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:
092199.0313.1
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:
091211.105641.1
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

Dearest Mary Angel

I bought and downloaded a song Friday afternoon to my iPod. It had been some twenty-five years since I last heard it. But then, the reason I never sought this song out in my ten plus years or so of internet access is because the song carries with it a lot of baggage. A lot, LOT of baggage. But now, the best way to get rid of it, I figure, is to listen to it and give it new meaning.

I may have told you this already, but there are a number of songs I associate with you. Don Henley's All She Wants to Do is Dance sits at the top of the list. I love that song because of you.

Every time I hear Adam Ant I think of you as well, two song in particular remind me of you for reasons I cannot now remember, they are: Goody Two Shoes and Strip, but I don't think you can ascribe any obvious reasons based upon those titles. I just remember being with you while those songs were playing... and I guess I did think of you as a bit of a goody two shoes, though in an endearing way.

Now this last song I remember because I was with you, in your home, both of us on a small couch. Rick Springfield's Living in Oz LP was on your record player. It's The Human Touch that sticks in my head every time I think of you. One line in particular...

You know I've got my walls
But Sally calls them prison cells.

And that's so me... or has been... I've been tearing down walls lately, and I'm getting pretty good at it. I reckon Sally would say, "it's about time!"

And yes, it's about time.

Not a one of these walls have come down because of any specific thing you have said or done, or any specific memory I have of you, but that's not to say you weren't important to me. It was the whole of you, the entire picture of you. You are who you are; a memory of sweetness and light, and that's enough for any man when the light of the world appears to have dimmed. But these walls are coming down because of decisions I've made since I turned 50 last August.

I wonder if we ever really understand the impressions we leave on others without knowing. This song I downloaded, Nice Girls, by Eye to Eye, carries with it some bad memories. I was a lonely young man, infatuated, and the object of my affection knew full well my heart. She went to the party with me, but ended up with someone else, and because of the hurt I did something very foolish... to myself. But that was twenty-seven years ago. How long do I have to carry that bag, or brick that wall? For as long as I am willing to do the work. And, as I've said, in the last few months I've spent some quality time with myself and my purpose and more time with my Lord than I have been wont. We're still not on close speaking terms, but... I'm learning to open up, and I'm discovering who I am and what it is I'm supposed to do.

Used to be I didn't want a nice girl. Now I find its all I want in a friend, and finding it difficult to see her anywhere. But I'm not worried about her anymore; where she is or when I might meet her. She's there and that's all I need to know.

But you, Mary Angel, have been a constant in my life, like no one else I've ever known-- you have been my north star. That's the impression you've left me with, though you probably never guessed the impact you left on my life, but I'm pleased by it. You and a short list of others have kept me from ruin, and I owe you all a debt of gratitude I can never repay.

So, the tone may sound sad, but that's just who I am- it's hard to escape Melancholy once it's had it's way with you one too many times. And this letter has been difficult to follow-- I've rambled a bit --but I've found more hope in recent months and years (in spite of my midlife crisis) than I ever thought to, or had any reason to expect but for the love I had for you and those others who kept me on the right path.

I don't think of you as often as I used to. But I can't see myself ever forgetting you. So it's in that spirit, a genuine spirit of Godly love, that I wish you and your family all of God's rich blessings this Christmas season.

Thank you for being my friend... for a lot longer than you expected.


With love,

E

Dear May Angel

I spoke with a man today at my favorite Indian restaurant. He described his "ascension" to the American way of life as a frog in a well. He said one rarely recognizes the climes one inhabits when it is all one has ever known. It is only when one climbs out of the well of his life and sees beyond the rim of sky, that he learns to appreciate what he has attained, and from what he has come. America was an eye-opener for him. He knew things here were different, but it took coming here and spending time to really grasp the differences between living in India and living in America. I understood all too well what he meant; I've spent time in foreign countries, albeit many years ago. But I've recently come to learn there is another kind of well... the kind we can fall into.

I've never been rich, but neither have I been so poor that I feared for where I might sleep at night, or if I could keep my dog with me. I know I have a home in Panama City-- my family would take me in --but I never considered how important it was to save for a rainy day. I, like too many others, have spent the money as it came in on the 'necessities' of living in America. I never thought I could ever be homeless, but now I find myself tipping on that very edge. I am that frog... on the edge of an abyss, with the forces of economics (among other things I'll not speak of) pushing me closer to the edge and into darkness. I need money. Lots of it. Or the cart throws a wheel; the horse, its shoe, and the frog leaps free-fall into obscurity.

I still have my job, though it has never really paid enough. I still have my car, though it is twenty years old and in constant need of repair. I still have a roof over my head, though new circumstances threaten to strip even that away. I've been in the well before, though I never saw it as such and, I'm sad to say, never thought to catalog its lessons, let alone remember them. But this is new. I spent the last two decades climbing out, in pursuit of riches-- those things I thought declared loud enough that I lived above the earth (though beneath the sky) --and even they seem to have eluded me.

One man climbs out, another falls in. I could blame partisan politics for the current state of the economy (and do) but that does nothing for my present predicament-- I could blame myself and be closer to the mark, but who truly thinks such things could come to harry them back into obscurity? The economy is not getting any better, unemployment is still too high, and inflation is still right around the corner. And I may also be there soon, just around the corner... me, my dog, a guitar, and every scrap of dignity I have left in a small canvas bag.

That may seem an image worth hanging like a Rockwell, but it's frightening as hell to be the one on the other side of the lens. I don't know what's going to happen in the months ahead. But this I do know... my job will still pay me less than I need. My car will still need repairs. I will still need a place to live. My dog will still need all the love and care he currently gets from me. And if that's all I'm ever able to manage, I guess it will have to be enough. Because, to my eternal shame, I have never been good at trusting Him.

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.


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