ode to a restless black bird whose grey eyes glean

When she’d been younger, Robin was an actress. In thus childhood, she’d appeared in a few small roles for television, and then in her teenage years starred in a prominent indie film made by a Cannes-winning French director.

By circumstance, I learned upon introduction truth of her otherwise hidden acting status, and in uncanny happenstance few weeks later, away from university during Christmas, came across the title of Robin’s film in the movie section on my mother’s cable network. Quite excitedly, I’d watched it then, that night, when it were late in the evening, cold and dark, the reflection of white winter snow lighting up the sky. I’d felt that the film, as well as her performance in its leading role, proved both very good.

That was a couple years ago. Through being in the same program, and in its early manifestations paired together by micromanaging professors for groupwork projects, thus the logical partners for anything next, we’d developed a rapport over time. We were dear friends, confidantes and trusted members of a self-ostracized, tortured artists’ inner circle. Along with a stiflingly bewildered, innocuous and exceedingly friendly hyper-creative, the mere three of us were the esoteric cabal’s participating artists.

As on most mornings, one in particular I was sitting in our faculty’s café, with Connor Thoretto, conspiring at great artform and tragedy, when she’d arrived to meet us.

Animated, energetic Robin Adams, in absolutely every singular way her own way, was a drop-dead stunner.

She looked like shit, the bags beneath her eyes sunken low as testicles. Her nose was rosy, she was sick, appeared and was dressed as though she oughta be abed asleep or she’d die.

‘Hi, gorgeous,’ Thoretto said, delicately. They were roommates. He took good care of her.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ she dismissed, sitting down at the table between us, gaze flaky.

‘Is everything alright?’ he asked next, a quality of concern in his tone.

‘Yeah, I’m just getting sick, didn’t sleep at all,’ she said, sniffled to throw away the topic. ‘Crappy night. You know.’

Unsure what to say next, Connor and I looked at each other, realizing Robin much worse off than she let on. Nor was she paying any attention.

She intentionally spruced, perhaps because she believed her mood was dampening, looked intently at both of us. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘I was just breaking down to Lawrence the blueprint for my Tom Green project,’ Connor apprised. ‘He was showing me his book.’

‘You finished it?’ she exclaimed, ecstatic.

‘A few weeks ago,’ I answered. ‘Ten copies I ordered came in on the weekend.’

‘Give one to me.’

I’d brought one to give our thesis-class professor; I reached into my backpack, procured and passed it to Robin. She seemed bouncing on the moon, excited anyone else were, including me. Almost the whole journey, she’d been along for, sounding-board and opinion-aficionado for many thoughts, ideas and intentions. At least, she’d heard more about it and checked me on every bad idea more than anyone but maybe Thoretto.

‘L, this is amazing!’ she said, clutching it, flipping through pages.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Should we get to class?’

‘Yes,’ answered Connor. ‘Good idea.’ It was good to be early, he thought. He enjoyed to chat with profs beforehand, anyway.

We collected our coffees, stood, set the chairs under the table then walked off. Whilst we went, Robin read, skimmed, flitted the pages.

‘Can I hang onto this for a while?’ she wondered.

She truly would have taken no for an answer.

‘Sure,’ I said, smiling.

I didn’t manage get the copy to the professor for two weeks after.

***

Later, in the Ides of March Thoretto and I invested ourselves, laboured together in the faculty’s editing-suite. I’d shown him the visual component for my thesis, which, as a short experimental-narrative film, corresponded ductwork of plot within my novel. He worked on a graphical voice-over audio-visual installation, detailing to me the strenuous details and artistry for which it were to be exhibited eventually.

I praised him a genius.

‘Your editing is excellent, man,’ he’d said, of mine. ‘Really have an eye there. There’re some shots that’re quite noteworthy as well … did I spot Tarkovsky influence in there?’

‘Who?’

‘Tarkovsky.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Ivan’s Childhood.’

‘No idea.’

‘Watch it.’

‘Okay.’

‘What scene did you think, regardless?’

‘In the one where he’s reposed, sitting under all the sharp-edged fragments of the ruined house, that look honed into stakes.’

‘Okay.’

Robin knocked, we opened, then she came in.

‘Hey guys.’

‘Howdy.’

‘Thanks for letting me know where you guys were. There was no way I was going to class.’

‘Technically, we’re in class.’

‘Yeah, you guys are,’ she responded. ‘I’m just late.’

‘What’d you do last night?’ Connor asked her.

‘Got drunk. Oh god, we were out really late. How about you?’

‘I stayed the night at Elsa’s.’

‘Oh, nice.’

‘I have to meet up with Fran, for a different class,’ Thoretto said. ‘I’ll see you at home, Robin? Catch up later L.’

‘See ya.’

‘Bye.’

‘What were you showing him?’ Robin asked, as Connor went out.

‘My film.’

‘You’re done?’ She didn’t look at me. ‘Jesus. I am so far behind. Can I watch it.’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

She sat down, I moved out of the way and we watched my film. Well, she watched it, I watched her. She seemed very down, and I could tell there must be hundred things going on in life.

‘Wow, that was awesome, wah,’ she told me, afterward. ‘Really great editing. If I could lend any advice, it’s to kill your darlings. At first it seems hard, but as soon as you do it you’ll realize how good a decision it is being strong, to be impartial.’

‘Yeah, for sure.’ I looked at her. ‘Everything good with you?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But that’s life. What can you do?’

‘You know, I’m here to listen, any time,’ I said. ‘Tell me about it.’

She told me about it.

‘I’m just never ever sleeping, but when I do it’s incredible … I’ve been having these really vivid, lucid dreams for months now. When I have them, I’m able to go outside and even fly a bit, I have absolutely zero inhibition and everything and everyone seems so wonderful … I’m just totally free, can walk to and see anything that I want to … so it’s like, when I wake up, I’ve already lived better that night than I will in reality, it’s that good, so, like, what’s the point in even getting up?

‘And I’m so tired of putting all my shit on everyone else … I don’t know … who needs it? … I’m no more special than anyone else, so why do I get to dump on these people … I feel like I just rub everyone off negatively that way.’

‘Never,’ I affirmed for her, looking into her very seriously. ‘Never think that, cause it isn’t true. Seriously, I promise you. You’ll get through this; it’s just garbage you’re dealing with right now. There are so many resources out there, including talking to any of us, anytime; you know that, right? But there’re also a million ways which you can help yourself. First of all, less drinking, toss the darts and kick the coffee, that stuff must be driving you nuts …’

‘No, it isn’t bad,’ she said. ‘I’m down from six, at about two or three daily now. I also haven’t had any cigarettes in two weeks, which is killing me, but I know it’s so much better not to, I think, right?’

I grinned, ‘Right.’

She got serious again, ‘I don’t know … I’m so fed up with so much. The people, man, no one cares about anybody else, or wants to help. No one is honest. Everyone is fake honest through being fake polite and fucked. When I was in Europe, it was so much different … in France, people care, they care about you and want to help you … and they aren’t afraid to tell it how it is … I remember watching these two brothers go at it, almost tearing each other to shreds, but that’s how it is … no one is sore or two-faced about it after. They work it out, then it’s done.’

‘Yeah, but isn’t there something to be said about politeness as virtue, even if it means we’re holding energies back?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Not how I see it.’

We sat in silence, a moment.

‘I’ll catch you later,’ she said. ‘I’m supposed to meet Nick for lunch.’

‘Alright. Say hi. Feel better, Rave.’

‘Thanks so much, always Law.’

When she went out, I saw the lake and fields out beyond the windows; winter was getting along, changing o’er for the season of renewal.

Later that night, I’d the pleasure to experience viewing, literally nearly shitting my pants at the cinematographic and editorial blend of mastery, in Tarkovsky’s Ivan’s Childhood.

***

In the spring, I felt struck with a dose of pre-graduation blues … I knew the city, but not every cranny, crook and crevice, as one intends to, but never does. Not every club, bar, pub, restaurant, shop, store, café, had I attended … I’d wanted something spiced with culture, to get a coffee and soup or sandwich while listening to smooth jazz R&B.

After departing the bus, I walked along uncharted back-alleys, seeking a prodigal place that would provide such meticulous fulfillment.

I found this little café, Musique, that I’d heard of once … a friend of mine had mentioned long ago she worked there. Dainty bells jangled overhead, as I went in the door.

I walked up to the bar and barista, ordered a coffee and soup. There wasn’t any food this hour. Damnit.

‘You’re a sight for sore us,’ the girl said, stirring the blend.

But then, so was she, pretty in unique aspect, which certain people might call beautiless; but I’d always found it, her, beautiful. She’d striking green eyes that drew you in, intimately even as a platonic counterpart, the winningest personality, and had chopped off long locks the semester previous for chic, shoulder-length coiffure. Most importantly, she was borne of adventure, spirited free, ethereal as her fragile, caffeinated vessel.

I took my coffee to go. She’d had a break coming up, so we went without to talk.

She looked, miserable. Declining. Dread-filled. Depressed. She were someone who inflected herself unto everything, because everything else tended to inflect itself back.

‘Alright, Robin?’ I asked.

‘I’m okay, L … it’s been tough, still, but I’m doing a lot better; I promise. Nick helps me so much. Things have been starting to look up … I guess they just aren’t going to happen fast as I wanted, wished them to.’

‘Did you get all your work done?’

‘No. Got the accommodations, after all. I’m going to stay, this summer. They extended me till June.’

‘That’s good. Use it well. If I could offer anything meaningful, it’s to take it one thing at a time, and give it your best focus … let everything else slow down on its own, settle around you, try not to sweat so much. You’ll get there, kid.’

‘Yeah,’ she allowed, slow, exhaling a drag. It was funny – I always thought she’d seemed like a Parisian femme-de-fatale, one of Godard’s dames. ‘I’ll be alright.’

‘You’re an awesome person … one of the best,’ I said. ‘I know thee’ll fare just fine.’

She smiled. ‘Breaks over … gotta get back inside.’

‘Yeah. I’ll see you later.’

She stopped me, walking away.

‘Thanks, Lawrence,’ she said, smiling melancholy, yet somehow coming back up within the same.

We smiled, she went, I left.

As I left, I thought would my words have carried more if I’d taken the time to say exactly what I’d meant? …

I see you, I’d say. You’re brilliant. You matter to me, to lots of others. One day, you’ll accomplish great things.

But, just for now, be patient.