Dear Josephine,
Last night I dreamed I lived in France and met young men and women who understood me in glances, who dreamed too, and when I woke up reality was muted and boring.
I live in a constant circle of happiness and boredom and depression. This city dislikes me and I it, and right now I have a fever and the potential for strep throat and willingness for change.
Leave the bourbon at the store. I have no use for pleasantries or goodness or binges. For now, I'm revising texts and commissioning my future.
I think I'm ready for those dusty evenings. I think I'm ready to drive for hours and speak in riddles.
It's time for action.
l.c.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Letter 27
Dear Josephine,
We are both in places labeled "Washington" on an map of the United States. Are you considering extending your travels to British Columbia? Yesterday I traced a line from the heart of the district to "Santo Domingo", romanticizing the journey (the paper map, my sandy fingertip).
Here, though, my life has contained bottling, leakage. Yesterday I cried three times over feelings of frustration, and inadequacy, and a sense of worth. I'm rarely emotional in seeing, in eyes that scratch.
I am stripping myself of this constant sadness. I am approaching life through numbers. It's no surprise my decision-making hinges on the pull of rationale and emotions, of being two tabs more an "F" than a "T".
My father called me recently and we talked. I wanted to say, "I miss the summer afternoons when you picked me up from camp and tennis practice, and we chewed neon bubblegum and listened to smokey robinson's testimonials ['outside, i'm masquerading. inside, my hope is fading.']." Father, I'm a marauder of concepts. Here, my loot is in these palms (outstretched). Look closely; can you see the gold dust?
And George was right:
"And as I think back over so many years
Love that's filled my ears
I got to thank you lord for giving us pure smokey
And anyone who hears - hears that voice so free
He really got a hold on me
And I thank you all for giving to us smokey - smokey."
And I guess this letter is a tribute to you -- how you shuffled across the stage, offered palms to women who didn't keep still; how I, sixteen and sparkling, shuffled too: "And oh, why do you wanna make me blue? After all, I've been good to you."
boy, i've been good to you.
l.c.
We are both in places labeled "Washington" on an map of the United States. Are you considering extending your travels to British Columbia? Yesterday I traced a line from the heart of the district to "Santo Domingo", romanticizing the journey (the paper map, my sandy fingertip).
Here, though, my life has contained bottling, leakage. Yesterday I cried three times over feelings of frustration, and inadequacy, and a sense of worth. I'm rarely emotional in seeing, in eyes that scratch.
I am stripping myself of this constant sadness. I am approaching life through numbers. It's no surprise my decision-making hinges on the pull of rationale and emotions, of being two tabs more an "F" than a "T".
My father called me recently and we talked. I wanted to say, "I miss the summer afternoons when you picked me up from camp and tennis practice, and we chewed neon bubblegum and listened to smokey robinson's testimonials ['outside, i'm masquerading. inside, my hope is fading.']." Father, I'm a marauder of concepts. Here, my loot is in these palms (outstretched). Look closely; can you see the gold dust?
And George was right:
"And as I think back over so many years
Love that's filled my ears
I got to thank you lord for giving us pure smokey
And anyone who hears - hears that voice so free
He really got a hold on me
And I thank you all for giving to us smokey - smokey."
And I guess this letter is a tribute to you -- how you shuffled across the stage, offered palms to women who didn't keep still; how I, sixteen and sparkling, shuffled too: "And oh, why do you wanna make me blue? After all, I've been good to you."
boy, i've been good to you.
l.c.
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