There's a lot we never got around to doing, Professora. Every day I think of the pieces of the puzzle that are missing, of the things I get around to doing with other folks, of the little joys and sorrows of life that am not living and doing with you and I miss them. Some may say that you can't miss something that was never there to begin with, but to those who have never truly lived all I have to say to you is that those things I miss were lived in our hearts, even if they only end up here, never fully realized, in this silly open letter to love.
The tales that you find here are just that, an open ode to a love ended all too soon. But aren't the best stories all about that? About tough choices taken, about the unsettling nature of rotten endings, about the sheer joy of taking, or even just imagining, the road not taken? Yeah, these pieces are all about love, love in some capacity or another, about the love of my children, my love for you, the sheer joy and passion for living, all of that. You would think that something as open and as bold as this, something that I generally feel no remorse proclaiming from the mountain tops, that I would have it more widely available, that it would open it to all comers. I suppose at one time it was, and that time is not too far behind us.
The tales that you find here are just that, an open ode to a love ended all too soon. But aren't the best stories all about that? About tough choices taken, about the unsettling nature of rotten endings, about the sheer joy of taking, or even just imagining, the road not taken? Yeah, these pieces are all about love, love in some capacity or another, about the love of my children, my love for you, the sheer joy and passion for living, all of that. You would think that something as open and as bold as this, something that I generally feel no remorse proclaiming from the mountain tops, that I would have it more widely available, that it would open it to all comers. I suppose at one time it was, and that time is not too far behind us.
I once mentioned this place on my "everyday" blog, on the Accumulate Man site, and through that post a few friends and regular readers eventually found this page. I've since fessed up and told a number of other friends about it, about the importance of it, of the why's and wherefore's of writing about us so openly, about the reasons I needed a place to go to other than that general purpose blog to share my thoughts with you. I know that by opening that satchel and my heart not only to you but to the world I would be risking many things, most importantly alienating you once and for all, but once I stepped out and opened up that bag there has been no stopping me. Well, to a point.
Mi Novia asked me point blank the other morning what would be my defense in the face of all this and I had to tell "autobiographical fiction". I know that I could never tell our story without fleshing it out with feelings, and feelings, like the senses, are all personal and introspective and
subjective. I could easily be clinical, pull an item out of that cotton bag, shoot a photo of it, label it, tell a bit about it, post it, but that's not a story, no more so than telling about the man who gets up out of bed one day and decides to take a drive to the ocean. It wouldn't be much of a read if all you heard about was how much gas he put in the tank, how many miles he drove, what he saw and what he ate coming and going on his trip to the seaside. There has to be narrative, there has to be built inot the story the smell of salt water, the tang of a cold beer, the fear of the crashing breakers and the awe of the unlimited vista before him. There has be something said for the anxiety of the coming of night, of the fatigue behind the wheel, of the arrival home to the mewling cat and crunching drive. There has to be more in order for it to be a timeless tale,to grab the reader, to make you want to turn the page.
This place, this blog, these words, this grand fiction, is just that. A grand story. There needs to be words to flesh out the jagged, torn photographs, the crumpled receipts, the almost unintelligible words scrawled on napkins while driving seventy miles an hour down Interstate 84 on the way back home to you. This place is where all those mixed up words and feelings and imaginings all come home to roost, to mix and mingle with all the facts that can't be denied. I couldn't go on and pretend that there was a story, a "librarian's fifth wife", without a ton of imagination behind me to push it out into this mundane world that I live in now. We haven't been an item for years, but in my heart of hearts, regardless of where the real story has gone to, I haven't forgotten you or our times and still wish things ended differently. As you put it in a letter to me back in December of '06, there hasn't been a day that's gone by where I haven't thought of you, where I haven't woken up and said "good morning" to you.
I think of this spot, these words, these grand proclamations and exhortations and think, man, what would she think if she saw what we lived splashed across the internet. I have to wonder how many folks had gone forward with reading it once they landed here, once they started to get the jist of our tale. I came across a nifty site recently, The Deadgirl's Diary, and it is much along the same lines as this, but told from a woman's perspective. It is all about the day to day, the feelings she had for her man, the angst, the joys of love and relationships and all that, all penned into an online "diary". That was sweet, somewhat peeping tom-ish, but due to the site, meant to be seen as such, to be lived as such, not too much unlike the younger brother stumbling on his older sister's diary while sweeping out her room.
Mi Novia asked me point blank the other morning what would be my defense in the face of all this and I had to tell "autobiographical fiction". I know that I could never tell our story without fleshing it out with feelings, and feelings, like the senses, are all personal and introspective and
subjective. I could easily be clinical, pull an item out of that cotton bag, shoot a photo of it, label it, tell a bit about it, post it, but that's not a story, no more so than telling about the man who gets up out of bed one day and decides to take a drive to the ocean. It wouldn't be much of a read if all you heard about was how much gas he put in the tank, how many miles he drove, what he saw and what he ate coming and going on his trip to the seaside. There has to be narrative, there has to be built inot the story the smell of salt water, the tang of a cold beer, the fear of the crashing breakers and the awe of the unlimited vista before him. There has be something said for the anxiety of the coming of night, of the fatigue behind the wheel, of the arrival home to the mewling cat and crunching drive. There has to be more in order for it to be a timeless tale,to grab the reader, to make you want to turn the page.
This place, this blog, these words, this grand fiction, is just that. A grand story. There needs to be words to flesh out the jagged, torn photographs, the crumpled receipts, the almost unintelligible words scrawled on napkins while driving seventy miles an hour down Interstate 84 on the way back home to you. This place is where all those mixed up words and feelings and imaginings all come home to roost, to mix and mingle with all the facts that can't be denied. I couldn't go on and pretend that there was a story, a "librarian's fifth wife", without a ton of imagination behind me to push it out into this mundane world that I live in now. We haven't been an item for years, but in my heart of hearts, regardless of where the real story has gone to, I haven't forgotten you or our times and still wish things ended differently. As you put it in a letter to me back in December of '06, there hasn't been a day that's gone by where I haven't thought of you, where I haven't woken up and said "good morning" to you.
I think of this spot, these words, these grand proclamations and exhortations and think, man, what would she think if she saw what we lived splashed across the internet. I have to wonder how many folks had gone forward with reading it once they landed here, once they started to get the jist of our tale. I came across a nifty site recently, The Deadgirl's Diary, and it is much along the same lines as this, but told from a woman's perspective. It is all about the day to day, the feelings she had for her man, the angst, the joys of love and relationships and all that, all penned into an online "diary". That was sweet, somewhat peeping tom-ish, but due to the site, meant to be seen as such, to be lived as such, not too much unlike the younger brother stumbling on his older sister's diary while sweeping out her room.
Then I think of the folks that went about finding this place, who used it against me, who opened it up to photocopy posts and all that, and then sent it to a supposedly authorized office full of folks who felt they had to right to ask me about this name and that reference and all that. To that end, to those folks who felt they had the right, to those imbued with tengu spirit, all I have to say, "what the hell kind of person are you?"
Whenever I think of that kind of cruel invasion I think of that fat Mexican girl Tessie who used to pick on me in grade school, of the jerky, unloved kids who would intercept a note from a sweetheart and read it out loud to the class. Whenever I think of these words to you being printed off and bound and used against me I think, "there goes a pack of totally unimaginative and soulless people, mean spirited and full of spite as the day is long". To those who have opened this place up and have shared with it with the world in order to get back at me for having loved a very wonderful woman out of turn, well, to hell with all of you. I say to you that I have loved and Jane has loved and yes, we loved each other and now that it's long gone and over the hill and now part of the greater story of the journey, what the hell do you plan on doing about it? Taking away our birthdays?
I woke up this morning to the scent of Mi Novia's perfume in my bed. We woke and talked and laughed the other day, shared coffee and stories and life. She knows that I am going away someday soon and has wisely decided not to reinvest her heart in me, but as she and Animal Girl and Friar Lawrence have put it recently, all of this is now part of the novel. All these characters, all these quips and quotes and snippets of life, are all now part of the grand tale that I will weave and promote and tell the world about in a novel someday. A good love story, regardless of it's sad or indifferent or beautiful ending, is still a love story. My dear, forgive me for making this so public, but we were, still are, oh so very public, even if in the end the only thing we have to show for our love is a novel in Barnes and Noble flying under the flag of fiction.
We missed doing many things, and it is here that I can tell you how I feel about those many things that we never got around to doing. I hope that you don't mind too much. I have missed those undone things dearly and for the rest of my life wish we could have done more of them.
Having coffee with you after first light in a rumpled bed is one of those things I wish we got around to doing. Just know that, no matter where you go or what you do or who you choose to spend the rest of your life with.
Your WHMB
Whenever I think of that kind of cruel invasion I think of that fat Mexican girl Tessie who used to pick on me in grade school, of the jerky, unloved kids who would intercept a note from a sweetheart and read it out loud to the class. Whenever I think of these words to you being printed off and bound and used against me I think, "there goes a pack of totally unimaginative and soulless people, mean spirited and full of spite as the day is long". To those who have opened this place up and have shared with it with the world in order to get back at me for having loved a very wonderful woman out of turn, well, to hell with all of you. I say to you that I have loved and Jane has loved and yes, we loved each other and now that it's long gone and over the hill and now part of the greater story of the journey, what the hell do you plan on doing about it? Taking away our birthdays?
I woke up this morning to the scent of Mi Novia's perfume in my bed. We woke and talked and laughed the other day, shared coffee and stories and life. She knows that I am going away someday soon and has wisely decided not to reinvest her heart in me, but as she and Animal Girl and Friar Lawrence have put it recently, all of this is now part of the novel. All these characters, all these quips and quotes and snippets of life, are all now part of the grand tale that I will weave and promote and tell the world about in a novel someday. A good love story, regardless of it's sad or indifferent or beautiful ending, is still a love story. My dear, forgive me for making this so public, but we were, still are, oh so very public, even if in the end the only thing we have to show for our love is a novel in Barnes and Noble flying under the flag of fiction.
We missed doing many things, and it is here that I can tell you how I feel about those many things that we never got around to doing. I hope that you don't mind too much. I have missed those undone things dearly and for the rest of my life wish we could have done more of them.
Having coffee with you after first light in a rumpled bed is one of those things I wish we got around to doing. Just know that, no matter where you go or what you do or who you choose to spend the rest of your life with.
Your WHMB
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