Poetry & Blindfolds

Dear Vince:

At this point in time, mid-May 1983, you are getting ready to graduate high school.  You have been living with your father, whose kindest nickname in the family is “Mad Jack”, for nearly three years.   And you have invested in defensive ticks and antisocial behavior that I am pleased to say thrive in me, your older self.

You’re still fumbling around love, trying to figure out what it is and how it works and how far you can stretch it.  In 1983, you are at the tail end of being involved in a clutch of people that, believe me, are better left in 1983.  You know the gang well.  There’s the girls – Katie, Arlieta, Kim and Katie’s sister, Wendy – and the boys – Tom, Jim, you and Mark.  All of you are incestuous friends, swapping dating partners like people share snack food (“oh this is good, taste this!”).  As you leave high school, they will all vanish from your life pretty quickly.  Jim will eventually marry Wendy, that girl you really liked – so much so, that you knew better than to ruin her mood by having her date you.  Kim will date the manager at a Burger King.   Katie will work at a truck stop or something.

 This fall, you will meet a woman called Linda who will change your life.   Let her.  You will meet a few other Lindas between then and now, as well as Catherines, Susans and Jennifers.   You will date so many Lindas, Catherines, Susans and Jennifers that – I kid you not – you will number them in your mind to keep track.   And, for the record, you will never date anyone called Mabooba.

But enough on that.  Look at you.  As I picture you in my mind, I can feel the unruly hair, the smooth face, the yearning for experience, the look in your eyes so hopeful that we adults can only parody it.  And I feel that part of you that feels ancillary at best in any given situation (obvious to anyone who will track your liberal-arts early college career).   I wish I could tell you that you’ve since had a breakthrough and that you actually matter enough to at least a few people, so much so that your absence would be intolerable.   You don’t get there, I’m afraid.  Wait til Mad Jack dies and see what happens.

But I don’t say these things to be discouraging, because you do survive and do you have some really excellent experiences.  I just wanted to write and let you know someone’s thinking of you.   Keep writing stuff down and nuturing your talents; they will come in handy someday.  Keep being random; it’ll inform your style.  Keep questioning the status quo; it’ll lead you to question yourself.  Keep treating others and you wish they’d treat you; it might not always work out but - so what?   Keep that look in your eyes alive, even if you have to hide it away sometimes; it’ll keep me afloat.

As much of a dweeb you think you are, I do wish I was more like you. 

Love from 2009,

Vincent

PS. Don’t worry about smoking.  I know you can take or leave it now, and still think it’s gross, but there will come a time when you’re addicted to the stuff.  But don’t sweat it: it’s a good way to handle stress and your older version kicked the habit.