or Far, Might I but Kindly,
Humbly Ask a Simple
Question Regarding
My Existence?
I’ve been told
on quite a regular
basis what a lousy
communicator I am.
This was of course back
when I had a lot of people
who spent enough time with
me and on such a regular basis
that I could only presume that they
would know and with authority relay
this characteristic to me about myself.
And now that I have so many questions
about this quality, there is nobody around
who’d even know. And who would even want
to know? Oh. My skills, I am aware, as this
by which I mean, or this they mean, I’m quite a con
tender in the Financial District, or else I was led to be
lieve this, and knew it, and this rounded out life to make
it a life with me in it, and an affordable one at that. But
it appears by all measure that I couldn’t talk myself back
into such an environment if my life depended on it. What
more could my life possibly depend upon more than this
one seemingly (for me) cinch of a task I’ve done most
historically and with such regularity. But nowadays
and for far too long now I talk and then I talk and
then I talk and then I talk, staring into what I’ve
no reason to believe are real humans that sit
just on the other side of my laptop’s wind
shield, a human (or two or three) who
stare at me congenially and ask me
the silliest questions, carrying on
as if we’re the greatest of friends, or
at least will be. Sometimes they have
me wait a while as they beckon yet
more humans, and so I wait more
days and then, when they arrive
they ask the very same
questions, and
seem elated
to make my
acquaintance,
giving me the distinct
impression that, yes, we’ll
soon know each other so well,
and that we’re only just beginning
to get to know each other but just you
wait. Just you wait. And then I don’t hear
from them again, except, or at least this is
usually the case, in the form of a very impersonal
letter. In which they glumly say they’ve found a
better friend, they have decided that we were
not meant to know each other any more than
in such a through-the-windshield sort of
impermanent way. Okay. And so this
is what I wake up to most days,
and I wave hello and begin to
act as eloquently as I can
muster, and recollect as
specifically as I can
muster, in order
to answer their
odd and yet
so genial
questions,
while in between
these absurd con
versations with a
lousy windshield always
between me and the other
human or the two or more
humans, the ones with whom
I talk and laugh and act as if we
I take a few moments to check my mail
and, one after the other, these form letters
arrive from the folks with whom I have had these
conversations in the days and weeks previous, each
and all with the same essential language and the same
essential message: We found a new and better friend, good
bye. What is there to do between those and the strange
conversations? I could cry, I could give up and
probably soon die. But instead I find myself rev
ving myself back up for more of the same, day in,
day out, month in, month out. Do you perhaps
get the picture or is anyone even there? I
know so well how I’d be if they had picked
me. I’m so very good at all of that.
But these confounded con
versations through the
pixelated screen?
I’ve been told so often
that I have anxiety, and this
most often by professionals
who would certainly know
about such things. And
I’ve been told,
as well, by
folks with whom
I was close enough
that they would
surely know
that I am
just one
lousy
unscripted
talker, one truly
horrible communicator.
And so I go to bed at night,
most every night these days – these
long depressing weeks that extend
themselves into horrible months –
wondering if that is the
reason why none of
these people want
to bring me in,
why none of
them wants
to be my
friend.
