Favorite time. Favorite place. Walking around the city, the golf course, the forest, the heath, the hills, cycling along the river, feeling the essential geographic truth of the land and the friend who resides there. Feeling the sense of experiencing, momentarily, the inner life of one's companion.
Is it possible to know someone, to know oneself, before watching the seasons through a different living room window, before washing dishes at a different kitchen sink, before participating in the morning ritual of tea or coffee, or toast or eggs, before meeting parents, children, lost loves, neighbors?
reading The New Yorker: Someone manages to slip snide references about conservators into the most unexpected articles. One wonders if an editor had a bad love affair with a conservator at some point. For this week's example, read Judith Thurman, "Two for One: the marriage of Isabel and Ruben Toledo," March 10, 2008, p. 70+. Unfortunately not available online and I am tired of typing.