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| . . . Surrender! |
The Betsy!
Happy Special Day, marking your birth.
I remember you in pencil skirt, flats and books wafting through the edifice of Greenwich High School. Unattainable.
In my minds eye remembered as iconic, somewhat akin to Ann Marrow Lindbergh whose husband purchased a flute from my father for their daughter, I never saw her, or her parents either. Yet for years he would encourage me to pursue one like you, her or the adored one from third grade elementary school with whom I had a family; no more.
But then I never had a family: biological, adopted or of any other description until hospice.
Forgive me please, singling you out in this semi public way. Your affirmations weave me back into the days of our youth and your pages tell me of your becoming this day.
Most men never grow up. Instead we become inflated balloons of our adolescence. As Adult as those cartoon figures floated above Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade annually in Manhattan. Goofy flouncing about hither and yon empty save for helium; modestly tethered and led.
The only feminine presence in my life, 24/7/365, is Annie. A cat who, contrary to classical ideation, is a continual pest seeking my touch, attention, affection, resorting to laying recumbent across my keyboard or at the very least sweeping it with her vast bushy tail.
It seems I am fated to be a solitary, completely inappropriate for human cohabitation.
But then you are a source of sanity in what I now realize was a time when others, including myself, presumed me insane. At best an embarrassment. I apologize less now and rationalize never; externally or interiorly.
My mother’s birthday was yesterday and my adored’s on the tenth.
Einstein said, “If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.”
My mother did this plus suffuse me with music from conception onward. I made the colossal mistake of falling asleep listening to classical music after delving into one hundred, or so, pounds of laundry looking for summer shorts. I think I did sleep but in an alternate way lost in cathedrals of genius. A maze of glory. I sleep like a wolf anyway.
I feared I’d made a snarky reply to your most recent ‘like.’ Where it not for your very welcomed terse affirmations--too rare in my experience, especially from a woman or anyone for that matter--I’d fold my tent and run away collapsing my participation in “Social Media.” For which I need not to detail my regard anymore than why I never listen to politicians. . . .Both seem so self congratulatory, akin to Mailer’s remarks about advertisements for one’s self; Christmas Cards in front of the Mc Mansion fire place or the latest model Break My Wallet SUV.
Have I made my amends?
Maybe instead of ‘like,’ a ‘yes’ would suffice.
Knowing that you are a runner, you’ll appreciate my wholesale permission to knee cap me instead.
. . . it seems I’ve always been attracted to terse, mostly silent women; think of bating the tiger.
