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Friendship Priming

Friendship Priming

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The newspaper clipping, neatly labeled “International Herald Tribune,” came from Kay in France. She had tucked the essay in with a note that said “this has ‘Anne’ written all over it.” 

The topic: structural priming, the unconscious influences on writing, how what we read settles into our brain and sets up shop there and, before we know it, we’re penning lines better suited to reports than poems. It’s a habit we can break by cleansing our “linguistic palate” — reading widely and “against type.”

The author, Michael Erard, has written short stories, essays, reviews and nonfiction books — but his day job is a think tank researcher. In other words, he says, “I’m a dancer who walks for a living.”  And he dances better, he says, if he shuts off the Web and dips into a page of Virginia Tufte’s Artful Sentences: Syntax as Style before beginning his creative work.

Reading this essay was like turning a kaleidoscope and bringing a new palette into place. It’s something I’ve thought about for years, but couldn’t have articulated.

And it’s worth noting that although I might have stumbled across the article online, it came to me because someone I love thought I would like it. Which makes it an example not of structural priming but of friendship priming, the uncanny and unconscious connections that exist, that flourish, between friends.

Grasping the Moment

Grasping the Moment

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There was a last-minute offer to grill, a request for chicken, zucchini and tomatoes, all of which I gladly supplied. And then there was transporting the grill, the real thing, the Weber, with its bag of charcoal.

The real grill takes time to heat up so there were games of catch with Copper, plenty of ins and outs through the backdoor. People appeared on the deck, talked on their phones and then vanished back inside. Earlier we had sifted through an album, found a black and white photo of Tom from his long-hair days. This was passed around and admired. We opened some hard cider, marveling at its tang and effervescence.

Two more friends appeared, and now it was an impromptu party. I bounced on the trampoline, listening to songs I’d just bought: “Teach Your Children Well,” “September,” “Your Song,” “Morning has Broken.”

My troubles left me alone for this blissful, golden evening. The late light glancing the trunks of the oaks, the hydrangea blooming, voices from inside, laughing. People, young people, talking about music and jokes and places we don’t know and never care to find out. Someone could have pulled out a guitar, strummed a few chords, and I wouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe next time. It was life renewing itself. And I was pulled along by it, glad for the ride.

On Broadway

On Broadway

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The tune has been in my head the last few days. The tune is there because I was there. On Broadway, that is. Not the part George Benson sings about, not the place where “the neon lights are bright.” Not Times Square Broadway.

I’m talking Upper West Side Broadway. Corner grocers, vacuum cleaner stores, coffee shops. There was a time when I lived there that if I ran out of paper and had to run down to the tiny stationary store to buy some, I hesitated. I would have been on deadline then (I was always on deadline that year) and I knew I would run into at least a couple of people I knew on the way there and back. Could I afford the time to buy the paper and chat with the friends?

The answer, always, was yes.  I had lived there for a few months. And when I walked down Broadway I knew people. I didn’t need neon lights.

Saturday, during my 21-hour visit to Manhattan, I had time to walk from 114th to 77th Street. The sun was bright, the air was warm, the pedestrians were of every size, shape and color.  I didn’t know people to talk to along the way. But I had left one good friend at 113th Street and met another at 77th. My feet flew down the pavement. There was energy and street life. It was good to be back on Broadway.

Symposium

Symposium

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Less than 24 hours in New York City, a quick trip up for my journalism school reunion. I almost didn’t go; I didn’t know if I wanted to tell people what I was doing. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my career; it’s a decent one by most standards. But my classmates are an impressive group of journalists. I wasn’t sure they would understand that what matters to me now is not the daily chase for plum assignments or the satisfaction of putting a magazine to bed. Instead, it’s reading and thinking and working on the ever-elusive next book.

What I discovered is that many of them are in a similar place. They too are switching gears, writing poetry, starting blogs. They are still an impressive bunch — but impressive as human beings, most of all.

This is where we held our party. Symposium: Plato’s work on the nature of love, the Greek word for drinking party and a funky little restaurant on 113th Street.

The Grace of Good Company

The Grace of Good Company

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It’s springtime in Washington, which means we host friends we haven’t seen in years. They come from the city and the suburbs, from the Midwest and the West Coast. And they bring with them a whiff of the way things used to be, of the pre-suburban me. They remind me that there is a grace that flows from good company.

Last night there were 12 of us in our small kitchen, friends and kids of friends, eating and laughing and talking about everything from the Supreme Court health care debate to the plethora of Chicago microbreweries.

Roots and seedlings aren’t the only things being stirred to life this time of year.

Making Friends

Making Friends

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On a solo walk the other day, I found myself at the far end of the beach with a thunderstorm crackling and snapping around me. What had been a leisurely stroll became a full-tilt run back to the inhabited end of the strand.

So yesterday I perched closer to civilization, found myself falling into conversation with a woman as we walked the same way.

A long time ago, I co-authored a book called Single File. It was about the upside of singleness and how women need to maintain their independence even when they are married. The last few days have been a good lesson in this for me.

Meanwhile, I found myself with a new friend. I know what he was after (part of my lunch), but I savored his companionship just the same.

Let Us Entertain You

Let Us Entertain You

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The dust is flying. The drinks are chilling. The food is “being prepared” (I say, to keep the parallel structure of the sentence). The food preparer, of course, is me — so this post will be brief.
We are, in short, entertaining, something we used to do more often but something that has taken a back seat to raising children the last decade or two. But it’s something I hope we do more of in the years ahead.
I think of the great parties of our past, the ones we attended as well as gave, and in them there’s a certain alchemy of people and place and libation that I hope we can achieve tonight. Our wine cellar is not quite as ample as the one above, but I hope it does the trick.

A Lamp, a Seat Cushion, a Namesake

A Lamp, a Seat Cushion, a Namesake

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This was a weekend for friendship. My friend Peggy, in from Seattle for a conference and here for three glorious days of talking and fun. Such a joyful reunion. Tom’s friend Reg, in from Belgium, long-lost for more than three decades, a connection regained.

Pack rats that we are, we could put our hands on several items Reg gave Tom when they were in grad school: a small desk lamp, a shaving mug, a plate, a crocheted seat cushion. I never knew the origin of these items, only knew that Tom brought them into our marriage. But what Tom learned this week has been far more amazing. Traveling with Reg was his oldest son, 28, and he is named Tom in my Tom’s honor. You could not make this stuff up. Life, as always, proves the best storyteller of all.