insufficient postage, pt. ii

Ever since writing about the letter I found myself thinking about it more than I had before. I saw it more often and eventually grabbed it and put it in my jacket pocket, without really thinking about it. I subsequently forgot that I had done so.

Today I was digging through my pockets for a spare scrap of paper and found it again. I didn't read it very closely but in it I talked about how I had always wanted to burn a letter--how poetic it would be. I had hoped that letter, the one I wanted to burn, would be one written by the recipient, of course.

The letter I'd written had become a monument to all of my failures. I never considered myself the type of person who was capable of such venom--something I have always thought of as inexcusable in every way. For some reason I felt I needed to remind myself, privately, that I could still fail.

When I found it in my pocket I immediately thought of opening it and reading it, but the words, the writing, the shape, kept me from doing so. Then I thought of the matches I kept in my pocket, and without a word I went outside. It was raining and a little windy, and the matchbook had all but lost its friction, but on the second match I kept the flame going long enough to light the letter aflame. I dropped it on the driveway and watched it burn, staying to make sure the last remnants of ash and soot had burned away. The wind, and my breath on the embers, scattered the remains.

I haven't checked yet, but a pair of used matches ought to be all that remains--if even that much.

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making out in public places

I've started doing this thing with a friend of mine where we go to really public places, like street corners, parks, shopping malls--places where there's lots of people--and make out and just generally act like one of 'those' couples. It's not that we even like each other like that or even that we're really great friends. But there's the dirty looks we get, and it's like it's more fun than it would be if we were actually just one of those couples. Usually we get lunch after. Sometimes we sit on the same side of the table and hold hands and quietly giggle and kiss each other every few minutes, but mostly we figure we've had our fun for the day, so we talk and watch people. Sometimes I wonder how many couples are doing it because they think it's funny. I actually mind less when I imagine them laughing about it later.

traffic signal

Today I watched a traffic signal flicker erratically. Not the steady flashing of a signal which knows it's malfunctioning, but a frenetic malfunctioning sort of flicker--at first it was red, flashing on and off at random, like it was trying to flash but didn't know how. Then it turned green. The green seemed more steady, but every few seconds or so it turned red, for just a fraction of a second. Like it wasn't sure. Like it was getting mixed signals from whatever controls it.

insufficient postage

There's a corner of my bedroom I don't really use. There's a small collection of junk there which overshadows a little folded up piece of paper in the corner. On that piece of paper are written the most venomous words I have ever penned--a letter that I never sent. I wrote it in pen on a page of a notepad I had acquired. It filled the margins--I explained, in the letter, that I would rather not waste paper on the recipient.

I don't know why I still have it. I don't really know why I never sent it. It's been in the corner for a long time, and I don't know why it's there--I didn't even write it at this house.

I forget about it for months at a time, then I go into that corner to use the outlet, or to grab something, and there it is. For half a second I wonder what it is, then I recognize my handwriting, the folding, the shape of the letter--I would recognize that letter anywhere. It's always there to remind me of everything I did wrong, everything that went wrong. And I never sent it--I told myself it was so I wouldn't have to waste postage, but that wasn't it. I just don't know what it was.

All I know is I have this reminder sitting in the corner of my room. Not hidden, but out of the way. Just paper and ink.

horror films

My insomnia has returned, so I've started watching some of the horror films my roommate has laying around. At first I enjoyed the mindless entertainment, the bad camera angles and hackneyed writing. Late at night, alone in my room with just the glow of my laptop's screen showing brief shots of some monster that was no doubt very scary in the designer's mind, I could pass out. In the morning I would read the Wikipedia article about the movie to see which characters died.

One evening I actually paid attention to the movie and I started thinking how tragic it really was. These characters died completely senseless deaths--they were in movies but it wasn't cinematic. It had no emotional impact. It was expected. It was meaningless. I started to write obituaries for the characters that died in the movies. I mourned their passing. I made sure that they were remembered, that their deaths were not in vain.

I thought of a character I had created for a zombie apocalypse story. She was this pathetic and desperate character who felt trapped in her small-town life and was perpetually unhappy. I thought about how, if I ever wrote that story, I probably wouldn't have the heart to kill her because she is so beautiful and sad and lonely. I decided that if the zombies did kill her, it would be a sad moment. The characters in horror films and zombie apocalypse stories need to be real people. They need to have their own hopes and fears and when they die it needs to be the tragedy that it really is.

I don't think people are ready for that. They watch horror films so they can feel that cheap cinematic terror. It's already halfway there. Pity and fear, right? They're tragedies, every one of them. We just need to mourn for them.

ninety-degree angles

I was browsing books with a girl who was worried about the number of days in a year and the number of degrees in a circle. She asked me if I'd ever wondered about that and I said I hadn't, but I actually kind of started to right then. I said "There's probably some correlation there."

She nodded but didn't respond right away. She said "I guess that makes sense. I mean, we just kind of go in big circles, right?"

"Right." I ran my finger along a row of short story anthologies and selected one at random and started flipping through it. I read the phrase "It would be useless to repeat what Jane said." I decided to buy it.

"It's kind of bizarre to think about how we just sort of made up numbers that we've been using ever since." She smiled at me. "So, did you find anything fun?"

in the dark

Every important conversation I have had for the past six months has taken place in the dark. It started six months ago today, actually, when my girlfriend and I decided to take a vacation: a road trip on I-5 south, no plans, no itinerary, no warning. During the day it was all laughs and adventure, but as evening wore on, and we were tired or drunk or whatever, that's when things got serious. But the important conversations came when we were in the car, or the cab, or the hotel, and the lights were off. That's when we'd talk about the things that would change us forever.

It wasn't just her, or just then. I was on my laptop in my bedroom and my father came in and sat down on a chair--it was about eleven in the evening and the screen provided the only light. I was in my living room after watching a movie with my sister. I was in the car with my friend. I was outside of my girlfriend's apartment. I was on the roof of my sister's building. I was walking my friend home from the bar.

Always in the dark. I'm not sure why, but every fight, every promise, every shoulder to cry on, every piece of advice. No light. No eye contact, no facial expression. Just the promise that someone else is there with you, in the dark. I don't know if that's why, but it's a lot more comforting.

missed connections

I've been reading personal ads recently--specifically I Saw U in The Stranger. Some of them are fascinating, some less so. I'm trying to figure out what it is about them that really draws me. Is it the desperate prose, the way one person carefully recounts her encounter, the way another seems to be avoiding any details which might give her away?

Their words are laced with the romance of a late night, maybe after a few drinks. I know the feeling all too well. 'You were driving a gold Honda on 51st on Thursday and backed up a long way so I could get past. Thank you. I was in a rush. I really wish I could make it up to you with coffee or drinks.' 'Was it me or the band you were looking at all night Wednesday? I thought you were more interesting than the music.' 'I recognized that contemptuous look, but you didn't see me walk past. I want to make you smile some time.' They are words that hope for a response but don't want one. It would ruin the magic.

cigarettes and ennui

I stand at bus stops with a cigarette clenched in my fingers, carefully distanced from the rest of the passengers, gazing into the distance with a look of mingled disdain and listlessness in my eyes. Occasionally I look at the people walking past. I don't nod or smile at them, but our eyes meet, even if just for a moment. The stream of smoke I exhale with such contempt hangs in the air like my breath on a cold day--like I exist in frigid isolation. I occasionally glare at people who look too long.

Yesterday someone walked past and smiled when our eyes met, and my carefully constructed image of ennui collapsed on itself.

just like old movies

My roommate has this friend who I despise. She comes over sometimes and my only thought is 'please go away' but it's like my brain sort of stops working. But I feel so alive when I'm shouting at her, when trading these lines that I would never, ever say to someone I felt even the slightest amount of affection for. All these passions that lay within me--I'm not a passionate man--wake up.

I'm the only one in this house who stays up late and she seems to have the same tendency. We were alone and shouting and I caught her wrist before she slapped me and then there was a beat and we were making out, whispering lies to each other, all passion and old cinema. In the end, of course, she'll be left with the telegram, crying and smiling. I can see the closing shot now, me in my sunglasses, riding an airline off into the distance.

They don't make movies like that anymore, so I guess I'll have to live them myself.

something is missing

We'd just finished dinner at a fancy restaurant and I could have sworn she was having a good time. Then, on the way to the car, she said, "I feel like something's missing." She'd even just finished laughing at one of my stupid jokes.

I took her by the hands and said, "It's okay. I'm here." I was concerned. She wasn't usually given to existential angst. "Everything will be okay." I tried to give her a big smile, though it was probably tinged with the worry I felt. I just wanted to be comforting. I wanted to make everything okay for her, even if just for a little while.

She gave me a look, then said, "No, you jackass, I think I forgot my wallet. Can we go back?"

Suffice it to say I felt kind of stupid.

careful planning

I've been doing this for a while now. It's circling, it really is. It started out as nothing more than doodling, meaningless lines that popped into my head at the time, because if there isn't a pen in my hand I feel useless. When I found out she actually read them instead of just throwing them away, I started, unconsciously at first, making these little random lines about her, something I thought she'd write--I was telling her stories through these previously meaningless quotes, communicating, though she never talked back.

Then I started writing poems. I started making everything on a theme, and then, like it was an afterthought, I scribble my initials after the last line. That means it's mine, right? That means I signed it. And then she took it, so that means it's hers. At first I just thought maybe she'd like them, but the more I went on the more I was writing secret notes to her. Did she notice? Was I too clever? I think she knew. I had spent so much time targeting these little notes. She had to know.

parachuting narwhals

I was at a cafe earlier, eating a late lunch that was more of an early dinner with a friend of mine. The girls opposite me and behind him were talking about something or other--I never quite heard them. One of them was cupping her breasts and occasionally squeezing them together or pushing them up. It looked like she was trying to illustrate a point, but I couldn't hear what she was talking about. There was really nothing sensual about it. Sometimes she would remove her hands to gesture, then quickly and mechanically clap them back on like she'd forgotten about it.

Then the girl next to her said, "Parachuting narwhals are the best." I laughed. She gave me a look that I couldn't quite read--was she angry? Confused? I gave her a thumbs up and kept smiling. It was probably the best thing I'd heard all month.

permafrost

When I moved to Russia I assumed I wouldn't think of you. It's been the coldest winter of my life, but you're still there. It's like you followed me in the guise of ivory-skinned girls with strong features and dark expressions. They ought to be queens--queens like they used to be, beautiful and fair. They would inherit this desolate white landscape, shroud themselves in dark furs. And never smile: like their demesnes, these regal ladies must be grim.

I'm wearing a heavy woolen coat and a furry hat. I'm wearing fingerless gloves and I can't feel my hands. There's a fire burning, for all the good that's doing. I've got a kettle on, but I'm afraid it'll go cold before I can drink it.

And the thing is these ice queens, these Russian princesses, look nothing like you. I don't speak the language, so I don't know what they're like, but--I can't see a sad story and not think of you. No desolate castle crouching on the horizon, no vine-covered ruin, fails to remind me of you. So bleak, yet so regal, so proud despite all the years.

The fire is starting to warm the house a bit. I think the tea is helping. I hope this finds you well. I think of you often. It's very cold.

confessions

The most emotionally intense dream I have ever had was about politics. I don't believe that there is such a thing as a good listener. I think I'm sabotaging my own efforts in love. I feel guilty every time I sleep. The more I like someone, the less I use their name. I use empty comments so people think I am agreeing or sympathizing with them. I talk in a different voice and use different words when I think certain people are listening. I'd eat vegetarian but I don't like vegetables. I have entire conversations in my mind and never even attempt to follow through. I'm afraid that WASP upbringing will bring me to ruin, but I'm even more afraid that it will bring me to ruin because I've rejected it. I don't think it's a problem that I'm sabotaging my own efforts in love. I have obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but only when I'm having a conversation. Sometimes I believe I'm a good listener. I sleep too much. I don't have anything to replace my WASP upbringing. I act self-confident because I want people to think I'm not.

I try not to think about it.

the problem with stories

In stories, everything happens for a reason. In stories, when everything is perfect, it really is, and when everything goes wrong for no reason, that's because, in the end, everything will be okay. The real world doesn't conform to narrative structure. In the real world sometimes everything goes from perfect to terrible and it just stays that way.

Like the story about the guy who fell in love with a girl right after the worst summer of his life,
and she helped him out and they became fast friends and then they started dating and then he proposed and it's coming up on four years now, but it still feels like only yesterday, and they have the whole world to look forward to.

Only sometimes he doesn't meet the girl and he never gets over that summer, or he does but on his own, or because eventually he just snapped and decided to stop caring. Or he does meet the girl but they have a fight and never talk to each other again, or he gets afraid that it's going to be the same as last time and dumps her so he doesn't have to put up with the pain. Sometimes he meets the girl and still doesn't get over it because he's so lost in himself and his own world.

But the whole time he's looking for stories. He knows how the stories go. They start like this and then this happens and then it all works out. Somehow he thinks no matter what he does the story continues and works out in the end. Then he makes a bad decision without thinking and suddenly that matters and suddenly that's the only decision he's ever made. So he wonders if it could have been different or if it's like a story and could only have been that way--and he can never quite remember that life doesn't work like that.

existential angst at a bus stop

A man at the bus stop said something to me while I walked by yesterday. I didn't hear what he had to say--it rhymed with twain. I think twain might have even been the last word, but I don't know why. What could he possibly have said? Was he talking about Mark Twain? It was after midnight and I was the only person in earshot. Was he talking to me? I thought. I turned to look at him for a moment, about to ask him to repeat himself. But I didn't. I kept walking. My thought process now baffles me--I assumed that there was nothing interesting about me, so he must not have been talking to me.

I was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and Converse all-stars. I had a red t-shirt rolled up under my arm, or possibly in my pocket. Do I look approachable? Do people often start conversations with lines that I can't make sense of? Why didn't I stop? He didn't look threatening. But I couldn't think of any words that rhymed with twain that meant anything to me. I kept walking.

the perfect girl

I had a dream about the perfect girl.

But not like that. I was trying to describe exactly what I wanted in a girl. I don't know why. I kept picturing this girl with a French name that sat next to me in my English class, and a girl I passed in the street a few days before, and the only girl I'd ever loved, who went from pretty to beautiful while I wasn't watching. They were all on a type, variations on a theme, but it seemed like I couldn't make up my mind. The girl I'd been seeing didn't make the list--I remember making a note of that in the dream. It's not that she is anything less than perfect. She just isn't variations on a theme. She isn't a skinny, shy, dark-haired girl with dark eyes and a name I'll obsess over. I think I'm okay with that.

nobody home

I moved to an old farming town recently, population two hundred. The locals are friendly, though they wonder what I'm doing here. I tell them I wanted to get away from the city, and they act like they understand, but that's not the real reason. I can't tell if they know that or not, but we both go on pretending.

I guess this used to be a big stop along the railroad, with grain elevators and silos and things like that--there's still a lot of wheat farms, for a town of two hundred. I'm not really sure what they do with it. I guess they sell it still. Sometimes I wonder if any of the bread I used to eat in Seattle came from here. Was I buying their livelihood indirectly? I'll probably never know. I could ask, but I'd rather not.

The local kids confuse me. Not the really young ones, but the ones in high school, or the ones that should be college-aged. I think I confuse them, too. They don't seem any different. When I lived in a small town I was just like them--only there is nothing to do in this town and there's a good chance they all know each other and there's an intricate social structure I'm missing.

I'm not really sure why, but I took one of them on what I guess you could call a date to the local cafe--delicious food, made fresh. The owner knows me now. I guess the whole town probably does. I'm not getting looks anymore. She had brown hair and a practiced smile. She seemed friendly enough, but distant, like one of us was missing the cues. Was she trying to tell me something? Or was I trying to tell her something?

She smiled one of those smiles that usually sends books worth of messages to someone, but I couldn't read them. I was thinking about something else. It's almost Valentine's Day. I'm not home anymore. And moving here didn't actually help. She picks up the tab, and I thank her and say that's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me, and we both know I'm not talking about paying for dinner. I take her back home and she kisses me on the doorstep.

I thank her and say that's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.

I'd say I never saw her again, but that wouldn't be true. I saw her a lot. I never understood her, but I think she understood me. I almost wanted to leave right there, but there was nowhere else to go. Anyway, I can't leave until I tell someone why I'm here. Even if she already knows.