Dear Josephine,
Although your birthday is not until November, your gift is being compiled. It has to do with the fictional place of Yoknapatawpha county -- those familial streets we've dis-assembled upon touching, dis-assembled again in remembering the burning of our soles. I intentionally did not use the phrase "familiar streets". They are more to us now than simply knowing.
Our correspondence is shifting - letters to poems to letters. Do not be alarmed. There is comfort here, in fiction, in mississippi. Rivers to be found, and all that nonsense.
I am going to drink a glass of wine and ruminate on the collection of words, on bears, on how to scavenge for newness.
For now,
laura
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Letter 29
Dear Josephine,
Have you missed me? I have no decent excuse for my absence - in honesty I rarely thought of you. Is it easier to unveil these truths through the medium of letters? Then I don't have to shift my reactions to face your mecurial moods (denying is unbecoming, you've said).
Still, in these months of suspension I'm sure, you too, have forgotten my voice, how I compile letters to make words. In the face of tragedy we learn to keep breathing, in the face of absence we learn to re-write.
To update you on my life would be a crime, too much has unfolded in this time lapse, let's make another go, forget those months, say I went on a drinking binge and have just emerged.
Instead looking ahead I can tell you I've made solid plans for my future that involve London and academia. But this plan is a year away, and doesn't need to be extrapolated for conversation. Now, I plan to enjoy the humidity that has descended upon d.c., to enjoy this summertime, to enjoy this 24th year.
And to you, I promise only disjointed phrases and truths. As much as I am capable.
always,
l.c.
Have you missed me? I have no decent excuse for my absence - in honesty I rarely thought of you. Is it easier to unveil these truths through the medium of letters? Then I don't have to shift my reactions to face your mecurial moods (denying is unbecoming, you've said).
Still, in these months of suspension I'm sure, you too, have forgotten my voice, how I compile letters to make words. In the face of tragedy we learn to keep breathing, in the face of absence we learn to re-write.
To update you on my life would be a crime, too much has unfolded in this time lapse, let's make another go, forget those months, say I went on a drinking binge and have just emerged.
Instead looking ahead I can tell you I've made solid plans for my future that involve London and academia. But this plan is a year away, and doesn't need to be extrapolated for conversation. Now, I plan to enjoy the humidity that has descended upon d.c., to enjoy this summertime, to enjoy this 24th year.
And to you, I promise only disjointed phrases and truths. As much as I am capable.
always,
l.c.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Letter 16
Dear Josephine,
How much there is to tell, and how much there is to conceal. Is there always that binary? Tell me: is it false or real? Are quotations needed, even there?
Lately there has been a fusion of days, all slow and long and fast and short, never fully characterized because I barely remember them. I know I enjoyed the contact between my pillow and my ear, but little else seemed to be of note.
Even now, when I set out to write this letter to you, I had a thousand statements I swore I’d hold steadfast to (and not bore you with constant dialogues of “reality” and disappointments with trying to be more alive. See: my body shining brightly).
To the business of letter writing [although it’s not a franchise – these feelings of mine]. Well, since work takes up 40 hours of the 112 hours I am awake, or perhaps I sleep even more than 8 hours a day, I can tell you that there is nothing new to report on that front. I am spending a decent amount of my summer traveling for work, which is frustrating because I am having trouble coordinating important one-on-one time with the people I love. I still walk to work everyday, either organizing mixed cds in my head or day-dreaming. Day-dreaming is a major component of being an INFJ. What can you do? Sometimes fantasy is more interesting than everyday life.
Lately I’ve been watching MTV’s The Paper and it’s causing me to realize I have lost my passion. Can this intangible concept actually be lost? The answer is a resounding yes. I used to breathe writing, used to advocate for a censorless world, and now I have become an automaton and have forgotten the joy of creating, forgotten to remember to hold fast to enjoyable activities. Thank you, MTV and Amanda Lorber. It’s important to never lose that drive, to never forget the importance of expression and doing something you feel you’d die if you couldn’t do it. And censoring (imagine here a judge’s gavel pounding away at art) is a devil in disguise.
Reality television makes me feel old even though twenty-three is just the start of another voyage. Tonight I don’t want to watch television or cook myself pasta. A slight rupture in my tiny universe. The cracks are beginning to show.
What did you say to me recently? “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.” So said your mentor Anais Nin, and so said you. Repetition can equal creation.
You and Anais might be right. But I think life is more than tasting and multiples, and pillows and automatic movements. I have unplayed that movement. I am claiming, not being claimed.
honestly,
l. c.
How much there is to tell, and how much there is to conceal. Is there always that binary? Tell me: is it false or real? Are quotations needed, even there?
Lately there has been a fusion of days, all slow and long and fast and short, never fully characterized because I barely remember them. I know I enjoyed the contact between my pillow and my ear, but little else seemed to be of note.
Even now, when I set out to write this letter to you, I had a thousand statements I swore I’d hold steadfast to (and not bore you with constant dialogues of “reality” and disappointments with trying to be more alive. See: my body shining brightly).
To the business of letter writing [although it’s not a franchise – these feelings of mine]. Well, since work takes up 40 hours of the 112 hours I am awake, or perhaps I sleep even more than 8 hours a day, I can tell you that there is nothing new to report on that front. I am spending a decent amount of my summer traveling for work, which is frustrating because I am having trouble coordinating important one-on-one time with the people I love. I still walk to work everyday, either organizing mixed cds in my head or day-dreaming. Day-dreaming is a major component of being an INFJ. What can you do? Sometimes fantasy is more interesting than everyday life.
Lately I’ve been watching MTV’s The Paper and it’s causing me to realize I have lost my passion. Can this intangible concept actually be lost? The answer is a resounding yes. I used to breathe writing, used to advocate for a censorless world, and now I have become an automaton and have forgotten the joy of creating, forgotten to remember to hold fast to enjoyable activities. Thank you, MTV and Amanda Lorber. It’s important to never lose that drive, to never forget the importance of expression and doing something you feel you’d die if you couldn’t do it. And censoring (imagine here a judge’s gavel pounding away at art) is a devil in disguise.
Reality television makes me feel old even though twenty-three is just the start of another voyage. Tonight I don’t want to watch television or cook myself pasta. A slight rupture in my tiny universe. The cracks are beginning to show.
What did you say to me recently? “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.” So said your mentor Anais Nin, and so said you. Repetition can equal creation.
You and Anais might be right. But I think life is more than tasting and multiples, and pillows and automatic movements. I have unplayed that movement. I am claiming, not being claimed.
honestly,
l. c.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
