Synchronicity, baby
Sep. 27th, 2007 04:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
constanceI remember reading Death: The Time of Your Life -- at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it was -- a few years back. There’s a short aside in it, where Hazel recounts one of her life’s major disappointments: discovering that one of her favorite days, a pretty ordinary day that just made her perfectly happy, was something that Foxglove, who shared it with her, didn’t even remember. The knowledge that Foxglove didn’t value that day as Hazel did undermined it for Hazel; and that’s happened to me as well, I’ve loved something that I wanted to share, and the right people didn’t share the love at all. It really is one of life’s greatest small disappointments. What’s the opposite of synchronicity? Disharmony? It’s that, it’s one of those disharmonies that throws you off-balance.
But it’s serendipitously wonderful when it happens the other way round.
I got an unexpected postcard from my friend B the other day. He briefly mentions a day trip some of us took when we were all living in New Orleans together. We realized that for all the time we’d spent in South Louisiana -- some of us a lifetime -- we’d never seen the mouth of the Mississippi, and since we lived just a couple of hours away, it seemed almost criminal that we’d never driven it down. And so we packed into my car and drove south along the Mississippi, slipping into and out of swamps so close the water almost kissed the edge of the road, where the trees disappeared and it was all flatland and delta and everything was built up right to the road because that was the only place where the land was dry.
Actually, we never made it all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico. It turns out that whatever branch of the river we were following (the one that terminates in Venice, if you’re interested) was controlled at its mouth by oil companies, and you couldn’t get within ten miles of the Gulf without trespassing on private roads and properties. So we looked around Venice, turned around, found a restaurant (Alice’s Restaurant, no less) and ate our lunch off school-lunch divided plastic trays, and then headed back home through a driving summer storm that had me clutching the steering wheel in a deathgrip as we cleared the bridge north into New Orleans while B. declaimed Edith Sitwell’s “Still Falls the Rain” in ringing tones from the back seat.
I can’t explain, exactly, why this is one of my all-time top-five best days. A mixture, maybe, of the impulsiveness of it, the sense of adventure, the sense that we were off the map for a day, the crazy poetry-readings. More likely it was the knowledge that if you can find a carload of friends who all happen to think a day trip down into Darkest Louisiana is excellent value no matter whether or not you manage to wade into the Gulf of Mexico, then you are lucky.
We never really mentioned that day again after we lived it, but I always did remember it very fondly indeed, and then B. wrote about it all and how surprisingly terrific it had been and how glad he was that we’re still friends ten years later, and I felt extremely lucky to have him to sharing that memory with me. I’ll love that day that much more, from now on.
But it’s serendipitously wonderful when it happens the other way round.
I got an unexpected postcard from my friend B the other day. He briefly mentions a day trip some of us took when we were all living in New Orleans together. We realized that for all the time we’d spent in South Louisiana -- some of us a lifetime -- we’d never seen the mouth of the Mississippi, and since we lived just a couple of hours away, it seemed almost criminal that we’d never driven it down. And so we packed into my car and drove south along the Mississippi, slipping into and out of swamps so close the water almost kissed the edge of the road, where the trees disappeared and it was all flatland and delta and everything was built up right to the road because that was the only place where the land was dry.
Actually, we never made it all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico. It turns out that whatever branch of the river we were following (the one that terminates in Venice, if you’re interested) was controlled at its mouth by oil companies, and you couldn’t get within ten miles of the Gulf without trespassing on private roads and properties. So we looked around Venice, turned around, found a restaurant (Alice’s Restaurant, no less) and ate our lunch off school-lunch divided plastic trays, and then headed back home through a driving summer storm that had me clutching the steering wheel in a deathgrip as we cleared the bridge north into New Orleans while B. declaimed Edith Sitwell’s “Still Falls the Rain” in ringing tones from the back seat.
I can’t explain, exactly, why this is one of my all-time top-five best days. A mixture, maybe, of the impulsiveness of it, the sense of adventure, the sense that we were off the map for a day, the crazy poetry-readings. More likely it was the knowledge that if you can find a carload of friends who all happen to think a day trip down into Darkest Louisiana is excellent value no matter whether or not you manage to wade into the Gulf of Mexico, then you are lucky.
We never really mentioned that day again after we lived it, but I always did remember it very fondly indeed, and then B. wrote about it all and how surprisingly terrific it had been and how glad he was that we’re still friends ten years later, and I felt extremely lucky to have him to sharing that memory with me. I’ll love that day that much more, from now on.
no subject
Date: 2007-09-28 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-29 10:05 pm (UTC)There were these two guys I knew in college; they'd been best friends with each other since grade school, and were both friends with me even though I'd dated 'em both. :D They were both real oddballs and each about 6'5", so hanging out with them always gave me a stiff neck. One day they just showed up at my house and demanded that I accompany them on a camping trip to Big Sur. They mentioned casually that they were a little low on food supplies, so they fidgeted frantically while I mustered some grub and then they hurried me out the door. I had no spare clothes, no bedding, and no toiletries, but they assured me they'd provide. And even though they really didn't provide (accomodations were a moldy dome tent and some blankets of dubious cleanliness, and all the food I grabbed- steak and grapes- was all the food there was, plus they snored like whoa) it was the best camping trip ever. We swam, hiked, took lots of pictures, and the real live Ben & Jerry gave us free ice cream when we came across where their big, cow-painted giant van had broken down on Hwy 1. I still have the pictures of that trip, including the highly flattering one that shows how many grapes I could fit into my mouth (7) at one time. What a blast!
no subject
Date: 2007-10-01 06:46 pm (UTC)When we meet at long last, I am going to force you to share those photos with me. Be warned!