Thursday night. Vestry meeting, and I'm in New England, 575 miles from the gathering around the table at Trinity Church, Portsmouth. The phone keeps fading in and out as the discussion goes on like the snow outside my hotel room window.
On the one hand, I'm an outsider at the meeting. My presence is sitting in the middle of the table, a black speaker phone. For me, the meeting is a series of disembodied voices floating in and out through the static, a background hum crackling over the voices. Aside from the fact that when I make noise, they might hear it, this could be a clandestine bug, tape running for posterity.
But I'm not recording the meeting; who'd want to live through it again?