I'm sitting in the first class cabin on my way to Dallas, then on to the airport serving my company's headquarters in the south, sitting next to a kindly looking older man. (On the whole, I'd rather be in an exit row in cconomy for all the space I have.) My interest was taken with my seat neighbor. He was dressed like a business executive, but I wondered at his leather-bound, much frayed book and the notebook he carried with it. I fancied that for once I was sitting next to a business traveller who could let his mind stray from his spreadsheets. But now I see the leather-bound book is a bible, and the notebook his bible studies. The mysteriously interesting business man is probably a right-wing nut.

Last night I had a curious experience. Cecilia had invited me to go see a Joe Goode dance performance with her and her new girlfriend, G (with whom Cecilia has fallen rapturously - and dangerously quickly - in love). We all had dinner beforehand and I was struck with G's no-nonsense beauty - the same kind of strength you get from Sandra Bullock.

Cecilia is very precious to me, as a friend, but I haven't always trusted that I'm as important to her. She has so many friends, and additionally there's a reserve in her with me that seems to disappear when I see her with other friends. I remember once commenting to her that she and I are so alike, but that she's way more serious than me. At which she burst into incredulous laughter, saying "Me more serious than you? You've got to be kidding!"

Anyway, it meant a lot to me that she'd invited me out with her new girlfriend so early in their relationship (though in lesbian months, they're well passed the honeymoon stage). They clutched hands all evening long, though they've only been going out together for a short while. Their relationship began with a long passionate correspondence like something out of a Jane Austen novel.

At first, I didn't warm to G - she seemed a little remote; almost as if she saw me as a competitor. For myself, meanwhile, I fell into that subtle form of mutual flattery that good friends engage in when first introduced to their friend's partner. Cecilia and I tossed back memories to one another that showed the other in a good light. As the evening wore on, though, G began to unwind and we eventually were to part, after the performance, on good terms.

There were two pieces in the Joe Goode performance: a new work called Grace, and, after the break, a pre-existing work called Folk. Originally, the pieces had been scheduled in the reverse order, and I'm so glad they switched since the older piece was by far the most touching.

Ostensibly a dance troupe, the Joe Goode Performance Troupe communicates, through indirection, Goode's vision of what's important in life - love, longing, a sense of place perhaps. He uses dance, music, comedy, song (sung by the performers) and his own beautiful speaking voice to hint at ideas that bind us all together. And the payoff can be powerfl - frequently the final scene draws to a close and you discover in a piercing moment (although it's never telegraphed) a powerful, emotional feeling about life.

The performace of Folk hit me in that way - and more powerfully than ever before. Perhaps it was partly the beauty of the lead dancer in the piece, with his youthful strength and gorgeous, yearning voice. But the sudden final moment wrinkled up my face as I tried to avoid bawling. It must have touched a hidden nerve, because for the next fifteen minutes every time I thought of the final moment, I'd well up again.

Even now, as I tear myself away from my Edith Wharton novel, and think about the performance, I feel a rush of feeling. How quickly these feelings are accessed by novels, dance, film, music, and how rarely by personal interactions. I haven't cried in a personal situation in probably fifteen years.

And I wish I could explain why I cried. But I can't even come close to understanding what lever it pushed. And it's certainly not from lack of introspection that I can't figure it out. For the same reason, I can never understand why "La La La La La America" from West Side Story, and "Summer Loving" from Grease make me cry. And I don't even like musicals.

I wonder if a kind of yearning for deep feelings is common amongst men, or is it mostly gay men? I know that when I've approached deep feeling on the therapist's couch, I've fled from it with unquenchable fear. Yet when I think of my budding relationship with Ben, I imagine us both watching Joe Goode and going home and having a good cry together. (Followed by passionate sex - there's nothing sexier than seeing a man cry). God, people are funny business.