Events in the Life of Janet O'Connolly - A Letter

Dear "John",

I'm writing you this letter to explain why I refuse to see you anymore, even though I know you don't really care why and won't use the information in any useful way.  Maybe it's just because I need to let this out and make it kind of public.  I'm also sending you a letter because I know it will irritate you that I used such an anachronistic and "romanticist" method of communication.

First, let me admit that I am disappointed that things turned out this way.  When our friends introduced us, I was hopeful that I'd found somebody I could relate to intellectually, who could push me when I needed to be pushed to understand my world.  But, I also wanted to do some pushing of my own.  Nobody has a perfect, complete understanding of everything.  In your case, though, anything you didn't fully understand, or could make people believe you fully understand, is "trivial", "unimportant", even a simple waste of your vast brain power to consider for a moment.  It became very difficult to have those conversations where all the facts are supposed to come from your side of the table and all the doubts and drivel from mine.  And when in fact it didn't go that way, we come to my next problem.

That is, that you would abruptly change the subject if it seemed like I had any actual knowledge and informed opinions of the topic, and go into banal family problems.  Since I never met your family, and their living on the other side of the country made a chance encounter unlikely, I can only interpret this as your distraction from an engaged intellectual discussion into a soft, fluffy chat that would be more appropriate for a lady such as myself.  Naturally, I never asked you for this deference to my fragile, feminine brain.  You took it upon yourself to provide it with no prior consultation whatsoever.

The third matter is, perhaps, merely a mutation of the second.  You seemed to believe that everyone in your life must necessarily be fascinating to everybody else, and on more than one occasion our conversation was hijacked by one of your old classmates or neighbors or bosses, often with the thinnest of connections to the statement previous to the derailing of the conversational train of thought.  Why should I care to know the life stories of people who I have never met, will never meet, and will never really want to?  Finally, why such insistence on regaling me with these stories over and over again?  And even worse, continuing every story to its conclusion after I had made it clear that I was more familiar than necessary with said story?

To conclude, "John", it is a shame that we must allow our ways to part thus.  But I'll be goddammed before I let any smug sonofabitch bellyflop into some professorial mentor position in my life without any consideration for my own intellectual offerings.

Yours  Sincerely  Regards

Here's to a future of separation

Janet

what? it's still winter

Samuel Adam's Boston Lager is getting easier to find, but Winter Lager is something new in Madrid.  At least I haven't seen it before.  Again, I bend to imagined seasonal pressures.

It's not as foamy as Stille Nacht, although it has a similar color.  It has kind of an earthy smell, but a strangely complicated taste - sweet with salty undertones.  In fact, it reminds me of some pizza sauces.  How American can you get?  Although it has a fairly fluffy beginning, only a thin cover of foam remains after settling.  Although I had small hopes of something more...wintery, it's a perfectly drinkable lager.  Maybe I was thinking too much about Christmas, with cinnamon or peppermint or ginger.  Oh well, maybe next year.

a tale of meeting

Once, long ago, there was a girl who lived in a little village near the Red Woods.  She would go to the river every day to collect pretty and interesting stones to sell at the harvest fair and while she was searching for eye-catching colors and shapes, her mind would work and wander.

It was early spring when she went to the river that time, and the sky was gray and the wind was cold and the water was running fast and clear.  She held her shawl closed tightly at her throat and trod the rocky bank with care.  All of a sudden, the cold wind stopped and everything was perfectly still.  No birds tweeting, no dry grass rustling.  Even the river seemed to slip by soundlessly and the air turned darker.  And the shadow that appeared on the water was darker still, except for two shining points with a white slash above them.  Startled, the girl looked up.  It was a wolf.  He was standing on the other bank of the river as proud and haughty in his power as could be.  His big, white grin grew even wider when she looked up.

"Hello, my dear," he called, "What an awful day to be a-wandering."  The girl stared without answering.  What kind of wolf complains about the weather?  "I do so hope I didn't startle you.  I just came down for a drink and maybe a spot of fish for my poor, old belly."  His belly didn't look poor at all, in fact it could have been filled to the brim with river fish, and the wolf didn't look old either.  His dark gray pelt was as thick and shiny as any young colt's.  He didn't hobble like an old dog does as he crossed the river, stepping carefully but quickly on the water.  On the water.  His toes were barely getting wet.  He stepped daintily onto the bank and winked his burning red eye.  "My friends, the turtles." and when the girl looked it did seem a roundish shadow was sinking into the deep water from the surface.  "Perhaps we can also be good friends, my sweet."

"I think you are taking liberties with my time, sir."

"Am I not polite?" cajoled the wolf, lowering his head and pouting.  Even then, however, his eyes danced with mirth.

"You are polite.  But I think you are not honest."

"Ah, my child!  You cut me to the quick," and the wolf rolled smoothly onto his side, red red tongue dangling in a mock death mask.

"I know you, Vulk.  You bring unease and doubt."

"Oh, please call me Uncle.  And you know of me, but you do not know me.  I never have any intention of causing bad feelings, I mean only to offer opportunities.  Can it be my fault if people misunderstand?"

"You offer slavery disguised as possibility.  Anyone who goes with you, under the illusion of going to see the true nature of the world, must thereafter depend on you and only upon you.  You take us out of our depth so that we must cling to you like a log in a stormy sea."

The wolf was on his feet in an instant and the smug smirk was gone.  "Look here girl, I make no offers I cannot fulfill.  If only the same could be said for your people.  I do not use force to bring others with me, they come of their own free will.  If they are not prepared in the end for what they find, it is not my fault.  They should know themselves and their own limitations before they jump into a new understanding.  How can you blame me, when they themselves overestimated their own wisdom and strength and courage?"

"You know we cannot predict what you will show us.  Our ignorance makes us weak before you, and you take advantage through shock and surprise.  You say you offer knowledge but you only provoke fear for your own entertainment."

"Now, now, little one, you talk of knowledge so you must know that the wise would be careful of their words."  The wolf was scowling now, his eyes squinty and glowing like coals about to shed their coat of ash and flame up anew.  His voice was low like thunder from over the plains and as full of menace as the clouds would be of rain.

"Yes, wily wolf, I know my own strengths and weaknesses.  You cannot entice me to leave my life here, as hard and dull as it may be.  It is my life and the life I am prepared to have."

"Fine.  I will leave you to your prepared life.  But I think one day you will wish you had been more curious."  The wolf turned swiftly on his haunches and scuttled down the river bank, pausing only a split second as he turned the bend and was hidden behind the rising shore to let his fiery eye shoot a glance back.

As soon as he was out of sight, the wind returned with all its howling and the fish of the river started up their splashing and the sky was white, white, white with thick cotton clouds.  The girl was suddenly quite chilled and she decided to hurry home, the bottom of her woven basket barely sprinkled with a few smooth rocks.  But even as she ran with icy fingers and toes, some new warmth began to burn in her heart.  Burn like a smoldering fire in a ravenous wolf's eyes.

new year, new beer!

Almost trepidatiously I picked up Stille Nacht, mostly in memory of the holiday just past.  Although I'm often pleasantly surprised, I can't quite get over my mistrust of Belgian beers.

And a happy new year sky out the window

The beer is very foamy and bubbly, almost to the point of a soft drink.  It has the typical Belgian smell, slightly sour, and a little citrusy.  The first sip is impressive - sweet citrus, mellow, only the carbonation seems sharp on the tongue.  As the beer sits and as the bubbles abate, it becomes a little heavy and sticky.  I'd say it needs a salty snack, a nice bowl of pretzels or maybe a sharp cheese.  When warmer the beer has more apple-y flavor, which is interesting, luckily it's not excessively sweet, as I've noticed with other beers.

And a bubbly new year!