I remember once, years ago, a phone call that woke me - and my roommates at the time - up; this was in the years before we all had cellphones and the privacy that brings, of course. It was that time of night when it’s technically morning, but you can’t quite tell, and the ringing woke me up in time for Andy to tell through that some girl wanted to talk to me, Claire something.
At that point, I hadn’t spoken to Claire in years and had thought that she’d disappeared for good (Yes, this Claire was that Claire), so the 2am phone call felt even more surprising - I’d moved, twice, since she had last been in my life, how did she know where to call? - and even more welcome. We stayed on the phone for hours, it felt like, talking until the sun came up. It was a Holy Night.
“Holy Nights” is a concept I’m pretty sure I found in a Jonathan Carroll novel; the name, at least, comes from there, even if I can’t remember which one. The way it’s described is a night where you stay awake and talk, and there’s something magical and unusual in the honesty and intimacy that happens. Everyone’s had them, I think, even if they don’t always recognize them as special, or even that different from talking crap when you really should be asleep.
But there’s something about each one - whether it’s talking in a Paris hotel room with someone who’s just broken your heart for a second time when you’re just 21 years old, or discussing the life ahead with someone you’ve met only hours before, sitting crosslegged on a friend’s floor as the friend sleeps on the sofa beside, or stolen conversations on the phone with the person who makes your heart swell when you should both probably be sleeping - that stays with you, always, and makes decisions about who you are. Even now, Claire’s late-night phone call fills me with hope and sadness and melancholy, and it always will.
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Content © Graeme McMillan, 2008-2009.
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There are few things better in life than late night conversation
while the rest of the world sleeps.