I have a friend…
a distant friend…
(and at this point, 99 percent of my coveted collection of these ‘multi-faceted gems’ that I was lucky enough to meet, and talk with, hang out with, have adventures with, are distant…
…a distance not merely geographical, but also practical, since these are also busy people, people  -furiously busy – making art, making money, making television programs, teaching, participating in all levels of government, commerce, and industry, pausing every so often to collect accolades, honors, and the hefty prizes that society metes out to the truly and spectacularly accomplished…)
…and the only tenuous connection I have with these dear people is maintained with tricky words.

Back in the day, the words were written on paper and sent by post. There was a rhythm to the posts. It took a few days, at least, for correspondence to travel. Handwritten words have the advantage of emotion revealed (another layer of meaning) in the handwriting itself.

But then came the internet and the email. Old hat by now. Twenty somethings have never written a proper paper letter.

Yet, they still shine.

The written word is not fading in glory.
Far from it. The encapsulated pith that I read tweeted out by the current generation of young multi-faceted gems is breathtaking. Sometimes I’ll cut and paste an exchange on Facebook just because it’s ee cummings level poetry, crafted real time, back and forth, by the beautiful men and women on the cutting edge of their ascendance, and I am floored by my profound luck at having gotten to know them.

The range of their knowledge is astonishing. Put a smart phone in your pocket and you’re walking around with the Library at Alexandria (all the world’s knowledge) available at the push of a few little buttons. Got a question? Get the answer.

The knowledge is deployed by my young friends with wit and panache.
The ones making art take what they know and make you think (or laugh or cry or shout) with such force and seeming effortlessness that it seems as though they’ve thrown a grenade into your room and forgotten to yell heads up. It’s the flash and then, immediately, the BOOM. Sometimes they stand before you naked, and make it seem like you’re the one exposed.
I have no quibble with these young geniuses.
I have only pride.

But words in an email trail have some severe limitations for an aging, clever wordsmith like me.

I have a friend…
that I’ve gotten to know via words (and images) on computer screen.
(Yes, I could deploy this on a television, but that’s just a technical subtlety.)
The images are somehow more solid and reliable than the words.

There are parallel tracks (true of all relations with gifted people with a public persona).
There are the words meant for public consumption.

And then,
there are the words exchanged in private. The email trail.

Email trails, where they exist, in Facebook message threads, are in the case of the twenty somethings, as pithy and encapsulated as the rest of their communications both public and private.

But the generation above that has an added layer of irony. (And a greater word count.) They’ve walked the earth longer, and have more experience of brutal complexity.

And the generation above that (the one beneath mine, oh elder statesman that I am) is even more verbose and complex.

So when an email thread about some mundane thing
veers from that thing into something more human:
ie., a thread that seems to describe an issue for the help desk of some service provider
but reads like a ribald and riotous joke, a parody response with a built in ‘up yours’
not aimed at me, particularly (I didn’t cause the thing to go awry after all)
that then turns into a confession of bodily ache, perhaps the onset of some virus,
with symptoms debilitating,
with the image of soldiering on
despite that to an extent;

(Easily understood by me. I work when I feel like shit, and the dancers dance on injuries and when feeling like shit. That’s show business, folks.)

But wait a minute.

Pause.

Collect.

Reflect.

Cause and effect?

I wonder if words are the right way to go. Words are all we got. The other option, and it’s a good one, is silence. Silence is golden, golden.

But the words have been flying. OK, flitting, if you insist.

Let them perch for a moment. Let’s preen, see if we can groom our way to understanding.

The issue is: cause and effect. The words say “not to worry, don’t mind if you do, but don’t.” It is now, in the private words, that the presumed cause (stress) is decoupled from the effect (ouchitude). There is no figuring this out. It’s too personal. It matters not. Look away. Please.

More words follow.

Public words.

Words that confuse. This person is living a private life in public. Is that me, also? The dark matter of art, flung at the walls, is not quite the same as the private dark matter of life, lived in one’s own head. It cannot be shared.

Was it this, or was it that? More importantly, reading between the lines (danger will robinson), is there not a certain level of irony (ok, disconnect, even bullshit) here that indicates (means, signifies) my own responsibility? I’ve said way too much. I misunderstood. I see the bigger picture (now, at last!), and I see that my words may have had a very not good (bad, unintended, but still quite nasty) effect.

You meant to try to console (and to also embrace, welcome, and support), but you may have tipped over someone’s apple cart. Are you going to now stand around picking up apples? No. What would that sub-generation redhead you ran screaming from do? (Because you can still hear that sarcastic voice. You know you can/do hear it all the time.) Walk, don’t run. Not screaming. Fully, beautifully erect. Like a full time ballerina even when before the court.

Walk away from the mess words made. Hit reset somehow. Make amends. Shut the hell up. Give it some time. Preen. Lick the wounds. Relax. Breathe. Be about your life, make work, be yourself.

Do it.