I have some nerve; even my detractors have to give me that, as I sit here almost every day with a decanter of unrequited love, and there she is, one of the very few woman authors who has been able to elicit the cooing pleasure of the Gerber baby out of my blunted emotional cynicism. From a fantastical daydream of a literary BFFL like her to a 30 second cryptic tweet as if we were equals, and yes, if Jayne Anne follows me I shall squeal, diffidence about mutual achievements aside; next to hers mine are minute. Despite my length of time online, it is still disconcerting. I frame my past of longing for a nostalgic farewell, slightly frustrated at lack of email access, since I still enjoy the art of the epistle, and she has a concurrent virtual footprint while I am fomenting the arc of lesser and greater influences. Do boomers ever get used to this pancake collapse of psychic space?
In the hierarchy of recognitions, if it was between Mia Farrow reaching out past her celebrity, or Jayne Anne Phillips willingness to indicate she remembers the issue of which I posted, the latter means more to my aging decline. This is unreal; totally unreal. Chill break.
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