A Constant Visual Feast

Dear Lew,

Hey. It’s been a while, I know. Maybe hearing from me out of the blue like this comes as a shock, or even an insult; I would understand either, and especially the latter, because friends aren’t supposed to go this long without communicating, right? Otherwise, you can’t really call them “friends,” I suppose, or perhaps that’s just a particular assumption of mine that I’m projecting onto everyone else’s norms for amicable connectivity. I don’t know. I’m not one who lives within most social norms.

I’m rambling. Sorry. I’m nervous. I don’t know how you’ll receive this letter, or how this letter will receive you. Are you doing well? Are you in good health? How long a while has it been? I can’t think of the last time we talked, and if I wasn’t nervous enough as is, then that naturally amplifies my nerves. How are you and your better half doing? (I guess strictly speaking you’re his better half.) Is what I’ve heard through the grapevine true, that you two are drifting apart? I hope not. You make such a good pair. You make so much sense together, no matter that a handful of fools sprinkled here and there throughout your lives seem to think otherwise. (Funny thing: If you ask them directly they won’t admit to feeling that way.)

Ah, me. I suppose I don’t have much business saying so, but damned if I know when to speak and when to not. I just want good things for you, that’s all, and there’s nothing wrong with wishing well on your friends, is there, even when those friends have been incommunicado, so to speak, for far too long, though I admit my pluralization there is a generous analysis of the particulars of our situation, and now I’m rambling again.

Will you let me end the estrangement between us? Will you accept my letters if I send them to you time and again? Will you write back, or will the silence be sustained? I’m so sorry for being so insular for so long.

~A