It is an unalterable law of sociological and meteorological science that no matter the circumcstance or time of day, if you want someone to magically appear and walk into your office... fart.
Don't ask me how I know. You've probably already guessed.
(And so has the woman on the cleaning crew who just walked into my office. Pour soul.)
Brigadoon is a story of two Americans who, hunting in the Highlands of Scotland, stumble on the enchanted village of Brigadoon, which emerges from the mists for a single day, once every 100 years...
While the rest of the world speeds by, Brigadoon stays virtually unchanged; frozen in the mists of time.
Such a treasure is the Brigadoon Friendship... preserved by the passage of years; unburdened by the daily trading of water cooler gossip; invisible to the speed dial, but marked instead by the milestones of annual birthday cards and calls, five year reunions, and the deliciously rare unplanned crossing of paths in a small, small world.
Some aquaintances are plated by proximity and frequency: the coworker, the parents of your kids' friends, the other familiy in the carpool. But the value of the Brigadoon Friend is solid gold.
Of my Brigadoon Friends, three come to mind. Our paths and day-to-day adventures led to opposite corners of the Earth. Yet our reunions, because they are free of the march of the hours and the drama of the days, are about the richness of life and the rarity that is a true friend. And in those reunions the intervals of time disappear like fog in the strenghening morning sun.
So today, a wee dram for the Brigadoon Friend!
May we be happy - and our enemies know it!
And may ye ne'er want a frien' or a dram to gie him.
Thou reader throbbest life and pride and love the same as I,
Therefore for thee the following chants.
So there I was, in the Detroit Wayne County Airport, with a two-hour layover to kill at the end of a work week. No more talking points or power points. Time to fertilize the brain. I spy the ultimate Whitman Sampler: Leaves of Grass. In my growing devotion to all things New York, I've come across his stuff... Manahatta... Crossing Brooklyn Ferry... But now this bracing jolt.
It is I you hold and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms.
That's good.
I look up and around the store. He's talking to ME!! Can they tell? Did they see me recoil at that line and nearly drop the book? Got. To. Buy. This. Act natural. Be cool. It's Leaves of Grass, for crying out loud, not Tropic of Cancer. (Although just in case, I buy some gum, a Sports Illustrated, and a comb just to be safe.) And so, in these first few pages, he sprang into my arms, to the background music of CNN Airport News...
... all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and reward.
(CNN: "In entertainment news, Kelly Clarkson brings home two Grammys"...)
Oh, to be self-balanced for contingencies,
To confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, rebuffs as the trees and animals do.
(CNN: "In sports, another NBA player jumps into the stands after a hapless blowhard of a fan.")
Stop this day and night with me and you shall posess the
origin of all poems,
You shall posess the good of the earth and sun, (there are
millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor
look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres
in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things
from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
(CNN: In the Situation Room, the yammering talking-head-of-the-moment tells Wolf Blitzer what "really matters to the American people.")
This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,
This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of
yearning.
(CNN: In entertainment news, Billy Joel calls out two 'Nylon Curtain' songs that are two faves: Where's the Orchestra; She's Right on Time. One I used to sing to Her our senior year in college. The other is more or less about us, too. I'll never get over the smell of her hair. She broke my heart in 17 places. She knows.)
This hour I tell things in confidence.
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
(Both of us are married, with three kids apiece. We just emailed each other at Thanksgiving. I can go months without talking to her... longest was a year and a half... but it's a Brigadoon kind of friendship. [Editor's note: More on that later. Remind me.]
Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,
I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my
faintest wish,
Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the
friendship I take again.
That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the
metaphysics of books.
To behold the day-break!
The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,
The air tastes good to my palate.
(I don't know why things catch me the way they do. But there's whimsy to be seen in each day. As Elvis Costello says, "I'm having the time of my life; or something quite like it." Because I'm home now, Grass stains on the brain, ready to cook Saturday morning breakfast for the kids!)
[Written on Saturday, filed late Monday night.]
W: Boy, that escalated quickly... I mean, that really got out of hand fast!
Rummy: It jumped a notch!
W: It DID, didn't it?
Dick: Yeah, I shot a man in the face!
Condi: I saw that! Dick killed a guy! Did you throw a trident?
Dick: Yeah, there were birds, and a man on fire, and I shot a guy in the face!
W: Dick, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. You should find yourself a safehouse or a relative close by. Lay low for a while, becaue you're probably wanted for murder.
I saw greatness today.
Humility. Good will. Cajoling. Compromise. Then consensus.
I saw men and women reach across a gulf of ideology, steer into the headwinds of a rhetorical tempest, because they were more concerned about doing right than being right; more about all gaining than some winning.
Yes, it had to do with public policy... but instead of in our nation's Capitol, it was in a frost-bound state Capitol. Pride took a holiday today. If it can happen here, why can't the big shots get it in DC?
I saw the best of what I attempted to describe here.
But I've been miles from home all week. And I miss my kids, and haven't gotten road souvenirs yet. Don't suppose this shoe buffing cloth and a packet of gourmet decafe coffee will do, huh?
I'm jonesin' for some twisted steel, and I've got it bad.
I have sat at nine desks in 19 years since entering the workforce... eight of which had been someone else's first. Today is the first time I've ever had to order a box of these.
EVER.
I'm down to the last two, now, and they're an unmatched set. One "normal" paperclip, and one small blue one. [I hate those. They're not real paperclips. They're for people who have "Hang in there, baby." posters and unicorn mugs. I hate those even more!]
Here's the point: I've always been on the receiving end of those little metal nuisances sent via interoffice mail by nameless, faceless others. They poured in from everywhere, overrunning everything in sight. It was an embarassment of riches. Until now...
Now there are two... The office supply order doesn't come in 'til Tuesday... and I've got THREE MEMOS to get out!!! Wait! I think I spotted one in the hallway near the elevator! And there are two more in that paperclip holder thingy on the copier. [Is it hot in here???] Wait, Julie's out today. She wont miss a couple. I'll just score a few to get me through. Hahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!! But it's not like I've got a problem or anything.
Come Tuesday, everything will be fine. It's just one little nickel box. I can handle it. Yeah, sure I can. I can switch to a stapler, or scotch tape. I can quit any time I want to...
* Or "sub," or "hoagie," or "hero". We call them "grinders."
The solemn watch had been kept. Ever since the call went out first thing in the morning, we arrived and assembled. One. Then two more. The fourth. Then all five. Our Uncle, your big brother arrived; looking more stricken than we seemed to feel at the time. Perhaps because he was shouldering our burden, too... that day.
That. Day.
The first-born son of your first-born son, at 16 months, played with a choo-choo on the polished slate-like floor, just inches from your bedside. Running; squealing; making echoes down the cavernous hallway; yet slightly jumpy from the different kind of energy coursing through the "grownups" and suddenly missing from you.
That. Day. The last day the "grownups" would be children.
Day passes to twilight. A shattered brother says goodbye. Then, a suddenly wary grandson is lifted up by his father "Superman style" to leave you a kiss; and upon being moved into a low hover drops his head to lay cheek upon cheek. His father nearly loses his grip from the blow, but recovers. (I almost didn't.) "He knows. I don't know how, but he knows."
Night closes in. The five draw together 'round the One.
Six o-clock. Seven. Seven-thirty. Seven-forty. Seven-forty-five.
Your third child. The second son. The Beloved One... volunteers to run out to pick up the meatball grinders we ordered.
Seven-fifty.
"It's okay, Tommy."
"Yeah, I know. I'll be right back. It's just around the corner."
Seven fifty-five.
The beloved one exits, stage left. The four draw closer. Our eyes are watching God...
... And you slip out for a meatball grinder.
Followed him right out the door, didn't you? Oh, that was classic! We should have seen it coming. I think somehow Tommy did all along.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006 at 09:36PM
