From: Randofo1
To: president@whitehouse.gov
Subject: to live and to love.
Date: Fri, 25 Mar 2005 12:50:54 -0500


Dear Mr. President of the USA,

I wrote you a while ago. You didn't write back. That was really rude of you. How do you ever expect me to take you seriously as leader of the free world if you can't even respond to a silly little letter? Don't even give me any nonsense about the auto-response business. I didn't write to correspond with the auto-response of the free world. I am trying to open up an important channel of communication with the leader of our democratic nation's executive branch. I would appreciate if my supposed elected representative, that being you, would take the time to read my letters and write back. Unless you actually can't read or write, in which case I am sheepishly embarrassed for imposing such demands upon you. Anyway, it's not like I'm some third world country hitting you up for debt relief money or some hippie tree hugging anti-war crybaby or anything like that. I really am seeking little from you but advice. You see, not too long ago, probably around the beginning of February, Groundhogs Day to be exact, I met this girl that I really dig. Her name is Danica. She is the smartest and cutest and greatest person of the female persuasion ever to be born and all. No offense to your daughters or wife or Barbara or anything. Anyway, I found her on Craigslist. Or should I say she found me on Craigslist? You can find anything on Craigslist. Everything from used sneakers to casual sex. However, don't get me wrong. This is more than casual sex. It is much more formal than that. We really like each other for more than just our outrageous genitalia. In fact, we may be madly in love with one another and all of that nonsense. You know, dreamy, starry-eyed, wonder. It's really good times. In spite of your aggressive neocon foreign policy, I've always seen you as a hopeless romantic, so you must know where I'm going with this. Undoubtedly you felt the same way when you first met Laura. I hear, after all these years, you still leave her love notes strewn about the house. That is why I am seeking your advice. You see, I wrote my dearest Danica a love note on the train after we parted ways early Sunday afternoon. Well, actually, I didn't exactly write it with the intent of giving it to her. I was simply just trying to express in writing how I feel about her. The point being that, albeit not written for her, I feel I should share it with her. Since, you seem like a man much experienced in the matters of love and notes, I was simply writing to ask you as to whether or not you think I should share it with her. In case you need to read my confession of undying love before making such judgment calls, I have attached it to this very email after this very sentence:

Well, between us, there is no shortage of fragments, duct tape and discount tempera paint from some psychiatry by numbers kit. But we're happy. Happy happy happy. And that is all that matters. I'm really not this used to being happy with someone else. It leaves me dumbfounded and blindsided and wonderful! Fantastic! Stellar! Superb! Happy happy happy happy happy. Snazzy and snappy. Yes yes yes. Positively positive and all of that in spite of the slinky, spastic, jungle cat. On the attack. It doesn't matter that we are both allergic and it keeps biting us. Wonderful. Charming. It's quite disarming. I curl up into and through her. She tries to brand my forehead. I try to keep her in my pocket. She doesn't fit. Our plans go to the curb. It perturbs. Do not disturb. A gentle slow Sunday morning slipping past with little concern for the afternoon. Work and a train ride home. It sucks to be alone. And so it goes. But who knows? Tuesday maybe or Wednesday definitely. Defiantly we release our claws from the comfort of one another and dissipate into our own obligations. Removed by thoughts of future meetings and greetings and the fleeting sinking feeling of time. Always time. Time, the ever-changing chain of reactions of an indefinite "to be." Try not to think of that. Watch a movie. Get distracted by the cat. Nod out. Harold and Maude can wait until next time. An edgy impatient form of procrastination. Procrastinating with all those small survival day to the day obligations. But we can hold each other arm in arm and head in chest and the such and dream of some distant permanent vacation. Sheep and pies and net mending in some chrome-plated version of an idealized probably forever unrealized escape to Newfoundland. Well, who knows which way the cookie may crumble? Like a bad metaphor imitating a worse cliche, there is little to do but seize the day and hope for the best. She has cute breasts and an ergonomically designed back curve and a sharp intellect and a crafty smile and an overall swell style. She is neat from the tip of her frizzy hair to the balls of her dainty feet. Everything inside on outside on inside again is, well, ineffable. Her brain to her body to her heart, incredible. Completely edible. Indelible. Like a permanent marker she leaves a lasting impression. That's a concession I'll defend undyingly. Or so I would concur with myself if and when I do such silly things. It's kind of like when I was a little tot and I would swing on the swing as though I were trying to escape the atmosphere. My little rear would reach its little orbit above the pivot of the top bar and I would then experience my stomach dropping as I freefell for a nanosecond while the whole contraption, myself, the seat, and all, dropped down and snapped back into the pivot of the arch. Anyway, the point being, that for a moment, an infinite little kid moment, when that swing reached orbit, I was flying; I was free. That's what being with Danica feels like. It feels like the one infallible, inexplicable, moment of release. Freedom from Earthly matters of childish importance. Sure, no more swings these days or dangerous moments of steel chain, asphalt playground, freefall in my overalls, but big or small, the feeling remains. And as best I can, I strive to share this. Sometimes I worry I am doing a poor job conveying my silent little inner explosion of interminable bliss. All I can do is kiss her lamely on her puckered lips and hope for the best. I really do hope for the best. I hope... well, I can't even say, but I would like to share my wordlessness with her in my trite little kisses. I think she gets it. I hope she doesn't doubt it. I can't make too much of a better argument than that. My swing is one-hundred and ten degrees in the air and I'm falling blindly and with momentum from the weight of my happiness and my perception of her happiness and the seemingly unbearable weight of our shared happiness. What more can I say? Little today. Much more may get in the way. Hip hop hooray. My oh my what a wonderful day. The rain is falling in a calm gray cold spring sort of way. It could be the Olympic Peninsula outside if not for the shortage of precipitous coastline and abundance of meadowland refinery wasteland. Yet, the mist sets the mood of the stage of my day in a way that longingly calms and placates my restless mind. I don't mind. It gives my thoughts something to drift along with. Drift drift drift. I'm starting to get the drift of drifting. Or so I hope or don't hope or at least hope for the best. Maybe that's what I'm talking about. I don't know. As Neal Cassady says, no, screw it, forget him. Make your own quotes. I tried to think of something profound but I couldn't get it to come to town. It's drifting lazily on the high desert shelf with my musical frame of mind and Danica's magical velvet songbird voice. I saw a red-breasted robin today. I know the calendar says it is spring, but I didn't believe a calculation of it until I saw the fiery little bird. And it's all downhill from here. Flowers and fireflies and fireworks and watermelons and sunburned tan lines and sleeping under the stars off the poorly detailed trail map. The view looks great from up here. Tumbling down and away into the sunshine. Now would be the time and the place to talk of my forewarning. My radiant morning star. Yes, how can I forget? Or remain quiet? Or or or... yes. Life is grand and getting more fabulous all the time. Quite sublime. Sweet like some highly concentrated lime fruit drink. Oh, it will rot your brain out. Rot it away with such sugary radiance that you can't help but to unyieldingly surrender. Sugar rush. A total gush. Giggle and blush. It's all far, far, too much. So much that it is far from enough but too much to bare and well, I've never been addicted to anything, but it would seem like the time and place and narcotic to get hooked on. So I bang my head against the wall along with the tune of some sappy love song. I bide the time until my next fix. Actually, maybe I shouldn't compare her to an intoxicant. She's far too soft-edged to be compared to an angry ravaging shot of ecstasy. What can she be compared to? The smell of damp freshly cut grass maybe, but that is cliched and cheesy and doesn't do justice. How about the filtering of noonday sunshine through a shimmering canopy of summertime windblown drifting? Well, that's a little better. How about something that doesn't involve vegetation? Can I compare her to herself? Can she be the small soft spot hidden coyly below the side of her cheekbone? The hidden little nook that I would burrow into if I could. I could. Well, but, I can't. Oh well. What the hell. Every time I see her, her image gets burned deeper into my memory. Like she is a Polaroid picture slowly exposing in my mind. I don't mind. In fact, I quite enjoy it. All there is left to do is but hope that the image, once radiated, doesn't fade.

So, that's it. What do you think? Should I show it to her? As leader of the free world and presumed hopeless romantic, I'm hoping you can direct my love life along the tried and true democratic path of happiness.

Thank you very much,
Randy Sarafan
Fellow Hopeless Romantic