Tuesday, June 11, 2013


"You say you don't want people to know how you feel," Smitty said, "but you lay it out there in your blog."


"You say you're a private person," another friend said, "but your Facebook posts are public."


"You say you're shy," said a third, "but you're out there and everyone thinks they know you."


Not a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, as Churchill famously said about Russia, but I confess to being simultaneously more and less than what people think. What you see is what you get — maybe.

The boys at the Paragraph Factory, they hang around because they think I'm an odd badass. The girls, they carve out some time for me because, hey, I've got big ears and I listen. I've been trained to keep things private. And I'm safe. I embrace Wilde. I have had my last romance.

I don't mind and it drives me crazy. My oldest friends, they think I just need to get back in the game. To them I say the same words I said to Smitty, when I made him choke with news he thought he'd never hear from me: I'm out of the game. I'm retired. A different reason, this time, but the outcome is the same.

"It's all OK," I keep telling Smitty, and my other friends, and myself. The words I say, they are only part of me. The words I type are also only a hint. The one who knows all says nothing. Selah.

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