Monday, September 19, 2005

In the five days since we’ve spoken, dear reader, I saw a vision of the end–our end–and there was a kind of comfort made readily available. It was relief, placed within arm’s reach and in plain sight, yet it was also off-limits. This is probably the wrong thing to say after an absence, similar to spitting on your friend at the arrival gate in an airport, but there you go.

I started drafting an e-mail last Thursday, possibly the most important one I’ll send this year, and I’m still revising it. The relationship is a love-hate, hate-love, and often a hate-hate one. You know the feeling, I bet. You write it, leave it, revisit it, tear out your hair. You look at it with a fresh pair of eyes the next morning, only to wonder who the fuck wrote such tripe.

You’ll have to excuse me. I can hear my neighbor banging on heaven knows what piece of furniture. That’s his way of communing with anger, I guess, and maybe also slabs of compact wood. Perhaps we’ll converse this week with the frequency I need and you deserve. Or maybe not, I don’t know.