January 26 2009 Letter to Franny

Dear Miss Lowenberg:                                                                                                late-January 2009

     Two or three months ago, Jerit mentioned you thinking of trying to write me. Maybe you are as perplexed as I when it comes to trying to cess out anything worth trying to tell me about anything to do that may smack of any me and you or you and me or who versus who, etc.

     I've often felt the urge to try to get across ideas I have about how you and I might be something other than permanently-estranged. At this age/stage of life—my life—I am no longer full of any ardent lover designs; with you or anybody else. I think and feel mainly only a long-denied, long-repressed desire for a sanely-based, coherent, mature, (classy, if at all possible), graceful relationship with you. Not to beat on or browbeat—and I will feel ever-apologetic for my brutish behavior, a-wayee back then—nor do sex with, nor have to sleep with, etc., but primarily on behalf of a desire and hope that I know we both feel for any improved state in our Fourman/Lowenberg offspring's improved chances for more upbeat futures and closer familial sense; which you must know is a prime contributor to anyone's sense-of-security and helps to instill a healthier sense-of-security in one's own being self's too-oft-wayward thinker—oops: Me only, writing about my own boingy clumsy thought-erupter.

     But this same darn idiot consciousness, and so-called “sub”-consciousness, in all of its genuine mystery, has thought up this here letter to my soon-to-be three-decades-dumped 'ex' common-law baby-making (former) partner about maybe trying to think up some common-ground, commonly-agreed-upon potential restoratives that might, in some way, easy up some of our offspring's occasional bouts of negative-leaning, while ever-nudging teetering indecisivenesses toward the light that is said by some to positively shine with a warmth that some folks call 'love.'

     Me? I dunno. What drives my innards to venture these timidly-suggested/encouraged thoughts your way is ages old concern for that which one generation has propagated and begot or begat; definitely a parental occupational affectation, easily-enough an acceptable part of my being; and one which sometimes gives me good, gentle, and kindly thoughts to tickle whatever pleasure-bone or portion of wherever part of my body that my soul's spirit and emotional heart resides and just keeps right on firing away its promptings onto those neurons to activate nerve-endings and tear duct activity leakage.

     I just know that there are plenty of things, ideas, and common-sense protocols that you and I surely can find an easy agreement upon. I am trying to keep this from degenerating into a moonie loonie-eyed jerk sounding gross animal sounding lusting, because this type of junk is so far from where I (feel that I) am coming from, that I must apologize for digressing, and probably ought to delete the previous three sentences.

     I dunno. Maybe draw up lists of druthers to send to one another for a yea or nay return decision.

     I have absolutely no clue nor idea how your state of willingness may be, to even consider anything to do with me. And if this still rides too high in your desire, I completely accept that as the bed I have grown used to sleeping in since—I still remember—May 15^th, 1979—wow!: 30 years ago . . . I think that Jadene would feel easier to know that you and I were not so remote as has been the case now for one too-long of a damn darn time now; won't you agree?

     Lemme know how or what or why you are feeling about whatever it is that is currently on your mind and you still would like to see made better, and etcetera-----or don't. I'm just me—you're just you—and we is just we, are we not? We is some po' kids' (well: Jerit aint po'.) mother and father . . . and not getting any you know what--and no: I'm not talking about nookie. Excuse attempted comic relief?

     Hardway, call him my alter-ego, mumbles, bumbles, fumbles, and stumbles about, essentially in the fog of a hazy late-autumn dusk, excusing himself profusely, humbly; clearly, a fool, but with some semblance of a heart still thumping away, pushing that old blood around and around, fueling old  Mr. Boinger's boings.