An early morning letter

A pre-dawn letter written which sounded more like a journal entry… so here it is. Much thanks to my friend for being a recipient to the letter.


It is damned early in the morning and I am still up and about. What strange harpy doth distract my peace I cannot tell. Only that I am awake and in a matter of hours I shall take a bike ride to the store for the mundane needs of cat litter. It is an interesting life indeed.

Depeche Mode (Songs of Faith and Devotion) plays in the background (one of the best “total” albums released in my opinion). The night is quite, cars on the street are infrequent, the cats are played out and rest in randomly chosen spots.

For some reason I opened up my email program and looked into the list of names and from this pile I chose yours. I have no interesting story to tell, no perplexing riddle of the mind, no passionate observance on the wheel of life. So why this writing? I don’t know. I do know that such thinking is habitual and that as much as it is like me to write someone with a definite purpose in mind, it is equally of habit to do such for no reason. These self same characteristics move into realms beyond mere letter writing as well.

Again I have finished another lengthy trilogy of books. The month’s unemployment has afforded me something that I’ve not enjoyed much in the past two years, reading stories of fiction.

A fresh painting sits atop a bookshelf. It is watercolor only for the type of paint used, however very little water went into its creation, the colors thick as any oil painting, show a fairy tale castle perched atop a slender column of rock above an ocean of whispy, purple clouds.

My thoughts turn again to a charming young woman at a local bookstore. I had seen her often (as I visit this place, Borders, often enough) and our eyes had looked upon each others, framed with smiling face, often enough. Sitting with a local RPG group and inquiring as to the possibility of joining their weekly escapades I nudged a woman near me whom I had met only an hour before and inquired her opinion as to the age of yonder woman whom I had smiled at often enough before (and her to me). To my surprise this strange woman got up and inquired at the lady herself and came back to report to my somewhat embarassed self that she was only twenty years in age (I had guessed 24) and that she remembered me as a regular patron of the bookstore and being cute as well. I was going to give my phone number to her, but did not do so. Opting instead to walk the aisles of the store, browsing any and every book which caught my eye, as was my custom, and purchasing a wonderful CD (Zen Breakfast) after having listened to it the past three trips with longing. Twenty years of age. Who knows anything at the young age of twenty? There was so much to see, to know, to learn… so far that I myself have learned in the ten years since I’ve been that age. How could I ask her out. But aside to the more philosophical aspects of this question my mind went to the more practical. I reflected once more on my current straits, the financial situation, the fact that I was nowhere close to having rent money ready and was still a bit over a week away before my job started. I recalled also how my car battery had died because I left the interior light on but how this mattered little since I had a great leak in my radiator, making it impossible to run the engine without overheating. She is still at the bookstore and I am with my cats and a book.

Today while walking down the pedestrian walkway near the front doors of a local software company I casually came across one whom I loved greatly but who casually wrote me a Dear John email and went back to her old boyfriend, stating that he was thirty and decided that he didn’t want to be that age without someone important in his life. Stopping for a moment I chastised her for still smoking after hearing her statements of quitting a few months earlier. She casually mentioned that they are moving into a house. As if I were happy about it. I should be. Love and concern for her happiness does still well within, but if ever I felt the venomous posion of envy and hatred for another soul, it is what I feel directed at this other man. And of him I desire quite strongly to never meet him for this would give face to that demon which mocks me from behind the moon in the sky.

On my desk rest a beautiful picture frame, with a lighthouse, beach, and rocks as the theme. Within that picture is a woman I left in Texas. This woman and I, knowing of my move to Oregon in four short months, threw ourselves together in body and soul without regard for the fragments that it would leave behind. At the height of my passionate fury towards the environmental fight, where an idealistic and zealous heart was making radical changes in my life without care or concern… I came very close to staying in Texas. And not just in Texas, but in a small town of no importance and with nothing of value by way of school, organization, opportunities, arts, or culture, save only for the fact that she was there did it matter.

Achilles sits on the window sill and sets to straightening out the ruffled fur of his coat after I have messed it up.

I read my tarot cards the other day and they showed me some heartening signs. But I do not feel the traits assigned to me. I feel, instead, more fully the reversed five of swords in the seventh position (bottom of the staff in the Celtic Cross spread). This card speaks well of my feelings at this moment and there is no doubt that were I do another spread, this card would resurface.

I look around at my surroundings and I compare it to my new neighbor in the apartment complex. His apartment is filled with the obvious signs of his family’s money. Mine seems to be pieced together and held by spit and glue. My bookshelves are pieces of wood held together by bolts; one of them is merely planks atop cinder blocks. It is an accurate expression of my life it seems…. held together by duct tape and band-aids. Yet I never wear band-aids either. Should I have a cut I often ignore it and let dirt and blood fill the wound (even though I have completed EMT training twice and know better) and if a bandage is infact necessary and if a sock won’t work I simply use some sort of paper and scotch tape for a moment.

In my email mailbox there are a few occurences that I should update on the county green party’s alert page. A few feet from me sits a book on Jungian Archetypes and Mathematics. Before me lie a few letters from a concerned grandmother whom I need to write and call to tell her that I am doing okay. Behind me sits a bag with my workout towel in it reminding me that I need to perform a workout tonight since I feel rested from the last one (which was overly taxing on joints and muscle tendons as nutrition is not high on list of luxuries at the moment). Before me sits a catalogue for classes for a community college and I know that I need to set into motion events that will at least get me into some sort of education for the Spring semester. A few receipts sit on my desk, waiting to be entered into my money management software. I don’t want to be reminded of how little is in the bank. I care about these things only because I tell myself that I should… but I am unconvincing.

I don’t know why I write to you know. Common courtesy would require that I write to you with news of happenings in my life or to inquire as to the events in yours. Yet as it stands there seems to be no purpose in this other than some sort of discharge. Then discharge it shall be. But naming this such, unlike the medieval belief that such would give power over demons, does not reckon such power now.

I bid you a good day and more



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