Memorable

J.F.: I’ve hung a couple of doors, and let me tell you, the liquor I’ve gone through….

Hanging doors causes many problems. I suppose the alignment along all three axes would be the sticking point.

***

Web logs are at their heart journals made public. There’s a dual dilemma inherent in maintaining this, my online journal. First, since anyone can read it, I censor myself more than normal. Over the long haul, this works to everyone’s advantage, as it keeps this from devolving into a meandering whinefest doused in angst and first impressions. Since I can’t fall back on everyone’s favorite fallback, it forces me to dip into the creative au jus (which when translates means “with juice.” Therefore, I should have just typed “creative jus,” but not only does that smack of pedantry, no one would actually get the reference. The upshot is that, yes, I am a French Dip for taking you through all this.). The second problem is that I cannot reliably monitor the readers. Each post has to strain through an elaborate meshwork detailing personal and personnel conflicts. Even so, I’ve probably missed a few such conflicts, resulting in people reading things that they may not necessarily want to. Note that the first constraint is more rigid than the second.

Why did I type that? Because I’m mired in Finals Mode (FM) and most of what I intended to write would have read like a wartime refugee’s memoirs, except without any redeeming qualities. Times like this, periods of high stress and unwavering scheduling focus, tend to lead me along a very narrow path, a dark, twisted path, full of overgrown briars and broken bottles under children’s feet, bodies strewn across the dead end street. But I won’t heed that battle call, it puts my back up, puts my back up against the wall. (Thank you U2 for letting me coopt your anthem for my simple and unworthy needs.) I’ve said what I’ve needed to about the Peace Corps, law school, writing, solitude, finals, misapprehension, misunderstanding, uncertain futures, ticking clocks. We’ll come back to all that later, but not now. Not now. There’s news to be announced across the digital divide.

Last Thursday, at Niagara Falls (Canadian faction), V.V. crossed up S.P. V.V. crossed up S.P. so bad S.P.’s ankle broke like a twig. S.P. then fell to one knee and proposed to V.V. (There may or may not also have been the proposition of getting an evening meal. Though romantic, these are also voracious people, capable of consuming several times their bodyweight in biomass). It was a watershed moment, in many senses of the word. They were next to one of the most spectacular waterfalls in the world. V.V. shed many tears, partly overwhelmed by the moment, partly because her ring still had a peanut from the Crackerjack box attached to the cubic zirconium. And, it was a watershed turning point. A crystal moment in time, constituting an actual Memory, not one of the pedestrian, “Ah, I had waffles for breakfast,” but rather, the special “Ah, I got engaged” moments. Initial conflicting reports had S.P. flung over the falls, V.V. flung over the falls, S.P. and V.V. plunging over the falls locked in a deathmatch, and LSD altering your perception. However, enough information trickled in, confirming V.V.’s assent to the contractual offer to marry.

For those of you accusing me of insensitivity, what with my making jokes about it, let me assure you that I have earned the right to make light of the situation. I’ve seen S.P. and V.V. at less than their best, and tried to help them. Now that those times are mere memories (like waffles!), now we can laugh with joy, even if some chuckling is irreverent. Besides, there are only two people that know exactly how it went, and the rest of us are forced to imagine and fill in the details. However, if you want a serious version, perhaps the best way to state it is the simplest. S.P. proposed marriage to V.V. and V.V. accepted.

Congratulations go out to S.P. and V.V. on their engagement!

To go full circle, I’ve been offered the opportunity to speak at their wedding, and after the initial fright at the thought of public speaking, I humbly accept. Now, rather than typing out my thoughts to the public, I get the chance to speak words that I should censor (“F*ck yeah! It’s f*cking great to be here! F*ck!”) to an audience I cannot select. Woo I feel sick.