A real "journal" entry - where is Mary Bartholomay?

There are lots of reasons I have for not being a journal writer. First, I’m not a good historian. I remember the overall impressions and emotions of events in my life, but rarely get all the facts right. Plus I’ve discovered over the years that memories are actually pretty plastic. The more often you retrieve them, the more altered they seem to become. Second, writing about myself seems so self-indulgent. My internal dialog is of course interesting, articulate and insightful – that is, until I put it down on paper. Then it’s just trite. And I’m hardly interested in reading about someone else’s daily laundry list of life so why would I bother to write my own down? I feel that way about therapy. I went to a therapist a couple of times. Talking about myself was incredibly boring and the more you talk about things, the more dangerously close to whining it becomes. Third and last I suppose is the time commitment. I’d rather be reading or sewing or SOMETHING!

So having said this, I thought I write a true journal entry. And remember what I said about memory and history and emotions. I can only write down the things as I remember them and the impressions or feelings I had at the time. I’m going to write about my friend Mary Bartholomay.

Right before I met Martin, I got hired as a legal secretary for a firm in Century City. There I met a young woman, probably just a year or two older than myself, who was working as a receptionist/office clerk. Her name was Mary Bartholomay. She was taller than me had big blue eyes and had a great mane of curly hair. I have often had good friends in my life with great masses of curly hair. I must be attracted to them for some reason. Or maybe people with hair like that are just more interesting. Anyway she wore cotton Indian dresses, walked at a fast lope everywhere and was incredibly well spoken and well educated. She was working on her masters in art history at UCLA. She lived in Venice, was originally from Northern California and seemed to be living a fairly bohemian lifestyle in that I mean she had few material goods and talked about things like chakras and literature. I think she came from old money (I remember something about her mother owning an island off of Yugoslavia? I swear I remember something like that) and like people who have had money in the past; she knew how to luxuriate in her impoverishment as a lifestyle statement. But heck, we were all impoverished and she was a starving student. I was in awe of her. She was funny, insightful and quick. I was impressed by her education and intelligence. She was my friend when I started dating Martin and I remember telling her about this “perfect man.” I asked her to be in the wedding and she declined due to the expense involved, but she came to the wedding and reception. I have pictures of her at the reception. She came to the little house in Calabasas and hung out with me on my birthday one year as a present to me. She worked at the Getty for awhile. A few years later when she was living in New York, she invited me out to spend some time with her for my birthday and so I went, taking a 4 month old Skyler with me. She had a cute little apartment in New Jersey and across the street was an Italian deli where I first tasted fresh buffalo mozzarella. She taught me about auras. While she worked, Skyler and I toured the city. It was a wonderful trip. Mary and I talked from time to time on the phone, she would call from New York. She was always working on her education and trying to decide on her next career move.

One day I got a letter in the mail from her. She was angry with me. She was breaking off our friendship. As I remember it, she said I had been insensitive of her aspirations and plans. I honestly did not remember the conversation she referred to. I still don’t. I was probably insensitive just as she says. I was up to my eyeballs in small children and fairly self-absorbed by nature. Not that I like to admit that self-absorption, but I suppose I’m not as bad as some and worse than others. I was oblivious. But I know I didn’t mean it and never intended to hurt her. I was just devastated. I tried to write her back. The letter had come from California so I knew she had gone back to live with her sister or something. I tried writing back but I don’t know that she ever received it.

Over the years I have thought of her and wondered how she was and where she was. With the advent of the internet, I’ve periodically typed in her name. It’s unusual enough that I don’t get a lot of hits. Until just a few weeks ago. And suddenly, in the strangest of places, I pull up her name on FACEBOOK!! Mary isn’t really a “Facebook” kind of gal, but yep, even without a photo, I just KNOW it is her. So with heart pounding, I send the friend request. And . . . she accepts it! I get excited. I wait a day or two and then write on her wall something like “I’d love to catch up with you” and then I wait. But she doesn’t write back. And sure enough in about a week or so, she drops off of Facebook altogether.

To this day I miss her. I feel terrible that our friendship ended badly and feel sad for whatever I did. I sometimes think that growing up as a military brat and moving constantly, always having these truncated relationships, that maybe I don’t really know how to maintain a long friendship. I have long friendships, but sometimes I think I should maintain them better and pay more attention to them. I have good friends but I don’t know that I AM a good friend. But I’d sure like a chance to be friends with Mary again.

That's the end of my journal entry. Maybe I'll try it again another time :)