Steve and Donovan
“The water joined!” my wife beams. “I wish you could’ve seen it.” And in her story of going past the isolated causeway of rock and sand between the Songhees Walkway and the little almost bare island off the point, where the sea struggles to close the gap, I feel a decided sense of pleasure; I always look for that connection in the waters whenever I pass there, yet to date have not seen it myself. My infirmity will not allow for easy access there. My condition seldom allows spontaneity. Yet the sea swirls almost infinitely in its patterns of tide and momentum, and I can securely imagine the closing of the gap. After all, true islands do not have bridges.
Connection can seem so fragile. We tear apart at the seams. We think we are islands as the gap widens between our ‘selves’ and an ‘other’, forgetting the foundations that yoke us to one another, no matter how deep the valleys beneath the sea. And it is difficult, me on a little atoll, you on peak, he in a distant grove, she on the other side of the ocean, to see the continual connection. One's turf is one's turf. So when the scientists speak of The Singularity, or when the spiritualists speak of The One, or the various priests of God, we easily do see ‘That Entity’ too, as separate from ourselves. We imagine it ‘out there’. Distinct. Apart. Something yet to be reached. After all, even the porous skin of my molecular containment provides for me a barrier twixt thee and me, as osmotic as I may deem myself to be.
Or am I too obtuse?
Connection can be fragile. M’Lady Nancy Sinclair, at 94, sitting at her computer, sneezed. A finger must’ve touched a key and inadvertently her machine switched off. Some disconnect got her entire letter to me ‘lost’. The steps to retrieve the missive, to switch the contraption back on, to restart the program, to check the draft, the delete, the storage boxes, these steps are challenging. We do not easily tread across the causeways of the unfamiliar. We fear slipping on the rocks. We fear being taken in by the sea. And yes, the sharks of dire contamination can swirl around us. Difficult to accept that they too are but part of the Great Connection.
Thespians, Donovan Deschner and Steve Nagy, remain among my connections. Vibrant young men, they’ve shared an apartment these past five years. With Donovan's leaving now to live with his girlfriend the ‘disconnect’ of immediacy in the friendship is taken for what it is. Yet the poignancy of their separation, of unavailability, is to watch the gap between them appear to grow larger. Like the correspondence between us. Like the lack of ready reciprocation or the lack of spontaneous opportunities to connect. And though beneath the surface of the waters we may reach out with our sensitive souls trembling for resonance with the other, the fact is that speculation is often all that one can imagine for a response. Where then is Michelangelo’s?
Yet connection can be so vital. Ephemeral and mystical, it is the thing that coincides as if by magic with thoughts of someone else. It brings about your news just as I was thinking of you. It reveals a photo on the web just as I was wondering how you are. Connection, like relays along the synapses of being bound by tide and circumstance, continues to charge the memory and the senses, allowing even those we once knew to live on long past their lifetimes. Indeed, “no man is an island.” Yet twixt thee and me? How far we may indeed seem to drift, out to sea.Twixt Thee and Meas kill a flea!ll a flea!e long ob just as iears. May ribbed not easily tread across thencasueways