Reality: We're Both So Bad At It

Dear K,

What does it matter where I live? You live in dreams all day. You have your head in the clouds, I love this about you, but you need to come down from there. When was the last time you told anyone how you really feel.

So what if I want to be across the ocean again? You want to live the bohemian life. I'm getting my degree in something useful, I'm going to make things happen for me. I've got plans and goals. I'm going to get back there.

I know you'll say that it is stupid to live for somebody else. Probably because you think I'm living for him, I'm not. It is about more than him. When I was there I was free to be what I am. They didn't know me, I was a complete mystery to everyone I met, and instead of believing that they knew who I was they took the time to understand who I could be. Maybe that's why I'm trying to get back so hard, so I can become that person I wish I was.

Affections Tainted by Past Interactions,

K

reunited but alone

Dear K-

It has been some time since I’ve heard from you. I guess I always expected that when you returned you would be more eager than ever to see me, to pick up where we had left off, have glorious adventures together and give me great inspiration to write about in my novel. What ever happened to the plans of chess games, coffee dates, and drinking beer until we couldn’t see straight? I guess when you’re an ocean away, it’s easier to make plans and promises about what will be. When it comes time to execute, you always did falter at the gates. But then again, I’ve never been the most motivated individual, either.

It is almost disappointing how much you seem to miss it. You spoke so much of how you didn’t miss this life, you didn’t miss a single soul…and yet now here you are longing for a distant coast and a time zone seven hours ahead of our own. My advice? Come back to face reality. You’re in America; there are people here who care about you just as much, if not more. You have a good life here. Are you really just going to look over all that and run off again?

You can’t keep running.

I stopped running a long time ago. I’m not saying that I’m happy, but at least I’m not as miserable as some people. You have to take what you’re given. I’m making the best of what I’ve been dealt. It’s not a royal flush, but I still have a pair of nines. Things will eventually start to turn my way if I am patient long enough.

I know you have trouble understanding that. You always feel the need to be busy every second, every hour, every day. What are you trying to distract yourself from? Are you just treading water?

It somewhat reminds me of the story of the mice in the bucket of cream…some just gave up, stopped swimming, and drowned. But one mouse kept swimming, kept struggling, and eventually churned the cream into butter and saved himself from drowning.

But I don’t think we’re mice in a bucket of cream. Wake up, face life, live.
Regards,
-K

Dear K,

I'm not sure which one I am anymore. Now that we, (I) (Us) are in K, I am a little bit confused. Am I you or am I me? With the geographical divide things were easier. I knew where you were, and you knew where I was.

Maybe things will get better though. I think we're separating in the spring again. Then we will know who is who, and why.

Maybe then we will talk more, like we used to, even when all the little things in our lives got in the way.

I wish you could be happy here.

I wish I could be happy here.

I have to go now, somewhere and someone else is calling me.

-K.

empty plates and expectant pages

Dear K-

I was happy to hear from you again. It has truly been far too long, and I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me. You are no doubt living an exciting and amazing life in Slovenia, what with Nejc and all, and surely it wouldn’t be too hard to forget about us back in the states. Just know that I hadn’t forgotten about you.

This letter is actually difficult for me to write. It isn’t that I don’t have the desire to write it, but more along the lines of that I have very little about which to write. My life lately has been like a railway timetable. It is just a serious of times and destinations, flipping rapidly to refresh once one task has been carried out. There is little adventure to it, and it is more of just a routine and progression of time. Trains come in, trains go out, and the dazs keep slipping by.

There’s that expression people commonly use, when they feel overwhlemed or overworked, where they exclaim ¨my plate is full.¨ Well, right now I am the opposite. My plate is completely bare, void of any substantial foodstuffs or tasty morsels. In fact, one could say it was like a styrofoam plate. It feels flimsy, cheap, and brittle. Patiently it sits in my hands, waiting to be loaded full. I just can’t seem to decide what to eat.

When I try to work on the novel I run into some similar complications. The first few chapters are laid out upon a tenative frame, and I believe I have some good sketches and concepts for further developing the characters. However, there is always that point in the night, deep in my work, when suddenly I cannot push any further. Everything is barren and blank, bleached and bare. The few thoughts that piddle around in my head are frail and useless.

Sometimes, when I really feel stuck, I bring out the old typewriter. Nothing makes you feel more productive than when you hear that rattling snap of the keys pounding their strokes into place. It’s the percussive soundtrack to progress and accomplishment. These days, however, I have more and more frequently found myself staring listlessly at the blank page. I thread the fresh, supple paper into the maw of the beast, pose my fingertips on the proper keys…but then I can’t bring myself to write. The page lies pure and unsullied, waiting expectantly. Minutes turn into hours and hours into days, yet still I feel the same and the page remains.

As always, I miss you. Hopefully soon I will find the ink and the inspiration to fill my pages. Until then,

--K

Some Things Are Not Allowed To See The Sun Rise.

Dear K, 

I'm in Slovenia now. My heart isn't bruised yet, but I'm bracing for the blow. Time isn't like a river you know. Only our memories are. A river is a very apt metaphor for memories. Because rivers aren't constant. They fork and branch and flow to the place of least resistance. Rivers fill in gaps where we forget details and they invent new ones, and always they flow forward. We can try and push against the current, but all we can do is look backward up the river. 

I'm homesick, I think. Or I was. I'm with Nejc. He's the person I kept nameless for so long. We're visiting his parents and friends, and all the places that make up his home. We've ridden our bikes around the city, Ljubljana. 

I feel a sort of paralysis here. The whole place is beautiful and, really the word is golden, but I can't touch or experience anything without Nejc by my side. I've never been so dependent on someone. 

To make things worse, I broke down the other night, I started crying. Crying is something I do rarely, but when I cry, I really let go. To calm me down Nejc picked up an english copy of Cat's Cradle and started reading it to me. At first, through the tears, I thought it was ridiculous, and I had to help with a few hard pronunciations. By chapter seven I was no longer crying. Instead, I was listening to his voice, listening to him form the words, like his voice was climbing over slick boulders on a riverbank. The struggle over unfamiliar shapes just to reach me is what brought me out of my tears. 

The next night we had nothing to do so he made tiramisu. As he handed me an oversized fork he explained the rule of tiramisu. "It is such an ephemeral dish" he said, "that it cannot be allowed to see the sun rise." So we ate, we distracted ourselves with talking and watching familiar things. I started eating with hunger, I ate to fill myself, fill the emptiness in my stomach, but soon I started to savor the dessert. We talked and talked, about nothing and everything, we talked just to hear each other's voices, and then we would fall silent just to listen to the other person's silence. 

When we were about halfway done I realized I never wanted the dessert, or the night, or Nejc and I to end. I wanted to be with him at the worn wooden table eating tiramisu forever. 

But some things are not allowed to see the sun rise. 

Hoping the world will stop for a just a little while, 

K. 

the sky above, the field below

Dear K-

I guess you could say I wasn’t too surprised about the lapse in letters. At first I felt a little forgotten and left out, but then I remembered you never were consistent with correspondence. I suppose I should be grateful that we’ve made it this far. Let’s talk in person sometime soon. Of course, that requires one of us to cross an ocean. So…you should start swimming.

As for commencement, I didn’t walk. I guess I didn’t really see a point to it. Sure, perhaps my friends and family would have liked to witness that hollow exhibition, to feel some sort of closure to this period in my life. I’m not really ready to draw the curtains; I don’t see the need to separate this portion of my life from the rest of it. Maybe it’s supposed to give the idea that my wild student days are over, and it’s time for me to focus on melting into the working class. My flame is just burning a little slowly, and I’m not quite ready to melt yet. Plus, how boring would it be to sit through watching my whole class walk across that lousy, multi-million dollar mess of a football field? Not my scene.

The days have been getting warmer, and I’ve been swimming through life as if time truly was a river, like they often say in that pathetic metaphor. I know you like running, and how it clears your mind and brings you peace, but I have my different methods. When the wind picks up, I walk the streets with my arms held high, feeling the breeze slip over my body and ruffling my clothes and hair. It’s like I’m conducting a natural symphony. With the flick of my wrist the tree leaves will shiver green and silver. I will pull the crescendo, starting from my waist and lifting my palm to the heavens, hearing the roar of the passing cars growl louder. Their staccato honks are beautiful improvisations on their part, although I do have some control over their frequency. The closer I walk to the center of the street, the more energetic and frantic their vocalizations become.

I hope you’re still doing well over there. Are you still going to Slovenia this week? Hopefully you’ll still find the time to send me letters…and hopefully you won’t end up with a bruised heart or a slit throat.

Take care of yourself.
-K

Fresh Drywall

Dear K, 

I will make no apologies for my gender. It isn't that I empathize with your situation. I do, I have abandoned any sort of need to defend or promote girls, or boys for that matter. 

We need to talk more. I have no clue what's going on in your life.

How was graduation weekend? I heard John Aschcroft spoke. Did you go? 

I would say that I wouldn't go, but I probably would. The reason I'd say I wouldn't attend isn't because of John Ashcroft, but really that I don't think I'd care. In the end I would go to please my friends and family, but that whole robe and gown thing doesn't mean that much to me. Right now I think I can say that I won't attend commencement, because right now I'm in a world without the friends and family who would want me to walk. 

It feels a little like being in a freshly dry-walled room. 

More Later, 

K. 

i'm sure they have pretty little mouths beneath all the foaming

Dear K-

I hate your sex. Look, I’m sorry if that comes off as harsh, but you really shouldn’t be that surprised. Women deserve it. Seriously.

I’m sorry you have to get lumped into this category; it really is quite unfortunate. You, at least, tend to show some redeeming qualities every so often. Why can’t you get the rest of your clan shaped up? Is it really necessary to play such frivolous games? I wonder what satisfaction comes with the process of building up a guy for an entire night or a few days, only to crush his heart with your stiletto heel and a cool catchphrase of “I just want to be friends.” It is as if a girl has some magical ability to morph herself into exactly what you want to see at that point in time, to say just the right things and hint at precisely the right matters. She’s your soul mate for the night. But come second date- she’s tired of that illusion and is wanting to progress on to another one. Why? What’s so wrong with being compatible? Aren’t we designed, as humans, to seek out a proper match for ourselves, to find someone to “grow old with”? If that’s the case, tell your sex that they are screwing everything way the hell up. Write them a memo, send a mass email forward, I don’t care. Just get the word out there.

There are some good guys out there, and though they do enjoy the warm and fuzzy compliment of your flirtation, they desire to prolong the emotion and tap into a more committed and devoted schedule of love.

I could never run like you do, but I still pull out the bike now and then. It just feels good to get out there on the pavement, pumping your legs until they burn so badly you’re afraid to even dismount the bike for fear of your appendages simply melting. Where I go never really matters. I just have to feel that churning rhythm of the pedals, the click on the spokes, the sweaty leather grips of the handlebars. When the wind hits my face sometimes it stings so badly my eyes water. Then the world is transformed into a blissfully beautiful blur of colors and light. It’s like I’m suddenly in a movie where the director has a strong preference for soft focus…and we all know how much more beautiful everything looks in soft focus. You lose the flaws. They just melt away.

But it’s those flaws that I miss. I have to have those individual qualities to find beauty in anything. Take them away, and I’m a bored fellow. I can flip through a magazine and see all the masterfully made up, airbrushed super model plastic faces, but none of them can compare to the earnest smile of a cute girl at a party, making eyes from across the beer pong table. It’s those little nuances and features that catch me, have me begging for more.

Maybe that’s the reason your sex is so flawed. They know that I couldn’t bear it if it was the other way around.

But still, God damn it.

Treading,
-K

The Sun Burns Away Our Days

Dear K, 

How long can I run? The answer is more miles than you'd believe, but I know you don't live in a physical world. Every morning I get up and go for a run through these sleepily intimate streets. Before the sun burns away the morning chill, I run past houses. I run past apartments. I run past people waking up to their lives. They wake up and I imagine they embrace their day, happy with what they've got. This morning I ran past a house where a little girl was eating breakfast. We caught each other's eyes for less than a second. In that moment I imagined a life for her. She was secure, safe in a world where nothing was wrong. She didn't need to search for a reason as to why she ate her porridge with her left hand. The answer to why she wore her hair in a ponytail was clear. Life made sense for her, and it always would. How long can I run?

I'm glad you don't care about Sam. Well, you do, but you're not worried about him. You shouldn't worry about yourself. Even if you do when you're alone with those unwritten books swirling around you, you shouldn't. You'll get them written. 

For myself, I don't know what the future holds. I'm jealous that you don't seem to care about it. How can you hold yourself against that flood of possibilities and potential failure. What if we find out that this meant nothing? 

In my last letter I said I wasn't religious. That wasn't exactly true. I meant in the American sense, I don't really go to a specific church anymore. When someone tells me that I have to be a baptist or a catholic to make through death, well I disagree. There's something up there, probably. 

Sunny days have come more and more often here. We're moving into summer. The humidity is different here. Sometimes I miss the way the air presses itself against your skin in Missouri. It is like God, or something, is embracing you. Promise me when I finally return, I don't know when, that you'll give me a hug. You know you're one of the only people I trust to lift me off the ground. 

Now that I've fallen into a routine my days move past me quicker and quicker. I'm trying to hold them back. I'm trying to make a temporal dam against the future, but I know I'll have to come back. Will reality wait for me? I don't know if I'll be able to gain a foothold. 

In the mornings I run before the heat touches the city. I run past houses and cars. People wake to the sound of my feet, hitting the pavement with a steady rhythm. 

How long can I run? 

-K

day is done

Dear K-

It’s 4 am again, and I find myself hunched over the desk, scribbling like a maniac. I can hear Sam’s snoring in the other room…he’s going to move on in a few months and do something worthwhile with his life. Maybe that’s why he’s able to sleep so easily: he has identified his purpose and is taking the steps to engage in a productive life. What have I got? A bottle of Jack and a stack of blank papers. Perhaps this is why I’m never sleeping at this hour…that or the fact that this chair makes the worst bed you could ever imagine.

It has gotten to the point where it doesn’t matter what I am writing about, just so long as I am writing. When I feel the words flow out of me, scrambling into sentences and paragraphs, I feel like some sort of supreme shepherd. As the last period punches into place, there is that moment of satisfaction…that beautiful sigh of feeling productive. It only lasts an instant, though. By now I’ve written so much that I’ve developed a tolerance to the sensation, and I have to write more and more each time in order to experience the same feeling. Sometimes the reaction is the opposite, and I get so frustrated with everything that I tear the papers in half, then spend two hours staring at a fresh sheet. Thank God for technology; within the last year I’ve probably saved at least two hundred dollars on paper, not to mention I’ve killed significantly less trees. Don’t worry, however. I’ll consume plenty of other resources in order to make up for this lack.

Honestly, I can’t see the future in it all, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. Humans really shouldn’t focus so much on what will be, but rather strive to endure the present. Sam may think he’s got it all figured out, so that he can rest easy at night. He’s submitted to the ideas presented by society, and he’s content to play that role. Sam really is a good guy, though, and I think he’ll be great at whatever it is he believes is his life’s goal. I, however, am keen to keep progressing as I am, rolling out the endless pages of scattered thoughts and crawling frantically after that brief high of satisfaction that accompanies each completed work.

How long I can keep at this before my health abandons me, however, I am not sure.

As long as you're still out there looking, trying to find something...anything...then I won't say a word. It is when you stop searching that I'll become frightened. You can wander through those misty nights and blissfully sunny afternoons, but as you sleep I bet you return to America, whether you want to or not. How long can you run from that?

Waiting,
-K

Identify Me, I can't Identify (A Departure)

Dear K, 

I don't even know how you got me to write you. I hate my writing, and I'm tired of you being so modest. I can never commit to it. Commit isn't the right word. I should say I don't believe in it enough, maybe. I believe enough in my writing to show it to myself and write it in the first place, but past that it gets a little hazy. How do you put yourself out there? 

Speaking of that: Why are you doing that to yourself again? Just stop, she's not worth it, they rarely ever are. I'd tell you again, there's someone out there for you, but I know you don't want to hear it. Maybe something will change. 

I keep waiting for something to change. There has to be some sort of sign, even though I'm not really religious, not by any stretch of the imagination. Someday. 

I keep waiting for that sign though. I stare out of windows: on the bus, on the subway, on the train, in cars, everywhere. I stare out of windows and look for my reflection in the world. 

It was sunny today. Here in Brno when the sun comes shining through- in the spring- you get to sit out on the grassy hills that surround old statues. If you pick the right hill and the right spot you can see the whole city, all of it. You can see the busses, and trucks. On clear days I imagine I can see into the windows of buildings, and into the lives of these people. I know you're tired of me saying this, but I don't want to come back. 

Some nights a deep mist descends on the city. When this happens I feel like I'm walking through a fairy tale, but nobody has to rescue me, or they already have. On those nights I go out walking with the slovenian. I'm not going to tell you his name again, you won't ever meet him in person, so what's the point? 

What I'm trying to get at, maybe, is that back in America, back in the midwest, I was never fascinated like I am here. The life here, is what I love. The books, the philosophy, every morsel, I love it all. Even, and by that I mean especially, the language, when some one falls in love with a language they've fallen in love with a place. This might be that sign I stared out so many windows for. 

Walking in the mists, 

Staring out of the windows, 

Seeing clearly now,

K 

all, or nothing at all

Dear K-

Your letter found its way into my postbox about six days ago, and I haven’t been able to set myself to its response until now. Of course I’ve been writing…it has kept me up well into the early hours of the morning, when the birds are just beginning to sing in their sleep. I’ve written pages upon pages about absolutely nothing at all, and yet I still couldn’t put the pen to the paper and find the words to respond to you. It isn’t the first time I have suffered with the inability to communicate.

I went out last night to try to socialize. I suppose I should be celebrating the commencement of my studies, anyhow. It was one of those house parties where I had to consume five beers before even entering to have any hopes of enjoying myself. And so the night was long…and fueled by liquid courage I tried to talk to her again. I know in our last correspondence you told me to forget about her, that she was not good enough for me. Is that really what you were trying to say? It’d be more accurate to say she was out of my league, and that I should focus on something that suited me better. But what can I say? I am a reasonably charming guy capable of interesting conversation; I’m cuddly and sensitive…I would give her the world. You know I would. Anything she could want, I’d try my best to facilitate. But then perhaps it wouldn’t be love…I would be simply a coordinator to her whims. But I would still subject myself to this, if she would only reward me every so often with the affection and care of a gentle young lover.

You need to come back. Everyone here agrees. Don’t think these letters are going to act as some sort of compromise…I know you have your reasons for wanting to stay, but don’t be so goddamn selfish.

Write me again.
-K

Will You Pay This Czech?

Dear K, 

I haven't heard from you in several weeks, but that's alright. Don't get the impression that I don't care, I certainly do. It is just that, well... there is a veil between us. It feels like we're writing between centuries, not to mention the continents. Just think of all those atoms and molecules blocking our thoughts from ever reaching one another. 

I've been writing. The theme is the same. I'm worried about beating it to death. I can't help it though. In the same way the man who sells pastries on the corner gives me the same look as he hands me the same pastry every morning, I write about the same things. All of my Czech friends, even the slovenian ones, joke about things that used to make me cry. I laugh with them, now.

Last week, in the shower, I noticed my toe had healed. Don't you think that it is a little too early for that? The Slovenian kissed it last night. Maybe that has something to do with it. I had to hold on to him. In his sleep he cries and moans for nameless foreign things or persons from his childhood. I can't do anything. He is trapped beneath me, weighed down by my inability to connect. 

Stop asking when I'm coming back. Now that we're writing again, it shouldn't take too long. Maybe in the next one I'll give you some news. I hope you can take it. 

Distance, 

K