PART ONE: “A REMINDER THAT I’LL BE JUST FINE”
“A Reminder That I’ll Be Just Fine”.
I have started with this as a possible title. I stare at it for a good minute and decide that I like it, a lot. I think it’s the “just” that really makes it work. What does the “just” add that “I’ll be fine” doesn’t have? I feel like I might know, but shouldn’t tell you. This question, to you, I pose.
One thing is that I can’t sit in any public place without looking up about every minute or so. And if someone walks in, or walks past me, then forget it. Paranoia without fear. What is that? It might be curiosity, restlessness. I clearly haven’t examined this closely enough. I am sorry for bringing you down this road. Report me to your Member of Parliament.
In any case, I’m trying to tell you about how I cannot become possessed. The pen should not stop until it has to, yet it does, and the mind saunters away from its central endeavor to speculate about that girl with the fox hat and earflaps. Major? Place of birth? Defining seventh-grade sleepover? Least favorite Prince song? I will fill in these blanks and return to writing about experiences I will never have or items I remember coveting while reading the Sears catalogue at age eight. This, unless I encounter local gadfly Jeff Barbeau, who may grab me sharply by the shoulders and explain feverishly that, since the members of Shout Out Out Out Out are from Alberta, they can afford three extra “Out’s”. I sometimes find it difficult to look at Jeff Barbeau because what he represents is just too real. It’s the same way with Paul Saulnier. (This should be Paul Saulnier’s campaign slogan if, as rumour has it, he really is running for city council.)
Sigh. Wrong road, wrong road. And still the title alone has been committed to paper. I think the title refers to a breakup letter, or a post-breakup letter between people who are still good friends. I think this story might be happy, which is another way of saying that it will be about the struggle to remain happy. But somehow, it can’t be written here, because I am skittish as a newborn kitten, and I can’t force out thoughts of Mayim Bialik in the episode of “Blossom” that parodies “Truth or Dare”. I will never write anything as good as that episode, but I am vain and foolish enough to try. I flee the Sleepless Goat and stalk in the direction of the public library. I should send Mayim Bialik a reminder that I’ll be just fine, but I can’t. She lives as a monk in Northern California. Many fear she will never return to society. Me? I have hope, but I will not tell you why. Why not? This question, to you, I pose.
Pick Witherz
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