so very alone…

Mary, the evangelical at work asks me a question about my relationship with Jesus practically every day I come into the office. I was starting to take it personally, until I notice that she spreads it around.

So you know how when someone keeps bugging you in a certain way you start thinking of what you’re going to say to that person the next time they do that thing? Well, last night I figured out what I would say to her.

And then this morning, when she asked me if I had “thanked Jesus for this glorious day,” I replied:

“I wonder what Jesus thinks about all that porn you look at during working hours.”

She walked away without saying a word, fast and stiff.

I consider this the proudest moment of my entire life.

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I finally settled on a letter for Bertha. Once I decided to stop trying to write in poetic language and just let my feelings out, the words began to flow.

Dear Bertha,

My heart is broken. I feel our love slipping away.

Our relationship has taken me places that I never knew existed. Before I was with you, I had mistakenly believed the heights of love could only be reached between two perfect beings, and yet it is our very imperfections that draw us together and tighten our bond. When I think of how your whole body jiggles when you laugh or how your lip curls when you’re mad at me, my heart soars.

You and I both know our relationship isn’t ideal. I have ignored you at times, and you’ve somehow convinced yourself that it’s perfectly fine to have sex with other people. We’ve even yelled and called each other unspeakable names.

Despite all this, I value our intimacy above everything. When I’m with you, I am far from alone. I want to be with you. It breaks my heart that you seem so willing to treat our love in such a casual manner.

I must give you a choice. Either be with me — and be with me only — or never see me again.

Love,

Harlan

After I composed this letter, I wrote it out by hand, added my scent to it, and send it by mail. I can’t wait for her answer. In other words, I anxiously await her reply.

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If I were on an airplane that started to rock violently and shutter and plummet, my first thought would be, “Damn! I’m not going to get to see The Hobbit movies!”

Not that I’m entirely sold on Guillermo Del Toro. I watched Pan’s Labyrinth to test his bona fides, and I’ll just say this – he’s no Peter Jackson. He’s not even Sam Raimi. Still, the fact that we’ll have Peter and Fran and Philippa doing the storyboarding and scripting means we’re in safe hands. Plus, Sir Ian McKellen will be back as Gandalf, along with Andy Serkis as Gollum. I’m not sure who should play Bilbo – Ian Holms will be 80 by the end of filming – my choice is Martin Freeman. He looks like a hobbit.

I have two other concerns.

First, I hope they make the first movie using the complete story line from The Hobbit and the second movie about what happens between The Hobbit and LOTR. I don’t want two movies with a mish-mash of true and fabricated plot lines.

Second, I hope they remain faithful to the tone of The Hobbit. Unlike LOTR, The Hobbit is a children’s book. It’s not nearly as dark. I’m concerned that Del Toro will add too much violence and horror. The Hobbit shouldn’t have any impalings or beheadings. If I have a son or daughter soon, I want to be able to watch this movie over and over with them when they’re still toddlers and not wait until they’re teenagers.

Speaking of future children, I am still composing my love letter. Actually, that’s not exactly true. I have writer’s block. I keep typing sentences that are supposed to be sincere, like ”Beloved Bertha, toucher of my heart, kisser of my lips,” and then I turn it into parody. “Lover of my loins.”

And then I delete the whole thing and start over. “Dear Bertha, You have touched me in a way that no one else has.” And then more parody followed by Command-A, Delete. I’m obviously taking the wrong approach. To put it in terms that my new boss would understand, I need a reset meeting.

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I was determined not to see Bertha last night for reasons you could imagine. So I rented a porno and pulled all my window shades down and was all set to spend a quiet evening with just me and Little Harlan.

I changed my mind.

I used to have this notion that I was completely in charge of what I do. My body is a steamship and I’m the captain. The longer I live, the more I think my body is a flotilla, and I’m a frightened passenger clutching a fake steering wheel on the deck of one of the ships, wondering where we’re going and why the hell we don’t turn away from those rocks up ahead (aft). All I can do is shout and spin the wheel. Sometimes the ships turns. And sometimes it doesn’t.

Bertha was expecting me. And here’s the thing. I don’t think it’s healthy to have sex when there are so many issues to sort out, even when neither person says a single word during the encounter.

When I left, I felt emptier than I would have felt if I’d watched the porno.

Our relationship is dying. I need to feel loved again. I know how futile it is for me to talk through issues in person, so I’m going to spend the rest of the day composing the most beautiful love letter ever written.

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