IMAGINARY LETTER No. 2 (“know, too”?) 7/20/13

 kathy at castle

IMAGINARY LETTER No. 2 (“know, too”?) 7/20/13

Dearest K,

          Are you still a flautist?

          After that summer I was pining so piteously for you that my mother took me out and let me select an electric guitar (hear ominous duh-duh-duh-DAH!) so thus I would have something else to do besides mope.  Of course I wrote eventually my first song for you.  That was my first memory of “hearing” something before I played it.  It gushed out of me like…well,…

          After we had stopped writing (the first time) I veered into the oncoming adolescent desire to be popular.  I had been blessed with piano lessons as an innocent youth.  A blessing I eventually discarded with the mindless cruelty of a child (Forgive me, Ms Brundage.  I wrote about my eventual guilt and anguish in a veiled manner in my first novel (!!) ADOLPH MEISTERMANN) but now, with guitar and sometimes piano, I followed the piper of that epoch and became one of the army of kids who wanted to be famous musicians.  I’m still paying that piper.  That leads to my own “turbulent 20’s” story to be told in whispers another time.  Perhaps we can scare each other someday?

          Today I like baroque music in general.  Most of it has no “agenda” like subsequent music; just the unfolding crystalline logic of the musical elements.  I also like anything by Handel.  I like any quartet, quintet, sextet, or such “chamber music” of any age by anybody.  In such smaller works every note must justify itself.  There is no hiding in some symphonic fast-talk.

          Of course my favorite get-up-and-go song is “Highway to Hell”, cranked up to “11”.

          I must preface that which I whine about next by stating that I know I am lucky not to be a legless orphan scuttling in a Bombay alleyway.  However…

          The only thing that I ever knew for sure was that I loved you.  The same way I might know that I was hit by a train and mangled.  I was so convinced of divine providence that to awaken from such a dream was bitter.  I spat out God.  I began the random walk through my life.  Statisticians have a word for that random walk; they call it the Drunkard’s Walk.  It can lead back and forth over the same territory, like a drunkard looking for his lost keys under the streetlamp because that is where the light is.

          That is why I have crossed your path again, no doubt.

          “Everything happens for a reason”.

          Well, duh-uh, how inanely obvious is that?  It doesn’t invoke a divine guidance any less than it invokes a careening billiard ball (even if you ask “So, Who took the first shot?”).  So where could I plead injustice?  God’s “mysterious ways” appeared to me no different than random acts of justice and injustice.  There is no morality in randomness.  Karma?  That’s a snapshot of a wish; the arc of consequences that can’t be grasped.  However, “Every solution is the next problem” is now what I like to offer as sobriety.

          Anyway, Justice is an imperfect human invention, a flywheel to restrain revenge upon innocents I think.

          In October of 2011 I was shown by my erstwhile friend a blogger’s site called Open Salon.  That was a pivotal moment of my personal evolution.  For nearly three years since then I’ve written at least one story or poem every week.  I have developed some writer’s muscles.  Now, like a jogger hooked on the endorphins (I’ve been there) writing is becoming the meaning of my life, whatever that signifies.  I think you are a jogger, too, right?

          Hooked on endorphins.  Now I’m thinking of my father and how he was so against “drinking” because his father had been an alcoholic (I alluded to one of his childhood events in my story GIN FLY).  Apparently there is a streak of obsessive behavior in my family (yes, yes, I hear you laughing at me!  Don’t worry about that: I’m too lazy to become a stalker physically).  I have an aunt who is a gambler in Vegas.  I have a cousin who wrote a book about gambling.  Me?  Apparently I’m gambling with my existence.  Rolling those dice and thinking, “something good will have to happen”.

          And that will lead to my tales of marriage.

          Autre temps.

Respectfully affectionately yours,

Alan Grody


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But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS

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