I love it when people come to me with gifts. You know, gifts they’ve received, gifts given to them for no reason in particular. Such lack of definition makes the gift mysterious and thus, worthy of exhibition as if to prove such unique intentions exists in today’s routine pursuits.

How dandy, I exclaim before the wanton eyes of the carrier, offering a chance for satisfaction and possible retreat. I let it be known that I acknowledge this uncommon act of generosity and return to my previous state of contentment. It would be too easy to assume that the reaction one would expect and want when showing off a gift would be envy. Intent behind action is never so black and white.

I love it when people come to me with gifts because it proves that on some level, they care about something. Exactly what it is they care about will always escape me. Rest assured such a detail is of no concern of mine. What concerns me is their willingness to come to me, for any reason. That, in and of itself, is fascinating.

Of course, I do love it when people offer me gifts. Who doesn’t? The ones I prefer are the small, tiny things that would usually appear in a garage sale or in a Tupperware. To step into a drugstore and buy a box of chocolates requires as much effort as gassing up at the corner station. It is such an automatic adventure. How a seemingly ordinary entity can become the apple of somebody’s eye is what fairytales are made of.

What is remarkable is the reason the transformation takes place. A simple cookie becomes a probe in the hands of an anxious scamp. A single flower becomes a loop in a chain to a gang. A quick doodle becomes a pink slip in the hands of a smug outsider.

How much time passes between the flower and the fruit? How many moons between ripe and refuse? There’s no telling, Charlie. There is just no way of telling. There’s no use in waiting in the tall golden blades like a scarecrow.

Labels: cult, Dear Charlie, social