Dear Me Letter: Petting a Peeve

Dear Me,

If this were any other century I’d have no need to write these letters. I’d be venting different thoughts to friends around the fireplace after supper or in the parlor or at a Sunday picnic or by a marshmallow campfire or outside a cave while after-supper bones burn out where the dinasaurs roam.

By the way - or is it? - a crude definition of communication is saying what you want to say to someone or someones and saying it in a way they understand exactly what you say. They catch the entire picture in 3-D Technicolor that you’ve just thrown over into the middle of where they sit, usually in their heads. It’s not that people for the most part are not willing to listen. There are a growing number of very clear-minded, capable and willing listeners, which this planet needs. All of my friends fit in that slot and a few make time to patiently listen to my creative splurges. But they don’t have time to listen to a fountain or tell stories by the fireplace. They have their own lives to create in this busy culture. So I go to paper and pen and write “Dear Me’s.”

Now if I may pet a peeve. In these times a lot of heads have become numb and although you can see their eyeballs, they’re living their lives behind closed eyelids. Numbness in some comes from living life through TV; in some from drugs; some from a shrink-infected educational system where “counselors” push drugs like Ritalin on our future, the children.

Happily the shrinks have shrunk more into a greasy black dot and are withering into nothing. There will come a time when they have dissolved into their own cesspool of crimes against humanity. No one except the few numbed ones really trusts them anymore. The hook they’ve used is “help” (does a snake bite “help?) and those who bit came out zombied, numb in spirit, unable to reach for their dreams - in short, deadened or dead. Although their venom has penetrated into the culture through their drugs, electroshock and prefrontal lobotomies, some have been able to stay outside of their fangs and see the truth of the horror they’ve created on lives and so enlighten the public.

I heard they were all called to a mandatory world meeting and after a lunch of barbequed rattlesnake, were Invited to board an exclusive ship dubbed "B. Tray All" enroute to a far-off island where they will practice on each other. In fact, if one stretches an ear across the planet, you can probably hear a soft and definite sigh of relief while it goes about picking up all the shrunken broken pieces.