Thursday, December 28, 2006

My Polite Responses

Sorry about that. I believe you received a response from me that may seem a bit strange. You see, I have a bad habit of sketching replies within an actual e-mail. Often, I get interrupted. Sometimes they get sent. Sometimes, they really should NOT get sent. Yours was such a case. So, again, my apologies. I don't have a copy, but I'm sure it was odd, if not strange.

So, let's begin anew.

Thanks for your kind reply.

I do indeed like fermented milk products of all sorts, the great peripatetic Teacher himself, and music that rips my heart out. Unfortunately, there is an endless supply of such music.

I have to be utterly honest, especially because you sound like a very nice person. I am cute like a baby rattlesnake is cute. There you are - you've been warned. Now, on to lighter fare.

********** I go on to describe why I'm such a find. Boring. Next!

Sir Write A Lot

Yes, I love people. okay? You happy? Well, I don't love all people - I wouldn't dare pretend to be that kind of person. In fact, I admire people like that. They have a genius for making a human connection that I can't even begin to understand.

But certain people I do love. My kid. My mom. My brother, in a twisted way that's unravelling ever so slowly. And then, there's this chick I know. Well, I don't really know her. In fact, she may be a fiction inasmuch as I'm a fiction of sorts. Or you are for that matter.

Anyway, I wanted to preserve what I've thought about her. She's too good for me, clearly, and so, I already see the end of the "relationship" because I love her ways. And I don't want to hurt her. And I can't avoid hurting her because I am me. That sucks, you might say, but that's the way it is. So, I show my love my not allowing her to love me. Hmm.

What's the backstory? I'm a two-time loser in love relationships. The first time around was ten years of bizarre miscommunication and non-communication the level of which hasn't been seen since Babel's famous erection. The second go-round was a complete mis-cue of macho-depressive-disaffection that would, frankly, scare my mother to death. There isn't going to be a third time. Even though I probably have found the "one" , I'm not going to inflict myself on her, just on principle.

And, it's not like I'm so bad, either. But, it's taken a major round of epiphanies to get to this point. Much pain has been bandied about. My personal growth continues. But, to what end? Sure, I feel better. But I know that if I take the chance to bring someone into my life whom I could love truly, there is the chance of a broken heart on someone's part or years of malaise ending in discrete disappointment. Why should I take that chance?

Because there's unbelievable chemistry there? Because she speaks to my soul? Because in every written reply she touches my heart in just such a way that I KNOW I''ll never feel again? Yeah, okay. That's exactly why I have to stay one million miles away from her. Because. Because I don't deserve her. Because even someone mediocre and distracted will be better for her in the long run. Because he will be consistent. Boring, but even. I'll give her the roller-coaster ride of her life, and, yes, there will be vomiting involved, just like the real thing.

So, I'll be publishing, for no one to see, what I have thought about her, though, out of the deep and abiding respect I have for her, I can't disseminate what she's written to me. I can tell you that she is a wonderful and easy-going writer and fun to read. She has a natural talent as well as well-learned skills, clearly. But, you'll just have to take my word for it.

Please stay tuned to this Bat-channel for some interesting stuff, if I do say so myself.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Where Did I Come From

In the world of dogs, it's said that mutts are hardier, have better dispositions and are longer-lived than their pure-bred counterparts.

My peasant ancestry goes back to when my interprid lovebird parents skipped out of Poland as the Allies created havoc for the Germans where they made haste to a refugee camp in Switzerland. They stayed there for two years, my brother was born and then were sponsored by my rich great uncle in Chicago to come to America. My father got a job making doll's heads in another great uncle's factory. My mother became a seamstress and sewed, and I love this, blue jeans (as in the song "House of the Rising Sun".) The rest of my father's brothers and one sister beat it to western Canada somewhere in the middle of that. When I take a minute to think about what all of that means in practical terms, I find myself without words - still.

The long back story is that about 500 years ago, some great-great-great-etc-grandfather was a maker of books. His speciality was illuminated religious texts with commentary. At some point, he met a beautiful maid who just happened to be Jewish. So the story goes, he actually converted, lost his business and was forced to emigrate to Spain, where there was a larger community of Jews. These ancestral sweethearts were then ejected from Spain, with family in tow, and headed to el Norte, spending a generation or so devolving into migrant farm workers, that is, serfs-on-the-run, a-plantin and a-pickin their way through France, Germany and finally, Poland, where the family grew and grew, where they abandoned farming in lieu of more mercantile acheivments. By the beginning of World War II, my grandfather's company was one of the largest manufacturer of brushes and brush-related utensils in Europe. Sort of like the Fuller Brush man.