Storytelling

Missing me? Good. That's as it should be. What could I be doing, to keep me from you? Must really be important. Maybe I've been trying to count all the hairs on my arms and legs. Maybe I've been re-papering the kitchen drawers.

So you're missing me. Now you know how it feels.

But I don't feel missed. Really? Well, Jack, let's work out your self-esteem issues publicly -- you and me, in this so-intimate setting. Why is it, Jack, that you feel no one can love you? You are so talented and so filled with potential. Almost anyone would love to have your gifts. So tall, so strong, so intelligent and good looking. And is your nose growing longer? I don't mean in a Pinocchio way -- I mean actually, physically longer?

Oh shut the hell up. My self-esteem is fine. And if it's not there's nothing you can do about it anyway. It's fine for purposes of public discussion. And grow a sense of humor, will you? Not everything is literal. I'm a very satirical guy, if you haven't noticed. And shut up about my nose.

I'm deeply immersed in a major project, and I'm a guy who knows how to focus. This is a good thing. I've been stalled for longer than I like to say. So why don't you do some of the FP writing. Got any old poems lying around? Email them to me and I'll post them. I'd really enjoy tearing them apart for you. I mean in the good way. I'm sure they really suck. Suck in the sense of being really good. Suck as in sucking the ambrosia of inspiration out of the nipple of the Muse. Yeah, send me all your pathetic mewlings about when you were a little kid-- I'm just dying to read all about it, in blank verse no less -- or send me all those haikus about your gross wiener. Can't wait.

No, I'm sorry. That came out a tad nasty. Sometimes I inadvertently come off as a little sarcastic. I seem to have lost my knack for subtle self-expression and my searing capacity for trenchant generalities. Um, how's this:

*ahem*

Women bond with each other by sharing a thousand incidental details. Men bond in silence, and by finding the meanings in each other's stories.

Good, isn't it. So true, so very true. I continue to astound myself. And I'd love to tell you all about my project, but I'm not going to.

I seem to be planning on putting something up here Mondays and Thursdays. At least for the next few weeks. Not a promise, but it seems likely. I don't know if this one counts. And it's only approximate anyway. As for you, my hearty, you have nothing to complain about. First off, I hardly see you anyway. And then, it's not like you've been diligently exploring through the archives here. You have nothing to complain about, given that there are some half million words posted on my various blogs, most of which you haven't read. And no, I don't care how boring you think they are. If you haven't read every word, you have nothing further to say on the matter.

In fact, read everything twice. That seems reasonable. Read them until you find the meaning in my stories. Then tell me what it is. In blank verse. And leave your childhood out of it. And your wiener.

As for me, I will catch myself holding my breath, or I'll stare broodingly into the middle distance until some sound catches my ear or some thought brings me to myself. I will rise long after the sun is up, and work into the afternoon, then leave my home for a time. Perhaps I'll walk along crowded sidewalks looking for some certain thing, or uncertain. And I'll watch the young people walking, hand in hand, bumping shoulders, maybe an arm wrapped down and around her back, maybe her head at his ear, and it will make me smile. Then I'll return home and work into the dawn.



J