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Saturday, August 23, 2008 [continued from previous entry] Further adventures: weeks ago, during the first throes of digging through accumulated STUFF, I plowed through a large crate stuffed with years of accumulated correspondence. Letters, cards, postcards. (Not a collection that's had much added to it recently, email having taken over for most written contact.) Spent hours sorting through that box, three or four evenings in all, neck-deep in a kind of personal archaeology. Digging down through strata of this life's earlier years, unearthing a sprawling pile of artefacts -- some banal (letters from the 'rents reporting on normal daily hooha), some fun (dispatches from certain individuals, rife with goofiness), some poignant (notes from close friends and one-time lovers). Rediscovering connections that had been a normal part of existence in other times -- some now long snuffed out, others still in working order though with less frequent contact. Came across many letters from a high-school friend -- someone I'd enjoyed, valued, even looked up to the teensiest bit. Sharp, funny, caustic. Kept one letter, then followed an impulse with the rest. Bundled them together, located him via the web. Wrote a note wishing him the very best, stuffed everything in an envelope, tossed it into the mail. One evening, several days later, the phone rang. A voice answered my hello, sounding a bit cautious. Himself, it turned out. Had received the package that morning and followed an impulse of his own. It was good to hear his voice again, and fun to catch up a bit. The cautiousness I noted in his voice carried through the conversation, feeling as if he were taking care to remain... I don't know, respectful maybe. Which I appreciated -- the very last time I'd seen him in 3-D, eons ago, his caustic side took over partway through the visit, something I'd experienced other times but never with so much focus or anger. Wasn't much fun, and in its wake I kind of let the connection go. I figured we'd be in touch again or we wouldn't, time would tell. Either way, I wished him well. I read excerpts from a book he'd co-authored at one point during the intervening years, enjoyed them, recognized the entertaining smartmouth I'd known -- the same person responsible for that stack of letters I culled from my crate of correspondence, inspiring me to inflict all those written time-capsules on their author. Did something similar with another old friend, an important connection for many years and a letter-writer like you wouldn't believein years past. She and another woman -- them friends from childhood -- were two of the more important people in my existence for a long chunk of time, between them accounting for a hefty percentage of my stash of old letters. They've slipped out of contact, both not answering phone messages I left in the days before returning to Madrid three or four years ago. Since then: silence. Apart from a passing encounter in Montpelier last summer, that is, with the woman in question -- me hearing a voice calling my name as I walked along Main Street, staring around nonplussed until I spotted a head sticking out of a car window across the main drag, down the street a bit, me crossing through traffic, approaching the car, finally realizing who it was. Didn't know exactly what to say or expect -- she turned out to be sweetly effusive, exchanging a few sentences, taking my hand, kissing it, then taking off. Wading through the mass of letters in her handwriting, I found a classic, starting off "Hey, armpit," going comically downhill from there. Stuffed it into an envelope with a short note telling her why I was going through her old letters, wishing her the very best in every possible way. Dumped it into the mail. Since then: silence. Which is okay -- a response is not required, she gets to make contact or not. It's just interesting to see who does/who doesn't. A few days after all that correspondence-wading, etc., I came across a stack of old notebooks, some from university. Sat down and paged through them, keeping a few, dumping the rest into the recycling bin. One fell open to a page about three-quarters of the way back -- a single page covered with handwriting, the only one among blank pages. Written, turned out, by a woman I was involved with during my second year at school -- a six-month relationship, living together in the dorm for part of that time. Heavy on sex and drama, the two of us so young, with little idea how to do the relationship thing but giving it our best. A bright, sweet soul who wound up marrying someone from school, a guy I knew and liked. She'd written that letter one day when I was out at classes, choosing a page toward the rear of a little-used notebook so that it would not be found right away, would instead be stumbled across at some point in the future -- a fairly distant point in the future, as it worked out. A sweet letter, about loving and perseverance, inspiring in me tender feelings for the soul who'd written it. On impulse, I ripped the page out of the notebook, found her address in the alumni directory. Stuffed her note in an envelope with a hastily-scribbled hello of my own explaining how I'd come across her letter, wished her the very best, shoved it into a mailbox. One evening, a week, ten days later, the phone rang, a female voice asked for me. Didn't sound like the person I remembered at first, as we talked that changed. Not a lengthy conversation, but one of good will, making me smile from start to finish. Something I've discovered in recent months: there are very few individuals who have passed through my life for whom I would wish ill, regardless of the role they may have played during their time in my little clownshow. I like that. I've come across all kinds of interesting items during this process of culling, including an old tissue box commandeered by my mother at some point in the dim, distant past, used as a stash for Christmas present bows. Old enough that it bears a price stamp reading "2/39¢" -- ancient, in other words. Feels like sacrilege, somehow, to get rid of it -- but it's going. Along with lots of other STUFF. And the work continues. España, te echo de menos rws 4:23 PM [+]
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