A week or two ago, Hoke, while on the phone with Kristen, you asked her if she’d read the letter I wrote about <quote-01>Grammar’s birth<quote-01>.
“He doesn’t share anything with me,” she said so that I could hear it.
“You should read it!” you said. “It’s really beautiful.”
She looked at me like, “What the fuck?!” and with my mind’s eyes I looked at you like, “What the fuck?!” And yet, knowing full well that I am not sharing these letters with my own wife, you saw fit to have yours read aloud my most vulnerable effort in the car. <quote-02>I do not need to look back over our first two-hundred pages to see if either of you have plumbed so deeply and so personally for so many pages<quote-02>.
Now I get that it’s foolish to assume that a husband doesn’t tell his wife everything. As much as <quote-03>I’d be furious with either of you for sharing some unsavory portion of these letters with one of the guys<quote-03>, I wouldn’t think twice if you shared the same details with your wives. Even so, I always imagine the <quote-04>information coming secondhand, softened as a result<quote-04>. Is this delusional? Even the buffer of you—for whom the words were intended—reading them aloud seems like so much less a breach of etiquette. <quote-05>It’s one thing to sheepishly admit that Pat has a little wiener and another to share full color renderings of it from the HD projector<quote-05>.
There’s no question, then, that I was literally handed over, but was I figuratively handed over as well? I wonder. Do we not tell each other these things in confidence? If the things themselves don’t demand a certain level of confidence, are they any good? Even Freud, a famously flawed and ineffective therapist, gave his patients nicknames—“Rat Man,” “Wolf Man”—when sharing their stories with the world.
I am reminded also of your second-to-last letter, Hoke, of the burdensome pastoral confidentiality you spoke of, how you couldn’t record and pass along the word-for-word specifics of your conversation with Esther, the firsthand account from the lips of the vulnerable party. <quote-06>I feel, though, like my last letter was a kind of confiding, a missive filled with stuff I simply don’t share with other people<quote-06>, stuff that might very well find itself cut in subsequent edits.
In your recent comments, Wuck, it seems you were particularly convinced by one of Hoke’s final explanations for passing over the letter, that “awe is something you can’t keep to yourself too easily.” Fair enough. But I admit that I remain curious about other possible motivations. <quote-07>I’ll tell you for one, Hoke, that Rachel’s professional interest—“the subject lands in her domain,” you wrote—makes the act feel most invasive<quote-07>, the most like betrayal: friend rendered specimen. It would be another thing entirely if she were my biggest fan, if you were like, “Wait until you see what Murph pulled off this time!” Or if she counted herself a Murph skeptic, and you thought this would be the thing to sway her.
Whatever the case, I don’t doubt your good intentions. If there were brotherly impropriety at work, certainly you, Wuck—concerned as you were for, of all things, Lulo’s privacy in Hoke’s second-to-last letter—you would’ve sniffed it out. Probably I’m being a bit too sensitive; maybe the ill effects of moving all that stuff from my brain to the page lingers still. Maybe.
Probably. Anyway.
For now I’ll content myself with the memory of what you, Hoke, sent to all of us on The Dodger Thread a few months ago: feeding Abram his first Flamin’ Hot Cheeto and, instead of having a glass of milk at the ready, filming it for all of us, coolly documenting him—made crazy by the heat—struggling through the front door in his futile search for “something cool outside,” as if the heavens would open up to soothe this brand new agony. “Let me see your fingers,” you say as he wails and whimpers, rubbing his horror-mouth on the sleeve of his rocket-ship pajama top. “Did you eat some Flamin’ Hot?” you ask, like you don’t know. <quote-08>Your own son you did this to, for now your only begotten flesh and blood. If this doesn’t comfort me, nothing will. You love that kid more than anything, and the impulse to share what would certainly be awesome—or awful, depending on your “professional interest”—far outweighed your concern for his immediate well-being. In such company, how can I remain upset?<quote-08>
Now I can’t help but remember another anecdote, one of my favorites, actually.
You’re never around for Thanksgiving anymore, so the setting must be Christmas, maybe just before or maybe just after. <quote-09>I’m sitting at the head of the dining-room table, where Conch usually sits, and you are sitting just to my left, our fully decked out Monterey Pine certainly in your view<quote-09>. We’re discussing something intently enough, probably over dessert considering the relative sparseness of the table, and for a moment you’re distracted by a gnat buzzing around your plate. When it lands on the tablecloth between you and me, you unthinkingly squish it with your thumb, not a beat skipped, subject right on into predicate. I, however, am shocked, somewhere on the spectrum past disappointment and outrage but not quite to disgust. I stop you mid-thought, drawing your attention to this bit of matter now smushed into my mother’s linen tablecloth. I suggest to you that it was a living thing not entirely unlike us, a thing just going about its meager existence, thinking whatever thoughts a gnat gets to think, throbbing with whatever excitement is allotted to a gnat, a perfectly harmless but worthwhile fellow creature snuffed out without thought and for no good reason. You kind of shrug. For a second I’m speechless. Then, to help rationalize this minute tragedy, to help pave your way toward cosmic forgiveness and my own, I—ever the pragmatist—beseech you to eat the dead gnat. Honor its sacrifice like the American Indians honored the fallen buffalo, I say. You do it without argument, and we immediately resume our conversation.
<quote-10>Think what you will about this little story, Hoke, but it’s all the proof I’ll ever need of your love for me<quote-10>.
Remembering it now, <quote-11>I almost feel better<quote-11>.
<pull-quote>I do not need to look back over our first two-hundred pages to see if either of you have plumbed so deeply and so personally for so many pages<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Have you turned your vulnerability into a macho flex? "I out-vulnerable'd you assholes. No fucking question! Read the scoreboard."<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Just pointing out that you chose literally the most vulnerable moment to share.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>to share the most vulnerable is to share—as i’m sure you would agree, murph—the most lovable.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Yes. Of course it's the most lovable.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>I’d be furious with either of you for sharing some unsavory portion of these letters with one of the guys<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Noted.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>The fact that this must be noted...Jesus.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Maybe my attempts at sarcasm aren't as recognized in mild conflict?<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>My bad, dog.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>information coming secondhand, softened as a result<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>so, the vulnerable presented as less so?<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Like, I can listen to Pat talk about the video he saw of Renzo's birth, the one with Ashley's entrails in a bucket, because I'd enjoy Pat's telling of it, but--for many reasons--I don't want to watch that video myself, one of those reasons being that doing so would feel like a serious invasion of privacy, regardless of whether or not Andy filmed it to be shared.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>i didn’t know that existed! i wanna see! actually, i’m not sure if i do. yeah, i’d probably rather hear about it than see it. but i wanna hear about it, for sure. and maybe watch it. i’m not sure. that’s a tough one.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>It’s one thing to sheepishly admit that Pat has a little wiener and another to share full color renderings of it from the HD projector<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>This is both funny and emotionally telling about how naked you felt in that last letter.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>i feel the opposite. to tell folks pj has a little wiener is to judge it. displaying his wiener would allow folks to judge for themselves, should they feel like judging a wiener.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>I accept that each of you judge me to your wives. What else do spouses even talk about?<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>the moments sarah and i talk about are the one's we find the most interesting--not those of judgment, but of understanding. opinions of our friends that are not shared other than between sarah and me are not judgmental, but rather too tender to be told without embarrassment.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Back to Pat's wiener. You're crazy, Wuck. I know that Pat would rather I share my begrudging judgment of it than blow up some image he didn't agree to beforehand in real color for others' judgment. "But he knows what he's doing with it," I could add, "the motion in the ocean" and all that. Some mystery remains this way. I could be wrong, after all. Or maybe I'm in on the planned underselling and over-delivering.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Do you feel what you wrote reveals some embarassing limitation in you? I feel like it shows largeness of character, heart, and reflection.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Do you think a small penis is a limitation of character!? What a refreshing indicator that would be.<p-comment>
<p-comment>I was thinking more the vulnerability of being shown off to others without knowing. Like, I sent you some sweet nudes, and then you shared them with your bestie.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Like Wuck said, I realize it’s a thing that could happen, but hearing about it, especially without hearing this bestie’s opinion, is unnerving.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>I feel, though, like my last letter was a kind of confiding, a missive filled with stuff I simply don’t share with other people<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Do you feel this after writing it? Because as you wrote the letter, and began, you wrote this: "Detailing the play by play of that period in my life would feel more perfunctory than masochistic, but the passage of time has solidified for me the most indelible, perhaps most informative, moments."<p-comment>
<p-comment>"Perfunctory" and "informative" are not cues to the emotional risk you now ascribe to your beautiful story.<p-comment>
<p-comment>This doesn't surprise me, in hindsight: that you would pay, in the writing, a far less perfunctory emotional cost in returning to these moments. But I assume you are a careful reviser of your work, and you didn't return to the first part of your letter to change that casual, cool, controlled affect that framed your storytelling.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>I think, in context, I meant the perfunctory and masochistic minutiae of his dying, not the aftermath with Conch.<p-comment>
<p-comment>I think it's also clear that the letter takes a turn towards the more vulnerable after I confess to the emotional impact that returning to these memories was taking on me in the writing.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Also, stop pretending you did some deep think about any of this before you stuck it in Rachel's lap.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>yeah, i second that hoke did not. but i also posit, as you have at the start of this entry when you site marital confidence, that it is of no import. it’s possible hoke’s sin was in telling you about it.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Maybe you're right. As such, why tell me at all?<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>I am also now realizing that had he asked if he could share it with Rachel, I'd have said yes with only a moment or two of hesitation.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>I’ll tell you for one, Hoke, that Rachel’s professional interest—“the subject lands in her domain,” you wrote—makes the act feel most invasive<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>That makes sense. It's true to my motivation: I often want to share ALL of these letters, my friends, with my best friend, Rachel. <p-comment>
<p-comment>But I know that most often she could really give a shit about what we're talking about. So not only did this letter move me most, but I thought this subject landing in her domain might be a good enough reason, an entry, to hold her attention and help her enter this story and friendship triangle that has so captured her husband. To use the terrible word so popular in our time, it would be more "relatable."<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>By the way, Rachel doesn't see people as specimens. She actually doesn't enjoy her work as therapist, she's often confessed. When she tells people what she does, and new acquaintances joke about being nervous with her "psychoanalyzing eyes" seeing all their shit, dissecting them from hello--Rachel usually responds: "Yeah right! That's a lot of WORK, and you're not paying me. Let's just hang out."<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Your own son you did this to, for now your only begotten flesh and blood. If this doesn’t comfort me, nothing will. You love that kid more than anything, and the impulse to share what would certainly be awesome—or awful, depending on your “professional interest”—far outweighed your concern for his immediate well-being. In such company, how can I remain upset?<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>I've been accused by friends of handing out back-handed compliments. This feels like one, for sure. But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt that I always hope others give me: that while painting me as not caring about my son, you are actually saying this comforts you. Wild.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>I don't know what could possibly be construed as a compliment here. Anyway, it's in the letter for me not you, an attempt at some reassuring deduction:<p-comment>
<p-comment>Hoke loves Abram profoundly.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Hoke allowed the allure of sharing something awe-inspiring to outweigh Abram's momentary but not insignificant discomfort (as Hoke did with me).<p-comment>
<p-comment>Thus, Hoke loves me profoundly.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>goddamn, if this isn’t all hilarious. profoundly charming.<p-comment>
<p-comment>again, hoke’s betrayal was not in sharing your document but in offhandedly telling you he had.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>I’m sitting at the head of the dining-room table, where Conch usually sits, and you are sitting just to my left, our fully decked out Monterey Pine certainly in your view<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Already feeling good feelings in this familiar setting, seat, and view.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Think what you will about this little story, Hoke, but it’s all the proof I’ll ever need of your love for me<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Hm.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>perhaps I’m swinging early here, hoke; perhaps your hm, like murph’s, does in fact signal your desire to respond in more depth in a forthcoming letter, but i might look for something else, murph. hoke will eat fries out of the trash can, for fuck’s sake. he’s also a lush over the holidays. it was certainly not the gesture you make it out to be here, however enamored you are of the dmm you endowed his penance with in the moment.<p-comment>
<p-comment>that said, i feel i should mention that i’d never do that to your mother’s holiday tablecloth, and that i’d sooner meet the idea of not sharing these letters with the guys with an amen rather than a noted.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>I have thought of all the ways it could have made sense to Hoke in the moment, and none of those possibilities matter. Reader-response, after all.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>I almost feel better<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Save this date--August 15, my birthday--in your iPhone calendar, fucker. August 16, one day later, would have been a better morning to wake up to a hard ball-busting.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Are you suggesting I didn't take your feelings into consideration quite as much as I should have?<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Touché.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
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<pull-quote>Grammar's birth<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Yes, I'd called on Grammar's birthday, Aug 6. To say hey to the little guy when you weren't picking up.<p-comment>
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