[I apologize, in advance, for the frequency of the personal reflections that have drifted into this BLOG. I just seem to have a lot of questions and few answers that I want to get out into the light of day. I promise to return to my usual rantings and ravings soon.]

Vincent van Gogh reportedly said: "One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul, and yet no one ever comes to sit by it." I guess that’s me. Admittedly, it’s mostly my "fault" but, still, it is a melancholy irony. I seem to have so much to say and so much desire to be heard and, yet, my voice has been reduced to the simple written word.

When I got married at age 21, my father (always a man with good advice) told me - in no uncertain terms - it was a mistake. He said I wasn’t "meant" to be married. I suspect he based that idea not so much on the woman I was about to marry but upon his deep knowledge of me, as his son. He knew that, after the divorce of biological parents and I had come to live with him and, eventually, his new wife, I was essentially a loner. I spent most of my time in the my new home in my room, reading. To tell you the truth, I felt quite a bit the third wheel on a two-wheeled cart. Dad and my new mother had their own lives and they enjoyed each other thoroughly. Dad was, finally, really happy. I was, well, in the way. Of course, they never purposefully made me feel as if I were and they included me as much in their activities as they could but, always, I felt like an imposition. I did my best to stay out of their way and, the best way to accomplish that was to stay in my room. [For the record, Dad remarried when I was 10; I never saw my biological mother thereafter.]

My new mother certainly made every effort to be a part of my life but, stubborn little ass that I was, I never let her. She tried very hard and, today, she and I are very close. But, from ages 10 to 16 or so, it was "them" and "me. And I, over time, grew very comfortable in my isolation. I had my room, fully stocked with books (both parents were staunch advocates of education above all else) and, around age 12, the best Christmas gift I ever received: a portable Royal typewriter. And, can you believe it? I actually asked for it myself! My little bedroom became a universe of ideas and ways to express them. If I sensed loneliness, it was only when I allowed myself to feel sorry for my plight and was angry about some parental slight. Otherwise, I recall being happy as a clam.

My books were my escape. I had a 20-volume encyclopedia, a 10-volume science collection, and a set of the "World’s Great Books" - condensed versions, but quite a complete little collection. These included Melville, Twain, Plato and the other greats across the span of time. I remember reading them all. The odd thing, at least to the young reader today, is that I read them not for school credit or because I was told to read them but because I actually wanted to read them. It must seem like a quaint - if not totally alien - concept to the current young people. But, there it is! Knowledge for the pure joy of knowing. I devoured the classics and spent almost equal time with the science books. Whole new worlds give me admission tickets and I enjoyed the trips immensely.

About this time, you must be thinking: "My! What a nerd you must have been, young man!" Actually, I was anything but a book-dork. I was in the Boy Scouts, played little league baseball, attended the summer rituals of checking out the girls at the community swimming pool - all the things the "normal" boys my age were doing. But, despite the strange metamorphosis of the girls’ bodies changing as each summer passed and the football games I played in the streets with the neighborhood boys, my room was my sanctuary. There, time flew. And my imagination took flight. It was like the "Chronicles of Narnia" - my room was the magical closet that opened up the mysterious and magical worlds of science and literature.

We had our family outings as well. I remember vacations to San Antonio (the Alamo was a decided disappointment: I expected something much more imposing), Mexico and New Orleans. I took numerous family treks to Panama City and the beaches where the girls was even more dramatically "curved." My parents truly did try to include me in their world which, after 46 years now of marriage, remains as loving as it was in the 1960s. I just remember I was always happiest when I returned to the beaches, and pirate ships and whale hunts that were waiting for me back in my room.

I guess you could say I "blossomed" in high school. I was a starter on the football team, threw shot put and discuss on the track team, was the featured male vocalist in the choir, and was - for all intents and purposes - "popular." I was, however, admired (if for nothing more than being the smartest kid in the class) but not often befriended. All the "in" kids socialized with me, even willingly, but I was never "part" of their group. Even after I got the male leads in the junior and senior class musicals (Harold Hill in "Music Man" and Henry Higgins in "My Fair Lady"), I was - I suspect - a bit of a mystery to the kids in my classes. I would have rollicking conversations about which girls were the wearing padded bras and which were "the real thing" with the "in crowd" one minute and be sleeping in class when the bell rang. It was clear to me and, probably to everyone else, that I was an interesting guy but a little bit of an enigma, socially.

I had a couple of what one might consider "close" friends: Danny was the starting guard (next to me at tackle) on the football team and Tommy started at tackle on the other side of our offensive line. We were close, at least as "close" as friends in my world get, but not the kind of friendships I envisioned others having. We even started a band - Danny and Tommy played guitar, I sang, and Donny - another acquaintance - was the drummer. We were pretty good, as bands in those days were, and played for a couple of dances around town. I even had a girlfriend, Carol was one of those blond girls that had really become curvaceous over the course of several summers and we had our fair share of dates and adventures in the backseat of my parents’ cars. So, weird as I was, I did - for the untrained eye - go through all the motions of a "normal" adolescence.

For the sake of your attention span and my typing, let’s fast forward 40 years. I have completed my education, married (for 24 years), had 3 kids (lost one), and have now been divorced for 10 years. I am at somewhat of a crossroads in my life. I am, for the most part, quite happy with my work and my job and my "alone" time. I haven’t had a date, now, in 8 years or so. I have no "significant other." I even gave my cat to a friend (long story, but they had other cats and I rationalized that my cat would be happier with friends to play with. Imagine that?) I live in a nice apartment with 3 bedrooms and no one - save me, myself, and I - with whom to keep regular company. I don’t go to bars looking for companions and, really, am a bit ambivalent on the whole subject.

What the heck’s the matter with me? There must be a small part of me that wants to "be" with someone of the opposite sex or else I wouldn’t check into MySpace and see is I have any " friend requests." There seldom are, but I dutifully check every day. If I am so damned independent, why would I even check? There are times at night when I get a fleeting emptiness - emphasis on the fleeting - when I think: "Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to talk with?" [N.B. It’s not about sex, trust me. At my age...well, it’s just not about that part of a relationship.]

The feeling always passes, in due time. But, it always returns. I rationalize that: "Dad, was right. I am not meant to be anyone’s companion." I am too self-sufficient and independent. Besides that, I am too set in my ways. My greatest pleasure, at least these days, if to be reading something that really interests me or writing about something that allows me to express my somewhat stubborn, conservative views. Besides, what woman would put up with me and all my quirkiness and obsessive habits? The answer is loud and clear: No one; at least, no one in their right mind! Even if there were such a nebulous "someone," it’s not like I do anything that puts the chances that I will meet this someone with any probability exceeding null.

So, there it is. Life on the edge. Teetering somewhere between loneliness and, well, not. Strange world, this world inside my head.

But still....hope springs eternal.