To-day I saw Louise at the library. She was leaning against the main counter, filling out a form for a library card. I sighed and pulled my hood over my head as I walked by her. I assume she is living in Santa Fe, though I imagined her many a mile away, living in DC. Things never work out as we plan them, perhaps I should be more circumspect and listen: “To make plans is to disrespect life.”
I have noticed that I am horrible at making introductions. Simply put, I don’t do introductions. Some people have the tendency to extol the beauty, the intellect, etc., of some person, whose acquaintance we are to make in the near future. And when we meet said person, we are disillusioned. Where is the purported Dionysus? Where is l’homme d’intelligence? “You promised me a poet and what you’ve given me is someone so mediocre, whose sole excellence is that he stands out, mediocre as he is, from his contemporaries, these being mediocre as well!”
Alas, we remain silent. We do not even affect surprise. We eat our disillusionment bitterly.
Oh poet! Where are you my poet?
I dreamt and dreamt of you so much!
You would write me an endless novel
One filled with quaint little bits of
Ah! How I’d wake up in the middle of the night
Covered in sweat, my body consumed by fever
And it was your name that was on my lips!
X-, my little X-!
And I’d almost touch your face, feel its warmth
Kissing my fingertips!
Ah how intoxicating.
If I affect an introduction at all, I will simply say “X-, this is Y-. Y-, this is X.” And although such a terse and cold introduction is anything but normal, my X and Y will make nothing of it, knowing that such is my manner, that although I lack in courtesy, I possess qualities that more than make up for such formalities.