Dear World,
I read someplace* that E. B. White said that his wife wore her Ferragamos even when she gardened, because she "would not dress down to a flower." Isn't this the kind of thing we long to be known for? To be spoken of as special in some way, by a person who wields the words with that kind of love and dimension?
We can never know how we are, who we are, to others, and we wait patiently to catch a glimpse of ourselves through their descriptions. It is very lovely to be the complimented, but, it is unreliable as a vocation. The job of the complimentor, on the other hand, is wide open to us. Why wait for compliments? Take the other role----it is easy as pie to be the complimentor. Make your appreciation grand, lavish, and memorable in the role of the praisor.
Comme ça: Reader, without you, whomever you are, wherever you are, these lit up letters, these tiny impulses, are electronically manifested dust- I write only, and as ever, to try to tell you how I feel about you. You are the reason I've been waiting so long. You.
* I know, what I mean is 'somewhere,' but it felt like someplace. I read it somewhere, on a page, in a place, at a time that I cannot recall. These little rules were made for breaking, don 't you think?
