Dear Jeff,
Warning… I believe I mentioned I was a writer so you’ll have to excuse what will no doubt be something more akin to vivisection than correspondence.
My communication style, if I have one, even with those such as yourself who have known me all of one day, has grown over the years to the point where the smallest, most concentrated packet of words, a sneezing of language if you will, must, to my mind, live up that most grandiose of designations: prose.
That is not to say that writers are incapable of simple and direct language; quite to the contrary we thrive on the hackneyed speech of the common man; the everyday made new is our bread and butter. No, it’s just that if the past has taught us anything it’s that everything a writer produces–the letters to his illicit lover, the false starts of her novel, the scraps from the wastepaper bin–may someday be collected and published all over the world.
We, and I speak now for all men and women of letters, are very aware of this possibility. The written word it seems (and the levy-busting blogosphere that currently floods our modern age is certainly no impediment) may last forever. This email could well be Methuselah, surviving all others of its ilk; another of my compositions, Lazarus, rising from the death of obscurity. Make no mistake about it, every writer I know holds desperately to at least one corny sentiment: miracles can happen.
I digress.
My intent in writing to you is not to impress you with my facility for language, but rather to do something altogether more mundane, though not without its charm and magic. I wish to thank you. Indeed I saw clearly the mirror between us as we talked today. While I don’t work in the real estate world and swim everyday out beyond the far banks of the credit crisis, and while I wasn’t married for a decade and a half only to have it end amidst pain and confusion a year ago, and while my father doesn’t have Cancer, and while, in general, I’m not currently experiencing a slump in attitude or motivation, nevertheless, despite this inventory of distractions (and that’s all that they are), I saw today, sitting on that bench, a near perfect reflection of myself. I saw my doubts and fears, my hopes and dreams. I saw my arrogance and heroism. I saw my kindness. I saw my apathy. I saw my resilience to the trials of this life. I saw my resistance to change. Truly, that which divides us is but a crack and not a chasm, and unlike the kind that “breaks your mama’s back,” the older I get the more I recognize and defiantly step on, not over, these cracks, knowing with absolute surety that I stand, with all the people of this earth, on common ground.
Justice.
It’s possible in my haste to dazzle you with my powers of perception that I was too harsh when I said your penchant for defining yourself as a “good person” was nothing more than your ego looking for a reason to rage against the injustices of the world thereby giving your malaise fertile soil in which to grow. I apologize for that. Though I would be remiss if I did not remind you to keep a careful eye on attachment to any sort of identity. The more we identify with the idea that we are good, kind and loving people, and the more we attach to the notion that we really are trying to make the world a better place, the more then that we risk fueling the fire of resentment in our hearts when others splash mud in our face. How could they do such a thing? And to me! I’m so nice!
Here too I see myself quite clearly reflected. How many depressions have I stoked by wallowing in my own sanctimony? It’s best I don’t think about it.
Contradiction.
Another apology I owe you, although “owe” is not the right word and “apology” too carries with it its own special kind of reverse arrogance; when others say, “I should have known better,” I always want to reply, “Really? Why? What makes you so special that you should know anything of how the world works?” Let me therefore begin again: Another moment I’d like to acknowledge is my initial judgment of you.
There you sat, tired from your recent workout and perhaps enjoying the rest, allowing your face to remain neutral, no forced smile, no glum scour. Yet, my first reaction was “angry black man.”
I must admit I’m a little bit racist. Everyone is according to a song from a popular Broadway show. Steer far clear of those who claim to not be racist at all; they are the worst offenders, and most are secret agent racists, hiding their bigotry even from themselves. No, I prefer to recognize a racist thought when it arises. I look it square in the eye, thank it for popping into my brain, politely explain I no longer require its services, and then I send it off into the void where I assume it will become a soap bubble, or, if the universe has a sense of irony, part of a rainbow. That’s how I maneuvered through the minefield of judgment today and found, instead of a social construct, a human being, and a kind human being at that.
Endless.
I’m quite sure I could go on for days writing about our little encounter. There is so much in this life. Tomes could be filled with glances. Yet even the most prolific and agile writer can never truly capture the complexities of a single day. Proust tried. Joyce gave it a shot. Tennessee Williams said, “the monosyllable of the clock is Loss, loss, loss, unless you devote your heart to its opposition.” My grandfather was a tailor so I like the analogy of sewing a garment.
When I meet someone, talk to someone, interact in any way, my focus is on not missing a stitch, not bounding over moments, opportunities. Rarely do I craft anything watertight. Usually, my stitching is so poor with someone new that the connection I’ve established loses all cohesion within seconds, falling apart in the breeze like a dandelion.
Luckily, I’ve learned over time how to go back and patch things up.
Luckily, I am blessed with infinite thread.
Ignorance.
We never know the affect we have on people. These thoughts are mine certainly and I’ve enjoyed discovering, exploring and re-learning them, but they stemmed from meeting you. Did you know when you woke this morning that you would be giving me this gift? Did you know you would grant me with thought and understanding and peace? That’s the thing Jeff; I don’t believe we ever know. A wise-fool is not an oxymoron, it is, to the contrary, the highest level of enlightenment we can hope to reach on this earth. Sometimes it seems my only education is an ever-growing awareness of my own ignorance. Don’t you feel that way too? It’s the paradox I never saw coming when I was younger: the smarter I get, the more I know how dumb I am. Strangely however, there’s peace in that. There’s peace in me. I hope there’s peace in you too.
Keep in touch--my new friend,
Scott
BB
