Dear Mary Angel

I've been silent for over a month now; a lot has been going on, and I've not been able to find time to write you. I have needed someone to whom I could hand this cup I'm carrying but time and work have given me little respite. Even now, stealing what little time I have (working on a Sunday... off the clock), I'm finding it difficult to express those things in need of a good saying.

I have never felt my job here at risk-- not in twelve years --but things have changed. I moved from Production to Creative Services to Sales in just under a year, and my move to Sales was not voluntary; either I moved or I would have been kicked to another area without regard to personal volition. I was told to look at this change as a good and beneficial move, one that would stead me good fortune in the long run. But I find I am in over my head in the deep end of the pool. It takes a lot for me to admit that.

I am one program short of sitting on easy street in this position but I have no time to learn it. And my home computer, once state of the art, will not even allow the program to install. So I have to spend weekends now, in my office, trying to catch up. And I honestly don't know if I can do it.

And I honestly question the necessity. Surely you watch the news! Surely, as devout a Catholic as you are, and considering your past understandings, can see where we are in terms of God's prophetic stop-watch. No one knows the day or hour, but we are told we can know when it is at the door. None of this worries me, really. I know who I am in him. But I can't shake the feeling that I should be doing something else.

Example: Here is what presently disturbs me.

This Wednesday past the General Manager and the entire sales team, myself included, presented an "opportunity" to local churches that would allow us to bring in some much needed cash in this cash-strapped economy. There we were asking churches to give us $100, $300 or $500 a month just to put there 'particulars' as well as their 2-minute videos on our website including a generous number of commercials on our three stations. I can see the value in what we were offering-- the $500 a month offer alone is worth $3300 a month --so they were very good deals, but... the term "filthy lucre" kept dancing through the fore of my thoughts. I know our station isn't really concerned about the state of anyone's soul. The churches MAY be, but our focus was money. As far as that goes, fine. I understand the business... accept it even. I just hated the idea that we were asking for money from churches.

I feel as though I am on the cusp of something... something life changing. I just hope I make the right decision when that moment strikes. In the meantime, I will study and pray, and trust in him as best I can... and let him do the rest. For I can do nothing that will benefit eternity unless he is in it.

I hope all is well with you and yours,

May God richly bless you all


Eric

Dearest Mary Angel

I quit my weekend job this morning. I simply blew up and began shouting at my boss. She does little but harangue and belittle me the whole four or five hours I'm there each Saturday, but this morning something snapped. I said some pretty ugly things, only once attacking her personally. One moment I'm just trying to do what she's told me to do, mumbling under my breath (those were personal) and the next moment I'm shouting...

Interlude: When it gets to the point where you begin to mumble under your breath about your job or employer it's time to quit. There's simply no point in working for a person you have no respect for.

...I could feel my heart racing, and it worried me. I never shout. At anyone. She just pushed too many buttons over the last four years.

I did say one thing that wasn't particularly nice, despite it being absolutely true; I shouted "You treat your mother and father like shit! They may let you get away with it, but you're not going to talk to me like that!" And she never will again. The one thing I do regret saying was how I had to put up with the same crap "day in and day out at home" and I wasn't going to put up with it there. I hate that I aired my personal troubles in front of her. I hate the circumstances of my own home life, but I'm powerless to change it at present. Financially powerless.

I'll admit to you what I don't talk very openly about to anyone else. I am living with a woman, but not how you might think. She has her room, I have mine, and there's no hanky-panky between us. I've asked this woman to marry me more times than I could count on a dozen sets of hands and feet. I've known her for 21 years, and have wanted to marry her for almost as long-- I'd marry her tomorrow morning if she'd say yes. But she won't.

She was emotionally brutalized by her father from eight years old (when her mother died of cancer) to the moment she ended up on my doorstep asking to sleep on the couch. I could have said no, and that might have been the end of it. But I couldn't stand the thought of her sleeping in her car or in a cardboard box somewhere. So she slept the night on the couch and she's been there ever since, metaphorically speaking. It's not simply that she won't marry me, she won't marry anyone.

I stayed with her the first ten years because I wanted to prove to her that not all men were like her father, that some men had honor and could treat her with respect. However, no matter the amount of respect or honor I gave her, she continually pushed me away.

The next decade was spent with her simply because we got used to living together-- our finances were married if we ourselves were not. With the economy what it now is, saving money to get moved out is proving difficult if not impossible. I know I said I'd married her tomorrow if... but actually... I know she'll never love me the way I need to be loved. She will never respect me enough to not trample all over my feelings 'day in and day out....'


So I clocked out and left the little flower shop I had worked at for over four years.

I was on the verge of tears. I got to the house, stripped, laid down on the bed and began to cry... and I prayed. When I felt better (a little better at least) I got up and sketched. I deliberately shut off all music (I didn't want any songs imprinted in my mind or upon that moment) and refrained from every impulse directing me to write. I swiped twenty dollars from our mutual piggy bank and fled. Two hours later and fourteen dollars lighter I'm back. A little lighter in spirit, but not by too much.

Forty extra dollars a week is not much to lose. I can live without a forty dollar paycheck every Monday morning.

I hate that she pushed me to that point. I hate that I wasn't strong enough to withstand the abuse, yet again, for another week. I truly regret accusing her for the way she treats her parents. I know part of me wanted to hurt her.

Why, you ask? Because she prides herself on the education she got at a bible college. She doesn't honor her father and mother. She drinks, drugs, parties, gets piercings and tattoos. I know I shouldn't judge her for that; look what I've done. But for all she spent four years at a bible college, I have more of an education in God's word than her having never even graduated from college, bible or otherwise. On top of this, she voted for Obama (no, that had nothing to do with my blowing up this morning. Promise).

If truth be told, I am a little worried for her. You know, there is such a thing as false conversion. She may think she's saved, but our Lord said many will say on that day, "Lord, Lord..." and He will tell them "Depart from me... I never knew you." I don't understand how so many people are deceived. I am by no means perfect. I have many things I need to deal with-- and I'm trying very hard --but why is it I can see the truth while so few others seem capable of the same?

I know you are Catholic (though, unless memory fails me, you were not always so), but I find much to fault in Roman Catholicism. I also find much to admire-- I spent two years in a Catholic school. I'm just thankful you haven't joined the Jehovah's Witnesses. I'm not as dogmatic as you might think, having gotten to this portion of my letter, but God has given His son every person who will ever believe. They hear His voice and they follow Him. Even out of religions with which I, in my own faults and judgmentalism, find fault. There won't be any Baptists in heaven. No Pentecostals, or Lutherans, or Catholics or Episcopalians.... only blood bought believers in Christ, and they will have been drawn out of every religion and faith in the world. Who am I do judge or question God? Better to praise and thank Him, and ask that He change my heart.

God loves all His children (even my ex-boss). And what He has in store for you and I and all those who believe and trust in Him is beyond human imagination or comprehension. I love you Mary Angel... as a memory, as a person, as my sister in Christ. I love your husband and children, though I will likely never meet them this side of eternity.

And I've strayed into territory I had no intention of straying. I didn't want to write today, but I needed to. The Lord knows I needed to. And I thank God for you, especially since besides HIM I have no one else but you. I spent time with Him, but I still needed a good cry, so I hope you don't mind that I turned to you.

I pray that God sends me a woman like the you I remember, and the you you've become... a Godly woman, whose heart and mind are on the things of God. Who is generous, kind, and both understanding and forgiving. Your husband is truly a blessed man. Though I do not know the you you've become, in my heart and mind you epitomize Proverbs 31:10-31. If the Lord would only bless me with such a woman I could address all my letters to her, and rejoice in Him for the treasure He would have given me, just as I know you are a treasure to your husband.

Apologies to you dearest Mary Angel. I've meant to offense to you.

God be with you, and God be praised.


With love,

Eric

Something Old

August 0498 12:58am


Dear Mary Angel,

I've been listening to a CD the last couple of days that has really intrigued me. I first bought the CD last year but I never really listened to it until the other day. The CD is from a group called "Dead Can Dance," and their name is pretty indicative of the tone and fiber of their style-- very modern and Old World all rolled into one, with dark and exotic themes. The lyrics they write are more poetry than actual lyrics. The following is a quick example... only five lines, and fits the search I began years ago. Its title is "Song of Sophia"

With one wish we wake the will
within wisdom.
With one will we wish the wisdom
within waking.
Woken, wishing, willing.

There is truth in those five lines, someone else's truth for sure, but truth nonetheless-- Awaken from your sleep and build your dreams. There lies wisdom! Tragically, there are very few people in the world who are truly awake. I often doubt the veracity of my waking life; am I truly awake, or do I sleep with untold thousands? But enough of this.

There was a girl I worked with at the station who is now gone. She has left for Auburn to advance her education. I miss having Brandi around on the weekends to talk and laugh with. I find it hard to believe that I am 18 years her senior as we get along well together and think a lot alike. She is going to be a teacher one day soon and I will not likely see her again, but I will remember her to you and to others that they may know the impact she had on my life.

She has softened a few rough edges in me. The sad part is that those rough edges were not always there. They were soft edges grown sharp through the bitterness of years spent in this self-imposed exile of mine. And I thank her for that. It seems I owe thanks to a good many people.

I think what I'd like to do now is thank all the people who had a hand in making me who I am. I'm sure I'll forget a few, indeed many, but this is simply an exercise in thankfulness and the ones I do forget will surely understand and know that I thank them as well. So, I would like to say thank-you to the following people, be they real or fictitious...

God. Mom and Dad. Grandma, Grandpa and the long line of lives that preceded them.
Anna, Danielle, Uncles Bob, Steve, Jim, and Clare. Aunts Simone, Martha, Gloria, Thao, and Heidi's Mother. Heidi, Little Jimmy, Charlie. Teresa Troutman, Leo O'Brian, Frank Alter, Dennis Banka, Stephanies Dean and Breeden, Gloria and both Pauls Dean. Mike "Where's-my-moon," The blonde girl Schoensiegle who wrote on paper,"YKPGFYA," whose mother had me detained by M.P.'s for daring to like her daughter. To Troop 88 and Mr. Peoples. Scott and Eric Mersnick, and survival campouts. Laura Bearnard, Stacy, and Bruce Rhodes. Nancy Rigdon and her brother John. Marc Marley and Lori Sutherland. Rodney Shueman. Eddie, Kenneth, Kevin and Sharon Trainor. Vince Kasprowicz and his whirling dervish. Sweet little Emily. To the woman who held me as I cried at my fathers funeral-- she who was once my step-sister. Mr. Lovrikovic for teaching me that hard lesson called 'complacency.' David and Peaches Skinner and Northside Baptist Church. Delilah Dean. Les and Rebecca Grice. Mike Salow, Clint Menacof, and Jim Stoller who shared a jail cell with me on my twenty-ninth birthday and owns the first painting I sold in exile. Bradford Woods who is somewhere in Texas enlightening the masses. Peter Paulie, editor of Colorado Springs' only daily newspaper who was nothing but an encouragement to me. R.D. Golden for teaching me how not to treat a woman. James Bell for teaching me how not to treat a friend. Iota Gamma for showing me what brotherhood is not. Carol Pizza, Mary Angel, and Cristal Conley. James Pigneri, Sylvia Harrison. Spinnaker's Restaurant for teaching me how not to treat employees. Edward Eugene "Hoss" Lewis for showing me that no man is worthy of worship, and David Rabe who has shown me that all men are at times to be pitied. To Spain for my first lesson in prejudice, and to George Washington Carver High School for my second. To Kimberly Steele who liked me perhaps as much as I liked her. Mr. Jackson's Homeroom class who did not paint the mural (I did!). 1st and 10th grade art contests. Mr. Early and any girl named Kelli. To band class and the trumpet my mother bought for me and my love for music. Belinda Kelly for teaching me the true meaning of fidelity and the phrase 'sex-as-a-weapon.' Everet Youngberg the ever-smiling. Taco, Hercules, Rufus and Dudley. To Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert E. Howard, and J.R.R. Tolkien. Merry and Pippin and good ole' Sam Gamgee. Charlotte Norris. To Paula Kirker, because she liked Klaatu. Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein, and Marilyn Monroe. Diana Spencer and Norma Jean. Kansas. Both the calm and stormy seas of winter that I piloted a steady course upon. When Worlds Collide. The Beatles. Enya and Loreena McKennitt. Sinead's burning of Troy. Homer's burning of Troy. Ulysses and Penelope. The sinking of Atlantis and the land that is now the Mediterranean sea. Pangea and Hyperboria. Ming the Mercilous, Flash and Dale Arden. Ornella Muti's 'Aura.' The Alan Parsons Project and the Turn of a Friendly Card. Ron Ely's 'Tarzan.' Author Gene Wolfe, Ursula K. LeGuin's "Lathe of Heaven." Ray Bradbury and his "Martian Chronicles," especially 'The Million Year Picnic.' Hermann Hesse and Siddhartha. Immanuel Velikovsky. William Golding's 'Lord of the Flies.' 'I Am The Cheese.' 'Farenheit 451.' Phillip K. Dick's, 'Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?' (Blade Runner). 'Logan's Run' (The Book). 'The Stand.' 'The Dark Tower.' Robert Jordan's, 'The Wheel Of Time.' Robert Roy McGregor and William Wallace. The highlands of Scotland and anything with bagpipes. To 'The Sun in the Stream,' that tune that echoed across the mountain top at my father's funeral. 'Cursum Perficio.' Cecil B. Demille's Ten Commandments and to Ben Hur. Sensei Richard Lording's Shorin-Ryu. To Goju-Ryu and Sanchin. Hiroaki Samura and the Blade of the Immortal. Michael J. Linsner. Darrian Ashoka and Dawn. Gary Numan and the B-52's. The Moody Blues. Yes. A Farewell to Kings and Moving Pictures. Clannad, Mary Black, Connie Dover and especially Luka Bloom. Dan Fogelberg. Stevie Nicks and Linsey Buckingham. Tears for Fears, Queen and Dixie Chicks. For finding Shawn Colvin before everyone else did. Charleton Heston in Planet of the Apes. Jaws. Jean-Luc Picard, Worf, and Data. Bram Stoker and the scariest vampire story ever. Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo and Jules Verne. Back to the Future one, two and three. Robert Adams 'Return of the Horseclans' and Milo Morai. Richard Adams 'Watership Down,' especially Hazel, Fiver, Strawberry, Hyzenthlay, my very own 'Hrududu' parked out front, and the concept of Tharn and all it implies. Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan and Steven Segal, all of whom are the real deal. U2 and Sting's Fields of Gold as well as his Dream of the Blue Turtle. Mrs. Bell who treated me as though I were one of her own. Dan Robbins. Joby Roberts. Cliff Myers. Lee Pizza. Suzie Durko for sharing long walks with me. Mike Gailfoil. Debra Lively. Robby Heisner. Steve Hagan. The Entire Kasprowicz Clan and that Hallowed place known to one and all as the 'Oaks.' David Everett. Bill Norris and his lovely bride. Catherine "Cat" Vaughan, Kim Dosier, Wendy Morris, Krishelle, Desa Dance,Dot Brown, Lisa Treadwell, and Sherif Dawson. Dawn Floyd, for whom the bells did toll. Brandi Holton. To Hannah and her Needle, Corriandor, and Arwen. The Stoning Of Charity and the return of inspiration after three years. Sun and Flower. The Poetry of War and Howard's Ball. Rush Limbaugh and Howard Stern for a look at both sides of the fence. To Solitude, for teaching me how to think for myself and showing me the importance of doing so. To the idea that the glass is neither half full nor half empty, but 'Fully Half Empty.' To Mary Angel, who was my first and most cherished memory...

And the list could go on and on. But I think you get the idea. There are so many people and things that have contributed to who I have become, some good, some bad. Sure, I'd like to be able to go back to when I was 17, with all I know now and do it differently. who wouldn't? But I would no longer be who I am... Or would I? That is a question best studied at another time as it is currently 3:34am and I am in need of sleep.

Hope I didn't bore you, Mary Angel.

With love,


Eric.


---
Note: Present Day... some of the items in my list are recent additions. I've find myself, time and again, adding to the list.

Dear Mary Angel

I'm tired of just about everything. I can understand Luke 21:26 though it doesn't apply to the present; there is still a great deal of fear in the world today. I spend too much time worrying about the direction of this country than I do the direction of men's souls. I place too much value in the intransigencies of life than I do in life itself. How has this happened?

All I want is to be all that God made me to be, and to be loved by someone God would approve of. I don't think that's too much to ask.

I'm so tired and distracted I haven't been able to focus on work for a week now. There have been no looming deadlines, and those making their approach are nothing to worry over, nevertheless I can't focus on the tasks before me; they pale in comparison to the crisis currently facing me-- my own personal midlife crisis. And I have no one to share it with it.

What will that shore look like when I get to the other side of this? I think that answer worries more than anything else. This world is going to shit in a ziplock, And yes, that worries me, but I'm worried more about where I fit in all this. God doesn't make anything without specific purpose. Each of us have specific purpose, something we are meant to do. How many of us ever discover that purpose? I want to know my reason for being. He's given me so many talents... so many... but I've never known what to do with them, let alone use them for His glory. I wish I had done things differently when I was 17, 18, 20, 23. I wish I weren't the kind of person I was then. But I did meet you, didn't I? A blessing in every brier patch? And what's the point of having a midlife crisis if you don't even have cash enough for a motorcycle?

Something I've considered lately. We are all stimulus junkies; we are sensory beings owing our daily perceptions to the things we see, hear, taste, yada... and it is through these stimulus-imprinted perceptions we categorize it all: good days, bad days, and everything in between. And that's all a motorcycle would be, something mostly in between. I'm tired of being 'in between.' I just want to know who I am in Him.

There's a song getting some air on the radio where I'm at, something about ten-thousand fireflies? Well, the song is silly, but the last line speaks to where I am:

Because my dreams are bursting at the seams.

And my dilemma? Not enough net in which to catch them all.


Thank you for listening,

All my love,


Eric

Dearest Mary Angel

It's been almost a month since my last letter. I've been very busy of late so, many apologies for not writing sooner.

Work has been especially stressful. I have a webpage rollout that's due by 5pm this approaching Friday, and if I had to be completely honest I'd have to admit that I'm only fifty-percent there. If this project is not ready on time it could very well be job-threatening. Hence my unusually high stress level. When I was a mere production assistant the most I had to worry about was whether I had all my keys and graphics ready for the five and six news. Now that I'm in sales things are much more fluid; no longer am I under the gun of newcast deadlines, now I am faced with fluid deadlines-- not every deadline is solid, they usually creep forward or back. I say this one is solid, but it could well move forward OR back. My experience is that they tend to move forward more often than back.

When I began this "all things politics" page I saw an opportunity to do something I thought would be meaningful. I am an über conservative, naturally, so I thought of this as a way to have a voice. The only voice I've had thus far are the few choice quotes from certain founding fathers-- just picture me thumbing my nose at all those 'evil' liberals.

There are scheduled (though I could skate with fewer) six second tier pages from which the main page will link. Two of these pages can't even be populated till April 2nd when Florida's qualifying of candidates comes to an end, and the complete lack of issues and amendments scheduled for any of the three states I have to cover in all this.

So, realistically, I have only three more pages to build before deadline. But here's the problem: it took a solid eight hours to build the one from scratch, with sales agents bugging me to fix this or that. I have too many other distraction! I know I'll get through it all; I always do. My best work usually comes under pressure.

This past Friday I awoke so stressed that I couldn't even function when I arrived at work and had to take a thirty minute timeout the moment I arrived. I had to break free of the stress, and that meant I had to write.

So I gave myself 30 minutes, and here is the result...

In the Moment

They appear as threads
in the hackneyed tapestry
New, their life and end unfathomed
these moments when eyes first meet
hands first touch
lips first brush
And like that spark struck
burn quickly out
     ~the moment gone
Defined as the space between the when
of eyes meeting and parting
hands touching and parting
lips brushing and parting
Time is the beggar within these little ages
holding out its hand for more primacy
But it is Impression which sits upon
these thrones of relevance
Each new thread in our hackneyed tapestries
is experienced not in time
but in Impression
     ~duration goes hungry here
Moments are fleeting and singularly unique
Moments are texture
in the tapestry of our lives
Eyes see what hands feel what lips soon forget


ELAshley
031110.084502.1
Revisions:
031110.045926.6

031110.055152.6


Latter that day at my other blog I had this to say about the subject matter:

I thought back to a time several years ago when I took a lonesome trip to St. Petersburg to visit my grandfather. My little sister also happened to live there as did one of my aunts and uncle. So there I was the first late-afternoon of my weekend trip, visiting at my sister's place; a little hole in the wall that probably cost more to live in than what I currently pay. And when I say 'hole in the wall' I mean it was a typical 70-plus year-old Florida cinder-block building-- perhaps a small motel at one time --converted to tiny tiny apartments, hidden in the heart of the city by a small grove of oak and short palm.

There I was sitting on an old dog-hair covered couch considering the oppressive heat outside, the relative coolness of the apartment, and a KISS tune blaring from the speakers. And something clicked (as only some things can under these circumstances). I realized that Time has no bearing on 'the Moment'. That is to say, 'Moments' are not bound by any set length of time. Moments can be a split second in duration or several minutes, but the passing of time has no control or say as to how long the Moment can endure. Moments, they are fleeting, yes, but they cannot be truly measured, or their durations anticipated. The Moment begins and ends as it chooses, generally when something new intrudes, breaking the thread. And a new moment begins.

Fast forward quite a few years... this morning in fact. And I'm wondering about the moment I'm in; the one wherein I'm trying to hit the reset button. Trying to get past the log jam and the fear of failing at a task that MUST get done-- a Job-Killing 'must' should I fail. Well, writing has always been good for me in this respect. It always allows me to clear my head and reach that button-- you know, the one that says 'Reset'?

I know. I'm weirder than anyone you've probably ever known. But I can't help that; It's who I am.

Thanks for listening Mary Angel.


All my love,

Eric

Dearest Mary Angel

Happy belated Valentine's Day. Here is what I did for much of last week. Nice, you think?

I made somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty floral arrangements, and in the process wore myself out. I'm too old for twelve hour days with little opportunity for breaks, let alone sitting a spell. But I did manage to take a few photos. And though I wasn't near as fast as the boss would have liked, I deliberately took time to think on a good many different things.

My lunch went well with LeNee` week before last, but she's just not all that into developing a friendship. I have to initiate everything. Being lonely means you ante up too much of your heart too quickly in every hand you're dealt. I knew my feelings would get hurt by this but I also know I said I didn't care; better to try than sit out the dance, right?

I've never been a good dancer, so whoever I end up with must be patient in teaching me. Speaking of which, I wrote a rather long free-form poem for a book I'm about halfway through titled The Gardens of Loveplay. You can read it in its lengthy entirety here. I plan and hope to finish it this year.

When LeNee` and I are together she encourages me, but when we are apart I hear nothing from her. No calls, no texts, no email. Even when I contact her there's no guarantee she will respond. In light of this I've decided to ignore her. If she's interested (which I don't believe she is) she'll get in touch with me. I promise not to hold my breath. So, I have begun to seek other opportunities.


This past week I spent the four days prior to Valentine's Day at the flower Shop. I took vacation from my primary job to work at the secondary. Twelve hour shifts as I've already said, doing little more than arranging flowers. Friday was a miracle of cold wet fat snow falling thickly from a leaden sky... I took photos. I'll post them at E's Third Eye in the next few days.

I've squandered much of the morning on things other than the web page I have to build and post before 5p tomorrow. I have much more to say, but it'll just have to keep till next time.

All my love

God be with you


Eric / Etienne

Something Old

January 0898


Dearest Mary Angel,

I humbly apologize for not writing to you in such a long time. My last letter was the night of my birthday and I had allowed myself to get horribly drunk. I hadn't been like that since the year before, the excuse for which being (if excuse it could be called) the death of a friend from work. I rarely drink as it is, which is a good thing, and I was foolish enough to allow myself to go so far, but that's neither here nor there. My last babbling letter was a cry for help. And you can't help me.

I had been so miserable, and it took losing my job to see it clearly. Eight days after my birthday Colin fired me. It was completely without warning and I was too stunned to even ask why. All he said was that my performance was "too little too late," and that it was out of his hands. He went on to say that if I wanted I could continue to work in the kitchen as a cook until I found work elsewhere, but he never gave me a clear answer as to why I was being fired. I told him I would think about it and give him a call. He asked for my keys and I left.

I had another set of keys at the house and for a month and a half I contemplated going to the restaurant some night when everyone was gone, disabling the alarm system, and wreaking havoc on their food inventory and stealing money from the office. But I never did, and I thank God for it-- yes, I am human. I too have terrible thoughts. Instead, I applied for unemployment and made a half-hearted attempt at finding work (meaning, I didn't look at all). I figured after ten years at that place I deserved a vacation. So I took six weeks off and slept almost continuously. I was so emotionally exhausted.

I actually decided several months prior to being fired that I when I left that hell hole I would never work in another restaurant again unless I owned it, and so, when I looked, I looked outside the food-service industry.

In early November, I went to both television stations here in Dothan and applied for whatever might be available. Channel 18 never called for an interview but Channel 4 interviewed me on the spot and I was hired the next day! I am now what is called a 'Master Control Operator,' which means little in regards to pay-scale but the job is so incredibly easy that circus bears could do it. I literally get paid to watch television and push a few buttons.

And get this: the most amazing thing happened the day after I was hired! Spinnaker's Restaurant, the establishment to which I had devoted ten years of my life, without any warning, closed three hours early on a Saturday evening and informed the staff that it was closing its doors in Dothan forever. I received a call that very evening from a kitchen worker I am friends with, and while he cried and cried, he told me everything. The home office, I later learned, closed six other units that same week and had recently closed two prior to the Dothan closing.

Initially, I was so elated to hear that the company for which I spent ten years slaving had been forced to fire almost five-hundred employees and over thirty managers to stay afloat. But as I began to think more on it, I began to feel sorry for all the people who had been let go four weeks before Christmas. They had all, like myself, given a significant amount of time every week to a company that, in the end, couldn't have cared less about them.

So here I am: It's 1998, and I am somewhat happier, but the loneliness I feel grows stronger every day. I want a family, and I'll probably have to hurt someone I care a great deal about to get on with my life, and find someone who will love me.

But that's all I'll say about that for now.

With great love and longing,

Goodnight and sleep well,


Eric

Present Day:

There are some twenty letters between the first and this one. I was very unhappy with my job, and unhappy with where I was in my life. I looked everything through a prism of regret. I viewed every lost love as a last hope for happiness, but you were always chief among those lost loves. I say 'loves' but there were only two; you and one other.

Anyway. I've been at the station for twelve years now. I've gone from Master Control, to Audio, Graphics, Tapes, Servers, to Creative Services and Cameras, Commercials and Editing to where I am now in Sales, building advertising for the internet. For the first time in my life I actually have an office that's all mine. The pay still stinks, but I'm finally in a position to negotiate for a decent increase. And from all I've heard the GM is concerned about whether I'm happy. And truth is, I am. I wish I made more; I wish I made what someone in a larger market would make doing the same work. I wouldn't be driving a '91 Corolla with 232 thousand miles on it if I were.

The contrast between then and now is night and day. I was a miserable hateful wreck back then, mostly because of how raped of goodness I felt at having to be the kind of manager they expected me to be. A starving dog generally receives more compassion that I did. But today... today I'm treated quite well (accept in the pay department), and I'm respected (accept in the pay department). And that alone goes a long way toward easing Eric back into the mainstream.

In a few months I'll be free to court. And I intend to be courtly. I will be the kind of man who enjoys good company and treats his dates with respect. And maybe... just maybe, the Lord will bless ME with someone who will make all my letters to you moot. And yes, when I find her I will tell her about my letters to you. I will let her read them. And I will hope she sees in my letters to you the promise of someone who will love her with equal and greater fervor. She will know what she can expect from me in response to the love she gives in return.

And there's nothing wrong with that. Whoever she is, wherever she is, if I can't share these letters with her, how can I open my heart to her? These letters-- all twelve years of them --ARE my heart. The fullest most honest expression of my heart.

And yes, twelve years later, I am still on the cusp of hurting someone I care deeply about, but who has made it quite clear she doesn't wish to marry. I can't... no... I won't wait any longer.

And I have work in the morning. Someday this week I will have to find time to tell you of my lunch date last Thursday.

Until then,

Take care, and may God bless you and all you hold dear,


Eric

Dearest Mary Angel

I was stumbling across the internet this morning and came across a wonderfully insightful quote by C.S. Lewis, which speaks to recent developments and fears in my own present life.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."

— C.S. Lewis (The Four Loves)

I hate the thought of being vulnerable, yet greatly desire opportunities to be vulnerable. And this is what I'm trying to do even now.

Lunch yesterday was wonderful. For Her it was a working lunch; She fielded texts and a couple calls while we enjoyed each others company for the first time in almost six weeks. I confided to Her how much I enjoyed the time we spent together, telling of my conversation with the other Eric to whom I said I would rather a relationship with Her that promised nothing more than friendship to the situation I current find myself in. I told Her that in Her company I had freedom to be myself, and speak my mind and heart. With the other I must hide who I am, and zealously guard the gates of my heart from her; she doesn't respect my heart. Over the years I've come to realize I can trust her with a great many things, but not my heart. I hate that I've allowed my life to get to this point but I am thankful I have matured enough to both see where I am, and find strength enough to do something about it.

Lunch with Her is a very public statement for me. It says I am doing something about who and where I am. Again, should nothing further ever develop between us, I am happy to have a friend with whom I can enjoy spending time.

'To love is to be vulnerable,' says Lewis. I knew this all along, but its never rang clearer than this morning.

I told Her again she was beautiful. Now, I can see the imperfections; I can see that Her beauty is not flawless in a physical sense. But since when did physical perfection ever trump the perfection of inner beauty and character? At the end of the day, better to have in your arms someone who transcends physical beauty, because in the end physical beauty is but a memory; an unlovely husk of skin and bone and spotty recollections. All that is unimportant in the face of encroaching eternity. What is important is knowing who you are in God first, and then in the eyes of those with whom you shared your love and life.

Will She be the one? who knows? At present I wouldn't object. But I also don't presume She has any intentions Herself beyond friendship with me. And there's another fear to consider here: Is She an object of contrast? A rebounding affection? Time and tide will tell. For now I'm simply relishing in the "entanglements and little luxuries" of being helplessly infatuated with a very beautiful woman.



I know my letters to you are selfish; I speak only of myself. But please understand. You are a ghost; an ephemeral memory, bittersweet and all the more alluring because of it. I would that I knew who you are today, but that is not why I write you these letters, sweet Mary Angel. They are cathartic; a salve to smooth the pain and scars of years misspent and unchallenged.

It pleases me greatly to know you are where you are, wherever you are. I am pleased for the life you have, despite its losses, and I am pleased that you married your best friend. Shouldn't it always be so?

When I began writing you thirteen years ago, I never thought you'd ever read them, so I was entirely without inhibition in my writing. When I mulled over posting these online, again, it never occurred to me that you would ever read them, but I was naive to think that in this day of accessibility and Google you wouldn't one day stumble upon them-- let alone say hello. So I am left with a dilemma.

I am not ready to give up the young woman I began writing to more than a decade ago, neither would I dishonor you or your husband in anything I write or have written, by using these letters for anything more than for what I've used them since the very beginning.

In heaven, there will be no need for apology, for there will never enter our thoughts anything that would not honor God. We will love each other perfectly, without jealously, shame, or any other petty human emotion. We will be like Him. We will enjoy his perfect love and presence, and we will enjoy each other-- not just you and I, but your husband, your children, my own wife (should God so bless me), and all the redeemed of heaven. Imagine that, everyone in perfect love with God and each other. I will have literally millions of best friends in heaven. The reality of it is too much for my simple mind to comprehend. I still think and feel like the fallen man I am.

I realize now I can't just post any letter I've written you in the past, even though those letters were not written to you, but to the ghost of you... the nineteen year old you. These memories of you are my own, and I cannot apologize for them. But I can and must temper them, and choose to be more circumspect in my posting. And to this I hereby promise.

Thank you for listening. And hopefully, for understanding.

May God richly bless you and yours,

All my love,


E

Dearest Mary Angel

I saw her today for the first time in five weeks. She smiled and hugged me; she was genuinely happy to see me. I complimented her, told her she looked beautiful. She asked if something was wrong with my eyes. I told her she was a sight for sore eyes. And I told her she WAS beautiful. And she was.

We were to have lunch last Friday, but she couldn't break away from clients. We were to meet yesterday, but she was stuck in Enterprise awaiting a transmission repair. We are to meet Thursday, and it is my hope nothing will prevent our meeting.

I like her too much. Far too much. I will only get hurt in the end, but I do not care. I have to try. You can't spend your winnings unless you buy a ticket, right? She knows I like her, but she doesn't turn me away; she continues to encourage me. She's said things to others that indicate she is interested. Or was five weeks ago.

I had a conversation with the other Eric today. Prescott. He laughs to see how bad I have it for her, but he understands. He's not mocking. He listens and offers advice. He says she knows how I feel. And to be patient. I confided to him that even should nothing come of my infatuation-- should she and I never advance beyond the occasional lunch --I would still rather have that relationship that the one I now have. At least with her I feel alive and valued and listened to. I feel alive around her. I can speak my mind. I don't have to hide who I am; I can speak freely without fear of laughter or rejection. She likes who I am... enough to share the occasional lunch with me.

I want to ask her for more... a movie or dinner. But I'm not free to date. Not until I'm on my own. We were supposed to see a movie last month but never got around to it. Just as friends. She hates to see movies alone, as do I. I could use a best friend, and I wouldn't mind if it turned out to be her. Even if that's all we ever became.

As I said. I like her too much. But I can't help myself. I waited twenty years for one woman to say 'yes.' And in the end she has made it clear she doesn't want to marry... not me, not anyone. I want to belong to someone. I want to be happy. And as I said, even should nothing develop between us, at least with this beautiful and vibrant woman I'll learn once more how to socialize-- how to befriend and be befriended.

I finally feel as though this ship I'm on can actually get somewhere, that winds will actually fill its sails, and its prow carve a furrows across this seemingly interminable sea. I've been a long time rocked upon its merciless surface, and I'm looking forward to dry land. I'm looking forward to someone who won't balk at one day putting a ring on my finger-- whoever and wherever she may be.

God be with you and yours,

All my love,

Eric

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