3/4/19
but, alas this is not all true...
but it is what one is to tell oneself in the shower.
and a lot of this...
I have always been a writer for issues.
Issues not being political, issues of my own.
I know this because while cleaning out my life and closets I found a box my mom had packed up of all my "important stuff" (as the box was labeled)
there was also a note handwritten by my mom inside the box....
"don't show this to your kids"
Journal after journal in spiral notebooks, letters of love and hate, exploits of teen angst and love and probably a ton of stuff my mom should have never seen. Before she died, and while knowing she was going to...she packed up our lives as we knew them...those beautiful memories we stuff in closets in our parent's houses to be safe. The memories we once cherished and hope that our legacies will cherish, too. She graciously organized them and labeled them and put little notes inside the boxes to know that after she passed she would still be with me. Apparently my box contained more beautiful disasters with many drawings, pictures, and little pieces of junk taken from what I thought were important moments and stuffed into little boxes....many were laughable.
A stack of letters, I apparently wrote, but never sent, scribed with curly cursive and many different colored inks....was labeled by Mom....
" you were always so lovingly dramatic...do not change for anyone"
(tears)
I laugh at all of this today as I still know one of my biggest dreams would be to not necessarily be a writer...but to have a person to write to...
and someone to write back.
I write letter after letter still.
Poems...thoughts....secrets...
I have gmail accounts with drafts waiting to be sent with reminders all around to not send them.
DO NOT SEND in the subject line.
Recently, the letters, the beautiful letters, sexual in context hide behind the humor...
The explanations of why it is what it is and how it will be...
eventually.
Waiting for the lucky person to ask for them...
To say, "go ahead and send them"
no judging, just letters and an inner beauty you can only get from a select few...
I go back and occasionally read the letters, I smile and know that everything happens for a reason.
If I could speak, the way I write, to the people I write the letters for or about, there would be no confusion.
Cut and dry.
I love you...
I hate you...
I need you...
I'm scared...
I miss you...
you are sexy as fuck
who doesn't want to have letters?
It's old school,
It's a real thing
tangible
beautiful
It's like the first time you actually read the words or listen to a song you never really heard before.
I was thinking of watching this movie...
I've seen every version, but my heart may not be ready for this version.
...because I'm so fucking dramatic all the time (thanks mom)
Lord knows I watched Under the Tuscan Sun yesterday and it about killed me.
Tell me somethin', girl
Are you happy in this modern world?
Or do you need more?
Is there somethin' else you're searchin' for?
I'm falling
In all the good times I find myself
Longin' for change
And in the bad times I fear myself
Tell me something, boy
Aren't you tired tryin' to fill that void?
Or do you need more?
Ain't it hard keeping it so hardcore?
I'm falling
In all the good times I find myself
Longing for change
And in the bad times I fear myself
I'm off the deep end, watch as I dive in
I'll never meet the ground
Crash through the surface, where they can't hurt us
We're far from the shallow now
In the shallow, shallow
In the shallow, shallow
In the shallow, shallow
We're far from the shallow now
Write ya later,
and to the person I write for, now...
xo,
m
