Dear Josephine,
It appears Neko Case has peered into my soul. Walking to work, her lyrics flash through my mind: "Thought I was young, now I've freezing hands and bloodless viens, as numb as I've become, I'm so tired."
The above quotation, coupled with the first stanza of Stephen Dunn's poem "A Chance for the Soul" accurately reflects how I've been feeling:
"Am I leading the life that my soul,
Mortal or not, wants me to lead is a question
That seems at least as meaningful as the question
Am I leading the life I want to live
Given the vagueness of the pronoun "I,"
The number of things it wants at any moment."
I've been trying to define my lack of motivation, coming up only with the words "disheartened" and "disillusioned", which serve a dramatic purpose but do not apply to the cloud that seems to have positioned itself in front of my body. Look, mother, an automaton. Look mother, albaster and mutilated statues.
Now, thanks to Neko Case and S. Dunn, I've managed to explain this fever as a blinding numbness I'm both striving to analyze and reveal. There is no concealing this unhappiness, the door began to crack upon entering, splinters wait for bare heels. No, do not fetch more wood, I have no need for pilings. No, do not mend this door with spackle and sweat, the scars are there for the seeing.
Only: decide what one is doing. Life is always a staying and a going.
l.c.
p.s. Sometimes I pray for tears.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Letter 21
Dear Josephine,
In that age-old phrase about bridges, I find that I've always focused on the latter clause about burning, and disregarded the former clause about crossing. Additionally, when I have approached the saying from both angles, I've applied the "crossing" to my "public" life (which I'm defining as job, school, apartment; basically the components that present myself to others) and the "burning" to my "private" life (which I'm defining as my personal thoughts, my relationships with others, etc. - the components that take longer to reveal). I realize my qualification of this statement renders supposedly different spheres of my life as contingent on two opposing actions: moving forward, and moving away. How, then, is it that my personal life tends to take leaps, and my private life tends to retreat?
Even while I pose this question, I do not find it surprising. I find safety in independence, on living for myself rather than living for myself and another. I wonder, though, if I'm losing something in maintaining that type of freedom. Funny, I've always embraced tennis as my favorite sport to watch. I wonder if it's because on that court love means zero, means having nothing, means making one's way from the bottom to a concrete "match point" -- as if "love" never meant anything other than trying to obtain a point for one's self, or for the sake of the game.
lcs
In that age-old phrase about bridges, I find that I've always focused on the latter clause about burning, and disregarded the former clause about crossing. Additionally, when I have approached the saying from both angles, I've applied the "crossing" to my "public" life (which I'm defining as job, school, apartment; basically the components that present myself to others) and the "burning" to my "private" life (which I'm defining as my personal thoughts, my relationships with others, etc. - the components that take longer to reveal). I realize my qualification of this statement renders supposedly different spheres of my life as contingent on two opposing actions: moving forward, and moving away. How, then, is it that my personal life tends to take leaps, and my private life tends to retreat?
Even while I pose this question, I do not find it surprising. I find safety in independence, on living for myself rather than living for myself and another. I wonder, though, if I'm losing something in maintaining that type of freedom. Funny, I've always embraced tennis as my favorite sport to watch. I wonder if it's because on that court love means zero, means having nothing, means making one's way from the bottom to a concrete "match point" -- as if "love" never meant anything other than trying to obtain a point for one's self, or for the sake of the game.
lcs
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Letter 19
Dear Josephine,
I was unable to decipher your voicemail message from the chatter in the background, or perhaps the disapproval I heard edging into your voice, and voted against returning your call. Please accept this letter as my sincerest apologies in not writing to you for nearly two months.
I've been to Ohio to D.C. and back again, and am happy to finally be home for one week as I've missed my bed and that element of stability (shocking I know). Lately life has been very stressful at work and at home, and I'm trying to go day-by-day, which is proving to be easier than I thought. I pegged myself a planner as I've been writing "to do" lists since the age of 5, but I think I've mellowed in the recent months.
I've stopped my frantic search for rusty terrains and have devoted myself to groundings and morning walks and d.c. humidity. I'm sure the terrains will once again dominate my dreams, but for now I am content to walk this same path. Everything looks better and its only been a year since this journey has begun. How can so much change in 12 months?
I won an award at work and really want to splurge on this cute dress:
(see the july 23 post)
Instead I'm putting it towards my credit card bill, which appears to refuse to remotely topple. It's frustrating.
I like this advice: "Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.”
I really want to tell you more but I am exhausted and need to sleep. Tomorrow has promises for being a long day.
Love to you,
l.c.
I was unable to decipher your voicemail message from the chatter in the background, or perhaps the disapproval I heard edging into your voice, and voted against returning your call. Please accept this letter as my sincerest apologies in not writing to you for nearly two months.
I've been to Ohio to D.C. and back again, and am happy to finally be home for one week as I've missed my bed and that element of stability (shocking I know). Lately life has been very stressful at work and at home, and I'm trying to go day-by-day, which is proving to be easier than I thought. I pegged myself a planner as I've been writing "to do" lists since the age of 5, but I think I've mellowed in the recent months.
I've stopped my frantic search for rusty terrains and have devoted myself to groundings and morning walks and d.c. humidity. I'm sure the terrains will once again dominate my dreams, but for now I am content to walk this same path. Everything looks better and its only been a year since this journey has begun. How can so much change in 12 months?
I won an award at work and really want to splurge on this cute dress:
(see the july 23 post)
Instead I'm putting it towards my credit card bill, which appears to refuse to remotely topple. It's frustrating.
I like this advice: "Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.”
I really want to tell you more but I am exhausted and need to sleep. Tomorrow has promises for being a long day.
Love to you,
l.c.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Letter 18
Dear Josephine,
I’ve been fantasizing about my future: owning and furnishing my apartment, drinking red wine while relaxing on my patio, and running outside with my dog. I have spent the past twenty minutes trying to decide whether I would like my future companion to be a German Shorthaired Pointer or a Hungarian Viszla. Clearly if this is the biggest decision I’m contemplating, my life is pretty good right now.
I’m going to Lollapolooza this summer and visiting Jess. I am unbelievably excited. Tonight I am buying my ticket – I’ve already placed the dates on my Outlook calendar, with green text boxes and reminders to help me deal with the wait. This summer is not going to be easy to hold as all of my weekends are sandwiched between flights to Columbus, travels to the beach, or days spent relaxing in PA.
I’m dreading the return of Fall, when my moods are dictated by the weather, when I have to make grander decisions and stop skimming streets due to comfort. For now I am focusing on the d.c. humidity and my current happiness. There isn’t any uncertainty here, only a newfound appreciation for waiting and an enjoyment of my surroundings. My goals are small: pay off/cancel credit card, meet savings goal by August, appreciate my 23rd summer.
And for now, that is enough.
Peace,
l.c.
I’ve been fantasizing about my future: owning and furnishing my apartment, drinking red wine while relaxing on my patio, and running outside with my dog. I have spent the past twenty minutes trying to decide whether I would like my future companion to be a German Shorthaired Pointer or a Hungarian Viszla. Clearly if this is the biggest decision I’m contemplating, my life is pretty good right now.
I’m going to Lollapolooza this summer and visiting Jess. I am unbelievably excited. Tonight I am buying my ticket – I’ve already placed the dates on my Outlook calendar, with green text boxes and reminders to help me deal with the wait. This summer is not going to be easy to hold as all of my weekends are sandwiched between flights to Columbus, travels to the beach, or days spent relaxing in PA.
I’m dreading the return of Fall, when my moods are dictated by the weather, when I have to make grander decisions and stop skimming streets due to comfort. For now I am focusing on the d.c. humidity and my current happiness. There isn’t any uncertainty here, only a newfound appreciation for waiting and an enjoyment of my surroundings. My goals are small: pay off/cancel credit card, meet savings goal by August, appreciate my 23rd summer.
And for now, that is enough.
Peace,
l.c.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Letter 17
Dear Josephine,
There are eternities between spaces. That is my excuse for not writing you sooner; I became lost and found again, an object brought in to discuss during show and tell, although there was all show and no tell.
I am seriously considering a career in educational assessment/testing, and find this both humorous and depressing (in that my life is being carved out at such a young age). I dream of Grecian shores and western mountains. These will be part of the carving, at some point. I think life means learning patience.
How many vague statements can I write to you; will you interpret them as thinly veiled bull-shit or abstractions of truth?
I've finished On the Road and it struck me to be about understanding people's faults and recognizing their beauty and importance in one's life and appreciating everything - in the ramblings was America, in a form rarely seen yet seen everyday.
Take me on a road trip, Josephine. Let's wander down the southern coast and lose ourselves in Texas. We can pretend we've been abandoned by circumstances and intended mistakes, frequent dinners and converse with strangers. I'm packing an atlas and a handful of dresses, I suggest you bring water bottles and suntan lotion. Summer is here, and her heat makes fools of us all.
yours,
l.c.s.
There are eternities between spaces. That is my excuse for not writing you sooner; I became lost and found again, an object brought in to discuss during show and tell, although there was all show and no tell.
I am seriously considering a career in educational assessment/testing, and find this both humorous and depressing (in that my life is being carved out at such a young age). I dream of Grecian shores and western mountains. These will be part of the carving, at some point. I think life means learning patience.
How many vague statements can I write to you; will you interpret them as thinly veiled bull-shit or abstractions of truth?
I've finished On the Road and it struck me to be about understanding people's faults and recognizing their beauty and importance in one's life and appreciating everything - in the ramblings was America, in a form rarely seen yet seen everyday.
Take me on a road trip, Josephine. Let's wander down the southern coast and lose ourselves in Texas. We can pretend we've been abandoned by circumstances and intended mistakes, frequent dinners and converse with strangers. I'm packing an atlas and a handful of dresses, I suggest you bring water bottles and suntan lotion. Summer is here, and her heat makes fools of us all.
yours,
l.c.s.
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.
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