Massive Mumblings from Malaysia

Return

Head on pillow, against the plane window, sure that if I open my eyes these words I've written in my mind's computer (complete with blinking cursor) will evaporate. I finally end up writing, by hand, since my brain lacks a save function. It's been so long since.

Your hair, short again, like when we first met. When I was expecting shorts--you used to wear them regardless of cold weather--you came wearing pants and an oversized corduroy jacket. And that striped shirt--I know I folded it the wrong way once or twice, in half instead of thirds so that you'd have to redo it to avoid that crease down the middle. Your shoes were different, though the skip in your step was not. I had forgotten it was something you did. Do. It's more of a gallop, really, since you don't raise your knees. Your face looks full with that beard and like your father's.

The things I took away from our meeting were physical. I remember the general flow of conversation, too, for now. Seeing you again makes you real again. In my memory, you're just a shape, an outline. Few defining features beyond these visual kinds. Sometimes I feel like you never really existed, when I try to recall your essence. My eye remembers details, but my heart forgets. Then I doubt if it ever really knew.

I hope you heard me when I said that if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be where I am today-- a nomad in love with the world. Thank you. And did you note the past tense when I said that I was sorry that I had wished something bad would happen to something close to your heart? (But remember, there's no crying in baseball. And, in case you didn't already know, the Yankees are traditionally a good team.)

Why am I making the private public? I used to insist on sharing my secret joys or transgressions. No discretion. That's how several strangers became friends. Andi still jokes about that time freshman year, sitting on a bench on Old Campus, when I told her some juicy story; she claims we'd barely even ever talked before that.

But that was another time. You are (were?) the past and I return to join you there now.

A friend likes to tell me that one can never really love another person because that other person cannot truly be known. You know only what they let you know of themselves and even if genuinely true, they could change. Love yourself, he says, then you are love and nothing else matters.

A quick Ctrl-A and a swifter DELETE?
Naw, let it ride.