junkmail for blankets

order me around

so i'll be writing the 3rd part (and final, for now) sometime this weekend, after finishing with my students' personal essays. after part 3, i've decided that i'd like to write a series of 3-5 minute essays. frankly, i don't like to write very much, but it's much more exciting when i'm given an assignment. last summer, my dear friend michael decided to make me write, so he said, "write on this: you know that thing where you're on the phone with your mom and she adds in the 'i love you,' and you try to get in the 'you, too' right before you hang up? write on that." so i did, and it was a blast. so over the next few days, i want to collect around 10 things/words/ideas/quotes that people would like to see a random, short essay on. if it's a quote, i'll use that as the first line and go from there. and even though i'm not getting paid, i'll consider you patrons. i've always wanted a patron. (if you want to read the "i love you" essay, click below.) (pee ess: leave a comment on this post if you want to submit a thing/word/idea/quote)

Disdain

One million tiny risks—this is the math of my life. For instance, already today:

. . . didn’t have my alarm clock set . . .
. . . sloughed off the ace of hearts in a game of Spades . . .
. . . crossed Skinker Blvd. in the face of a flashing red hand . . .
. . . asked a stranger why she was reading Kafka . . .
. . . answered the phone . . . .

It’s just past noon now. I woke this morning (no alarm) just past ten. That’s at least five tiny risks in two hours. That adds up, at sixteen hours in my day, to 40 tiny risks per day. At 365.24219878 days per year, I will take 14,609.688 risks in my 29th year of life. I’ll take this as an average year. If my math is correct, I’ll hit my millionth risk on May 26, 2042. I’ll be 68, my mom will be 88, and it will be her birthday.

Don’t be too impressed by my math. We both know that these numbers represent the risks that I’m aware of. Who knows how many perfectly good risks I’ve failed to number because I haven’t paid attention? And these are just waking-hour risks—who knows what we risk in our dreams?

%

I suffer, on occasion, from Post-Trauma Concern Disorder (PTCD). PTCD doesn’t refer to those directly affected by a traumatic occasion (father loses son; pastor commits adultery; high school girl miscarries). PTCD affects those who care for the involved.

A few days after Jan’s divorce, the phone rings: her friend Paul, who asks, softly, “How are you holding up?” They talk for a few minutes, and as they prepare to hang up, Paul says, “Jan, you know that I love you.”

“I know,” she says.

Months later, after Jan has found a measure of healing, Paul calls. Jan answers the phone, and Paul asks, “Hey, what’s up?” They talk for a few minutes, and as they prepare to hang up, Paul says, “Alright, see ya later.”

“See ya later,” she says.

How do we account for the disorder? Or is there some order to account for here? Do we have a limited reserve of concern, and, thus, should we dispense it judiciously? Does urgency alone merit our concern? Should we govern our alarms, ration our words?

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I’ve been planning this for a while. Maybe now’s as good a time as any. I’m going to auction off a love letter on eBay. The high bidder wins an original love letter. Understand, though, and I’ll try to make this clear in the auction’s description, that I won’t write a letter to the winner; I’ll write a letter for the winner.

I’ve been dealt a good hand—so many dear people who tell me they love me. Yet I’m afraid to match them. Get a good hand, and for who knows what reasons, I’m afraid to play it. I underbid, and I’m forced to slough off hearts.

“Dear God, thank you for loving me . . . (adoration, confession, thanksgiving, supplication) . . . in Jesus’ name, amen.” I think this is what he wants to hear; he won me, after all. I say these things for him. For him. Slough.

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Were it a man with a real hand, maybe a blue uniform and white cap (silver star shining), I wouldn’t be crossing. But it’s just a flashing red hand, bleeping current. They’re all the same, too: ten inches high, six inches wide, 28 small bulbs. So uniform, so standard, so obligatory—they mean nothing to me. There’s no meaning, no feeling in there. Might as well be a telemarketer on the other end of the line.

“Is Mr. or Mrs. Huggins available?”

“No, he or she isn’t.”

“Is there a good time to call back?”

“Try Saturday morning.”

“Great. Thanks for your time. I love you.”

“You, too.”

Click.

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Excerpt from article, St. Louis Post Dispatch, Sunday June 15, 2003:

Local Man Run Down at Skinker and Delmar While Disdaining Flashing Hand

". . . after consoling Mr. Huggins’ friends, experiencing severe trauma, Cpt. Jackson of the SLPD shook his head, completed the accident report, and muttered to himself, ‘The sign means something.’”

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A girl has been e-mailing me, and I can’t stand it—it’s those damn heart icons. One more and I’m out of here—I can’t take her seriously. If she were to walk up to me on the street, would she raise her hands and trace a heart shape in the air?

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Maybe I’ll live to 80 instead and my mom to 76—it all averages out: one million tiny risks. Maybe mom doesn’t care for math. Or urgency, or overbidding, or routines. Maybe she’s my mom and just says things for me. But maybe not, and who cares? Maybe I should smoke one less cigarette today, pick up the phone, and replace it with “I love you, mom.”

“I love you, too.”

Click.

Posted by ghetto monk at February 28, 2004 12:48 PM | TrackBack