On a lack of hurry that we knew of yore, to disentangle

In fact, any suggestion to us 

of peremptory flight from a 

well-crafted nest to one of 

precarious parameters would 

have resembled a downsizing

in the Sanford Weills, from

snuggery to Mr Alighieri's 

6th level, the abode of her-

esy, itself. (Here, to pace

off their service corridor

and to confer with their

butler, we send them our

en tous cas metric, in a

gesture of housewarming).

  

This bias against precipitous dis-

entanglement far from distinguished 

one from our generation of fellows, 

and it must be confessed that our 

acquaintance with non-fellows was 

either rife with primordial incident 

or (equally to the point) not, which 

is to say, speculative. 

We, however, knew each other as our

own dirty socks: knew their stamp, 

knew they were ours, knew where they 

were, knew no one would take them. 

What: we can't admit to dirty socks?

     

There was, even then, something 

notably pressing, about whether 

we would be available for a visit 

at home; and I honestly cannot 

recall ever hearing the word, 

"No." Well, an Atlantic crossing or 

dental surgery, excepted. With each 

other, we were used to everything.

It was more than that we were the

thing we were all used to. We truly 

had been set apart, together. I am

aware this made us, mythically,

the butt of jokes, a stereotype. 

One sees now a smouldering entangle-

ment, prodigiously concentrative yet

observantly sympathetic, as we were

channeled (if you like) utterly to

extract each other's contribution. 

Few of us then conceived of things 

this way. We were absorbed, not -

in the strange expression of today

- busy. Nobody asserted that claim.

It would have been insulting, if

it were not so meaningless.

I'll never forget an evening by the 

fire with an upperclassman, two years 

ahead of me, tossing backgammon dice 

back and forth, conjecturing between 

saving the baptistry doors and his

pending defenestration with a glitter-

ing degree in Art, with layers upon

layers of security beneath him. He 

said he felt de-accessioned, let go,

not commended. If this sounds tire-

some today, it was disconcerting then.

     

One's heart very much went out 

to him, although I was too little 

seasoned to comprehend how he felt. 

Rather, I naturally translated his

apprehension into another instance

for venerating his exemplariness.

But I was learning, and this conver-

sation will never be to me, just 

yesterday. It is not past. It is

counted in the census of our hol-

idays. What's become of Waring?

We traveled with our pajamas  

then. Risible as it is to think, 

it was considered polite to our 

hostess, even to our visitors. 

On one cold trip home one Christ-

mas, I contrived the necessity of 

flying from Philadelphia rather 

than Newark, to visit the guy born 

on November 2nd. I had a star from 

Cartier for his tree, and he had a 

scarf for me from our favourite 

haberdasher in town, whose bespoke 

jackets I still wear. We sat cross-

legged on a comfy Portuguese carpet, 

listening to Berlioz, where he and 

his brothers had knelt in their 

jammies to exchange toys - for most 

of a night, not thinking even to sip 

anything, absorbing nonetheless. The

character of that kind of time - no

machine to blink us a text, no custom

of tuning out, no pretense of multi-

tasking - drew upon an intense sen-

sory acuity we used to attribute to

the species, only to be proved wrong.

It needs to be given.

People who lived this way must engage

minds and faces of others in their

holidays, or allow them to slide by.

Very long ago, even when we were

dumb, we learned a holiday could not 

be forced. A holiday eased, however, 

counts among our happiest experiences. 

Those we can sit with, we always will.

Now the shape of affection changes,

its demands revising its qualities,

renovations estranging the unsus-

pecting, not that we are alone in

seeing this happen. My upperclass-

man friend gave me access to his

understanding, as well as to his

face and his voice. The solaced

holiday is not an entitlement of

life. It has to be given.

i         the birds guy

ii-iii  F. Lachowski

iv      Andrew Cooper

viii   Valéry Lorenzo

          intérieur series