In the realm of the unexpected, meeting facebook friend Tony Commisso at Proctors was a complete surprise. You may remember that I blogged about Tony in these pages several months ago (The Facebook factor, Monday, Nov. 1, 2010) — but until the day of the Blue Man Group opening, we had never met.
Proctors receptionist Dottie Cramer — a legend in her own time at the theatre and in the minds of anyone who ever called or came here for help and assistance — paged me:
“Anthony is here to see you, Thom.”
“Anthony?”
Rather than ask for more information I walked to her desk. In a moment of instant recognition — like spotting Tom Cruise or a well-known public figure on the street — we “saw” one another, thanked Dottie, then took the elevator to Robb Alley to talk.
We sat for a few minutes in the Apostrophe Café at Proctors assessing one another against the images that represent us on facebook. Strange but not unpleasant.
“I thought you were taller,” he said as if testing that thesis.
“Sometimes I am,” I replied.
“And your hair looks grayer in the photo.”
“ Sometimes it is,” I answered again — and we both laughed from the eyes.
Amazingly, we had common ground for light conversation from grazing one another’s Facebook posts. When his phone rang, it was Colleen, his wife, also someone that I had never met, but when he said he was talking to Thom O’Connor, it appeared no further explanation was needed. After I missed them at Disney’s “The Lion King,” we had agreed to meet over dinner one night but that goal remains elusive for the same reason that engages them in conversation now: negotiating the field for a trusted babysitter for four tiny tots so that Tony and Colleen could take advantage of an invitation to the new dining room at Schenectady Community College before it closes for the season.
It seemed fitting to linger and to ask relevant questions but we were both pressed by tasks that called for completion by day’s end. We agreed to get together soon to continue the “meeting.”
“Are you still writing that blog for the Gazette,” he asked while walking away. “Haven’t seen it in some time.”
Before I could answer or feel guilty, a call from my Realtor reminded me that I was dawdling in preparing for my move to Schenectady.
Theoretically ready to go — I suddenly lack the tremendous push that I realize will be necessary to make it real. Living alone, I don’t have the benefit of someone prodding me day after day and I find too frequent refuge in simply throwing my hands in the air.
One apartment for which I was wait-listed became available last week. Another – a duplex — came close to my grasp through the kindness of a newfound friend, vigilant on my behalf. Both came and went like a shooting star for lack of preparedness on my part.
Reluctant to move on to what remains in many ways unknown, I escape into an Internet ad that touts the delights of retirement in sunny Portugal. I spend a few hours searching the web. Why Portugal? Why not? I answer before halting a self-induced spiral of false logic that often takes me to less than embracing byways. Not exactly dead-enders — all actions are fruitful in some ways – but the bird of time is on the wing and my feathers need some preening to keep my dreams afloat.
I know that I must take advantage of the rainy weekend ahead to spur myself into action. My to-do list grows even as I know that the details that matter to me may mean less than beans to a potential buyer. But, I pick up the phone and schedule a power washing and staining of the deck and a few things I would do at any rate this time of year.
I’ll sit on the deck later in the day and watch the geese skid across the lake. Will it be the last time I’ll be sitting here? Does it matter? I know the course of the future is beyond thoughts; it is time for action and movement into what in many ways will remain unknown until I’m in it.
Year ago, I asked a dear friend and bright and glamorous lady whom I idolized what kept her so tuned in and turned on to the world around her.
“I keep moving,” she told me.
“Just keep moving; you’ll be surprised what the future holds in store.”
I’ll need to trust her in my efforts to overcome a resistance and ennui I can’t quite comprehend — if I am to grasp the ring of gold or silver or bronze that just might lie ahead. Maybe.
Thom O’Connor writes less often for his blog than he intends to.
