. With her brother. I watch her video-clips on youtube, and study her bodylanguage which has remained unchanged over time. All of it, makes perfect sense.

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