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