People love chopping wood. In this
activity one immediately sees results.
—Albert Einstein
Dear Readers,
A friend of mine was bemoaning
the demise of his relationship at
lunch. Saying that she couldn’t
handle the barrage of neuroticism
that seemed to govern his emotions,
the girlfriend had distanced
herself, claiming a need for time
to regain her sanity and her zenful
outlook on life. “I can change,”
my friend heartfully declared as
his demeanor veered dangerously
between that of a lover purposefully
in pursuit and of a masochistic
addict denied his candy, manifesting
in a waiting room shake.
Watching him flip between hope
and paroxysms brought a quote to
mind: “My initial response was to
sue her for defamation of character,
but then I realized that I had
no character.”
How true, Sir Charles. My friend is
insane, I concluded to myself, returning
to my neglected tuna sandwich.
He tripped on and as his
narrative unfolded, questions arose
from the heartbreak ether; had he
already been touched in the head,
or was it the fault of love? Was
this girlfriend, a woman who I had
witnessed act in manners both full
of adoration and contempt, simply
a pit stop on the raceway of selfloathing
or a succubus spitting out
an emptied nutshell onto the unswept
sawdust floor? Did the end
have to be this terrible? My empathy
laid on the table, as useful as a
magnifying glass to a blind man,
when it hit me…what about me?
Of course you must understand,
intrepid readers, that when I
walked into work that snowy morning,
the biology building was the
solace I was seeking from the worries
that I had stuffed in my mind.
The bills mounting, the engine of
my car failing, and the social life
of a salty slug dying trampled
around my consciousness, robbing
me of sleep. Not to mention,
friends, there were experiments
that called out “do me,” as the lab
meeting loomed like a terrible
storm cloud shaped like my advisor’s
scowling face. Haggard and
head-ached, I got up and decided
that work was the answer. I will
be the fearless ant, thoughtless
except for the task at hand.
What wonders I performed that
morning! A Baryshnikov of biology,
the enthralled crowd would cry.
Yes, my friends, I pirouetted between
pipetting and pouring protein
gels. I painted the chalkboard
with theories and sweet succulent
progress. Oh, how the pantheon
would have been so proud. Galileo,
I am your step-child in heat!
Bach, can you hear this symphony
of exploration? Joyce, you will
sleep in the bosom of my scientific
Dublin! Onward ho!
But hunger and heartache shadowed
my enquiring mind, and now
this. I give the requisite answers
to his imploding heart. I share his
pain, attempt to comfort, knowing
full well my time serves no purpose
but to allow him to stretch out the
pain amongst many parts, dissecting
away until there is nothing left
but memories and empty spaces.
My advice was as good as a handmade
sandwich to a begging wino.
Yes, I know I am being harsh, timid
reader, for what good is a friend to
whom you cannot unburden yourself?
Who else can one rely on?
This world is cold and feeble, with
only the arms of those who care to
hold you up. Will my arms not
break? I have been frigid too long.
Remember, love makes us crystallize
into a caricature. A woman,
work, worries, and even a tuna
sandwich on rye with mustard,
they will all force us to shed the
artifice of ourselves to come to the
core of existence. So enjoy Valentine’s;
find yourself wrapped in
gauzy pink ribbon and in scent of
Hershey kisses, for then we will
meet on the other side, to see
clearly what we have become.
