I’ve reached the age when the timeless nature of our lives slips away, an illusion; we’re anchored in the passing days. Lifelong friends vanish like the dew.
I’ve started dreaming of old friends. I dream most often of Terry Carr, Roger Zelazny, Buz Busby and most especially Bill Rotsler. No idea why these should feature so strongly, but they do. Often I’m talking to them, walking somewhere, pointing out new amusements, odd angles. Sometimes I ask they salient questions, but never recall their replies. I have no idea what this all means, except that I’m putting my life in perspective now, looking down the long corridor of tapered time, and friends set the scale. Maybe the dreams say that I’d still like to talk to those missing now forever–to continue the conversations that are friendships, time binders.
So I look through old photos, like the one above. It’s at a 1980s convention; I can tell because my arm, broken in a softball game, is in a sling. Roger Zelazny’s smile is still so fine.