Dear K-
Days drift in and out and still not a single breath from you. I imagine you are busy and happy, because I like to think of you that way. I see you in an eternal loop in which you chuckle, eyes sparkling behind thick black eyeglass frames, mustache twitching over a lip curled into a grin. In your hand is a glass of whiskey, a rich amber color and sloshing thick like syrup, leaving sticky wet veins running down the edges of your glass. You’ve finished your novel. You’ve finished a marathon. You’ve finished your latest project at work and have been promoted on to the next level of task completion. In my mind you are feeling content to sit outside at night and smoke a cigarette, your voice lingering beneath the stars as you discuss music, as you discuss philosophy, as you discuss absolutely nothing at all. You’re just happy to be there and happy to be alive.
Since I am not provided with an alternative, this is how I chose to see you now in your lull of correspondence. It would explain your silence- if you are feeling up and productive than you have no use of me, your outlet for loneliness. It is a more pleasant thought than to think you’ve forgotten about me completely, or worse- that you’ve sunk into such depths of despair that not even my fragile words can reach you.
Hope all is well,
-K
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
sets of keys
dear k-
it’s been weeks. I begin to wonder where you are, what you’re doing, if your heart’s still beating…have we just been lumbering freight trains, passing unnoticed in the night as we carry our respective loads?
I started school again. the summer tapered to a beautiful end as I slid back into my routine of early mornings and book-laden afternoons. so far I have been keeping pace and still managing to find time for the things I enjoy. the rains came and brought back the green that had lacked through the dusty months of june and july, but it also brought a heaviness to the air. its that miserable humidity that I abhor but you seem to hold a strange predilection for. every time I feel its oppressive embrace I think of how much you’d be enjoying that stifling environmental hug.
which brings me back to you.
you you you.
where have you been?
adrift,
-k
it’s been weeks. I begin to wonder where you are, what you’re doing, if your heart’s still beating…have we just been lumbering freight trains, passing unnoticed in the night as we carry our respective loads?
I started school again. the summer tapered to a beautiful end as I slid back into my routine of early mornings and book-laden afternoons. so far I have been keeping pace and still managing to find time for the things I enjoy. the rains came and brought back the green that had lacked through the dusty months of june and july, but it also brought a heaviness to the air. its that miserable humidity that I abhor but you seem to hold a strange predilection for. every time I feel its oppressive embrace I think of how much you’d be enjoying that stifling environmental hug.
which brings me back to you.
you you you.
where have you been?
adrift,
-k
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
čekam
Dear K-
I disappeared for a while. We both seem to do that, from time to time. Occasionally I have to drift into the shadows and lie there, very still, until I begin to sense the slow rotation of the earth beneath me and I can come to terms with the passing of each day. Once I find the rhythm then I can come to my feet again. I apologize for my lack of correspondence. I apologize for not picking up the phone.
Everything has been well here, but the ending of summer has me anxious again. I fear what the autumn may bring (or, more appropriately, what it may send away). I will miss my spare hours. I worry that his love for me will fade when the textbooks drain the color from my cheeks. The leaves here are already dead and crinkled on the ground. What does that leave for October?
I spent the evening alone in my apartment. Sat at the dining room table and had an argument with myself in regards to my eating and drinking habits. I never win in these arguments. I hope your writing is going well. Have you found a publisher or some sort of outlet? You always chided me for storing all my work in the desk drawer, out of public eye. Don’t tell me you’ve gone and become a hypocrite now.
Soon I will be distracted again by disease and disorder. I hope you will understand and be patient with me.
Faded,
-K
I disappeared for a while. We both seem to do that, from time to time. Occasionally I have to drift into the shadows and lie there, very still, until I begin to sense the slow rotation of the earth beneath me and I can come to terms with the passing of each day. Once I find the rhythm then I can come to my feet again. I apologize for my lack of correspondence. I apologize for not picking up the phone.
Everything has been well here, but the ending of summer has me anxious again. I fear what the autumn may bring (or, more appropriately, what it may send away). I will miss my spare hours. I worry that his love for me will fade when the textbooks drain the color from my cheeks. The leaves here are already dead and crinkled on the ground. What does that leave for October?
I spent the evening alone in my apartment. Sat at the dining room table and had an argument with myself in regards to my eating and drinking habits. I never win in these arguments. I hope your writing is going well. Have you found a publisher or some sort of outlet? You always chided me for storing all my work in the desk drawer, out of public eye. Don’t tell me you’ve gone and become a hypocrite now.
Soon I will be distracted again by disease and disorder. I hope you will understand and be patient with me.
Faded,
-K
Monday, July 30, 2012
Ah Me
Dear K,
I have been absent. I have done nothing. Well that's not true. I have written so much more in my novel. I have said hello and farewell to long distant friends. I have filled my days with clouds and smoke and drink and songs and poems and endless solitude.
I am comfortable in my solitude. I wear it well. My solitude is a comfortable suit. Neither too thin or thick. It breaths in summer and holds close in winter. Perhaps I wear it so well because I am loved by so many, and by many not in the way that I would chose. But as you well know nobody can chose who and how they love.
I think a large answer to my problems is that I need to publish some of my work. Some of my short stories, not the ones in that terrible little green book, are ripe for publishing. I merely need to blow some dust off of them and send them in, and then in my fantasies I bask in adulation. A career is launched, where I spend my days riding a bicycle up and down the banks of the Mississippi River, gathering stories.
Today I heard a story about a friends mother. She was wild in her youth, and would steal away in the middle of the night to smoke cigarettes. She and her girlfriends would go to the roofs of tall buildings and spit off them. Once on ludicrous youthful excursion this woman, then a girl, snuck onto a neighbors farm and grabbed a watermelon. The farmer shot a round of buckshot at her, shattering the melon, and forever embedding a small piece of metal in her face. The buckshot remains there to this day, I'm told at the top of her cheek, just below her right eye, and you can poke at it, and she will laugh and tell you other stories about dark summer nights.
I hope all is well.
We should perhaps talk on the phone soon.
Regards,
K
I have been absent. I have done nothing. Well that's not true. I have written so much more in my novel. I have said hello and farewell to long distant friends. I have filled my days with clouds and smoke and drink and songs and poems and endless solitude.
I am comfortable in my solitude. I wear it well. My solitude is a comfortable suit. Neither too thin or thick. It breaths in summer and holds close in winter. Perhaps I wear it so well because I am loved by so many, and by many not in the way that I would chose. But as you well know nobody can chose who and how they love.
I think a large answer to my problems is that I need to publish some of my work. Some of my short stories, not the ones in that terrible little green book, are ripe for publishing. I merely need to blow some dust off of them and send them in, and then in my fantasies I bask in adulation. A career is launched, where I spend my days riding a bicycle up and down the banks of the Mississippi River, gathering stories.
Today I heard a story about a friends mother. She was wild in her youth, and would steal away in the middle of the night to smoke cigarettes. She and her girlfriends would go to the roofs of tall buildings and spit off them. Once on ludicrous youthful excursion this woman, then a girl, snuck onto a neighbors farm and grabbed a watermelon. The farmer shot a round of buckshot at her, shattering the melon, and forever embedding a small piece of metal in her face. The buckshot remains there to this day, I'm told at the top of her cheek, just below her right eye, and you can poke at it, and she will laugh and tell you other stories about dark summer nights.
I hope all is well.
We should perhaps talk on the phone soon.
Regards,
K
Friday, July 13, 2012
nisam mislio na to
Dear K-
You know I have been in those trenches. You know I have held the burden of loneliness and spent days, weeks, years trying to avoid the very real possibility that people like you and I might just be destined to be alone. We aren’t like those “people”. We’re our own sort. We can’t go to bars and pick up dates because our hard drives have not been formatted to function in such a process. I tried one time and came pretty close: I was lonely and lacking self-respect so I went out to the bars and found a reasonable guy who seemed friendly enough and willing to engage in conversation and dancing. Towards the end of the evening, I could tell he was the other type of “people”. He leaned in close and whispered terrible things in my ear as I swayed back and forth between his hands in a drunken rhythm to the pop music blaring throughout the bar.
I thought to myself that I could be “people”, that this is what society told us was how people met and interacted in the dim hours of the evening. At that moment I wanted to be “people”, and I submitted to his advances and let him kiss me on the lips. All in all, it probably lasted about a minute. When his lips touched mine all I could taste was emptiness. It felt bitter and cold and it terrified me. I pulled away and excused myself, stumbling away awkwardly across the dance floor. I left immediately and drove home. The rest of the night was spent in agony; I felt cheap and ashamed of how I had acted, but also still struggling with the horrible acknowledgement that I may remain alone.
Since I have been there, perhaps am still there some days, I’d like to think I can relate to what you are going through. That being said, I know the last thing you want to hear at this point is all the standard drivel and stock phrases that “people” offer out whenever they discover someone in this emotional state. It will get better- you’ll find someone. There’s definitely a girl out there for you. You are well loved by all your friends and family. We are here for you.
But I know that those phrases fall like a drop of water on hot white sand. They are meaningless. There’s nothing I can tell you to ease the gnawing emptiness. All I can offer is that I have encountered those demons quite frequently.
When I sort medical charts at clinic, I sometimes get depressed when I find a lone file of a surname. No other files to accompany it. I wonder if this person is alone…I wonder if some day there will only be one file of my surname resting on the shelf.
Of course, that’s not to say I’m longing to rush headfirst into anything just for the sake of avoiding being alone. If I had wanted to get married to stave off loneliness I could have been married 3 times by now based on the offers I’ve received. But it wasn’t love. If I had accepted those bids, I would have been living a life far more lonely than I would if I had chosen to remain alone. I think we both know we’re not talking about being with someone simply to be with someone. We’re talking about love. True, honest and unabashed love for another human being…something incredibly rare and often misunderstood these days.
Keep writing. It will bring a sense of productivity and some relief, if nothing else.
Keep breathing,
-K
You know I have been in those trenches. You know I have held the burden of loneliness and spent days, weeks, years trying to avoid the very real possibility that people like you and I might just be destined to be alone. We aren’t like those “people”. We’re our own sort. We can’t go to bars and pick up dates because our hard drives have not been formatted to function in such a process. I tried one time and came pretty close: I was lonely and lacking self-respect so I went out to the bars and found a reasonable guy who seemed friendly enough and willing to engage in conversation and dancing. Towards the end of the evening, I could tell he was the other type of “people”. He leaned in close and whispered terrible things in my ear as I swayed back and forth between his hands in a drunken rhythm to the pop music blaring throughout the bar.
I thought to myself that I could be “people”, that this is what society told us was how people met and interacted in the dim hours of the evening. At that moment I wanted to be “people”, and I submitted to his advances and let him kiss me on the lips. All in all, it probably lasted about a minute. When his lips touched mine all I could taste was emptiness. It felt bitter and cold and it terrified me. I pulled away and excused myself, stumbling away awkwardly across the dance floor. I left immediately and drove home. The rest of the night was spent in agony; I felt cheap and ashamed of how I had acted, but also still struggling with the horrible acknowledgement that I may remain alone.
Since I have been there, perhaps am still there some days, I’d like to think I can relate to what you are going through. That being said, I know the last thing you want to hear at this point is all the standard drivel and stock phrases that “people” offer out whenever they discover someone in this emotional state. It will get better- you’ll find someone. There’s definitely a girl out there for you. You are well loved by all your friends and family. We are here for you.
But I know that those phrases fall like a drop of water on hot white sand. They are meaningless. There’s nothing I can tell you to ease the gnawing emptiness. All I can offer is that I have encountered those demons quite frequently.
When I sort medical charts at clinic, I sometimes get depressed when I find a lone file of a surname. No other files to accompany it. I wonder if this person is alone…I wonder if some day there will only be one file of my surname resting on the shelf.
Of course, that’s not to say I’m longing to rush headfirst into anything just for the sake of avoiding being alone. If I had wanted to get married to stave off loneliness I could have been married 3 times by now based on the offers I’ve received. But it wasn’t love. If I had accepted those bids, I would have been living a life far more lonely than I would if I had chosen to remain alone. I think we both know we’re not talking about being with someone simply to be with someone. We’re talking about love. True, honest and unabashed love for another human being…something incredibly rare and often misunderstood these days.
Keep writing. It will bring a sense of productivity and some relief, if nothing else.
Keep breathing,
-K
Monday, July 9, 2012
Plenty of Sunshine Though.
Dear K,
I've been out of the world for a little while. I guess. I don't know. I haven't posted anything in response, mostly because I haven't had anything new to say. I'm really pleased that you're happy.
I'm in a sort of purgatory. I feel the edges of towns calling to me. I'm getting restless and I want to go for long midnight drives across the prairie. I want to roll into towns and make miracles happen in my wake.
I've been fixing other people's problems. Maybe I've been doing that so long because I don't want to fix any of my own. But my biggest problem is something that I can't fix.
I'm lonely. I talk to friends, and that works for a while. I talk to old flames, and there's nothing there. I'm haunted by the empty space in my bed.
People make it sound so easy. They talk about going out to bars and fucking somebody. They talk about pick ups and booty calls and numbers written on cocktail napkins.
They also talk about romantic comedies. Somebody just falls out of the sky and loves them.
I think I might have to be alone forever, for my writing.
My writing is getting better. I practice everyday at work. I practice pacing out the paragraphs. I practice people talking to each other, careful not to reveal what they really mean. But mostly I practice putting a pen to paper and letting the words flow out like blood or guts or snot or tears or laughter, the things that cut you open and show something underneath these hard crusty shells we build up.
It's been a while since we've had rain in this part of the world. It's been hot, and so humid. It's been so humid your clothes stick to you the minute you walk out your front door. They suck up right next to your skin, and no matter how loose your collar is, it seems to be choking in the swampy heat.
You know what they used to call the midwest? All the prairies? They used to call them "The Great American Desert". That's what it was labeled on the maps.
I think I might be a desert.
It's been a while since I've had some rain,
K
I've been out of the world for a little while. I guess. I don't know. I haven't posted anything in response, mostly because I haven't had anything new to say. I'm really pleased that you're happy.
I'm in a sort of purgatory. I feel the edges of towns calling to me. I'm getting restless and I want to go for long midnight drives across the prairie. I want to roll into towns and make miracles happen in my wake.
I've been fixing other people's problems. Maybe I've been doing that so long because I don't want to fix any of my own. But my biggest problem is something that I can't fix.
I'm lonely. I talk to friends, and that works for a while. I talk to old flames, and there's nothing there. I'm haunted by the empty space in my bed.
People make it sound so easy. They talk about going out to bars and fucking somebody. They talk about pick ups and booty calls and numbers written on cocktail napkins.
They also talk about romantic comedies. Somebody just falls out of the sky and loves them.
I think I might have to be alone forever, for my writing.
My writing is getting better. I practice everyday at work. I practice pacing out the paragraphs. I practice people talking to each other, careful not to reveal what they really mean. But mostly I practice putting a pen to paper and letting the words flow out like blood or guts or snot or tears or laughter, the things that cut you open and show something underneath these hard crusty shells we build up.
It's been a while since we've had rain in this part of the world. It's been hot, and so humid. It's been so humid your clothes stick to you the minute you walk out your front door. They suck up right next to your skin, and no matter how loose your collar is, it seems to be choking in the swampy heat.
You know what they used to call the midwest? All the prairies? They used to call them "The Great American Desert". That's what it was labeled on the maps.
I think I might be a desert.
It's been a while since I've had some rain,
K
Sunday, June 24, 2012
la vieille ferme
Dear K-
Dreams can rattle our bones like a gust shakes and clatters barren branches in the heart of winter. They are not always taken lightly and it’s those like your courthouse melodrama that leave us questioning in the daytime. Did it have meaning? Would I kill someone if it meant benefit/safety for several other souls? Who would stay by my side if I were to be labeled a murderer? What did I eat for dinner that let such a sour act to unfold in my subconscious?
You were right to leave that girl. If she wasn’t willing to pay you heed then she wasn’t worth the time. She wasn’t even worth the lousy cigarette. You deserve better, and I hope you can find it. I want you to find the sweet soul who will drip viscous tears like sticky grappa when she finds you in pain, in torment. The girl with a plain country mouth that will truly smile only for you- every other grin is just for show, just for the audience…but when she looks at you it will be genuine, just like everything else about her when she’s by your side.
My emotions have not changed since our last correspondence. My heart is held captive…but I have no desire to break free. It’s a unique phenomenon…when you fall in love, all the other suitors seem to crawl out from the shadows and begin making their presence known again. It is as if they can smell your happiness, see the glow in your cheeks and hear the tempo of your heart. They try to tell you they love you, or they try to slip you their phone number from behind the coffee counter, or they serenade you while on the job. It is as if they are inexplicably attracted now that you are unobtainable.
And I am unobtainable. For the first time in my life I have no problem turning those gentlemen callers away…I don’t even look at them and think of potentials. I have no interest in such games or scenarios. Instead, I laugh to myself and think “my, won’t this make a funny story to tell Aleks later…”
My thoughts are always of him. It’s getting to be embarrassing. But I don’t want it to stop.
-K
Dreams can rattle our bones like a gust shakes and clatters barren branches in the heart of winter. They are not always taken lightly and it’s those like your courthouse melodrama that leave us questioning in the daytime. Did it have meaning? Would I kill someone if it meant benefit/safety for several other souls? Who would stay by my side if I were to be labeled a murderer? What did I eat for dinner that let such a sour act to unfold in my subconscious?
You were right to leave that girl. If she wasn’t willing to pay you heed then she wasn’t worth the time. She wasn’t even worth the lousy cigarette. You deserve better, and I hope you can find it. I want you to find the sweet soul who will drip viscous tears like sticky grappa when she finds you in pain, in torment. The girl with a plain country mouth that will truly smile only for you- every other grin is just for show, just for the audience…but when she looks at you it will be genuine, just like everything else about her when she’s by your side.
My emotions have not changed since our last correspondence. My heart is held captive…but I have no desire to break free. It’s a unique phenomenon…when you fall in love, all the other suitors seem to crawl out from the shadows and begin making their presence known again. It is as if they can smell your happiness, see the glow in your cheeks and hear the tempo of your heart. They try to tell you they love you, or they try to slip you their phone number from behind the coffee counter, or they serenade you while on the job. It is as if they are inexplicably attracted now that you are unobtainable.
And I am unobtainable. For the first time in my life I have no problem turning those gentlemen callers away…I don’t even look at them and think of potentials. I have no interest in such games or scenarios. Instead, I laugh to myself and think “my, won’t this make a funny story to tell Aleks later…”
My thoughts are always of him. It’s getting to be embarrassing. But I don’t want it to stop.
-K
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