Letter 20

Dear Josephine,

You are right, stories are never simply stories. Even definition #6: "a narration of the events in the life of a person or the existence of a thing, or such events as a subject for narration."

Walking in this city and perusing my computer I see stories everywhere. In the slogans we display, the articles we read, to the plaques that explain why a building was constructed. In this letter is a story, both fabricated and true. Listen, my skirt is woven by stories. Sometimes I wonder if everyone has a fictional narrative they cling to in times of boredom or duress. I dream of a faceless lover who breaks down all my barriers through both patience and aggressiveness. Those words are not antonyms. And here my fantasy tells you more about me, about this construction of walls and facades that dominate a segment of my subconscious.

Sometimes I quote Anne Sexton in my head, saying "Kind Sir: This is an old game that we played when we were eight and ten" [pause -- for I prefer beginnings and ends], "Still, I search these woods and find nothing worse than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns." I find that I enjoy this concept of finding one's self, as if it is lost, as if it can be found. Still I prefer the concept of difference, of self-perception, a revelation in Sexton's lines:

"I promise to love more if they come,
because in spite of cruelty
and the stuffed railroad cars for the ovens,
I am not what I expected. Not an Eichmann.
The poison just didn't take.
So I won't hang around in my hospital shift,
repeating The Black Mass and all of it.
I say Live, Live because of the sun,
the dream, the excitable gift."

Illumination.

yours,

l.c.