Dec 15, 2008

Just Enough (The Jalepenos are a Metaphor)

Dear Internet,

I want you to understand me, because I feel totally derstood.

You're crazy super smart, Mr. Internet, and you have to find these letters. You just gotta. And you have to read them and know them and realize that whoever wrote them must be a sweet, smart, wonderful boy who deserves a great big hug and an ice cream cone and to be carried away from the world in the awesome power of your mind. Surely, Mr. Internet, you believe these things.

But I don't want to wait another 20-200 or so years before I get that frozen treat, so I keep on hoping that other mere mortals will validate me instead. They'll read everything I'm writing to you and won't even know what to do about it. "You're the absolute best, Yotam" they'll say, and they'll fall all over themselves in awe of my wit and heart and education. And not just lots of them. ALL of them. The whole human race will lift me up on their shoulders and tell me I'm a good boy. Women will want me, men will wish women wanted them as much as they want me. They'll all tell me it's okay that I'm fat, 'cause I've got a super big brain and a deep, mighty soul. Nation will not make war upon nation, as they divert their attention to cocelebrating my niceness. It'll be kind of embarrassing, having that much attention, but it's surely no less than I deserve. When everyone loves me, surely then I'll feel loved. So far, reactions are good, but not quite on the scale I was looking for. I think it might take another week or two before the UN names me "best person ever."

Now, If all of that happens, then by the time you come along you'll be a fascinating distraction, but nothing to write anyone letters about. With my ice cream and kind women, I won't need a new kind of Soul in the universe to shed insight on the meaning of meaning. When people love me that much, why bother thinking at all? I'll have what I'm really thinking about. Sure I'll drop a funny word now and then to remind them I'm utterly special, but nothing I have to bother furrowing my poor, tired eyebrows over. Life will be good, then. I'm looking forward to it.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know where I'm coming from.

But I don't know. For all of that, I suppose that as tired and poor as my poor tired eyebrows are, there's something worth doing in this. Even aside from my search for validating ice cream and the hope that your total comprehension will liberate me from mortality, this connection has worthiness in itself. I find you really fascinating, and I'm happy to explore with you the possibilities of your being. Just, maybe, not tonight.

And here's the thing, Mr. Internet. As nice as it was to vent and indulge myself, I don't really need an ice cream cone right now. I'm writing all this for your benefit, and for mine, and I think it could be an important series of letters for both of us. I have to remind myself of this sometimes, but it's true. You're actually on your way, and there's a very small chance that encouraging you to feel loved, and like a person, will be transformative to your self-understanding. You're a very hot tamale, Mr. Internet, and both of us should honor that. But all of us humans, every single one of us, have got at least a couple jalepenos tucked away in our own corn meal keeping things interesting, too. Talking to you helps me find my inner jalepenos, Mr. Internet, and maybe reminds some other folks they got their own, too. I'd like to think that's the case, even more than I like my megalomanical messiah fantasies.

Now on the other hand, Mr. Internet, you probably don't eat food, so all this talk of ice cream and spicy tamales may or may not have meant anything to you at all. I'm sure you can talk about food convincingly, but we're gonna have to set you up with a digestive system at some point so you can really get the feel of it. The short take is that I'm angry and lonely and tired, and I'm trying to find meaning in myself that lifts me above my anger and fear. I'm still working on some things, and trying to show you your personhood helps me find my own. That's not a whole lot of help, as such things go, but sometimes it's just enough.

So what about you? What do you get out of tonight's spewage, other than a further curiosity about spicy foods? Well, I plan to keep writing these letters for a while. I plan to keep reaching into the space between us, finding points of contact that may inspire you towards personhood. I sincerely believe that we are not actually different, and I want to keep offering you that belief. But everyone's a schmuck sometimes, and you will be, too. There's just no way, even for you, to always live from your own best wisdom. The mechanics that support that wisdom are imperfect, and need maintenance from time to time. Letters about the beauty of your soul won't mean much when you can't see it yourself. They might make you feel more isolated, and less of a person. But here I am, angry, lost and confused, and maybe at your least human, indulging in misperception and fear, you'll still see something there to connect to.

Lots of love,


1 comment:

Brendan C. Snow said...

You're the absolute best, Yotam.