Missing Chunk . com
I don't quite understand why posting on you can ratchet up my sense of self or self-esteem but it can. A few years ago, two friends insisted I post here every day. I didn't, not every day, but I did try to do so most days, and it worked. No longer a slug who had to fight lethargy, avoidance, the droopsies or Factor X, I was getting up, drinking my coffee and communicating.
The content might not be important so much as the product--a shiny graphic, a new poem of mine or a fabulous poem by a master, an observation on the world. You write a little, you slap on a graphic, and you've got yourself a visible sign you exist and function, maybe cleverly or not, maybe wisely or not, with or without impact. But here you are.
The medium of a blog posting is not the message, the medium is authentication. It is, Hey, Ma, Look what I've done. It is a friend discovering My 3,000 Loving Arms last Sunday and telling me it looks good, even if she doesn't (to her way of thinking) understand poetry.
Today I submit a specific, though perhaps random, observation. I can't offer details or background as I'm not running an expose machine and don't want to hurt anyone (unless it's Romney, Santorum, Barbara Bush or her sons, any of the 1 percent who refuse to see the global untenability of their lifestyle).
I'd begun noticing in this professional, shall we say, I was seeing for a time, that he had huge chunks missing. I'd seen it before, and never moved my insight ahead. But as I began to catch on to his inability to assist me beyond our first meetings, when I was directed to some local agencies, I realized he didn't have the capacity to do so, boyish good looks notwithstanding.
And though I'd begun wondering if those missing chunks (of emotional infrastructure) signalled something menacing, as if he might be one of those functional sociopaths who are in the news these days (in press conferences relating to their votes in Congress), I finally caught myself. I was overthinking.
My aha! came when he explained away a huge glitch in his information sharing (he was the one who glitched, if you will) with a petulant, "My bad." My bad? That's it? You've wasted a month and a half of my time and your full expression of regret or shame or even concern for me is, My bad?
The chunks that were missing? They are missing chunks. That's all. He's probably not a sociopath or psychopath, just a slightly hollow person, one I don't have much interest in.
And writing this makes me feel better.
Sarah Sarai (aka Sarah Gancher Sarai)