I got the following from my writer friend in NYC. The one who is sort of a constant over the last 14 months but not an ever-present player in my dating life. Let me set the stage.
We had briefly talked over Thanksgiving weekend - actually the end of it. 5 minute convo. I was making dinner and he was on his way out the door to meet friends. Three nights later, in the throes of insomnia and late night viewing of the movie Metropolitan (for the 50th time), I checked my blackberry and this little missive came up. I fell asleep promptly with a smile on my face after reading:
"There are certain nights in NYC during the late Fall, usually after a few day of biting rain and long after most of the trees on the street and the park nearby have shed their leaf-tears, forcing one to meander the sidewalks on a walk home from wherever one found themselves swept up into for a few hours, facing a crisp breeze, when I can honestly say this is my favorite place to be in the world. Nevermind the ambient noise around, a roaring siren shredding the idea of "airtight" windows, that sort of muted rumble rising from the distance and even pausing in it's own sonic cocoon right under my balcony while taxis and pedestrians clear the way. Sound bounces off the backs of brick - which make up the majority of the pre-war exteriors of my neighborhood - and travels upwards, hard, hitting your spine and shaking the calm of an evening on the couch until you're almost mad with impatience for the goddamn thing to go away. One comes to take that as par for the course here. So forget it. Certain nights when the sky is open, the wind is calm, and the dim touch of an inspired idea grabs you where it's low and warm and reminds you that only here, right now, is essentially the most perfect place to be.
It was like that tonight. However, for some inexplicable reason - be it my mood, the almost full-moon, it being Tuesday, or the touch of wine still purpling my tongue - there you were. *poof!* Right there in my head. Unobtrusive, but lingering. A weird specter floating in the peripherals of thought, an unexpectedly announcing your presence again long after sitting down to read. Like those firemen in Roxanne with Steve Martin and their words of advice to the new guy, the more I looked away the more I took a good, long look. I mean, what the hell? Are you surrounded by candles and a Ouija Board, wine, (insert fun girl's name here), and some dusty old Wicca book spouting off incantations from a long-forgotten Pagan ritual? What gives? Not that I mind of course, your presence, or thought, brings a smile my way (especially given recent events, to be continued...) but Jesus - it was like the little guy that drives my brain was sitting at the controls, napping, his feet up on the control panel and unaware the heel of his foot was holding down the "(my real name)" button; the giant screen facing him flashing a looping slideshow of images, impressions, sensations and smells. The damn thing just wouldn't go away.
Not a big deal. Thought I'd just let you know. And if you are huddled around one of those stupid Ouija things, throw the fucker out and demand your money back. They're a total bunch of horseshit anyway, and if they're not - I don't like anyone having that sort of phantasmagorical control over the physical world, one's mind, or more importantly - me.
Hope all is well,
(The writer guy)
Yeah. He can write. And what he said, could he be any cooler? He's wistful at a distance. He's diggin' me without being obsequious.
I have fantasies about us being on a book tour together - me touting my WWII story and him writing whatever it is he's working on now. Silly, but could happen.
