The One Minute Manager lauds the importance of touch, but I just can't bring myself to reach out like that. Corporate mail reminds us that a masseuse will be set up in this or that room in case we need a relief for stress. I can think of few things more stressful than strange hands pushing and poking and patting me. I'm just not a touchy guy. I'm particular about such things. I'm touchy about them, you might say, though that's a confusing adjective to use in this context.
If I seem distant from where you're reading I hope you don't take it personally. I always assume that people don't really want to know me. People just want, I figure, to consider me from a distance. "If I approach," I think to myself, "they will feel invaded or be filled with dread." It's an unhealthy desire to be accepted that drives my attempt to be superhumanly acceptable. It's a sterile and impotent acceptance that only embraces from afar. Is this really my goal?
This medium is perfect for me. You can't even see me as I type this. I'm not even connected right now. I'm typing all of this into a text editor program. I'll spell check it, connect, look both ways to make sure no one is approaching, upload it quickly, and disconnect. You can read it after I'm gone. Feel free to comment. I'm perfectly capable of this sort of asynchronous relationship.
Hello, friends. Won't you tell me how it's going over there where you are?
Love.
