I think a lot about distance.
Distance is the difference between you and me. It may be spatial, temporal, psychological, emotional, historical, linguistic, political, religious, economic, relational, ethnic… Wherever you and I are not identical, we are separated by a discernible distance. Distance is a crucial determinant in love, war, or any competition. A maker must gauge the distance between themselves and their audience. I want to be close to you but not creepily close. I am careful to keep my distance, but if that distance is too great you’ll lose sight of me. Any thought I utter or word I choose presumes an optimal distance between us. If I get it wrong, it means I’ve mistaken you – and nobody enjoys being mistaken.
Most thinking about distance is instinctive, not articulate. We sense without being told how close is too close, how far too far. Evaluations of distance depend on circumstance. The proximity of a rush-hour subway would be intolerable at a cocktail party. (Almost anything is intolerable at a cocktail party.)
Lovemaking is distance-setting. I am making love to Jane whether we’re near or far. Shakespeare and Thoreau are making love to me. I love you because you are here sharing words with me. That love feels almost sensual at times.
One sign of human debility is inability to assess distance. I dread getting old and bumping into people because I failed to place them precisely. The mentally ill may transgress conventional boundaries, barging past physical or conversational prohibitions.
You and I are physically distant. Likely we will never touch or hear each other sigh. But we can be emotionally close, closer than with our neighbor with a MAGA lawn sign. Shared interests, enthusiasms, and concerns tempt our souls to intertwine. Writers I love I feel peering over my shoulder, even breathing down my neck. How did Thoreau anticipate me so entirely!
Intimacy is the holy grail I’m forever stalking. I crave close friends, not casual acquaintances. If a reader doesn’t enjoy our conversation, I’m glad to see them go. Sometimes I use fancy words as a barrier to entry. Who has many friends, observed Aristotle, has none.
More than a few folks have scolded me for publishing too much. They can’t keep up with me, they groan; I’m crowding them! No worries, I cheerfully reply; I doubt, if our positions were reversed, I’d read me daily. But how comforting to know a loved one is there when we’re in the mood.
Distance from headlines is another ongoing concern. Technology permits immediacy as never before. I depend on certain pundits to explain the news of the day. My aim is amiable, not educational. Friends don’t tutor, they wonder together. These days especially there’s too much hollering, too many expletives and exclamation points. I holler too at times – it’s hard not to, so much horrible is happening – but I’m wary of wearing out my welcome. Chicken Little is a bore.
Distance is elastic. We welcome more or less, depending on innumerable variables. Even dog-pal Henry doesn’t want to be cuddled constantly. Love keeps its distance – but not too much distance. More than once, I’ve spoiled promising relationships by barging past No Trespassing signs. My eagerness ignored the fine line between needing and being needy.
As the audience for these missives swells, I fear the loss of intimacy. Friendship is my purpose, not fame. My discipline is to address you as one, my spiritual twin. The Golden Rule applies here as everywhere: write as you’d wish to be written to. It’s polygamy in a way, without the social complications.