i wish for you the color that you bring forth in others
to greatly rise within you.

i wish you your own best strength.

i wish you always loved ones at your side.

i wish you the beginnings of all your dreams
and many of the ends.

i wish you peace.

(mary anne radmacher)

happy, happy birthday, my friend. 
you’re never far from my heart.

punctuated by a decade, our friendship spanned distances and differences in miles and minds.

we found our boundaries by pushing together, then apart, and finally together again.

through it all, our talks were legendary.  they will not be the same when we’re strangers.

they will be missed.  as will you.

be safe and well, my friend.

no matter how many times i say it, i still feel lucky to call a.j.b. my friend.

i’ve only known you for two years, but it feels more like a lifetime –

distilled into our near-daily exchanges of messages and calls and letters and cards.

and music, always music.

thank you for being a friend without limits or judgments.

we are separated by distance, but you are closer than you know.

if only i had the time…

if only i had the money…

if only i had the words…

those things become crutches, excuses, diversions, distractions, ways out of uncomfortable moments, and, for me, they become a trap, a holding pattern.  and i get stuck.  waiting.  waiting.  waiting.  if only…

so, there was this boy—isn’t there always a boy?—and he made me smile, and then he moved away.  and if only i could see him again and talk things through — then, i could clear the air — then, it would all make sense — then, i could really say goodbye — then, i could move on.  of course, if onlys don’t actually happen.  at least not to me.  until that one night, just before dawn.

and so, it was me, and him, and the night — of that much, i’m certain.  the rest?  it might have been a dream.

it might not really matter.

that particular night was of the finest vintage — early october — cool, dark and deep, with a soft wind that sauntered around whispering of times past, and of innocence, and of falling stars.  it crept through the city blocks carrying with it the faintest hint of moisture — a promise that the dawn would be softened by a blanket of fog and a shimmering carpet of dew.  it was one of those rare nights that held a space for something important to step in.  or someone.

and there he was, and there we went, together.  and, i must admit, when the object of your if only is suddenly and unexpectedly there, with you, in the dark of a night as curiously magical as this particular night, something is bound to happen.

i never thought i would be here, like this, with you.  it’s like a dream.

and just like that,  my if only was handed to me on a gilded plate, topped with truffles and saffron threads and almas caviar.  just like i said i wanted.  just like i said i needed. and i froze.  i had nothing to say.  it was all a hoax.  i didn’t really want an if only, i wanted an excuse to hold on, because letting go meant admitting defeat, surrendering to an ending i didn’t want.  sitting with him that night, i realized that none of that really mattered, not anymore.  he had long since let go and moved on.  the ending was already written, i was just stuck waiting to turn the page.  so i surrendered, i let go of my if only, and so, we passed the time together — with words, and smiles, and laughter, and a single kiss on my cheek.  it was unencumbered and sweet beyond telling.

my if only had come and gone.  and i never really needed it in the first place.

goodbye.

we’re all riddled with fears and insecurities and expectations and entitlements. we’re all struggling to make sense of things and to move along without getting stuck waiting for something, or someone.  that night, though not a shadow of what i anticipated, was exactly what i needed, an object-lesson on letting go and living in the moment — me, and the boy, and the night.

and that’s something worth holding on to.

saturday 10/09/10

• roadtrips & stinkbugs & the hard rock cafe
• “excuse me, do you have any lemonade?“

sunday 10/10/10

• football & scottish bartenders & a walk in the park
• “what’s the capital of montana?  by the way, i drive a vintage jaguar.”

monday 10/11/10

• lenox square & red-soled shoes & ruth’s chris
• “if you ever see me wearing these shoes, i’ve won the lottery.“  “yeah, or you’re crazy.“

tuesday 10/12/10

• dressed to the nines & a fall down the stairs & late-night heart-to-hearts two years in the making
• “i never thought i would be here, like this, with you.  it’s like a dream.“

wednesday 10/13/10

• déjà vu & the lobby bar & arguably the best rare tuna steak of my life
• “yes, and she wears a camo thong.“

thursday 10/14/10

• goodbyes & midnight diners & landsharks
• “if this is really the end, at least we had a good run.“

depth of friendship

does not depend on

length of acquaintance

(r. tagore)

happy birthday, my friend. i always smile when i think of you.

you will not find a soulmate

in the quiet of your room.

you must go to a noisy place

and look in the quiet corners.

(robert brault)

i can’t thank you enough for sharing that quiet corner with me in indianapolis.

happy, happy birthday, my friend.  you’re never far from my heart.

d.j.b.  my friend.  and protector.

i’ve never had a friend who was so fiercely loyal and yet so softly compassionate — your duplicity is a gift.

thank you for late night talks and bathroom confrontations and for making every moment count.

i always feel safe by your side.

a.j.b.  my friend.  i’ve only known you a year, but it feels more like a lifetime –

distilled into our near-daily exchanges of messages and calls and letters and cards.

and music, always music.

thank you for being a friend without limits or judgments.

we are separated by distance, but you are closer than you know.

the only people for me are the

mad ones

mad to live

mad to talk

mad to be saved

the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing

but burn, burn, burn

like fabulous yellow roman candles

exploding like spiders across the stars

(j. kerouac)

there were a few noteworthy yellow roman candles woven into the fabric of my year.  i pause today to remember each of them — my confidants, my co-conspirators, my companions.  the next few posts are my tributes to them, a small expression of my gratitude for the countless ways they have enriched my days.

a comfort not forgotten.