Hello, dear reader. Welcome from the internet.
It has been a while since I’ve heard from some of you and longer still since I’ve held up my end of the bargain, so I come today if for no other reason than to disrupt the silence.
Summer camp is, like so many other years, entirely interminable, and I’d much rather I was situated comfortably along the shore of Lake Wheresitnow listening to you tell a story about the time the thing happened and how nobody believed it possible without the help of time and declining imagination. Here lies our creativity, may it never rise again! I’ve found myself in a cabin with Monsieurs Dout and Apathee (of the Montana Apathees) and I’d be a liar if I told you any two fellows could be half as disastrous for my otherwise cheery disposition. So I earnestly and urgently wish to—as my good friend Wescott says—make with the disappearing act so as to find myself again.
I was just yesterday thinking of our youth and how much time has passed since those very lost days. Do you realize that it’s been twenty five years since I left for Texas and how absolutely worthless it was to be twenty years old without even so much as a fake i.d. in a town where I had no friends and long distance was still an expensive consideration? At that point I could still give too much thought to a solitary idea and I often did.
Is it really any different than the hours I spend now, two people deep into this monologue, working out the mysteries of the world with the remnant voices of our last conversation? What a lot of words to tell you that I often talk to you, even in your absence, and that these conversations have been a source of fondness and clarity, though very infrequently both.
I once heard a very prominent peddler insist that the two most important moments in life were our birth and our death because at the occurrence of the first anything is possible and at the occurrence of the second, nothing more is possible. I asked him, very vocally for a Midwesterner, to show his work because I didn’t believe him. More accurately, I didn’t want to believe him. I told him that there were at least a half dozen moments between the bookmarks that really resonated, that were bigger than Birth and Death themselves. He sputtered quite a bit, but never showed his work. I consider the matter to be of some dispute and that the prospects for resolution, grim. But nonetheless I continue to believe!
And in a moment of absolute radical honesty and a certain joie de circumstance, I think it’s worth pointing out that it is our episodic and infrequent letter campaign is one of the inexplicably supernatural occurrences of the world that occurs precisely in the moments between the very definite date of my birth and the gauzy space on the calendar reserved for my obituary.
Yr Continued and Devoted Correspondence Pal,