Kath

Kath.

Kath is, more than anything else, history. But with the recent talk of Electro girls, I wanted to write about someone good.

A long, time ago, before everyone here had internet access, before MP3 players and really properly before mobile phones, there was teletext. An "information service" on the television, not so different to the internet in some ways -- and, yes, I know it still exists -- but does anyone ever use it? Anyway, it was before internet personal ads and whatever, and how I came to meet Kath was through an advert for penpals. It seems so quaint now, that we would handwrite letters to one another and send them through the post.

Kath and I had a shared love of things like music, writing, and reading, and so I guess letter writing came naturally out of that. And talking about music. One of the things I am most grateful to Kath for is poetry. Before Kath, poetry was something I had only ever studied in school -- obscure, pretentious works with convoluted meanings and symbolism and analysed half to death. She introduced me to reading poetry just to enjoy it.

This mostly came through the poems of John Hegley; equal parts comedian, poet and musician -- and someone I take great pleasure in turning other people on to. She also introduced me to the work of two of my favourite poets, Carol Ann Duffy and Simon Armitage. She introduced me to sitting on the floor of bookshops and reading. Getting in the way.

I was 17 and life was good. It seems like that now, anyway. I was in the first year of my A-Levels, and looking back I probably was not taking them as seriously as I should have been -- it was a bit like being a student, life was a blur of missing classes, underage drinking in the park on sunny days, playing pool and going to gigs. Kath encouraged me to wear black eyeliner and to paint my nails -- and advised me against it when my friends tried to convince me to paint my nails red.

I remember telling Kath the first time I kissed a girl, named Michelle -- and yes, alright I know 17 was a bit late for that, shut up. And telling her about how it didn't lead to anything. I remember this because she told me "Michelle needs to be told to appreciate you. I know I would, if you were mine" or words to that effect. It caught me by surprise a bit.

Kath was the first girl to ever tell me she loved me. And she meant it, which was helpful -- back in the days when I didn't think people would lie about that, but whatever. We never dated, we never kissed, we never even said the words out loud to each other. But she did tell me she loved me, and sometimes would tell me in Spanish (te quiero, she would say -- although she was from Lancashire, not Spain). Although these feelings were there, it was sort of decided that there was nothing that could be done about it, and she dated other people.
I probably would have dated other people, but I was never very popular.

In time, things between us changed. Anyone who has read this blog or any of its previous incarnations for any length of time will know I have a history of depression -- I hope now that the serious attacks will remain history, but that's not a subject for discussion today.

I don't remember if my moods changed first or if things in my life changed, but I became increasingly depressed. At the time, I felt like she rejected me. I felt like when I needed her she wasn't there, and that she hadn't been able to handle how I was. I felt like she only loved some idealised version of me, and when confronted with the whole me, with my moods and everything else, the illusion was shattered.

Now I see things differently. I think it's more likely I shut her out, pushed her away, refused to let her in or acknowledge how she felt. I would have kept pushing her away until she finally went away, and I was proved right and could convince myself anyone who loved me would leave me. I had problems, and she genuinely cared but she probably didn't know what to say or how to help.

We didn't lose touch altogether, although there were long periods without contact. I felt rejected by her, she was the first girl to love me and the first to break my heart - and even now sometimes when I'm rejected I'll just consider it a rehash of that same old story. I think later she had problems of her own, and didn't feel close enough to me to share them with me or I was too busy chasing her, to try and win her back.

The time periods are hazy now. Over the years, how long would pass without contact, before I would break the silence in one way or another? I don't know any more. Occasional meetings over the years, and emails replacing letters. I forget now how long it's been since we last spoke. I don't know when we last emailed each other, or why it would have stopped -- but sometimes the gaps stretch out until they become permanent silences. Sometimes the attempts at staying in touch just felt forced, like we had nothing in common any more, we didn't know who the two people were that used to be so close. I know she was sorry for hurting me, and that she never meant to -- but that she couldn't ever go back to how she used to feel, couldn't even imagine who she was back then.

I don't know where she lives any more -- if she ever left the north to seek fame and fortune in London, but now and then, I still half expect to see her - at festivals, at poetry readings... It could be that sometimes we are both in the same place at the same time and just looking past each other. I found her profile on MySpace ages back, and think I requested to be added as a friend. If I did, the request was never granted. In the spirit of detachment, I won't ever try and win her back or try and re-establish contact - I should have let her go a long time ago. I just saw a girl on the Tube the other day who reminded me of her, inspired me to write about someone I liked.