I attacked my contact list today and wound up in a pile of Christmas paper and gristle; down to the bone, I carved, and that was enough bedlam to justify calling it a day before lunch. So, wiped out, I tried that soup and sandwich place and had the carrot cake. I needed calories.
First, I rubbed out the names that have been latent for years—they, these dark stains, were splotches on a make-believe floor, fucking Pergo, the whole lot of them, gone. Next, I exterminated the people I never thought about because why would I think of them? Who were they exactly—so many blurry faces named Amber, Ally, Chris, Derek, or Paul, cataracts in my field of vision. Then, seeing clearer now, I uprooted acquaintances who never returned a call, text, or email and cranked up the garbage disposal. The grinding was sugar for my ears, and I hopscotched about, jubilant and taller, somehow after.
Ok, who’s next? Ah, yes, the reflexive thumbs-up emoji-addicted hive-minders. Delete. Delete. Delete. Sweet. Like does not mean confirmation. It never did and certainly did not imply effort, so I have dislocated all their thumbs. I know, I know, so sad.
:-(
Now, this is where it gets bloody, my hands go numb, and I take a slug of whiskey from the fat bottle. I open my bug-out bag, caress the glinting, virgin scalpel, and remove the people I converse with from time to time but don’t enjoy—I have a coagulant nearby if I get too deep—I can always use my belt as a tourniquet if need be. On the best days, these people are stalks of celery, an acquired taste, and they offer little nourishment or pleasure, but I need to be careful to excise the tumors only to the margins, and no more, where healthy flesh still blossoms.
The names that remain are those I love or respect in my way, and they know my way, flawed as I am. What they see is what I show them, and still, they persist, steadfast, pages in an immortal story. I circle these names, exclaim them, and pledge to tell them because I would be a coward otherwise. They can each expect a letter from me—in an envelope, with a stamp, in a manner befitting the genuine nature of my appreciation. This debt of gratitude I pay is long overdue.
If I could reconstitute the Pony Express, I would, the dust kicking up as the steel-spined rider, sporting an improbable handlebar mustache, delivers my payment, his snarling steed four hooves of fury and service. Absent that, the Post Office will suffice, though the little squared-off trucks lack the romance I covet, silly pocket-sized toys blinking red, they are.
This is my New Year’s Resolution.
Who is on my list?
Am I?