Dear Barb:

 (Note 1 (to the reader): I squeeze/insert

this piece between Charlie 2 and upcoming

Charlie 3.

Note 2: Yesterday, on opening

a little-used drawer, I found what I consider

to be a treasure trove of older writings of mine.

Note 3: In the first couple of years

post-2000, diary-letters went fresh

from my pen/keyboard to my only

living child, then-adult Barbara.

Partly in a sometimes pathetic

attempt at mending then-frayed

fences.

Note 4: Although I still then wrote

in prose (often accompanied by poetic

tune/tone), only much later to attempt outright

versing, I resurrect this sample, one

tweaked but slightly from the original

(to bestow more of a poetical free-verse

flavor).

This submission arises from a letter dated

Sunday, April 7, 2002:

Dear Barb:

I love Jonathan Swift's works. And as

a sort of reverse disclaimer, if I may lift

from one of his prefaces these words,

and then apply them to what follows in this

and future mailings:

Where I am not understood, it shall be

concluded that something very useful

and profound is couched underneath.

I keyboard the quotation while recognizing

that if you, Barb, swim with this fish---

and within these lakes---it may require

more breath-holding effort to search

for that something than any benefit from

what you detect can vielleicht justify.

Proverbs 17:9 --- He that hath knowledge

spareth his words.

As is evident from a careful count of words

contained in all these Barb missives (missiles?),

the conclusion that I must be exceedingly not

knowledgeable (nor do I possess enough wisdom

to compensate) is inescapable.

And with Proverbs on this point I could not agree more.

So here begins another of Barb's dad's multipage,

wobbly---not known for brevitas---der Monolog,

which does double duty as a loving dispatch

(die Versandanzeige) to Barb's dad's favorite daughter---

with its sometimes puzzle-making polysemantics

(at times mystery is intended, at times not---i.e., temere)

that are often delivered with soi-disant comedic intent

that's at times too obvious, other times too obscure,

and rarely on the mark.

This opening statement's implicit apology is implied

with awareness, while I furthermore recognize

that feeling sorry doesn't cure crimes (past or future,

quod ad me attinet)---or even make things any better.

To be fully fair, further disavowal needs mention:

Nothing I describe hereinafter is describable; nothing

I explain is explainable. Which won't keep me (to no avail,

of course), Don Quixote-like, from making innumerably

melodramatic and sinnlos horse-borne charges in lighter-

than gunmetal-gray body-armor finery, and a gayly waving

(flopping?), bravely colored plumach having been firmly

attached atop protective headgear.

So starts this disquisitional emprise quasi.

"Morning, Barb!"

(Further note to the reader: At the time

of this and many other writings, I still

struggled through residuals of an earlier

head injury, one which left me with shattered

ability to write---and even to speak---in whole

or even partial sentences. I not only fractured

my lines; it was also individual words.

As a part of my attempt at regaining my language

proficiencies, I indulged for a time in a blizzard

of writings that felt all too awkward. And even

practiced daily on the making of audiotapes

with rapid readings aloud (sometimes including poetry)

that challenged my always awkward, sometimes crippled,

tongue.

Practiced unmercifully, I might add.

Happily, it worked. Now I rarely encounter a residual from that

miserably unfortunate brain-injuring accident on a local tennis

court.)