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

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

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