Dearest Mary Angel

Often I sit at my desk trying to find motivation. And in those times, almost exclusively, I wonder how I got here; I can trace the events, but I can't see either rhyme or reason for having arrived in this chair, in front of this computer, doing what I do. I know there is purpose. I just can't seem to make it speak in a language I understand. God never creates anything without purpose, so I know I have mine. But what is it? I'd ask Him, but He and I have not been on speaking terms for some time now.

I unlock my door, turn on the computer, and go about the business of unloading my tote: three quarts of water on the shelf to my left, a bag containing either a sandwich comprised of crunchy brown bread and turkey or peanut butter, a tangerine or apple, a few CDs, a tin of Altoids. I'll then stare at the orders in front of me, stare into the monitor, and wonder just when I'll begin. A CD goes into the drive. It doesn't help. Maybe I'll feel better later, I tell myself. Maybe I just need time to noodle over what I hope will be an otherwise good day; I have more of them than you might think.

Sometimes I think it's the music-- songs to stir the savage soul, or just as likely to weight it down; keep it from flying. Fly like an eagle? a great sentiment, but a depressing song. In a world full of people only some want to fly... isn't that crazy? Seal sees it. I live it. I want to fly, but will my wings support me? Fear and I have been wrestling for more than forty-five years. I worry that I, like Icarus, will dare the sun and fall to ruin.

But these are secret thoughts. I do not share them because there's no one with whom to share. There is someone I can talk to but she is a difficult woman to share a moment with; if she were a dancer her feet would bleed. She works too hard, but when I have her in front of me she listens. She doesn't push me away. Again, when I have her with me, she doesn't push me away. We don't hold hands, we don't kiss, we don't speak of a mutual love we share. As much as I would love to be loved by her, I would rather learn to be her friend. But the baser me wants what it wants. I fight these thoughts and feelings every day; I lose as often as I win and I wonder what God must think of me.

I was thinking recently, with the turn of another year, on the desert loneliness that is the sound of most Jackson Browne songs, and the freedom he enjoys in singing as though he were speaking; absent the short-lined verses of metaphor and innuendo that populate most lyrics these days, his straight language and ideas are often a welcome breath of fresh air. So I began to write, hearing Jackson Browne sing my song, his voice to my lyrics and melody.


Afire For You

I- I've been alone long, and a dreamer
For most of my life
Though I desire soft clean linens I'll still
Sleep in the desert tonight
Another night of tossing and turning
Another night of sleeping alone
And when the morning light comes to find me
Through every hour spent trying to atone
I'm still very much alone

II- Chasing sleep down long corridors
Seems that's all I ever do
All I'm ever left with come daybreak
Are my fitful dreams of you
Another night beneath the cold desert sky
Another night of sleeping alone
Every morning that comes only serving to remind me
Despite every hour spent trying to atone
I'm still very much alone

O, And how I've wandered
How I've carried this torch for you
Never looked in your eyes, never made to ponder
How my love for you strengthened and grew
Though I be cut to the bone
And suffer to atone
I'm always very much alone

III- When I close my eyes and dream of you
While sleeping deeply through the night
The stars wheeling 'cross a glittering sky
Making love til the morning light
How do you leave the bed you've made with love
Shoulder your pack and continue to roam?
'Cause I've spent my life, all my sins to atone
Yet I'm still very much alone

O, And how I've wandered
How I've carried this torch for you
Never looked in your eyes, never kissed your soft smile
Yet my love for you strengthened and grew
Though I be cut to the bone
Giving my whole life to atone
I'll still be very much alone

. . .

If there's an angel set to observe me
Dogging my e-ver-y step
Could he have not seen fit
To lead me out of the desert
And into your loving arms?
O, Into your loving arms
With my heart on fire for you
My heart afire for you


ELAshley
Part I - 010210.11>.6
Part II - 010410.11>.6
Part III - 010810.11>.6
Revisions:
011210.111002.6


I know this was written for someone specific, though I do not yet know her name with any degree of certainty. Whoever she is, I hope she allows me freedom enough to be as open and prolific with my most inner self as each moment demands. Someone for whom a kiss speaks more than any number of letters I've written you can express in terms of unconditional love and devotion. Which reminds me of something I wrote to you last November-- speaking of kisses and moments:

"A kiss is two pair of lips embracing the soul of one fleeting moment."

Sometimes I surprise myself with the thought-life I've been gifted with-- the level of profundity of which I am capable. Sometimes I surprise even myself.


Thanks for listening dear Mary Angel. I will now try to get some work done.

All my love,


Eric

Revisiting My First Letter, and First Post

July 16, 1997


Dear Mary Angel,

I wonder if you think of me. I think of you almost every day, and I remember you with great fondness. Of course we both know why and because of it, I remember you still. I wish I had taken the time to know you better, because I would love to talk with you. You were such a good listener... but you're probably not the same girl I knew. In fact, I know you're not. I'm not even the same person I was, and what you found attractive in me then you probably wouldn't think so attractive now. People change. I have... and will again.

I wonder if you think fondly of me. I was very weak then; unsure of myself and looking to others for my identity (hell! they didn't even know who they were!), and in a lot of ways I'm still unsure of who I am except to say that I am Eric Lee Ashley and as Bob Seger sang so aptly, "...still running against the wind."

Well. Let me tell you about myself. I'm thirty-six and eleven months old. I've never married. In fact I've never come close; I'm still running. Remember how you chased me? And I just ran and ran. A part of me still smiles to think of it. I was so shy of girls (and still am), and you chased me so very hard. I sometimes wonder if you were my one chance to find happiness. But that's silly. It's my own fault I'm not happy.

I hate my job. I'm a manager at a restaurant that has long since seen it's day in the sun. The company itself is in a decline and there's no room for advancement. The atmosphere of the place is beginning to smell the way St. Andrews bay would sometimes smell... seaweed drying in the sun and fiddler crabs scurrying about brandishing their one large pincer almost as if they were too poor to afford a matching pair. Well, I know how he feels, and I am miserable.

I've given my resume to a local company that I hope to be hired on with. It's a company called HealthQuest. The corporate office is located very close to where I live. Minerals and herbs are the company's business and I've acquired an interest in such things over the last few years. I just love the way I feel when I "take my vitamins" on a regular basis; almost as though I can do anything.

I know the owner of the company through a mutual friend and the owner suggested I submit a resume because he could "...make me rich." The offer was very tempting especially in light of the fact that I'm very unhappy with the direction my current career is taking me. It was two days ago that I took him my resume, but I've heard nothing yet. I'm almost willing to take a pay cut initially if it will lead to advancement and pay increases in the future, but when someone says, "I'll make you rich," what am I supposed to think? "Rich" is a hell of a lot more than what I am right now.

Well, It's late. 10:45, and way past my bedtime, seeing as how I have a twelve hour shift tomorrow in the kitchen, beginning at 8am.

Think on me and I'll think on you...

All my love,


Eric

This was my very first letter to you Mary. I had just bought my first computer and quickly set about copying everything I had ever written onto the 1-gig hard drive-- realize, this was 1996. When I ran out of material, and miserable at my job, for some reason I'll never be able to understand I decided to write you a letter.

Looking over this thirteen year old letter I quickly notice how "fledgling" my thoughts appear-- I am a much better writer today. I also notice how perfunctory it all sounds... like I'm merely going through the motion of writing. Anything to download my daily stress so I can get some sleep. I can't say whether or not it worked.

What I do know is this... when I looked back at the string of decisions that had led me to where I then was, you seemed to me, or rather your memory seemed to be a brightly lit fulcrum upon which my life shifted from one direction to the another-- my decision to leave the car when you demanded I stay... a party was more important than you.

This, I realized, was the crux of my misery. I wanted a chance to go back and do it all over again-- and who hasn't wanted that at some time in their life? I wanted a chance to stay in the car, to quit Iota Gamma, to stop drinking and smoking pot, to stop relying on those miscreants for personal identity and my sense of self-worth. I wanted a chance to graduate and settle into a career, a wife, children. Instead, I found myself fifteen years older, and like Herman Hesse's Siddhartha... restlessly searching for my own truth. My own inner peace. I only hoped that I would not be, like Siddhartha, an old gray and bent man when I found it.

I don't know when my letters to you became compulsion. I don't know when I fell in love with you again-- the young woman I remembered, and knew would never meet again. I don't know when my memory of you became an ideal by which I judged all other women. I only knew that I needed a confidante, and knew you would keep my deepest, darkest secrets. So I poured my heart out to you, knowing I was safe.

Four years later the journals ended, and rather abruptly. I know why, but I'll not tell here. I've never forgotten you, and though the journals ended, I've never stopped writing you... I've just stopped writing daily. The journals served their purpose, I was freed of a lot of baggage, but only to discover there was more circling the baggage claim. Everyone I've ever met waits there-- they wait for their own seemingly endless train of luggage.

I started this blog more than a year ago. I had wanted to start this blog for as long as five years now. Part of me thought that if you ever read them, I would be free of you (though secretly I've never wished to be free). Part of me thought it both silly and emotionally dangerous to post so much of myself online for anyone to read and exploit. So when I began this blog I did it knowing you would never read these letters. I felt safe. I didn't RSS, I didn't advertise, I kept it strictly private. But I did make it available for Google searches.

That might not have been the wisest decision I've ever made.

I never liked the look of it. The design was unmanageable, and because of such I was an infrequent guest at my own blog. I wrote you sparingly here, but less sparingly elsewhere.

For the longest time (ten years at least) I have felt I lost my muse. But I know this is not true. My muse has never left. I have just shut her out. This is something I cannot continue. If I am to be free, she must be free.

And so I will continue to write to her. Posting old and new, with a renewed sense of purpose. Not to wallow in self pity, but to glory in a love I once had... and still cherish today. Each addressed to you in chaste and honest love.


Till next time,

All my love

E

Dear Mary Angel

I've finally managed to redecorate this place. I'd have done so months ago, had I the time. But then, I've always had the time... just not the inclination. Gone is the previous occupants design. I Finally found the right inspiration, and the right imagery. I threw out that garish sofa... too much red! And in the end I even managed to keep intact the mystery that is you.

God be with you.

I'll write again soon,

All my love


E