I'm Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

Summer 2018 D.D. and I rushed to see a piano concert at Eglise Sampdafram, La Sarriak,

in Rue Vallée in Paris. We hold hands out of affection, but also to navigate in the

extremely narrow sidewalk. Just after we pass, an exquisitely dressed couple chatting

at a tiny cafe table drinking flutes of champagne, I squeeze D.D.'s hand, stop, turn around

and say, excuse-moi, êtes-vous Juliette? I had not seen my high school classmate in three

decades. Our sophomore year, Juliette sat several rows ahead in French class, and here we were,

miraculously reunited years later on the small street in Paris. Turns out, she and her husband

plan to attend the same concert. After enduring the adageos of Chopin, we spent the lovely

evening over Shakuduri and classes of wine reminiscing and catching up. Until then, I thought

accidental reunions only happened in the movies. Juliette had not changed all that much.

Still, I marveled at the swiftness of my recognition after 30 years of not seeing her, and

marveled too at the serendipity of identical evening plans. When in public, I tried the

near impossible task to notice everything and further to memorize the overwhelming stream

of details of my day. Bright colors and styles of clothing, ambient sounds like hissing buses,

the world charged with patterns amidst chaos. Noticing and paying attention to my surroundings

is more than for the purpose of writing poems. I'm trying to bring the world closer to me.

It's an exercise in being alive, in retaining the intimacy of our moment, in equipping myself to

observe all that fleeting leap passes by. To call up daily experience by zooming in, by locating

language that is as lush as life yet elegantly sparse, well, then that is an act of love and reciprocity.

Today's poem expresses a profound level of familiarity that becomes a knowing intimacy,

where the poem, as cinematic lens, reads an exterior to reveal an interior.

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