Old Red Poly-Flex

OK, no lie. I am looking through this old notebook from the '70s, back when I was in school. Apparently I had plenty girlfriends, although I really don't remember it that way. Also, they seem to have tried awfully hard to keep me moving in the right direction, with varying degrees of success. And also, if I am reading the little notes correctly, I was a bit of an ass. Actually, that part is not real surprising and, probably, still applies.

I think only shallow people try to describe themselves as "complex". Usually that is a thinly veiled admission that they are erratic and/or make stupid decisions. I think if you are complex, then you don't realize it because, well, your mind is on a lot of other crap. No time for navel gazing and all that. So am I complex? Doubtful. I make stupid decisions.

I bring that up because one time, on leave from wherever I was stationed at the time, I brought my first wife home to Florida. She met my friends. They were telling her about my plan to climb the tower at the state fairgrounds and hang a sheet that said "to partly cloudy" under the word FAIR. Me drunk and trying to swim with alligators. Rowdy bonfires in Seffner, the trailer park capital of Hillsborough County. Tales from school. Tales out of school. Apparently I lived out a lot more tales than I realized.

So the wife says, "Man, that don't sound like you. You're so straight-laced now. I wish I had known you back then." I just smiled and said, "Naw...you don't." "Why not?" "Because I wouldn't have had the time for you." And that is true. I was self-absorbed as in, absorbed in myself. I was pretty introspective, just, apparently, in a very public way. Complex? Like a generic multi-vitamin.

So back to the notebook and the girls. I run across a note, in a girl's hand, but not signed:

Ed,

I hope you pass. But you won't if you do your math in PEN. Do you want me to buy you some pencils! (This young woman was punctuationally challenged.)

Nice, but nothing to suggest a girlfriend. More like a girl friend, I would suspect.

A couple of pages later, in red pen:

Ed-

I came by before I went to The Stables to see if I could catch you. Seems that's hard to do these days. Talked to Mrs. Powell today for a pretty long time. Remind me to tell you (about it). Heard that you met Karen last night. Is she nice? Hope so. Well, have fun doing whatever you're doing and don't forget to tell me sometime about whatever it is that will "blow my mind". Take care.

Love, Barbie

P.S. Make sure you go to school tomorrow cause you can't afford to miss another day

P.S. I still think we need to have a talk. Maybe not though.I guess we shouldn't try to act married when we're not.That sounds logical. Later--

Mrs. Powell was my creative writing teacher, and very possibly the only reason I ever finished high school. Barbie was a fine girl, and very smart. Reading this note, I'd add in wise also.

There was Karen. There was the girl from a school in Tampa who got ahold of one of my school's literary magazines, saw something I wrote, tracked me down (Brandon was a lot smaller those days) and, out of the blue, called me and made a date. More than a few times The Red Queen pulled my ass out of a fire. Although, to be fair, more than once she handed me the matches, too.

I have always had a lot of women in my life. I just have never been able to share myself, my life as they expect. And probably deserve. It is unfortunate, but after all this time, I understand that it is me and I have made peace with it. Still, if there is reincarnation and karma gets a call, I'd hate to return as one of my girlfriends.

I never throw out notebooks or pictures. Nor anything with sentimental significance. I savor ghosts from the past. I think you should never forget the journey you have made. Don't live in the past. Just don't abandon it either. If you can't tell who you were, how do you know who you are? Or why. Anyway, not trying to get all Zen on you. That's just pretentious.

There are two other notes that don't bear inclusion here, but do a good job of confirming what has been written so far. As a young man, I was apparently unconcerned by it all. The notebook's following pages included an ambitious 15 poem story (which I have posted here previously), a bunch of other poems, and a veritable buttload of unfinished ones. The one bringing the biggest smile to my face being the unfinished "The Burmese. The Chinese. And the Ill At Ease". Who knows what I was thinking there.

There I hung like a melody, Out

Ramblin' Ed