Things begin to congeal. The energy lessens, and what used to amount to nothing--a strangers accidental touch on the subway, imagery (a bike, a piece of clothing), the approaching winter--becomes charged with meaning, with an immeasurable sense of what is possible at those moments, in the random (but are they random?) crossing of trajectories (and how I know so much about the crossing of trajectories now,) but also what seems impossible. Everything. Sometimes everything. Other times I forget.
She was all around me in the ether today. Meg and I rarely left voice messages for each other, but rather we would leave about 15-20 seconds of a Sade song, a particular lyric: "I want to cook you a soup that warms your soul," or my favorite, "There is a woman in Somalia..." And today, when I got on the plane to return to NYC, a woman sat down next to me and began listening to Sade on her iPod. Then, I got in a taxi, and guess what was playing on the radio? Yes.
Jennifer Miller told me a story today about a pigeon that landed on her windowsill and seemed sure on finding its way inside her loft. She ignored it for a time, but it was persistent, and so she let it inside, where it walked around the apartment for a short while, and then left.