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

Dear Mary Angel,

Happy New Year,
   
      A lot has happened in the past year, most of them realizations I've made; not things you can hold in your hand, but nonetheless significant in terms of what I've managed to accomplish. For one, I've discovered who I am. This may sound crazy-- fifty-five years old and finally understanding this basic truism, but...

     Most everyone tends to identify themselves with their job-title, "I'm a doctor, I'm a janitor," and that's fine if that's all they aspire to be. If the purpose of their lives-- the great driving force and motivation, was to become a janitor? Okay. But I believe very few people, if they were honest with themselves, sees their occupation as the great driving force of their lives; their reason to be.

     Take me, for instance. I've been a cook, a dishwasher, an X-ray supply tech. I've worked on the crew boats off the Texas and Louisiana coasts, I've strung cable for a cable company in Arkansas, I've managed a restaurant, I've produced the five, six, and ten o'clock news at a local station, I've worked on the web, built advertising, edited and made commercials. I've managed to squeeze in a lot of  jobs in thirty-nine years, and yet, not a single one of them told the story of WHO I was at any given time. Who I am is a much larger story. It has taken the whole of my life tell. And it is not defined by any time-clock I've ever punched.

     I am an Artist, broadly speaking, but more specifically, a writer, and a poet. Whether or not I ever earn a living as a poet and writer is irrelevant, because these are the driving forces that propel me forward. They are my reasons to be. These are the gifts God has given me; my talents. And I dare not bury them in the sand.

     I believe that if everyone in the world were allowed and encouraged to nurture and grow that seed of "Being" within them, this would be a much calmer, more peaceful planet. Within everyone is a desire to create. We can't but help desire the art of creation; this desire was forged into every cell of our bodies from conception. This is the closest we get to being like Him, in this life.

     I wish you all the best in this coming year. I wish you peace, love, and a greater, deeper longing for the You God created you to be.

All my love


E

Dear Mary Angel

The first part of a much larger poem is complete; I say complete but I really mean "rough draft." And this poem is featured in my novel entitled Gardens of Love Play. It is, to my utter amazement, a romance - not my typical fare. It's the poem, however, that's giving me problems.

Part one was simple: A free form monster reaching upwards of some six-hundred lines; a train of thought piece. But now comes the hard work; revising and rewriting to a specific structure of specific iambic foot, and rhyming scheme - and this is just part one. There are two more large parts of six to eight hundred lines each. And between each part is a transitional piece of about 49-52 lines which leads into the next greater piece. And at the end will be the same 49-52 lines in summation; an epilogue as succinct as I can manage, without over-doing it, or making it all seems cheated. All in all the whole piece should come out to about 28 or 29 hundred lines. And yet, only the very first part will make it into the novel.

The novel itself follows the meeting and chaperoned engagement of Angelina Marni and Etienne Vernay. The setting is Venice, Italy... but not the Venice you know; the canals are filled with gardens, and the gondolas float on air. It sounds a bit far-fetched, but the story works. I'm about a fifth of the way through the writing.

The fabric of the smaller poems will be unique, in that I'm incorporating the styles of two different forms: the Anaphora, and the Villanelle. Three modified Villanelles totaling fifty-two lines per transitional poem (though the villanelle is difficult to detect as I've changed it drastically). Three stanzas of fifteen lines each and a seven line summation. The hard part is the Anaphora (it's tricky), it's proving difficult to make it seem like normal language - not contrived. Here is what I have so far:

     If the grande hall never stood, never danced, never could
     If lovers never kissed, never danced, never should
     If starlit rhythms never moved, never danced
     If lovers never touched, never moved, nor romanced
     If they met not each other at the edge of dance
     If they danced not each other in shared romance
     If they held not each other at the heart of dance
                                                 at the center of dance
     If hands never clasped, never felt, never knew
     If hearts never lit, never felt, never grew
     If breath never stilled, never stirred, never filled
     If lips never brushed, never stirred, never willed
     If loves never flowered, never bloomed in dance
     If loves warm embraced never sought romance
     If loves chaste kiss never longed to dance
                                                 to the center of dance
     But they did these and more and danced on the shore
     Their love rose and fell on every trough and swell
     They danced, and kissed, and loved, and more
     Till chance bade them dance t'wards another shore

122015.115930.1 - lines 1 - 19
122815.034628.6 - lines 11 - 20

I've a ways to still.



Dec 28 ~

I've had some time to work on the poem and thought I'd add them above... lines eleven to twenty. So I'm about a third of the way finished.

Line eleven carries with it a lot of meaning for me: "If breath never stilled," is that catching of ones breath, when we see someone or something that makes us draw in/hold our breath in awe. Then there's "never stirred..." Have you ever seen a thing that stirred you? aroused or woke something inside you? And did it ever "will" you to want more, learn more, seek more? That's how I think romance works on us... how we come to fall in love.



Dec 30 ~

The rereading of the last four lines... ouch. I hated it. It was too much of a departure from the preceding 16, I just had to rewrite.

     How then did we meet and dance from the shore?
     How then did we sweep, and dip, dance and more?
     How could we dance through trough and swell?
     How we loved, kissed, and more I can't tell
                                Yet here we are at the center of dance

122915.052218.6 - lines 17 - 21


This fits much more nicely, as it follows the pattern I used for the preceding lines. Before, when read aloud, it tended to stumble... loose it step, it's rhythm, but with these changes it transitions well.

Part one of the poem (the larger work) tells the story of how Angelina sees Etienne on the outer shore; the edge of dance within the Grande Hall. How she approaches him and how they begin to dance - how she teaches him to dance, and what it all means. She points out the mistakes other couples make despite the apparent perfection of their dance - it isn't perfect, every dance is flawed by design (a flaw everyone is powerless to overcome). In time they dance to what seems the center of the hall where a great fountain rises; where great marble Orsels (a kind of mermaid) pour out a wine (ambrosia) from great urns. From this they drink, and rest.

A steward of the Dance approaches and tells them the Lord of Dance, the Lord of the Great Hall, has invited them to dance "deeper," on the next level. It is then they notice a great stair case leading upward. Whereon the first level they had already danced was filled with thousands of couples, this upper level boasts but hundreds. This is where the deep waters are, where commitment, compromise, perseverance and sacrifice come into play. Without these no relationship can flourish. It is to this level are come; to learn more of dance (there is a third level to which they eventually come, only to discover there is yet another level from which none ever return).

The second level is in rough draft. I've thought about the third, put some thoughts down on paper but as of yet it lies unwritten. The fourth and last part will be but a poem; short and sweet; the grand summation.

The whole work is a metaphor for life, love, and relationships; the ones that end quickly or over time, and the ones that endure, even beyond death. I've been working on it for about fourteen years now - the novel and it's many parts and pieces. I've never heard of a story that even remotely parallels this.

I hope to finish the work by the end of next year, and then we'll see if anyone else find this tale worth a read. The first part of the poem can be read here: The Dance
And the first three chapters of the book can be read here: In the Gardens of Love Play

It is my hope that you have had a wonderful Christmas, full of love and joy, and that the months ahead give you more of the same, and blessings from God. The Lord knows I have been in love with the nineteen year old girl for as long as I can remember; a chaste love, for sure; with a memory, an ideal. It's like the poem I wrote for you..."A snapshot within my memory, never fading, never changing."  And I honestly don't know how to stop.

Until next time,

Ciao


E

Dearest Mary Angel

I am a poet. There, I said it. And it's true. it's taken 30 years to say it - to realize it.

All my life I wondered what I would be when I grew up, if ever I grew up. But then I realized something. I am what I've set my hand to do these many years. Even before I met you, I was a writer. I wrote my first poem (that I remember) at seventeen. Even while in that crazy fraternity, I was writing poems. My first short story was in the seventh or eighth grade. I have spent all my life writing.

Why did it take me so long to discover this, and to embrace it?


With love,



E

Dear Mary Angel,

I wish I had taken your advice. Took a step back and gave my pending marriage a long, and frank assessment. I do love her, but....

We have so little in common. I love to write; essay, poetry stories, while she writes little more than lists. Nor can I share them with her-- she doesn't see in them anything more than a waste of time. I am a creative person: music, art, writing, cooking, thinking, and she is analytical, with a fine regard for cold, hard facts. She doesn't know what's going on in the world, and couldn't care less. She can't  hold an intelligent, let alone insightful, conversation Primarily because she hasn't a foundation upon which to draw: classics, Shakespeare, historical references, the turn of a phrase; all of which are needed for depth and nuance. If you were to say, "he has an Oedipus complex," she wouldn't understand. These are all within our shared understanding, a sort of group-gestalt. I can't talk to her without explaining.

Neither does she understand the need we all have to hold on to things. I have had to sell everything of value she doesn't see a need for. These last seven years have been hard. Our president has hurt me every bit as much as any life-altering event could, barring my encroaching blindness (it's taken me thirty minutes to write this much). I've gone from a thirty-thousand dollar a year position at a television station to working at Wal Mart and waiting tables at the local Cracker Barrel-- at half the yearly income. As a result I've had to make difficult choices; where we live? how much food do we buy? am I meat eater or vegetarian? do I go to the dentist? All this while she complains incessantly, and wails about the "niggers," and g-ddamn this, and f--k that. I abhor her use of those appellations, the latter two.

All that to say this: last night she all but said she wants a divorce. I'm going blind, and she wants a divorce. It's almost as if now that she has gotten everything useful out of me, it is time to cast me aside... but she says she can't talk to me.

I depend on her. I have known and loved her for twenty-eight years. Of course I depend on her. I don't know what I'd do without her. Do I need her... yes. But do I need her?


With much love,

E

Dear Mary Angel

I can trace all my misfortune to one point... one moment in time. If I'd have done this, all would be different. If I'd have done that, I would be right where I am. But that one point, immutable as God Himself, isn't going anywhere; that is the choice I made, for better or worse, so any change I make for the better has to be made from a standpoint of correction. All those decisions, from that point onward, have been a course correction; a very long and arduous course correction.

It was the Summer of 1987. And it was a girl. I allowed myself to be snared by the obvious rather that the subtle; the brick rather that the glove. It could be the glove might not have fit as perfectly as I'd like to believe, but the brick has been a disaster, one that has had a decades-reaching grasp.

There's no going back; we both know this. But I believe this is the fulcrum upon which all my poetry depends. None of it would exist were it not for that moment in time. It has been an extraordinary gift

I know what I need to do. Not just need as in a course correction, but rather, what I feel led to do-- or feel led to desire. I finally know (or so I believe) what I want to be when I grown up... I wish to study the Bible. I wish to know it. I wish to soak it in. I want to point my intellect at Him, Jesus Christ. And I don't believe my love of poetry is in any way inconsistent with that desire; given the nature of my poetry.

I am going blind; not next month, or maybe next year, but it will come. How is that for poetic?

With Love,


E

Dear Mary Angel,

My grandfather died last night... my father's father. He was 99 years, 3 months, and 9 days old. In addition to this news I've learned my one remaining uncle (also on my father's side) is dying of cancer. When he's gone all of my father's immediate family will be gone (discounting the fruits of marriage). My father, by the way, has been gone since 1993.

I won't be going to the funeral. Me, driving in the snow, in the West Virginia mountains? Not a good mix. My uncle understands. I got to see him and my grandfather this past March. He's content with that, and I appreciate his understanding; even if the weather were balmy I'd still not be in any financial condition to make the trip. 

The more time that passes the less family I have left. I'm not sure how I feel about that at the moment... other than alone, but then I'm hardly alone in that respect, am I? I just wish my Dad had accepted Christ-- I have little hope of seeing him again (at the bottom I'm attaching a poem I wrote after my father's funeral). I still have my Mom and two sisters, but my mom is getting old, and Anna is a cancer "survivor," which means next to nothing in the long run since she could die of cancer the day after her fifth anniversary of being a survivor, and she'd still be considered a 'survivor.' She had the same cancer as my uncle has now, only his has metastasized in his bones. In short, he's dying.

Both sisters are suffering in this 'jobs crisis.' I'm barely scraping by, and struggling to save money for rings and a simple white dress for Cristal, plus a suit for me. I never had much need of one before now, except for funerals. The one I do own is ridiculously large on me... I weighed a good hundred pounds more when I bought it ten years ago... for a funeral. I reached a new milestone last week: for the first time in twenty years I weigh less than 210 pounds. 60 down, 30 to go.

Yes, I'm getting married. Finally. To the woman I've been dating for 22 years. She's finally agreed to marry me. And, truthfully, I'm not even sure how I feel about that except I'm tired of being alone. I do love her, and I know she loves me, I just hate that it took her 22 years to see something 'good enough' in me.

I've never been this poor in my life.... what I mean is, I've never had to struggle this hard just to get by; and I have a great job. It's just that, everything that could have gone wrong these last couple years, has. I know why the Lord has allowed all this to pan out as it has, I just wish I had done a lot of things differently. I wish I had believed in myself more... I wish I'd had confidence enough in myself to not need the validation of anyone else (especially from that fraternity) other than what I knew to be true in myself. I wish I had never joined that fraternity, but then I might never have met you. So. It seems that no matter how one wishes things might have gone differently, the down-side is there would always be wonderful things we'd lose out on if we'd had our druthers.

It's been hard to find joy in anything lately. And I know it shouldn't be that way. HE is our joy... and yet I realize I'm not that unlike Peter who, having managed to actually walk on water, took his focus off the Lord and began to sink. I'll be working on that focus in the weeks and months ahead.

It is my sincerest prayer that your family's holiday is truly blessed. Thanks for listening, and please keep me in your prayers.

With love,

Eric




Hazels and Salmon

Pink and crimson armored true
Basking in the light of filtered sun, and
Caressed by the cool flowing Boyne
From the sacred pool whence nine hazels drew
All the cares and truth of the world
Sealing them in their crimson nuts
Dropping them in season
To 'plash 'neath cool waters
Where feeds the Salmon of Knowledge
Pink and crimson armored true
Upon the cares and wisdom of the world

What echoes hath thou heard?
What pipes calling 'cross mountains cold
In mourning and loss?
Having eaten thy fill on knowledge rich
What comfort to me canst thou give
And so ease my heart?
What light dapp'ling, what textures known
To thee alone in thy sacred pool
While feasting on the food of gods
Might grant to me one word of hope
Of father and son together once more?


ELAshley
Most recent revisions:
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120911.0324.6

Dear Mary Angel,

I want to share a poem with you. I wrote it in June; it was blissfully warm and saturating, and tea is the one pleasure I associate with these kind of days. I love tea, not the garden-variety sweet tea you get at the restaurant, but the Darjeelings and Oolongs, and most everything else in between... a good thick and heady Chai. And it's tea I associate most with romance and pleasure. I would give these to Cristal, but she wouldn't understand them.

Apologies if my French is bit off...


Un Peu Poésie Légère
(An Affair Over Tea)

I came for the tea,
Said I. And she
With eyes like kohl
In diamond lit dew
Smiled. Whereas we,
'neath our lush camellia tree,
Sojourn singly, the soul
Of this deep amber brew,
Bids us sit. The bowl,
To its subtle brim,
Where ripples swim
Sings, 'Drink deep of me.'

Our cup is empty
Said I. Then she
Lips blush like figs
Bright softly wet,
On this lets agree...
I'll fill you, if you fill me;
My soft petal to your stout sprig!
And with our engagement then set,
'forget the din,' * quoth she,
Then plunging ladle deep and up
Smoothly filled my empty cup
Singing, 'Drink deep of me.'

I came for thy tea!
Spoke I. And she
Cup shy to tongue
And a lilt to her smile
Answer now, I challenge thee...
Lovest thou my heart more than tea?
For though we are yet young
Wilt thou love me all my days?
Stay thy cup! Thy troth unsung!
'Neath stars, moon, sun, camellia bowers
Pledge thou me thy love's endless hours?
Ne'er tiring to drink deeply of me?

Of thee, thy tea?
Asked I. And she 
'Yes' in her eyes,
Come drink of me
Of mine own heady brew!
You sing to me, and I'll to you
Of our live's desires 
'neath the circling sun!
And I smiled, filled with its fires 
I would that our cups never empty
That your lips soft and chastely
Ever desire to drink deep of me!

I came for the tea!
She said. And she,
A dapple of sun
On her soft silk brow,
Smiled, I would drink thee
Daily, nightly, bold and lightly
Oolong, White, Matcha, Pu'er
Hot, cool or chill,
Wherever you are
And while her lips kissed the brim of her porcelain cup
Brow turned softly down, her eyes looking up
Come, drink only of me!
For an age of me!
Forever of me
Come, my love, let's tea!


ELAshley
062411.044007.6
Revisions:
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102011.125103.6

-----

* "Tea is drunk to forget the din of the world."

--T'ien Yiheng

Dearest Mary Angel,

I always seem to resort to writing you when everything in my own life surrounds and presses, and closes in... I don't feel well today, and with that I'm feeling unsure, and depressed. I want something to change. I'd welcome almost anything.

I'm engaged to be married. To the same woman I've been dating/living with for the last 20 years, and I have so many doubts about it. I just don't know whether my doubts are based on anything tangible, or based on fear of uncertainty. I've been with her for 22 years, so what's to be uncertain of?

I've waited a long time for this woman to say 'yes,' and now that she has, I feel cheated. I feel as though I've wasted most of the time I've waited (sometimes not so patiently) for her to decide whether she trusted me enough, or whether or not I loved her enough. Seriously. We've been 'exclusive,' and celibate for the greater part of 22 years, and she's been worried that I didn't love her enough? Or whether she could trust me? What man would stay with a woman, live with her for 16 plus years, rarely seeing any of his own physical needs met, for as long as I have... unless he's just the most pathetic man on the face of the planet?

We were supposed to be married on August 20th, but it was pushed to October 16th because of finances, which has been pushed back further into the distance of weeks and months, again because of this craptastic economy. Five years ago we both made less than we do now, but we had money to burn. Now we make more... and have less. We're about to lose the house to foreclosure. We are both under a lot of stress.

I know I love her, but am I marrying her because I love her, or because I think, at 51, she's my only option, even knowing she wants no children... not even one? In a lot of ways I feel as though I've wasted my life waiting on her. I should not say it, but I will... I've been measuring her by your standard. And that's not fair to her, let alone you. Much of what I remember of you is not accurate. I've romanticized much of what I remember of you; created an impossible ideal. I want the heavens...

But who can really live there? Flesh needs firm ground beneath it if it is to thrive.

I'm having trouble accepting her for who she is. I want her to be different... more girly. But that's not who she is. I want her to be more intuitive to my needs, but that's not who she is. I want her to be more adventurous... I want a woman who doesn't make me feel lonely when I'm in the same room with her. She's not like that all the time, just often enough that I recognize the truth of it. I want what she has no desire to be.

I want to be married more than anything in the world... to belong to someone who loves me back. I know she loves me, but I've been the one pursuing her for the last two decades. And therein lies my doubts....

If I've learned one thing about myself these last 35 years, it's this.... every girl who ever chased me (including you), I ran away from (like a fool), but every girl I ever chased, was emotionally unavailable. I guess what my fear boils down to is this: Has she agreed to marry me because she loves me? or because I merely wore her down?

It's the first really cold morning here this Fall. The sun is shining at least, but I can blame the whether for how I'm feeling today. I keep hoping that if we can get through this next election cycle with a new president that maybe things will begin to turn around financially. Perhaps then something will actually 'Change' for the better. Maybe we'll actually be married. Maybe we'll have separated. Maybe I'll be content either way.

Sorry to have burdened you with all this, I just didn't have anyone else to unload on, and you have been a relatively safe person for me to unload on... that is, until you actually discovered I was writing about you... and to you.

It is my sincerest hope that all is well with you and your family.

That God may richly bless you, is my prayer.

All my love,

E