You see, Bon Iver, in so many ways, represents Minnesota for me. From concerts like Rock the Garden, to the fact that he went to high school in Savage, MN with one of my friends (who ironically also lives in Guatemala), Justin Vernon, now Bon Iver, is a regular Minnesotan who had to leave to find himself too. Aside from his whimpering falsetto, our lives seem to have some sort of parallelism. Instead of fleeing to a tiny cabin in Wisconsin to write a music album after a terrible break up, I fled to Guatemala thinking I could somehow inspire students to love literature and writing. Somehow, I think Vernon got the better end of the deal. Worldwide fame, endless traveling...
Though I just returned from a week in that lake-filled place I call home, I feel as if the trip was more like a dream. For here I am, back in Guatemala, as if nothing has changed.
And really, nothing has, other than me.
Each time I return to Minneapolis, the skyline radiates over the Mississippi and the Gold Medal Flour sign shines over the Hennepin Avenue bridge. And I breathe out loud through that comfort of home, through the hours of yoga with my best friends, dinner and jazz shows with my parents, and into the face of my nephew.
Indeed, Minneapolis overall, seems to remain unchanging on the surface of it's local food movement, farmers markets, miles of bike lanes, and projects of sustainability. MPR and the Current are still responsible for good news and new Indie. The cherry in the Sculpture Gardens and The Walker Art Center are still free on Thursday, thanks to Target. My friends and I frequent the same locations, and places like the patio at the French Meadow Bakery on Lyndale Avenue near my old apartment have never smelled sweeter.
But what sours the situation is that the longer I find I am gone, the more the landscape of my friends changes with the seasons. On this last trip home, someone who was once my best friend in the dance department, my roommate, and my accomplice in the local music scene has become as distant as my physical distance to home. We treated our bloody blisters, collaborated from a creative standpoint, and confided in one another. But over time, our relationship has morphed from desperately finding tickets to Bon Iver, Sun Kil Moon and Calexico to canceling a coffee date last minute because she "got up late, and wants to shop the garage sales in her neighborhood."
But that's how it works. Sometimes you hit the metaphorical friendship jackpot, and sometimes you don't. Sometimes the friendship ends in a swift slice, because he or she has hurt you beyond your words or your forgiveness. Sometimes the air is let out of the tire in a slow leak, little by little, disappointment by disappointment. This, in my opinion, is far worse than the quick blow, because before you really realize it, you're left with a shell of a friendship and a physical appearance with you friends at the bar ends up being all you get because she had to "leave early for another birthday party."
"You know I'm only in town for a week, right?"
While I would have once let that idea sadden and anger me (and while I would be lying if I said it didn't in some ways), I see now, the positive side of moving away. I know now, who my best friends are, and who were simply playing the part. I know now that this chance I have is unlike any other, and this chance will weed out those who are true and those who will eventually flake off the wall like chipping paint.
And, to be frank, there isn't much you can do about peeling paint, other than strip it clean and choose a new color. This isn't the first time a brilliant color has faded from sunlight and worn with time, and it certainly won't be the last.
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