So, it's funny how coincidental life often happens to be. Mom just emailed with this:

"An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break."
--An ancient Chinese proverb

Several weeks back, I saw this interesting girl at Nature's Way, when she came in for a sandwich with a friend. Later that day, I saw her at the bank, while I was making a deposit. Shortly thereafter, I ran into her at Whole Foods while we were both buying cheese. The coincidence was surprising, but we left it at a shared laugh and hello. I haven't thought about her since.

Today, at work, she came in with a few friends. I recognized her, but I didn't remember the previous coincidence until she pointed it out to her friends. But the coincidence goes further. For the first time since I've been at Two Senoritas, I carded people for alcohol, because there were police officers sitting at the table beside them, and they weren't obviously over 21 (though they all were, two by quite a few years). And this girl's birthday (I didn't catch her name) is...Oct 16, '84. Three years my junior, but the same birthday. So crazy!

Another coincidence happened on Monday. Lara and I, after picking her up from the airport, had lunch at the french restaurant, because we can never go, because they're only open for lunch. We then procrastinated getting her home and off to class by shopping in the toy store and looking at jewelry. We still had time, so we checked out an art gallery that opened about a month ago, which was right near where we had parked. It turned out not only to have amazing art, but also amazing wood floors, sparse furniture, and a nice and friendly owner interested in holding events there. So the first thing that came to both our minds, seeing the space, was Tango! And sure enough, she's interested. All we need to do is come up with a plan and run it past her, and hopefully we can get it to happen. Neat!

I love coincidences. My life is full of them. I am continually open to adventure.

From The Alienist by Caleb Carr:

"If it seems odd that I offered no further protest, I can only say this: Kreizler's explanation that his present course of action had been inspired by a document I had sent him years ago, coming as it did on the heels of our shared reminiscences about Harvard and Theodore's mounting enthusiasm for this plan, had suddenly made it plain to me that what was happening in that office was only partly a result of Georgio Santorelli's death. Its full range of causes seemed to stretch much farther back, to our childhoods and subsequent lives, both individual and shared. Rarely have I felt so strongly the truth of Kreizler's belief that the answers one gives to life's crucial questions are never truly spontaneous; they are the embodiment of years of contextual experience, of the building of patterns in each of our lives that eventually grow to dominate our behavior. Was Theodore--whose credo of active response to all challenges had guided him through physical sickness in youth and political and personal trials in adulthood--truly free to refuse Kreizler's offer? And if he accepted it, was I then free to say no to these two friends, with whom I had lived through many escapades and who were now telling me that my extracurricular activities and knowledge--so often dismissed as useless by almost everyone I knew--would prove vital in catching a brutal killer? Professor James would have said that, yes, any human being is free, at any time, to pursue or decline anything; and perhaps, objectively, that is true. But as Kreizler loved to say (and Professor James ultimately had a hard time refuting), you cannot objectify the subjective, you cannot generalize the specific. What man, or a man, might have chosen was arguable; Theodore and I were the men who were there."

It's funny what happens when you decide to talk to people. I called Jackie, a friend from high school, and we had a good chat, and she's happy to have my number so that she can call randomly as well. She's at school in Chicago and loving it, having as much of an adventure "up north" as I did. Also, I was randomly messaged on facebook by Melissa Meyer, now Melissa Knapp, who "adopted" me as her little brother, and whom I "adopted" as my big sister, since she was the youngest and I was the "oldest" (my twin brother doesn't really count, since he only started acting like an older brother when we were both adults). We were friends of friends at Kenyon, and we became friends, then drifted back into our own lives, as often happens with me. She's now married and getting another degree, her first in math, this in environmental science (civil engineering). Good luck! I don't find that stuff exciting enough to major in, but she does. Heck, I know a friend who's excited about accounting! [laughs] Something for everyone, everything for someone.

I had my first interview with someone, a writer for Creative Loafing named Brian Ries, also owner of a comic book store. He lucked out, moving from the restaurant industry straight into the restaurant reviewing industry in a single bound. His primary advice was to write, because there's no way to get into editing without being a professional writer. To become a professional writer, one must come up with some great ideas, make contacts among editors, and sell that idea to one of the editors. Then, all you have to do is get the writing done [laughs]. He was really cool, and I look forward to seeing him again.

Also, in the same spirit of keeping connections alive amongst people I know and like, I started writing back and forth to Judy Pokras, whom Lara and I met while dancing a long time back. Besides being the editor/founder of several publications and online publications, she's a raw vegan. I'm not sure what entails raw veganism, but her words are:

"Raw foods cuisine is made with fruits or vegetables combined with nuts and seeds and/or herbs and spices, and never heated over 118 degrees Fahrenheit."

I'm not completely certain of what reasons one might have for choosing raw veganism. On the health side of it, I know that cooking anything, be it meat or vegetables or grains, causes some of the nutritional value to be lost. I'm sure that I could get my total nutritionally-complete diet using raw vegan recipes, but it would be a large leap from my current diet of almost everything. I'd be thrilled to learn how to cook raw vegan cuisine, but if Lara can't even convert me to simple vegetarianism, I don't think there's any chance whatsoever of converting me to a raw vegan lifestyle. [grins] But things like cookies that take a couple days to dehydrate, and pasta made from coconut (I even have one right now) are very compelling. You know how I am about learning things [grins].

Anyway, I have a dinner party tonight, that I'm Not cooking for (for once), and then having dinner with a friend named Brook. The plan was for me to meet her significant other (John), but right now he's being slavishly abused by his employers, being in limbo waiting for a transfer, and so he's trapped up in Boston and had to cancel his plans to visit. [sighs]

Lastly, I joined a book club today. Wasn't I at work? Why, yes I was. I got to serve the first meeting of the Sarasota Book Club, and I chatted with them, got the website and the reading list, and hopefully I can make it for the next meeting. [laughs] I can always make time to read. I don't Need milk or peanut butter. [laughs] Wait, yes I do. They're the staples of my diet. Darn it! So I have to grocery shop soon.

Blah blah, I do go on, don't I? Au revoir, blogger.

I find myself slightly troubled by a discrepancy in my life that is probably meaningful. I still think about my friends and wonder how they are doing, in fact still feel toward them warmth and a bit of happiness. Some of them have written to me in personable ways, and others sent small birthday wishes. I would like to chat with them, find out how they are doing, let them know that I still think of them, keep the connection. And yet I don't call or write.

I know that I don't have much time. I turn my phone off at work. I'm not going to call people at midnight. I usually have business to fill my time between jobs on days that I work morning and night. I usually have a book to write, a dinner to cook, errands to run. I often make plans that involve spending all my free time running around doing something. But seriously, shouldn't I find time to call people here and there in the middle of all that? I know that saying, "Lara finds time to write people and call people," is a bad example because she's more motivated than most people I know. But I'm one of the few people I know that doesn't find time to contact friends.

And so, do I really care, if I don't make time for my friends? You see, I spent the good part of my earlier life unable to spend time with people. I consoled myself, if that's the correct phrase, with the fact that I made good use of the time that I did spend with them. We weren't together often, but when we were, we were close. I think that somewhere along the line, that became more than a consolation, that now I tell myself that I'm close to my friends, that when we talk, we're great friends. I can't be there for them very often, but I always answer when they call, and I listen when they talk, and I try to make sure we have fun when we go out together. But am I just a crazy person talking to himself in a dark room, unaware that he's alone? Do my friends say, "Yah, David and I are good friends," or do they say, "He's cool, but I never hear from him, so whatever, that's how he is?"

My relationship with Lara has redefined many things for me. For example, it wasn't that I wanted to move out to Florida with her. I mean, I did, but it was a need more than a want. I couldn't show her how I felt without moving for her, and I couldn't be the person whom she was dating without actually being there. More important than the time I spend with her is the attention I pay to her. We've even written each other a couple of actual letters, even while living right here near each other. My lack of attention for her, or hers for me, would represent a lessening of our affection for each other. Because that's who we are.

Doesn't it make sense that that should apply to everyone in my life? And if so, there are only two possible conclusions. One is that I have no room in my heart for full or even adequate affection for anyone other than her. That I am person either small of heart or frigid of heart without the ability to be a true friend to anyone. The other possibility is that I am a hateful person with no desire for true friends, that I dislike people so much that I am incapable of being moved to full or even adequate affection for them. Neither state is one that I would like or approve in myself, and yet, I seem to accept the fact that I don't call people or email people, the only proof of my affections.

But how can either case be true? I am kind and patient with friends and coworkers and strangers alike, so how could I possibly hide enough poisonous hatred within me, even from myself, that would prevent me from having affection for my friends? And in the other case, I frequently try to think of ways to surprise, help or cheer my friends, ease the work or stress of others, feel guilt when I am careless or thoughtless or selfish enough not to help someone when it was within my power. How can my heart and mind hold all that and be too small or cold for true affection?

What other off-the-wall possibilities are there? Perhaps I am a coward, afraid of encouraging or supporting friendships with anything other than the solid earthen foundations upon which they are built, afraid of building them up or raising them for fear that they will tumble down upon me. How is that cowardice possible when I am fearless in meeting people, shameless in allowing them to know me, insatiable in trying to get to know them? Perhaps I am elitist and aloof, not scorning the physical or mental company of anyone, but rejecting their emotional company. How is this possible when I still feel far below any sort of highground, whether moral, intellectual, emotional or whatnot.

I don't know. In my brain I care about you, my friends. In my heart, I believe that I care. But where are the words from my lips, the letters from my pen, the characters from my keyboard? I tell myself that I'll write. Often I even want to call. And then I don't. And I have no good excuse. What does it mean? Does it mean that I don't care? Does it mean that I am incapable of caring?

We walked along those ancient tracks of commerce, now rusty paralleled iron atop wooden boards as cracked as the small granite stones upon which the whole rested. We had not traveled far when we came upon the refuse of some unfortunate civilized person, a jumbled pile of debris and odds and ends, some half-useful, others in good condition but useless. A small jumprope. A water-damaged book on How to Write. decorative plates. a large cadmium battery, probably dead. cds to throw as frisbees. cardboard boxes. And a few treasures. A computer, scavenged by our mousy friend. A copper and glass candle lantern, to light the way in dark places. But not this trip, for we had no candles.

We moved on, using opportunities for photographs with the moon hung full in the sky and the sun just setting, still sending a full range of colors across the blue expanse. One end we came to, cars sitting idle and forgotten by all but their homeless occupants. We did not feel right intruding upon the unfortunate habitation, so we returned to the turn in the tracks. On the left hand was a deep ditch with slowly flowing water, and on the right tall grass in a small field lined with trees unwelcoming.

We reached another street and turned to make the circuit back to our vehicle. Our walk took us through a neighborhood of Mexicans, quaint and proud of what they had. We wondered much at their road-side trash: two computer moniters at one house, several computer towers at another, a mini-fridge at another, a couch at another. But it was not our place to stop or stay or ask questions.

We passed a large house that seemed to be a south-american mansion, a plantation house, two story with wings. If an apartment, it looked inviting. If a single habitation, it was surely a mob-house or mafia home, a gang hang-out or den of thieves, a drug-lord and prostitution king's seat of power. Hearing laughter and the sound of several people having fun, we were drawn to it, but we dared not intrude.

Near the end of our journey, in a small lot, we found several old BMWs and the perfect lighting for reference photos. An illegal exchange. A confrontation with a prostitute. A searcher in the dark. Propositions. We headed home with a full camera, wistful for more memory.