An unveiling of artifacts

The Tale of the Librarian's Fifth Wife is collection of moments, an assemblage of events, a bread basket of words, a swap meet of scraps left behind from a beautiful romance that will help clue you in to the real deal, to the life of two star crossed lovers that has already been lived and left behind. For the moment, anyway.


Our lives lie scattered over several states and a half a case worth of decades. It's not so much a want as a need to do this, to gather together the splinters and the shards of our times and share them here with you. Those bits and pieces of flotsam and jetsam found below in this winsome log are the bits and pieces of our times, a smattering of the trinkets of the love that Jane and I gathered up over the course of five long hard years. How they come to you now is in a story of sorts, a type of autobiographical fiction, with images cadged from places other than our satchel. Give it time, photos, sepia, wrinkled, pocket worn, are yet to come.


So, what else is there to do but get out that cobbled together blanket of dreams from the back of the car, spread it out under the branches of our favorite green and noble Oregon Maple tree that we both loved and share these words and tales of those long ago times with you. It was a wonderful time. Sit a spell, grab your spectacles and come ride along with us for awhile.

Love, Jane, the Professora and Roger, the Wild Half Mexican Boy


Sunday, February 1, 2009

Silver car in passing

Long and enduring story. Stood on the corner of Bay and Sidney and saw a silver car passing out of the corner of my eye. Out and about and you long gone but still I turn my head. I know that I look hard at license plate details, for dash board wahinees, for obvious detail and custom work, wondering if what I see is you, wondering if that silver Ford Focus that just went by is the one that I am constantly seeking out. I know, I know, you don't regularly slum around over here in PO. Your neck of the woods is McCormick, Silverdale or Poulsbo. But still, I look. Why, I don't know other than just pure and meaningless habit.

Okay, Jane. That's not entirely flattering, sure, but still, I see the pattern. Habit. Can't help myself. Sure, I have resigned myself to knowing that you are occupying some sort of alternative universe in my life, a place that I can only visit and chat with you in my dreams, not in real life. In my dreams I have seen you many times over lately, sighting you there at least once a week if not more. My real life and my dreams don't mesh, though. You are long gone, and I don't seek you out even though I know that if I travel the stations of the cross I'm bound to find you there.

But I must tell you that I have finally understood the significance of the sacrifice play you made in order to keep your children near and about in your life. With that revelation know that I am doing the same myself, surrending my soul to the Estranged One in order to somehow get those kids back in my sphere. I don't think it will work but it's an attempt for an eleventh hour save. I will leave a sign by the side of the road if it succeeds. I will even leave one if it doesn't.

Know, too, that that string of friends I've had come and go in my life since we've parted has been a very lame and meaningless attempt to replace you. Love is love, darling. It's either real or it's not. Know that our love, and the words that we've shared were irreplaceable, and the misguided feelings I've dealt out in order to replace you are nothing in comparison to the real McCoy. You, my love, were and will always will be the REAL McCoy. Sounds lame, I know, but that's always the story of the man left behind. Know that all others are facimilies of what I want and desire. All I want and desire, in the end, my dear, is you.

What a sorry bit of business this all has been, but there it is. Ah, a Romantic to the end. You, I am sure, in life buried up to your neck in all your "ism's", are one, too.

Besitos, mi amor. See you at sunset,

Your WHMB
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