So I have this friend who has a friend called Norma. I have recently heard a lot about Norma and discovered that our paths have crossed numerous times over the past fifteen years, maybe more. I have an idea of her image: slightly sultry and mysterious, old Hollywood beauty-the kind that brings elegance back to smoking cigarettes and acting coy. Reserved. Yes, literally reserved. But when called upon, my friend explains, Norma is fierce.
Many years ago my friend experienced a horrible situation that left 'em somewhat fragmented. The kind of situation one naturally tries to forget and often does, but never completely, because the memories of it include too many sensations; a situation that requires immediate and ever-expanding, no expiration date resiliency; a situation that forces one to choose between dying or surviving. My friend chose to survive.Radiant and wise, funny and sassy, more kind than others with a perfect heart that forgives and has dreams, beautiful dreams, that expand. Intrigue,creativity, new places and faces, transitions and hopes. Nothing dead feels compassion, empathy, love. Life. Alive. Living. But there have been times, too, and my friend will attest, that have been something close to dying. Quiet years of lying heavy in bed or crawling the blur of alcohol. Numb, flat, heavy and dim, stagnant and resigned. Anything alive feels the sun on their skin. Death. Dead. Dying.
Although she is always there, it is usually in these bleak moments that Norma emerges and demands that my friend stand up. I imagine something from a scene of an old black and white movie where Norma dramatically opens the door to where my friend withers and splits the curtains to let the afternoon inside. She smells of French perfume and her lips, fingernails, and toenails are a dark shade of perfect plum. She is beautiful. "Get up." There is movement under the sheets. "Get up," she says a little louder this time and pulls the sheets away from the body of my friend. "Get the fuck up. Now." I imagine that my friend slowly shifts and inhales the lovely scent of her. "It smells like death in here." Norma opens the window for air.
For a while Norma stays in close proximity to my friend, making certain that appointments are made, jobs are performed, relationships are sustained, and dreams are not forgotten. She walks in front, strong and with explosive motherly instincts of protection. Any attempts of degradation or confrontation toward my friend are met with the intelligent assertiveness of Norma. And there she stays, in the lead, as long as my friend needs her. Together they smoke long cigarettes from a silver case that has her named engraved in it, a gift from one of her many lovers. She is gentle and soft spoken in these moments and only leaves when she knows that my friend has embraced life again. Alive. Living. And then she retreats into her quiet place-always there, forever there-but now retreated, reserved, literally reserved Norma.
