My writing life began in writing letters to the dead. I was eight years old, writing a eulogy for an older cousin that was lost much too soon to a drunk driver one morning on his way to work. It led down a road to poetry, fantasy, more eulogies–and basically becoming a sad, yet terribly potent gateway drug into the world of writing.
A poem from that maudlin phase of zero to now that’s always stuck with me, and been something paraphrased in my head at any crucial moment that slothfulness overcomes me has been from The Best Loved Poems of the American People, “If You’re Ever Going to Love Me” signed Unknown.
A poem from that maudlin phase of zero to now that’s always stuck with me, and been something paraphrased in my head at any crucial moment that slothfulness overcomes me has been from The Best Loved Poems of the American People, “If You’re Ever Going to Love Me” signed Unknown.
Quotes like, “Love me now while I am living; do not wait till I am gone.
And then chisel it in marble–warm love words on ice-cold stone” and
“If you knew someone was thirsting for a drop of water sweet
Would you be so slow to bring it? Would you step with laggard feet?”
And then chisel it in marble–warm love words on ice-cold stone” and
“If you knew someone was thirsting for a drop of water sweet
Would you be so slow to bring it? Would you step with laggard feet?”
I took those words so seriously for so long and at some point, I became an “almost.” How sad for the one thirsting, for my feet were beyond laggard. They were cartoonishly slow to the point of being frozen, standing still. In my personal life, in my profession, in my mind. I began to write letters to some people I loved, in notebooks they might like, but when it came time to send them–well, the water all but evaporated in the glass I was carrying, and those I most hoped would read those words would have to do it in something other than physical form because those words became something left only to cold marble. First to my dear friend, Livvy, and now to my friend, Jean. I waited so long to send her the care package I’d put together, she got well, got sick again, got well, and got sick again, and passed over to the land where your arm never tires of tossing tennis balls and pugs have perfect health.
I question whether I have the guts to be more than just an almost. To face the possibilities, the potential failures, and the concrete present tense verbage outside of the amorphous potential of “what could be”--but time isn’t waiting with me. It’s simply carrying the cloud of possibility that is my frozen self along with it, a beach goer unaware of just how far and fast the tide is carrying them out to sea.
To move beyond my ghostly doubts, I must begin with ink instead of erasers, and when I leave a trail of words in rows of unkempt scrawls upon the page, I should lay them out to be, not hide them away in a box to-go someday when I get up the nerve to let it exist. I think I want to start today, with Jean.
Here’s the letter that I never sent:
I question whether I have the guts to be more than just an almost. To face the possibilities, the potential failures, and the concrete present tense verbage outside of the amorphous potential of “what could be”--but time isn’t waiting with me. It’s simply carrying the cloud of possibility that is my frozen self along with it, a beach goer unaware of just how far and fast the tide is carrying them out to sea.
To move beyond my ghostly doubts, I must begin with ink instead of erasers, and when I leave a trail of words in rows of unkempt scrawls upon the page, I should lay them out to be, not hide them away in a box to-go someday when I get up the nerve to let it exist. I think I want to start today, with Jean.
Here’s the letter that I never sent:
Dear Jean,
There is such a vulnerability to letter writing–most notably my handwriting, and the lack of a backspace button being a terribly close second.
I apologize for any illegibility because goodness knows, once I get going, I’m using a fair bit of guess work on the re-read myself.
How are you feeling? As of right now, Facebook has it that you’re currently undergoing therapy somewhere that does not involve a fuzzy buddy being wrapped around your feet 24-7 and I can feel your pain.
I remember when Mom broke her ribs and I was staying with her at the hospital. By the end, one more day without Desperado was feeling pretty much unbearable. It was a really nice hospital, though. We had a really large, private room after getting out of the ICU and they let me use the shower.
So, if you ever decide to take your illness on the road, I highly recommend Inova Fairfax in Northern Virginia–I know, you can hardly contain your excitement at the thought!
How is Bruce holding up? And the dogs?
I fear the weather here is only inspiring in the gothic sense:
A gray sky, icy as the air that bites my face and hands, but lacking that soft cushion of silence that brings that little thrill in anticipation of snowflakes. Instead, it leaves you at the mercy of whatever air pocket is above as to what kind of water speck you get.
It needs some crow muttered pines and some hills sporting long grasses lain flat and a river that winds and curves among distant shores. Perfect writing weather, actually.
Personally, it brings to mind Fort Washington National Park. It’s one of my favorite places to dream in. There are a lot of underground bunkers and perfectly wonderful, dangerous drop-offs that serve as a great imaginary battleground between fae, but brings liability questions to the forefront when you see a kid running up one of the hills. Fingers crossed no one ever gets seriously hurt.
According to the placards set up at random around the park, the fort itself actually never featured any great acts of heroism–at the first sign of conflict, the soldiers said, “Screw Washington,” and immediately set the fort on fire. Repeatedly.
I suppose in the pitiful, deteriorating barracks, you could really get a good ghost story going. Though, being haunted by Dysentery Ben doesn’t quite have the same dramatic flair as some ghostly mistress of the moors: standing guard in a billowy white dress that knows many unutterable secrets–most valuable of which is how to keep whites that bright.
I imagine poor Ben to be featuring some very unfortunate stains. Honestly, it would probably make him make him a scarier spirit, though it would surely shift the poetic feel of any fireside tales passed down through the ages.
Rather than indulging in some gothic, fantastical tales, I’m instead listening to “Becker” against a background that, quite honestly, sounds very wet.
“Becker” is currently one of Mom’s comfort shows. Do you have any of those?
At the moment Mom bounces between “Becker” and “Gunsmoke” and a medley of music that Amazon picks out.
So far, our household agrees that this is our favorite role for Ted Danson. Do you have any preferences? I feel like “Cheers” is probably one of his more better known roles.
Then again, you might prefer a different genre of entertainment or perhaps an airing date within this decade.
The idea of writing to fill up this notebook seemed kind of cute–containing the words from all of the Christmas cards I bought but never sent.
I do quite a bit of “almost” things. I’ve eyed a lot of notepads with dog watermarks, except none of them were pugs. And a pack of Christmas cards that I thought MUST contain one card worthy of a Christmas card sommelier.
I wanted to regale you with tales of the outside world. I just hope you find the wonderfully mundane as entertaining, as say, going bungee jumping off the said of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and hearing a very concerning, eye-widening snap that simply isn’t supposed to be–though whether that prospect is most unlikely because of the fact that I would have to toss my jiggly, out of shape self off the side of bridge, or because that would mean dangling myself by a rubberband over the bacteria filled water of the Potomac, I can’t say.
Initially, I had thoughts of microscopic cuts in my feet and amputation anytime the sticky summer air seemed to make the gently lapping river the perfect remedy to my condition, but at some point a friend mentioned the entirely novel to me idea of “crotch rot” that has honestly unlocked new fears.
I won’t fill up this whole notebook, because I do have some shred of humanity–enough to not let you suffer so, just because you’re a captive audience.
I love you, Jean. And respect you and admire you so much that if you ever actually receive this, you’ll have broken me free from an up-until-now completely impossible rut of “almost.”
Actually, you’ve already inspired magic in me, like you do in almost everyone you encounter.
I sat down and wrote with a true purpose for the first time I have in ages.
Thank you for that.
I hope you do something fun with the rest of this notebook, because, as with cards, I’m quite terrible with the granite that is ink and a piece of paper.
There is such a vulnerability to letter writing–most notably my handwriting, and the lack of a backspace button being a terribly close second.
I apologize for any illegibility because goodness knows, once I get going, I’m using a fair bit of guess work on the re-read myself.
How are you feeling? As of right now, Facebook has it that you’re currently undergoing therapy somewhere that does not involve a fuzzy buddy being wrapped around your feet 24-7 and I can feel your pain.
I remember when Mom broke her ribs and I was staying with her at the hospital. By the end, one more day without Desperado was feeling pretty much unbearable. It was a really nice hospital, though. We had a really large, private room after getting out of the ICU and they let me use the shower.
So, if you ever decide to take your illness on the road, I highly recommend Inova Fairfax in Northern Virginia–I know, you can hardly contain your excitement at the thought!
How is Bruce holding up? And the dogs?
I fear the weather here is only inspiring in the gothic sense:
A gray sky, icy as the air that bites my face and hands, but lacking that soft cushion of silence that brings that little thrill in anticipation of snowflakes. Instead, it leaves you at the mercy of whatever air pocket is above as to what kind of water speck you get.
It needs some crow muttered pines and some hills sporting long grasses lain flat and a river that winds and curves among distant shores. Perfect writing weather, actually.
Personally, it brings to mind Fort Washington National Park. It’s one of my favorite places to dream in. There are a lot of underground bunkers and perfectly wonderful, dangerous drop-offs that serve as a great imaginary battleground between fae, but brings liability questions to the forefront when you see a kid running up one of the hills. Fingers crossed no one ever gets seriously hurt.
According to the placards set up at random around the park, the fort itself actually never featured any great acts of heroism–at the first sign of conflict, the soldiers said, “Screw Washington,” and immediately set the fort on fire. Repeatedly.
I suppose in the pitiful, deteriorating barracks, you could really get a good ghost story going. Though, being haunted by Dysentery Ben doesn’t quite have the same dramatic flair as some ghostly mistress of the moors: standing guard in a billowy white dress that knows many unutterable secrets–most valuable of which is how to keep whites that bright.
I imagine poor Ben to be featuring some very unfortunate stains. Honestly, it would probably make him make him a scarier spirit, though it would surely shift the poetic feel of any fireside tales passed down through the ages.
Rather than indulging in some gothic, fantastical tales, I’m instead listening to “Becker” against a background that, quite honestly, sounds very wet.
“Becker” is currently one of Mom’s comfort shows. Do you have any of those?
At the moment Mom bounces between “Becker” and “Gunsmoke” and a medley of music that Amazon picks out.
So far, our household agrees that this is our favorite role for Ted Danson. Do you have any preferences? I feel like “Cheers” is probably one of his more better known roles.
Then again, you might prefer a different genre of entertainment or perhaps an airing date within this decade.
The idea of writing to fill up this notebook seemed kind of cute–containing the words from all of the Christmas cards I bought but never sent.
I do quite a bit of “almost” things. I’ve eyed a lot of notepads with dog watermarks, except none of them were pugs. And a pack of Christmas cards that I thought MUST contain one card worthy of a Christmas card sommelier.
I wanted to regale you with tales of the outside world. I just hope you find the wonderfully mundane as entertaining, as say, going bungee jumping off the said of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and hearing a very concerning, eye-widening snap that simply isn’t supposed to be–though whether that prospect is most unlikely because of the fact that I would have to toss my jiggly, out of shape self off the side of bridge, or because that would mean dangling myself by a rubberband over the bacteria filled water of the Potomac, I can’t say.
Initially, I had thoughts of microscopic cuts in my feet and amputation anytime the sticky summer air seemed to make the gently lapping river the perfect remedy to my condition, but at some point a friend mentioned the entirely novel to me idea of “crotch rot” that has honestly unlocked new fears.
I won’t fill up this whole notebook, because I do have some shred of humanity–enough to not let you suffer so, just because you’re a captive audience.
I love you, Jean. And respect you and admire you so much that if you ever actually receive this, you’ll have broken me free from an up-until-now completely impossible rut of “almost.”
Actually, you’ve already inspired magic in me, like you do in almost everyone you encounter.
I sat down and wrote with a true purpose for the first time I have in ages.
Thank you for that.
I hope you do something fun with the rest of this notebook, because, as with cards, I’m quite terrible with the granite that is ink and a piece of paper.
Feel my hugs as always, Jean. How lucky I am to have known you. <3
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