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


Saturday, October 29, 2011

Fish bowl




Ah, the 'net. All this considered this is really and truly the finest tool out there for gathering and disseminating information.

Went by to say goodbye, saw new curtains on your now former abode. "Where did she go?" I wondered. Well, say hello to my little friend, the online white pages. So, a new house, a new neighborhood, complete with water view.

Funny how the tangents of this story continue to blast off into new and interesting lands. You got the Honda, I got the Ford. You got the guy with the goatee and the tropical shirts, and now I have the beard. You have the half million three thousand square foot gilded birdcage and I have my lovely walk up in a historic building. My life crashed and burned around me and I now, somehow, spectacularly, risen out of the ashes. A bit worse for wear and tear, a bit ragged around the eyes, but here and kicking. Still wondering how the hell I survived but I did, and somehow, I feel burnished by the heat, by the sorrow, by the utter hell of living a life so emotionally on fire. Purified. Sanctified. All to the good.

And you, my dear? You and yours? What did you learn? What did you gain besides square feet, a bigger ride, a much larger thumb over your life? I am curious and know, too, that I will never know truly what you feel, how you weigh all that stuff out. I know, I know, life moves on and yours did in a truly spectacular fashion. I will never doubt your love but will always wonder what really it meant to you. Love. What really does that stuff honestly and truly mean in your life?

Yeah, maybe I think I know. A nice bank account. A cool new car. Vacations to far away places. Kids in private schools. And a new place in an even tonier subdivision, a house on the lake. How cool.

For me, love is like still waters in a tepid fish bowl. For now I keep from stirring the waters, keep my head clear, my heart full and solid and well guarded at the borders. For me love is my children, my health, my focus and as for the latter my eye is on the East Coast. New Jersey. NYC. Let's see how far away from you I can get and still manage to keep that strange and complex flame we shared alive, even if it's just a reflection off of the waters of a dime store fish tank.

Peace and happiness to you, Melissa.

W
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