Out of the Silvery Blue

I once lived in England. It was a year when I was 20, and I have never remembered it happily. It was all chill and insecurity, childhood oddities catching up to me in a foreign country. I was not yet an adult and would not be for some years. There were days there, though, among the cows on the green, green hills, that I now see were formative and momentous.

I remember bartending (technically, I was a student; practically, I was a bartender) alongside playful and moody people—I remained friends with a Greek woman named for a cloud for many years after, and still consider her a global good friend, someone I will always find again. (As she did when she wrote to me after Sept. 11, as so many friends across the world did. Thank you all, still.)

Then I remember well one bloke, who has since settled somewhere in my heart, which I hadn't even realized until now. He carried the metallic weight of someone who has been through some kind of unspecified pain, but it hardly showed on his red-cheeked face. It showed in the way he interacted with people—honestly and sweetly. Some people double in on themselves when hurt, others open outward. I remember once serving him shot after shot because he had pulled up a seat at the bar and smiled and seemed, well, not drunk. I think. I was wrong. I think he had alcohol poisoning that night.

When I left the country, we really hardly knew each other.

Some six years ago we regained touch, and stayed in contact for a good couple of years.

The other night I sat at my desk and listened to the wonderful tearing sound of wind that comes in fall. One ear distracted, I wandered through an old e-mail account and found some letters this friend and I had exchanged. I was moved then, in the middle of the night, to track him down on the Internet. It proved not hard at all. Then and there, I wrote an e-mail.

The next morning, from across the cold pond, his letter began this way:

"Wow – how surreal – I was thinking about you out of the blue yesterday as I was considering a trip to New York at some point!"

It leaves me thrilled to have a response, and wondering how this happens. It does seem to happen. These days, I question often how much I believe in things I can't see, how we all connect. My late-night conversations with friends trail through a dense wood where I stop to weigh their thoughts on how silvery are the threads that connect us. I ask them if they have any idea how we can shimmy across these delicate ropes, how we can try to see inside each other. (Trying to see inside ourselves usually seems contortionist enough.) Fortunately, though, more and more, I feel like it isn't necessary to twist around so precariously. Proximity can be satisfying in itself. In the right company, the world will vibrate synchronously.

~

This afternoon brings this text message exchange with a friend:
Her: "I am performing the chain smoke."

Me: "How does the German judge score you?"

Her: "Juicy!"

Juicy?