I’m writing you a bona fide letter now despite the fact that 1) I woke up this morning without the use of alarms and discovered A) candles that were extremely low when I lit them yesterday evening are somehow still burning. I was certain they would burn out, yet so many hours upon the windowsill have they blazed, and still they do. It’s a Jewish miracle at this point so I won’t blow them out for as long as I stay home this morning and B) a bunch of late-night texts from you. Well, three. Citing meanness of your mom and sister and the way your devotion to them taxes you. And 2) I don’t know any address I could send these (I already anticipate writing you several letters). I wish post would deliver to your car. “BTMN 1, Flying Down The Highway, Anywhere USA”, and just a truck chasing you down.
I’ve meant to write so many letters to so many people for such a long time. Friends, Marilyn in Oregon, family… I really do owe Eric a letter (poor fellow I deflowered and dumped via text). The mood so rarely strikes now. I’m not sure what kind of mood the letter-writing mood is. I think it’s to do with change. I don’t currently feel excitement, hope, nor pride, nor amusement; I feel quite blank, like these sheets of paper were before I began, and I didn’t pleasure greatly in their blankness either. As I said, blank, hollow; my own echo, shambling over paper towards one I love and trust (you) with these transparent, pointless words.
What do I hope today?
What do you hope today?
I hope for a little motivation to search for more jobs online — things I would do well, that would keep me afloat, to not have to move to my parents’…
The candles on the sill still burn, burn, burn.
You really put up with so much all the time. Handle so much, behave so much more maturely with others and indulgently when confronted with foible, Mr. Professional Big Brother. I note it even in your behavior towards myself, this here little lady uncomfortable in the extreme with putting-upon others, but look — I write you this letter full of earnest whines, conveying nothing for your grasping (I promise, in a better letter I could conjure for you a carousel and you choose a shiny animal, hold fast to its rippling mane while invisible centripetals treat you two to a ride, though forgive my attention Robin Hood-ed from physics classes and lavished upon English ones, which is responsible for this so-pretty, likely inaccurate, metaphor, a decade in the making). But this present, primarily quiet, ungenerous letter-offering is like other messages I have sent you and times I have shared with you. Forever now, it seems, I have had so very much to whine about to you. I am a blankness, self-absorbed. Would that I were black, which, though dark, is all colors at once. You could extract a color from me, yours to keep.
Well, wish me well… wish me luck, please. I wish you joy because I think your grand soul will take care of the rest as needed. Please be joyful — find your pleasure, in any form, take it deservingly. Discover things as you endlessly do in your practiced way of transforming them to manifest beauty when they are in your hands. Find things that feel soft and gentle to you. It seems to me you have had a lot of cold, hard things in hand for a very long time, and it’s roughened your hands but that doesn’t consign you to more of the same. The world would be done a sight of good to see your hands receiving something soft and gentle and beautiful. I hope for that excessively vague vision.