When I used to be up late, Jon was the one I would call. He was in California, and three hours earlier. I could stay up late from a caffeine high, or nerves, or fear of New York, or whatever, and I could call Jon and talk to him about just about anything without fear of judgement. He was my friend and guardian angel. And he was awake. That in itself was perhaps the most important virtue. He was awake and far-away, a disembodied voice in the darkness, in the privacy of my tiny studio apartment the size of a dollhouse.
And Jon was the one I would write to in letters, pen on paper, an old art form we used to practice before electronic mail had buzzed into consciousness. Yes, my computer is buzzing at me. The dark chocolate I keep sneaking out of the drawer, my not-so-secret stash, is buzzing in me. But otherwise the house is quiet. Aaron is asleep. Jon is out at an office holiday party with Sophie. Aaron was sick today so he and I stayed home. It's almost 9:30 so I guess they are having a good time. I hope Jon is playing his guitar. When I hear him playing guitar, it's like hearing his voice through the telephone. Far away, but a voice melodious in the otherwise quiet dark, intensely private, like your blood coursing through you.
It was quite something for us to come together. Through the darkness and distance, from disembodied to body. From paper and pen and licked envelopes to blood and oil and sweat and vapors; to life.