paperhaus April 4th, 2008
One of my first posts about grad school included the note that Julie Granum “is a fine poet.” I didn’t know Julie. I didn’t know that wearing tank tops in chilly weather was something that she’d do regularly, or that she’d bring energy and a smile with her wherever, whenever I saw her, even when she was twisting with back pain, or that she was the kind of pretty girl people wanted to talk to on the street, just because. I didn’t know anything about her. I just thought she was a fine poet.
Julie Granum is dead. She died in California, after visiting with family, this week, or maybe last. She was 26.
Eventually I did know Julie, some. I knew that she would play records loud, if she liked. I knew that she would be overly generous to a fellow grad student — clearly unstable — who proceeded to steal Julie’s cell phone and engage in some crazy high drama. I knew that she’d rather dance than drink at a bar, but when I saw her, usually we all just wanted to drink. She adopted a big, spazzy dog, which she loved without reservation, bringing it with her everyplace, moving apartments to give it a home.
Julie wanted to be loved so terribly. She did the silly college thing, making out with guys and girls alike, getting drunk and grabbing asses and generally having a good time that skimmed the line of risk and voyeurism and maybe even danger. But there was something else in it; she really wanted to give love so she could get some back.
I’m not sure if I ever met anyone who needed as much love as Julie Granum; I can be sure that I didn’t return the share she needed. I liked her. But I’m not sweet or demonstrative — I’m just a waspy chick who waves and smiles. She needed to embraced by men, men like cowboys, like princes, like heroes. She needed to feel enclosed and safe and beautiful, and she wore the need for adoration and comfort as naked and raw as I’ve ever seen. I’m sure she never got enough.
Julie took this semester off Pitt. Her dog was hit by a car and died in circumstances I don’t fully understand. I didn’t know she was going to California, and have no idea why she decided to never return. The details of her death are unclear.
I can’t count the lifetimes I’ve lived since I was 26, but the pile of them makes me want to reach back through time — just a few weeks! — and explain to Julie that all damage can be survived, every wound will heal, every ounce of despair might be dispelled by the silliest moment. A breath of garlic across the subway. The scent of pine in a park, the touch of a finger across skin, the pull of a leg, a sandy itch, the sound of water over rocks. The taste of clear water, clear vodka, across the tongue; the tang of fresh grapefruit one morning off a tree. The laughter of an enemy, the irritation of a mosquito bite, the idea that resurfaces, the ache of a back, the surprise of a flower or a cloud across the sky. Simple and close, or faraway. But the unexpectedness, the pleasure of surprise, a moment that couldn’t be predicted, even terror, even hate, even nerves or shock, even trepidation, recognition, grace. Like, loud. Like champagne.
Goodbye, Julie Granum. Your departure was a mistake. Goodbye.
