Brett Rants

Why Now?

Is it most telling that my response is a web page?

china town night

It's been ten years, at least, by my reckoning since last we corresponded, so you'll pardon the delay if I spend an additional ten days, weeks, months, years, or whatever crafting a response to my liking...

I'm not mad about our cessation of correspondence. If memory serves correct, I do believe it was I who sent the last letter, you know, back in the days when we did such things, send letters. But that's a trivial point of no importance. Neither of us followed up for, like, ten years, maybe more, that's really the pertinent fact. We both went on with our lives with no effort to include the other.

And after such a long span of time, the question on my mind is why get back in touch now... or really, ever?

Of course, when put that way, it sounds sort of aggressive, but it's not meant to be.

It's more of a riddle.
Literally, why now?

The last time I thought of you would have been last weekend (or so) on account of the big movie premier. Did we ever go to a movie together? We must have, but honestly, I can't remember. Maybe you do? Maybe I should use that as a sort of test, which is a probably unclear, so let me explain.

mixing board controls

You see, after looking at the raw text from the email, you know, the raw data, just to make sure I wasn't being scammed... and do you ever do that, get weird just for the sake of getting weird or follow up on those odd hunches, just, you know, because. Well, I thought it might be fun to pre-suppose the latest correspondence originated from another, say a child, in an effort to dig into their parent's past, elicit information, a.k.a. do a little phishing. And in this game of spinning sideways, it would make sense for me to ascertain to whom, yes, let's get all formal, to whom I was corresponding. And therefore, it would make a sort of sense for me to pretend that we'd gone to a movie together, perhaps three of them, after all, we probably had, maybe more, and if I've forgotten what movies they were or even if we had, just trust me on this, a simple fact like that would never stop me from asking whoever was on the other end of the correspondence to name just one of those movies, you know, as a sort of sign, counter-sign, and proof of identity. But I don't really feel like going down that route. So, I won't.

Instead, I will simply make note that the movie theatres of my youth are a prominent locale in the world of my fantasies and dreams. And so, with a major release like we had last week (and really, seem to have every few weeks these days), I started thinking about theatres, the locales of my youth, and the people thus associated with them, such as you. And then, about as suddenly, I decided I'd prefer daydreaming about pirates, and maybe work on a story, short or long haven't really decided which, I'll probably need to get a plot line going first, but in the meantime, I've got a working title: Ninja Girlfriend... or something like that. I like the way it rolls off the tongue. But then, the odds of me ever committing a single line of that particular story to page, print, or screen seems... slim: so many ideas, so little time. And thus (take it as a compliment), it is with much kind regards that I give this idea (my response to you in this form) the time and effort that something like this requires.

garbage dumpsters

Or were you, perhaps, rather looking forward to:
I am fine, you?
We shouldn't wait ten years, next time.
Please do stay in touch.
And then, of course, because I am counting them, I'd owe you a few more words, but not too many more, because if I gushed forth, I might seem overly anxious, needy; but by the same token, if not enough words were expended, I might come across as too dismissive (and we can't have that), so a word for word match might be just the ticket, meaning I need to tag a few more onto the preceding; and while I'm doing that, I might as well put the ball back in your court; and thus, end the exchange (and this overly long run-on sentence) with:
Say, remember that time we snuck into that graveyard?
Good times.
'Cause does it actually make a difference if we ever snuck into a graveyard? I can't remember, can you? Besides, can one call it sneaking if the gates were left wide open and the deed transpired at high noon in broad daylight?

park gates

But whatever, whether you can remember or not, whether we did something like that or not, or whether I'm simply corresponding with some precocious youth who's managed to crack their parent's email account, it doesn't really matter. Nor does catching up on the latest. Want to know who I am? This is who I am. This page. This response is the best insight into who I am that anyone is ever likely to get... well, you know, that and the rest of the site: wild times in The Realms I have had.

empty park bench

But we were talking of movies and how I'd thought of you (not an uncommon occurrence, let me assure you), but even after having thought of you, I did not have the slightest inclination of contacting you. In fact, I would say, initiating contacting with you (or pretty much anybody from my past) was not something I was ever going to do ever again. Not that I'm running from any bad memories or traumatic experiences; quite the contrary. But you know, after three, four, or five (much less ten) years, it was obvious to me, I was never going to do anything to close the distance. So, time to move on and stop considering future contact a possibility.

joker street light

But that is not to say I didn't enjoy receiving your email. I did, very much so. I especially enjoyed watching, feeling, sensing (whatever the right word is) the emotions that washed through me... and continue to reverberate back and forth even now. It was, is, and continues to be delightful, invigorating. So, thank you for that, your part in that, your email, which I will not post in all of its full, unedited glory, but I believe a fair paraphrasing might be something along the lines of:
Hello,
Does this email address work?
Does it get to you?
Will you respond?
Goodbye
Fish, as in, fishing

To which, of course, the answers are:
Abstract art, I do believe covers it, the great unknown

But then, that in itself begs a series of different questions: It's an interesting field of inquiry... to me, anyway. As to the truth of who you are, I can just make that up... or I guess, some folks would do a web search. But not me. That would be sort of like dropping you an email out of the blue. Seriously, why would I do that? But then, that's the thing. Why would I? Why would you? I find that particular question to be compelling, intriguing even.
So, why now?
Or did you finally find the next piece to the puzzle, you know, that thing, from the graveyard, so long ago, which at this point, seems a little unreal, like a dream, something which you begin to question, wonder, you know, start to have doubts in your own mind, about whether the past you remember was real or just another piece of fiction deserving of the usual disclaimer, but then again why even bother with a disclaimer, since no one believes half (do be generous and let me round up) the things I say, anyway...

Highlight on the Mind


next Brett Rants entry


Home Brett Rants Index

There is no truth left,
only what we make of the lies...

Which is to say,
more lies ahead on the
Front Page


© copyright 2016 Brett Paufler
Brett@Paufler.net
Yep, the email works,
whether I do or not,
more a conjecture of opinion...