Dear Mary Angel,

 I haven't written any poetry in quiet a while. I want to say I simply forgot to write, that other more pressing concerns kept my attentions elsewhere, but the simple truth is I've been frustrated with my quality of sight - that, and the lack of a computer, or rather, the time it takes to craft anything worth while. And while going through some notes from earlier this years I saw this... it's a bit risque, I'll admit, but I hope you'll forgive my including it here.

        I thought, as you paused, sipping your tea
        wet, red tongue, kissing the brim
        of your porcelain cup. Your lips, how soft
        ~how we made our tongues to swim
        I smiled at the mem'ry. You softly coughed
        Last night! I in you, on the lip of your cup
        Smiling, demure, lips a'touch your cup
        making love to your honey and tea

        Your cup and saucer chimed in duet. 'What?'
        you asked, knowing yet wishing it said
        How I loved our last loving; your soft warm skin
        smouldering upon our mid-summers bed
        and cursing the moment our day must begin
        ~How we relished the intimacy, and naked, lay
        as first light touched the bed where we lay
        And impatient with waiting, again you say, 'what?'

        ELAshley
        020316.021918.6

        Revisions:

        112316.035359.6


This was in progress when last I touched it, and is not remotely complete - I wonder if it ever shall,  because I feel there is still much much more to say about these two enjoying a cup outside a cafe in, perhaps, Paris. But the first two stanzas seem finished, though I'm not comfortable with the 3rd line at all. I will likely rewrite or rephrase much of what's here; I can't ever seem to just let things be.

The rhyming scheme is as follows... A - b - c - b - c - D - D - A, wherein the first and last lines repeat their final word, or phrase, as do lines 6 & 7. These two stanzas, if I remember correctly, took about two and a half hours to write. This springs from my penchant to over-think the problem; I'll fret and obsess over every word till it satisfies. I'll come back months later and see again that something is not quite right, and I'll revise yet again - there are poems in my arsenal that have seen a dozen of revisions or more! 

 

Thanksgiving  Day is tomorrow - I started cooking today. Last night my wife and I were at a church supper where almost 300 people gorged on turkey, dressing, and the testimonies at the end! I was moved by the number of children who so innocently - without guile or pretense - thanked God for their parents and their pastor.

And I thank God for you, and I pray for you and yours; that His richest blessings encompass and surround each of you.

With love

E

Dear Mary Angel,

I've thought of you often these last weeks, hoping you were well; that the Lord smiles upon you. I had wished to write sooner, but found the process prohibitively time-consuming. In truth it's so difficult to write-- I spend much of my time correcting spelling and gobble-d-gook. My thoughts race, and wish to fly... and can't. This letter has taken three days to write.

And yet, prohibitions aside, writing you is necessary, especially now. You may think otherwise; that I presume too much, that I clamor for memories that were, perhaps for you, brief... fleeting... but unbeknownst to you, all these years, I have had your ardent ear. You have been, perhaps, my best friend. my closest confidant, keeper of all my hopes, fears, and dreams. My vision is abysmal, who else can I retreat to, but you? My wife, you say? How can I trust her who doesn't care or want to know me? I know... pathetic. And why should I rely upon inferior ears, when there is you?

In 1995 I bought a computer, an IBM Aptiva-- an impulse buy. It was state of the art: a 1 gig hard drive and 68 Mbs of RAM. Powerful. but for it's power the only thing I ever felt delight in was writing. and I wrote a lot... poetry mostly. I began writing you letters, occasionally at first, but over the next year they grew into a full fledged journal.

I don't know what compelled me to write you that first letter, or why I continued to write you, but over time they become a part of me; something I identified as uniquely me, something I did each day, like brushing my teeth, or dressing for work. It made sense. And up to that time, nothing ever had except God, and He and I were not talking much. In the intervening twenty years I have written you more than a thousand letters.

Te amo mi amiga

Dear Mary Angel

Just a quick note to say I'm driving again... for the first time in four months. I can't say whether that's a good thing or not.

I got fitted for glasses yesterday. I was told by my wife that I couldn't choose frames from among the women's choices, and I calmly told her that the women's frames have no objection, so she shouldn't either. I was looking for something more 'round' -- Lennon-esque -- and everything on the men's wall was rectangular... ick.

But I'm at the computer now, and I don't need glasses to see the screen, which is something I couldn't do just a few short months ago. My trouble is seeing at a distance -- everything's a blur. So I'm getting bifocals... welcome to old-age, Eric

Much love


E

Dear Mary Angel

I had hoped to return to my previous letter the next day but so much kept me away-- I won't bore you with all the little tediums and petty boredoms. I have, when I could, spent time losing myself in music, specifically Swing Out Sister. Their smooth sophisticated jazz calms me, and the Lord knows I've needed it.

I don't know how long I can keep it up, however. I spent quite some time in prayer this morning while on my walk... honesty with God, and my Lord... brutally honest. I know He listens, but I guess I'm just deaf to His voice, that or I'm missing Him in all the clutter of my life. My marriage is terrible. It hurts. I hate being the focal point for all her disappointment in life. I don't, that is to say I can't, have any friends, and I have little control over my own life.

Any advice?


Sorry to leave so quick, but I'll come back-- never fear on that score. I figure I've been writting you letters the better part of twenty years, and I'm not about to stop now.

With love... always


E



P.S.  My eyesight is improving, I'll soon be able to get glasses.

Dear Mary Angel

The Surgery went well. The Retinologist said it couldn't have gone better. My vision, however, is not what I had hoped it would be; even two weeks out. The gas-bubble the doctor placed in my eye has finally disappeared, finally allowing a view of the world without glare or distortion, but I still can't see clearly-- there is still a lot of fogginess, and a lack of clarity... of crispness. The doctor says this could take up to six weeks to clear. I will need glasses no matter how improved my vision becomes.

I had a lot to think about these last two weeks, mostly how the Lord not only provided funding for the procedure, but He provided rent, utilities, and food as well - He knows we have need of things, and He's so generous; lavish, in fact. I only needed three-thousand for the procedure, but the Lord saw fit to provide almost seven-thousand... I am so humbled by His provision... such glorious provision! How do I show Him how grateful I am? I have never experienced such mercy... such unmerited favor. He has restored my vision, albeit imperfectly but, nevertheless, I see! Never have I experienced, personally, God moving on my behalf.

I have much more to tell you, but as time is short I'll have to return to this letter tomorrow. For now I'll simply say you are always in my thoughts, and your family always in my prayers.

With much love


E

Dear Mary Angel

I'm seeing pretty well these last couple of days; it's easier to read, though I still need my glasses for almost everything.


I hope you are doing well, that your family is blessed and your walk with Him is a fulfilling endeavor

Dear Mary Angel

My vision is beginning to improve, I'll return again soon with an update, and lots of pent up angst

With much love,

E

Dear Mary Angel

Just  a note to tell you that I'm going into surgery tomorrow at eleven AM. My eye  is so bad right now I'd be surprised if this is even legible. On the off-chance it is, I hope this is not the last letter I ever send you. I would miss this outlet and I would miss the friendship a great deal. It's in God's hands now, and I trust Him.

I'll see you on the other side

Much love and admiration


E

Dear Mary Angel

I have somewhat to tell you -- the task will be challenging, and proof-reading this letter would prove too difficult if not altogether impossible. So I won't.

I have been essentially blind for the last week, functionally blind. I can neither read or work. My vision is clearing, but the retinologist says it could take as much as three weeks more to clear; enough to read abnd return to work. I just didn't want to disappear altogether without a note to you in explanation.

It's frustrating, not being able to write. I have these lines in my head and short of writing huge in a notebook, with a sharpie, I can't get it down,... I'll attempt it here...


        She said she slept one night neath a dreaming tree
        And long neath its bowers dreamt solely of me
        The stars did wheel and turn and glisten she said
        On the leaves of her dreaming, the grass of her bed


How am I to survive three more weeks unable to write -- rather, to read. I dearly miss you... I miss the Mary Angel I knew... the young woman I grew to love. But that's not who you are now, is it? The poem I wrote for you, the one in the sidebar...'the taste of which has long since faded'  I may not remember the taste, or the soft press of your lips but memory keeps both of them very much alive.

It's not good for me to dwell on such things. I just pray you are well. That your family is well, and prospers. That you are truly blest and loved. At some point in the future I will have to have surgery on this eye. Half the light of the world is gone from my eyes. Should you feel inclined, should you read this, please pray for me me.

All my love and best wishes



E

Dear Mary Angel

Writing for the sake of writing is a horrific use of my time (as seen through the lens of someone who views each day as woefully short in hours). Except for building a habit, nothing useful comes of it, or good. Little of it good, anyway. Only the transitional poem between parts I and II of The Dance is actually good poetry. Everything else I've written since the end of December is but fair to middling, at best. But, as I've said, I get practice at the development of writing; in the mindset of beginning and finishing a piece. So something good does come of it. How's that for paradoxical? or Quixotic?

That one poem, which I am calling At the Heart of Dance, has accomplished one thing, in spite of my realization it's actually quite good. It has awakened that lazy muse of mine, or recaptured it, of the earlier (a decade, plus, earlier) piece. I seem to have found my way again. I know where to go from here.

I remember the essay I wrote in English Composition, the one that broke all the rules (I'll have to send you it to you), but because it was so good, the instructor accepted it--her words, not mine. I recounted my sense of loss of the sea, being so land bound in Dothan, and the voice I so often heard, calling me home. I still hear her voice-- didn't I tell you? the sea is a siren, whose voice, and song never quite leaves a man.

And there I believe, is the object of writing -- breaking rules.Life doesn't follow any rules beyond the mechanics: breathe in, breathe out, consume, expel, and procreate. Life loves to throw curve balls. That's the purpose of putting pen to page. That, and telling a damn fine story.

                021916.073550.6

Mary --

It occurred to me, this realization... I allowed a black hearted _______ to drag me to ________, where the next 27 years of my life were wasted, in a place I never wanted to go, a place I have never thought of as home-- all my energies, and all my dreams, lost. Got to change that.

I say ‘wasted,’ but not everything was a waste of time. This realization is not a waste, nor have the countless other realizations been a waste. I have seen things, experienced things, created things... expressed things, and they have shaped and informed who I am now. But those earlier dreams were lost. To me, at least -- those doors had closed, and others were opened

I literally hate what I’ve led myself to. Somehow I’ve got to change it - not the past; can’t change that. Somehow I’ve got to fix the future... and it begins with fixing the present.

And I can't let fear in the room.

I was thinking of you this morning on my walk... listening to music.


               “...all for the sake of Mairi”
                                  Alan Stivell - Mairi’s Wedding


Ciao


E


Post Script...  The change that needs to be made... the changes... need to be viewed as "musts,"  not "wants"     ...ruat caelum

Dear Mary Angel

I've heard it said that being a writer involves writing on a daily basis, of carrying with you a notebook to, at the very least, write down your thoughts and ideas. That in so doing some ideas may evolve into fully developed expressions. I don't know that doing this will in any way make one a better writer, but I do think it gets one in the habit of writing. For me, writing every day is unrealistic. Some days I just can't find a moment to string a few sentences together, and other days I just don't want to pick up a pen. Being a writer, to me, simply means someone who writes because its like breathing, that the thought of not writing means losing everything. I find a sense of accomplishment in writing, in it's practice. So I try. Not every day, but I do try. And I take a notebook with me everywhere. Some days nothing gets written, but its there for me... waiting.

Some days I struggle to form an idea, it fights my every effort, playing hard to get. And when, on those days, I finish, I can see clearly the struggle we fought. It seems to laugh at me, congratulating itself for thwarting me. Then there are the times, and few they be, when it lies down, legs spread, open and waiting-- a thing of beauty --allowing to trace its every curve. That was how it was with Capulet... what a beautiful poem/song it is.

Other times I'm lucky to even feel inspired enough to write (my muse, oddly enough looks a great deal like you. And yet, having said that, I realize just how much of you I've lost; I can't remember your face; I haven't a picture of you anywhere, and there's no remedy for that), stress is the killer here. My personal life is teeming with stress-- mostly of the emotional sort. Other times it's more specific: a fight with my wife, her talking divorce, and her not realizing what that does to me on the inside.

Some days vision is the hindrance. When I have these days... like today... I feel very vulnerable and depressed. Sometimes she'll make noise about how we'd be better off apart, on our own. That's when fear sets in. I know she and I have difficulty communicating, in point of fact we communicate very poorly. Rare is the occasion we actually succeed. So she thinks this is reason to separate, and I can't fault her in that. But this is where the fear comes from: I've put twenty-eight years into our relationship, the last three as a married couple, and now, in all likelihood, I will be blind in under five years. I wonder how I should survive without her. We do communicate, but we do not understand one another. I think I understand her more than she does me, but I suspect any couple would feel the same about their partners.

She doesn't read anything I write. I tried to share a poem with her above twenty years ago, and she read but a few lines before flinging the page back saying, in effect, "this makes no sense... it's stupid." She may not have actually said those last two words, but it's what I heard. I haven't shared anything with her since. I haven't hid my writing form her, but I've not invited her to read my work. To the best of my knowledge she hasn't tried to read anything I've written since then. She has no interest in me as a writer, and my other talents make no sense to her either, though she does see their value, and that purely monetary. All that being said, writing is who, and what I am. She doesn't care to read my work, which means, she doesn't care about reading me, but she does care if I can make money doing it.

In essence, I have no one to talk with but this blog, my notebook, and the many notebooks to come. And that's cold comfort... they can't hold me, comfort me, keep me warm in bed. It is emptiness. Sometimes, when I let it, it's despair. But not today. today is a good day. It's January 31st and it's warm and sunny. I still have to get six inches from the monitor to write this, with my reading glasses on (I get prescription glasses in three weeks, Yay!), and it's taken the better part of two hours to transcribe this letter, but I'm happy... if not about where I am, then about where I'm going.

My wish for you is continued prosperity: in health, in the blessings of your family, but most importantly your walk with God. May he richly bless you and keep you safe and warm.

As always, all my love


E