. . . Is Hard to Find

In this high pressure world of the insignificant creator of specks upon the World Wide Web that is the personal blog, time is the bailiff, ideas are innocent until proven guilty and the fast approaching deadline is judge and jury. If that were so, this week I’d be found in contempt and guilty on all charges.

As I watch the imaginary second hand on my digital clock give expression to the passage of time, I find myself at the end of a week that has been filled with inspiration. There have been countless times over the last seven days that I’ve thought to myself, “I should blog about that,” only to quickly realize an interesting recounting of the event might hardly fill a paragraph. And in an effort to keep my blog from reading like a modern car commercial (i.e. quick, change the shot before we lose the viewer’s attention – watch one, you’ll see what I mean), I have done my best to avoid giving you a ‘weekly minutes’ version of a blog.

I spoke with an old friend today. Not old in the sense of aged and decrepit, but rather old as in ‘gee, I’ve known him for quite some time now.’ At the end of a random and roving conversation, my phone clock (oddly devoid of an imaginary second hand) had counted off thirty-some minutes. We had covered all the basics: family, work, Monty Python and I had even squeezed in the ever necessary Billy Cosby quote.

I’ve never been quick to open up to people. Perhaps it stems from a childhood in which most of my friends moved away from our small town (often to a smaller one), or perhaps I hold myself close on account of years spent scraping by at the bottom of the social food chain. Yes, I managed to find the occasional less-awkward social activity, what with scouts, sports and Godparents (high school youth group), but most of my life has been a losing struggle to fit in.

It took a concerted effort to open up in college. Early on, perhaps week one, I decided I was going to talk to everybody. It was a task I managed with fair success. I can recall sitting in the cafeteria, boisterously making an inane comment to the table (something about ‘not saying anything legible.’) It was enough to get me temporarily and playfully banished. I took my lumps and another seat at the table behind me. If memory serves, I had a short conversation with the Coe College golf team, before returning to my rightful place as table comedian.

Amongst the banter of my half-hour phone call, it was mentioned that this friend didn’t “follow blogs during the school year.” He cited a lack of time as his excuse and I will accept his statement as permission to freely talk about him.

I mentioned the call to Mollie at dinner tonight (a true dining adventure, what with ‘the boy’ yacking not once, but twice). Somehow, it came to mind how rare good friends have been in my life. I made the statement that apart from her, he was the only friend with whom I’ve had a truly deep and meaningful conversation. I find that sharing a room with someone for four years or a house with another for just short of a decade gives ample time to partake in such discussions. I’ve talked about God, life, movies, love, hate, food, most everything I can imagine with both this friend and my wife. There was even an all too short time in life when these conversations were shared by the three of us; sort of a joint commission to discover the secrets of the universe, to work through life and faith or to challenge the limits of the English language in its efficacy at communicating nonsense.

Like with most my friends, time has moved us to different parts of the known world. College could not last forever and I, at least, had no desire to weld strange letters before or after my name. But unlike others who have moved and often been easily dismissed as ‘not here anymore,’ this is a friendship I cannot shake. If you ask my wife, she will confirm that I find myself missing his company. Today’s phone call was a rare treat. It is nice to be able to pick up in the same (often silly) place we last parted ways. (I believe it is a small town called ‘North Brebenheimer.’ – Uber bonus points if you can place that one!!!)

I’ve often found the middle of the night to be a pleasant muse. She seems to bring forth ideas that elude my sun-clad self. As I have often basked in her pale-moon glow, what I write seems more honest, more lucid and occasionally more unfit for the world’s consumption. But she carries with her a double edged sword; illuminating my thoughts, all the while clouding my mind as the night wanes and my eyes grow heavy. How many stories have I made such a start upon, only to lose the muse ere the end? How then shall I finish this outpouring as I slowly fade past the two hour mark? Am I too far gone, have I faded too fast? Perhaps not. This should suffice.

If you ever happen to read this, Mr. Guffey, thanks for the call!