My T —

Right now, my mind is completely blank. I’m enjoying it.

It’s as if a storm has just blown through.

The sky, the air inside, is clean.

I need to go to the desert soon, where I go to feel this way.

Now is the best time.

At night, the wind in the palms sounds like fire.

(I want you to tell me if I’m wrong.)

In the desert, it’s empty in the day and emptier at night.

(Oh but the stars — you can see all of them, like you’re in space!)

I used to go and write there, often.

It’s easier to create in emptiness, from emptiness.

(Hence the empty room, the open window.)

When things stop spinning, you can pick them up.

I should have bought a place out there when I could have.

The inspiration isn’t subtle.

There, things truly grow from nothing, out of nothing.

The ultimate affirmation.

I came from the desert. Literally. My ancestors are from Chihuahua.

(We can never have one! lol. Well, maybe…)

It explains a lot: proud, protective, pioneering people.

Though I grew up in a small, poor L.A. burb famous only for its auto dealership!

(A different kind of desert…)

The desert created me so I create in the desert.

I can hear my heartbeat there, my quietest thoughts.

I have a sedative effect on people, I’ve said: I’m told.

The desert does this for me, slows the breath, the pulse, soothes.

You’ll see.

The next time I go, wherever I go, I’ll have you with me.

Empty mind, full heart.

— Your D

My T —

Going to tease and share a bit.

I had this great idea last night. I literally could not stop smiling. It just kept branching, like a big tree.

Ideas like that seem so obvious — like when you see all the stairs after missing that first one.

I love most how it combines everything I love into one nice neat package. It does!

Maybe that shouldn’t surprise me since I can count everything I truly love on one hand.

You’ll be the first to read it. Of course you’ll be the first to read it.

Someday I hope to have more to offer than just stories.

You know, children’s stories make great writing exercises.

You have your first page intro, your last page close, and 30 pages in between for acts 1, 2, and 3. 32pp.

I’ve already started another. I think you’ll laugh out loud when you read it. I hope you do.

Never fear lacking ideas. Inspiration lurks around every corner — like bad sushi restaurants.

Everything browns. Everything blooms.

My brain mimics a trick candle. Just when I think it’s blown out, it flickers back to full flame.

In the Bible Moses says —I don’t know what to say. God replies —I’ll put the words in your mouth.

God’s good like that.

I don’t know if these ideas will go anywhere but I love doing this, every second of it.

If they don’t, no regrets, I’ve had the time of my life. Isn’t that what it’s about?

— Your D

P.S. When I have things to tell, I want to tell you.

My T —

At an early age I found myself in a relationship with an older woman.

Women have shaped me. With bats and hammers.

First my mom, who raised me. My dad ignored us.

Dating your mother has benefits and drawbacks:

I became her friend and protector, rather than son and ward. I became a replacement for my father (platonically!) and the world’s greatest listener too.

While young, I bore others’ emotional needs. I had no choice.

This didn’t make me responsible; it made me realize I was.

I learned other useful and dangerous things:

How to dress. (I get more compliments than my girlfriends.) How to speak the female language, or at least how to translate it.

(I use my powers for good!)

My mom’s other lesson: —Fear everything.

She did, given her very sheltered life. To this day she can’t drive — too afraid.

Don’t worry, we broke up, for these and other reasons.

+

My dad mostly had mean things on his mind.

He did give me boxes of old records when I was seven though.

From them I learned the lyrics to the entire American songbook:

“It’s only a paper moon

Sailing over a cardboard sea

But it wouldn’t be make believe

If you believe in me…“

In middle school my dad asked me —Are you a lover or a fighter? I was a lover then, both now.

Around that same time a crush, Karol P, told me —You’re different. Boy am I.

Those songs didn’t make me sensitive; they made me realize I was.

They didn’t teach me how to feel. They taught me how to write.

Ironic then that when I told my dad I wanted to write he laughed in my face.

Did he right all his wrongs with those few boxes? I don’t know.

My dad’s other lesson: —Quit being stupid.

To him, everything I did was stupid: I was stupid. There is a certain irony in this too.

All he didn’t understand was stupid. Did he feel threatened by a kid he had no idea what to do with? If so, he would never admit it.

I was a bit much. I once had a nineteen hour phone call with another crush, Mylan T. Long-distance. When dad got the bill, I left home for good.

Just kidding, I left for other reasons.

+

In college I majored in dating and English. I got top marks in both.

(I remember all of the girls, none of the classes.)

Speaking of intelligence, having it is like having a big nose:

First it embarrasses you, then you accept it, and finally someone tells you it’s beautiful and you begin to love it — though you should never base your value on others’ opinions.

I have always loved big noses. First there was April R (6th grade), then Lorraine Z (9th grade), and finally Her (Uni+). It starts with my mom though — she has some horn!

(Trust me: You’re as bright as all the stars of the sky and the screen.

I studied astronomy too!

I’m only headsmart. You’re heartsmart and more.

What I do can be taught, learned. What you do comes from a place all your own.

Please shape me. With pens and pencils…

Let me shape you. With care.

You are a maelstrom. I am a maze.

Yes you knew. We both saw.)

That, and I have always loved slender hourglass legs. They disarm me.

Robert Crumb says men who love women’s legs were boys who clung to their mothers’.

(It comes honestly.)

Once, with Her, her legs across me — laid low, helpless, happy — I thought I’d never…

To render me powerless, drape your legs across my lap. Do that and I’ll do anything.

(Use your power for good!)

(Or for any reason…)

— Your D

P.S. We need to write our love letter. I think about it all the time.

My T —

This is a perennial Valentine.

I haven’t told you all I’ve lived through yet. I won’t I promise! Too much…so boring…

Only a few episodes deserve mention — on a long walk, on a warm night…

In short, I have borne terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things!

(Many earned, some awarded.)

You ask yourself —What for?

If there is no power over us — though I believe there is — then we must decide.

Only one answer makes sense: what we endure must make us better.

Ask instead though —Who for?

T, I have faith I can handle the hardest things.

Life’s prepared me. 

Now I await joy.

We will drown in it. 

One:

an open window, a soft radio —

dreaming awake separately together —

catching beauty before morning

:of a million.

Sorry, no chocolates, but attaching that story. If you like it…

— Your D

P.S. If someone fears hurting one they care for, neither need worry.

My T —

What comes out of my mouth sometimes.

I hope nothing in these recent letters has offended you.

Consider them a first aid kit. You may never need them, but who knows?

Let me stick to what I know and tell you a story.

The trip reminded me…

+

So there’s this boy.

He ignores his homework. His mother punishes him. He trashes his room.

He rips up his storybook…

(Kid’s got issues.)

Afterwards he tries to sit but the chair walks away, scolding him. Other objects too.

The fire says —I warm good kids but burn bad ones. (lol)

Night and Sleep carry the fairytale Princess away.

Since he tore up the happy ending, he cannot save her.

She asks,

—Don’t you regret that you are forever ignorant of the fate of your first beloved?

In the garden, the animals the boy’s hurt curse and attack him.

They lose him in the fight, injuring a squirrel’s paw.

The boy bandages it, and he sees how they love each other, but hate him.

He calls —Mama… The animals freak, thinking it’s an evil spell.

They notice he is hurt too.

In a chorus, they call Mama. At last she comes and takes him in her arms.

The animals, acquiescent, sing —He is good, he is wise…

The End

+

I’ve always loved this story. You know why.

The Princess part gets me most. (ofc)

First, that question.

I lived it. I had torn up a storybook too, you see.

Knowing someone is loving someone. Outside, inside…

(Knowing their struggles isn’t a burden; it’s a gift, a chance to love more.)

I always wanted to write. I liked it. I found the purpose in it much later.

The purpose of writing is to reveal your soul to another person, as it is, to be loved.

Truthfulness is crucial. So is trustworthiness.

(Your great virtue is honesty. Mine, I always keep my word.)

I read your writing and I knew you.

(^^ I’m honest too.)

Writing serves love.

Second, that mistake.

Out of fear, anger, or distrust, we often tear up our happy endings.

(We all deserve one, or more. Especially us.)

We must refind, recover, and rebuild them.

The purpose of writing is to create happy endings.

I write to make some, for myself, for those I love.

(Even ones solely for someone else.)

Writing serves healing.

+

How do I always wind up here?

I’m funnier in person. I see the humor in everything. That’s the problem.

These letters multiply like rabbits.

Knowing you’re there makes me happy.

Are you there?

If not, I’ll have to invent you. For my happy ending.

(I don’t want to imagine one without you.)

The purpose of writing is joy.

(This is a joyous moment.)

Writing serves joy.

— Your D

P.S. Don’t forget to add this to your first aid kit!

P.P.S. I just wrote a children’s story. If you’d like to read it, tell me.

(Pr, Fr)

My T —

Who stays, loves.

— Your D

(Pr, Fr)

Dear T —

The last letter reminded me.

I often think about acting and voice lessons. First, to understand. Second, for work. I present a lot.

I work at the top advertising agency in NYC. Why? Same creative process as film making. Also, money.

I wonder what my “character” would be/do/want/feel? I hate when actors play themselves — but I totally would.

My traits: calm – kind – comic – quirky – quick. (Yes?) My motivation: To love someone deeply, fully, magically — like in the movies!

I’ve had this argument with my other bestie, W, for years: Do people change? (If they can, should they?)

She said no; I said yes. She won. Yet I only understood later when I got this advice:

 —Become who you are.

(Passing this on as a reminder to myself.)

It took time to get this, let alone to live it. How to explain?

-Imagine a precious stone you need to scrub, chip clean, then polish.

-Take some Neapolitan ice cream, let it melt some, then mix it till it turns that pretty grey/brown/pink.

-Remember a landscape you saw. Did you think even for a second —But for those trees…?

T, we are a chaotic perfection.

What’s within

-Acknowledge, compassionately

-Accept, unconditionally

-Celebrate, unequivocally

Love yourself with constant wonder — from shore to shore, to the moon and back — and keep people near you who reflect your light back to you.

It’s a miracle you are who you are. It’s a miracle you are.

(For half my life I hated myself — that’s another letter — and if I could undo it all, I would in an instant.)

I sound like a fortune cookie. I actually wrote a story about fortune cookies. One of my favorite stories…

BACK TO SCENE — I did act in high school once. Hamlet, for English, two scenes. Nailed it, lol.

When you say and believe the words, it transforms you — like a spell, or Harry Potter spectacles. It reveals you. Heals you?

So that the joke’s not all on me, I asked S for one. She keeps a Rolodex of jokes. (Not joking.) I didn’t tell her why, so see how perfect this is?

—How many potatoes does it take to kill an Irishman?

(Punchline in P.S.)

— Your D

P.S. —None.

P.P.S. And that syllabus… I love learning—

(La,Ca)

Dear T —

I feel like I haven’t written you a real letter in awhile.

I don’t know what I mean by real.

Everything I have written you lately has been real, achingly so — like the pain in my side whenever I have to edit something!

Maybe by real I mean long.

In the coffee shop (again) today. There’s a playground alongside it.

Almost everywhere I’ve lived has been near school bells or church bells, or both. Accidentally.

Hearing children playing in a schoolyard goes great with your morning coffee, anything, really.

It is the sound of nothing wrong, everything right, playing things out. The minor leagues of acting?

We should play/act everything out.

I was almost…a grade school teacher, high school English teacher, priest (not that close), counselor, photographer, chef…

It takes plenty of almosts and time.

They never leave you. Nothing is lost.

I’m almost exactly what I’ve dreamed of now — maybe I am already.

You shall be, too.

(People never use shall properly!)

I want to be one more thing; it’s the combination of many things. I want to be that most of all.

(^^ That’s real.)

Every day is one day fewer.

An ex’s best friend’s fiancé dumped her and said —Making you happy is making me miserable.

(lol)

Mistake number one: Never try to make anyone happy. Just love them, as they are.

Which reminds me, I had to think about your question: How much love is enough love?

The answer is, Who knows?

That’s why you have to love people a little too much, just to be sure.

— Your D

P.S. I still owe you a real letter!

Dear T —

I have at least four unfinished letters for you. All will come.

Writers make things up. This is beautiful because it’s real.

Last night, I watched a star. It climbed so high. I thought, that’s her. If I keep sight of her, keep following her, I won’t get lost.

(Cheesy, but the moon is made of cheese.)

It’s real, the ask that turns your life upside down. (Consider building an ark.) It speaks to you, and you put everything down, and say —Yes, I will come.

We do because it makes perfect sense.

So, yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. I say, yes. Yes I will. Yes. YES. YES!

If you were any other person I’d be afraid you’d think I was crazy, but I know you won’t. You aren’t any other person. You are exactly who you are supposed to be.

Every once in a while you see a couple. They seem … ethereal — like they are floating through life in a world all their own. Will that be us?

(Will you build an ark with me?)

None of this is what I’d planned to say.

Perfect, don’t you think?

— Ever D

P.S. Do you have any plans on August 10th?

(La,Ca)