“Dear Valentine, I hope you had a good day. I woke up in the night, out of a series of dreams, & I’m afraid you were absent, though a residue of love was in the air. Stumbling down construction stairs, half asleep, my only thought was to find a piece of fruit, squeezed into juice, to quench my unrequited desire. You could not be with me, I realized, on every occasion when my life fell short. No, indeed, my failings have energized that very contrast. My falling deeper into isolation; you being non-corporeal, at least from what I can tell - it is all been of a piece. And since I was up, and it being one of the coldest nights of the winter, I opened the burning maw of my wood stove to throw in a log. Not all logs are equal. I tossed one in, as I’ve said, with not my perfect quotient of wakefulness, then tried to close the door. The protrusion looked perfectly like a branch, or splintered section split off, yet attached, which impeded my securing the latch. Having dealt with many errant logs, I grabbed its knob to reposition it, just a bit prematurely. The searing pain arrived swiftly, & in that fractional second, I knew what was what. I’d grabbed the silent andiron with my bare flesh, a piece of heated metal, that was now something recognized, & detached from, yet intent to leave its brand. I am so not into drama anymore. I somehow pushed it all back in, the fire that is, the metal and the danger. I next went to my sink, where frigid, well-fed water is easily tapped and let loose the flow. Somewhere I learned to use cold against the heat. I respect my fingers. The very same, that play guitars, and type out words of poetry. Dear Valentine, I saved you the effort, of having to deal with any more of my suffering. Enough of your own, is too much for me now, as I contemplate how quickly our lives left the bucolic romance of cafes, in tandem. When I think of what we were not able to accomplish, I wipe a tear, & then move on. The tete-a-tetes we could have had, on Boulevard Saint-Laurent while gentle snow fell, taken from us, and replaced with wild infidelities. But, no matter now. Any sensible person can see that if you play with fire, you may burn down the house. I’ve learned to play alone now, with some measure of finesse. The level of order & beauty I’ve been able to establish on my own, was always meant to be shared. I guess I still offer it, though to the ephemeral creator, inserting one used, aching heart into the words: “...on earth as it is in heaven...” and let that suffice. For whatever heaven is, it’s my own felt territory, not one fabricated by new age pundits, & I can always busy myself by preparing a warm welcome to others, who’ve lost their way. My life then is to sweep, clear away cobwebs, and do silent prayer, offering a few songs or books along the way. And frankly, I intuited this reality early on, and was fascinated by it, and lost friends because of it, because monastic existence does not require that you play the perfect notes; or sing anything sweetly, but more, it’s about plotting honest markers along the trail. If age has taught me anything, dear Valentine, it’s not about how you died, but that you still live on and talk to me. Your alcohol abuse, your superficiality that rode the waves of your early trauma, I get it, love. We’ve got this, and our story is not yet over.”
