Dear T —

People visit the The Bay Area and say —I left my heart in San Francisco.

I came to Taipei but left my heart in —–.

So I have to go to —– soon, to get it back.

Actually…I’ll leave it there, for just awhile.

It will do more good there, and someone will keep it well for me.

At least I didn’t lose my luggage.

— Ever D

(Tp,Tw)

Dear T —

On this trip, I have seen people I will never see again in this life, and I’ve talked to people I will never talk to again in this life, and it’s driving me crazy.

My favorite book ends with the lines —Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody. Damn if that isn’t the truth.

In fact, the more you tell them, the more you miss them.

That’s why I wrote you this letter.

— Ever D

(Tp,Tw)

Dear T —

I have so much to tell you…

(I hope you have a crack^* in you, otherwise you might burst.)

I have only a moment now, but it belongs to you.

Last night, I had omakase behind the golden glow of a door in a narrow, dark alley. Typical, resplendent.

Upon entering, the hostess standing just inside bowed and arose:

She was the double of Kim Min-hee — to the strand of her hair to the brush of her voice. It seemed I had suddenly stepped into a film by Hong Sang-soo.

So I sat, for hours, eating nigiri pulled from the display case at Harry Winston’s and drinking sake poured from a clear, copious brook:

Smiling in my heart where reality and imagination tenderly embrace.

Truly, the world is as soft as lace.

— Ever D

^*Important safety feature

P.S. I know I get carried away sometimes. It comes from a good place though.

(Tp,Tw)

Dear T —

I feel ashamed telling this story, despite having done nothing wrong.

When I was seven, I was nearly kidnapped.

I lived across the street from my elementary school and played basketball there sometimes.

One day a man sat and watched me from the benches. He asked me to go home with him.

At that moment, I felt like the only person in the world. Besides him.

If I lived, died — or worse — it all fell on me.

I remember my thoughts descending into my shoes, my sense and body fused.

A minute stretched thin.

—No, I said.

Nothing happened.

Finally, he stood, walked to his van, and drove away.

Only afterward did my mother come and ask who I was talking to.

—Nobody, I said.

She yelled at me to come in for dinner. I hate my mom’s cooking — don’t tell — so I stayed out instead.

Here, I’d tell my “students” to find a good transition to share lessons learned. Instead, I’ll share something genuinely embarrassing.

Around that same age, I remember going to bed each night thinking —one day I would be a great man, do great things. Great was vaguer then, clearer now.

(I was such a weird kid.)

But that still is not the most embarrassing part. Although a bit older than that now, I still go to bed thinking that.

(I am such a weird adult.)

Let me rephrase this: I felt I had something special inside of me, and I needed to find a way to let it out.

(Everyone does though.)

So the takeaway here may be that I peaked at seven.

Or that the most important lessons, for me, came early in life:

With my whole heart, I love balance. The fiercer the calamity, the calmer I get. With fire, I’m ice; with ice, fire.

What I want matters. More than what others want for me. More than what I think I should want. Desire makes us.

I know what I want more than anything. I’ve always known. It scares me to chase it; it scares me more not to.

(Of course I have bad qualities. I just like to think of those as good qualities in training.)

Yet even these are not the most important lessons.

What is is that this letter embarrasses me. I had all the answers. I just missed them. Shame teaches us.

At bedtime tonight, borrow my gleanings and dream with them. They have been gently used.

— Ever D

(Tp,Tw)

Dear T —  

We interrupt our regularly scheduled letter to bring you this urgent news bulletin.

The other night I sat in my backyard (such as it is) smoking a cigar. I saw a spider on the wall.

It just sat there. I wondered why.

Then it crawled up. And I wondered what made it.

I didn’t see any bug. Then I wondered, what could be more important to a spider than a bug?

It stopped again.

Then it moved again. Was this spider just fucking with me?

Where was it going?

Why?

Strangely, I rooted for it.

(Even though we’d just met and despite thinking it wasn’t quite right in the head.)

It was the best half hour of television without a television I’ve ever seen. 

I know I can write better than a spider though.

I know you can too.

The unanswered question carries you to The End.

Once I wore a yellow shirt to Whole Foods with purple type that read —IF NOT NOW, WHEN? A fellow shopper gave me the dirtiest look.

—Until the age of seventy, Hokusai said, nothing I drew was worthy of notice.

Indeed, why rush? I need things to do I can’t do, or what would I do?

Hug your failures.

Kiss your ignorance.

I do.

—Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart… Love the questions…

Do not now seek the answers… you would not be able to live them…

Live the questions now… Live everything…

Gradually, without noticing it, you will live the answer…

The unanswered question carries you to The End. All the fun is in not knowing.

Anyway, today’s answers become tomorrow’s questions. Otherwise, what’s the point?

A question mark is no sickle. Nobody ever fell off the world from an infinity pool…

I often feel alone in a crowd yet crowded with affection by myself.

You are not alone.

—Many have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now…

Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles…

You’ll learn from them—if you want to…

Just as someday… someone will learn something from you…

You won’t be alone. 

(When people say —I will always stay by your side, I immediately think —Which side?)

You can become who you’re meant to be.

I know. I’ve _______, ______, ______, ______, and ______ (edited to avoid self-incrimination) and yet.

(Illegal, immoral, insane — that’s my motto! Not for nothing they call us LUNAtics.)

I’ll tell you everything sometime, in person.

What you say to yourself, however, matters more than what people tell you.

I always say to myself —I don’t know and —What if? Honestly, I think I live my whole life between these phrases.

When I feel sure of something I say —I don’t know. When I doubt something I say —What if? It keeps my disbelief suspended.

If all this sounds cliché, maybe it suits the problem.

Speaking of cliché.

I would close by confessing something to you, but you already know.

(I’ll tell you anyway sometime, in person.)

People always say it. It’s when they show it that counts.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

— Ever D

P.S. Funny how you can fall for the way someone writes. The things they say, how they say them. They get stuck in your head. You play them on repeat. It touches somewhere that nothing else does.

P.P.S. —What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours. This can happen with letters.

P.P.P.S. I don’t know anything. I just remember everything.

P.P.P.P.S. People always say I have a sedative effect on them. (100% not joking.) I’ve worked for that. I take the compliment!

P.P.P.P.P.S. According to deGrasse Tyson —Based on the human genome, you are 1 in 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 possible human beings, a conservative estimate too.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. You are precious (if only in strictly scientific terms!)

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I met Her in astronomy class. (Some things you can’t make up.) One love always leads to another.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. The universe gives you what you’re ready for.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. In my next letter, I won’t quote anybody. I promise.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. And no P.S.’s.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I really should stop procrastinating.

Dear T — 

I have so much to tell you but I will keep this letter short(ish). I don’t want to overwhelm you.

First where I’m writing from today, my favorite coffee shop. I wrote here every morning for years. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

I can sit for hours writing, completely entertained. Not just entertained, happy. It’s what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s where I belong. 

(The other best thing I’ve ever done is watch movies — one, two, three a day, every day, for forever now.

If I watch one more I’ll become one.

Actually, last night I dreamt I starred in a murder procedural alongside Colin Farrell and Dean Norris. Great casting, I think.)

My bestie said something that struck me —So, this is personal, D. This is YOU writing letters, not a version of you or a character or a caricature of you.

(Look at those beautiful sentences. S is a professional writer, too. She writes like she sings, angelically.)

Guilty. This is the voice I hear in my head. The main one.

Artists imagine everyone.

(Someone who’d read a ton of my writing once said —You’re very comfortable in language. I don’t mean to brag. Just wanted to share the single thing I’m most proud of.)

At first I felt guilty about writing my own story. Until Kiarostami. —What could we depict with greater authority? he said. If we’re honest enough, it’s universal.

I have two writing inspirations who could not be more different, Joe and Jim. I met Jim once. (!!!!!!!!!!!) I asked him —What’s your advice to young writers?

I didn’t like his answer. He said —Write your own story then throw it away. He went on —Everyone has one story to tell. Writers have many stories to tell.

I say the main one seriously. We are always bursting. We can’t contain it. We ignore lines. We are humanity itself. We have to be. We are all Whitman. We contain multitudes.

Being human means having empathy, and artists imagine everyone. I’m not saying the artist is the most evolved form of human being.

Actually, that’s exactly what I’m saying.

(Ever watch a record spin — the center so quickly, the edge so slowly? Capture as many songs as you can. Let us be dynamic inside, serene outside.)

My old priest told this story though. (I’m a lapsed Episcopalian, the Rolls-Royce of Christians.) He said his mentor in seminary told him to come out of his shell.

He took it seriously. He did. Weeks later at morning announcements, the dean said —Whoever told Sam to come out of his shell, will you please tell him to go back into it?

True story.

— Ever D

P.S. When I wrote here, Charlie Kaufman would often be at the opposite table. We’d look up, nod, then write again.

P.P.S. Someone came up to me and asked what I was writing. You would not believe what I told them.

Dear T — 

I lie in bed most nights, awake, thinking of things…people…stories… Though, I’m still avoiding the one I have to write.

Writers typically have two problems. Either they don’t know what to write or they’re too lazy to write what they know. Oh, and money. But nevermind that.

I’ll talk about both things. I’ll feel less lonely.

I procrastinate by starting new projects. Like this one. Like my anthology. The issue is you just create more work.

For example, I went to McDonald’s for lunch on Sunday.

The restaurant was filled with Chinese and Korean families who all bring their loud, small children there after church. I love this. The best thing about America is when it’s not America.

In line in front of me, an old white man with a simple ring of white hair ordered an ice cream cone. When the server offered it to him, he replied —Am I a pig??

(Several answers came to mind, but I kept quiet to watch the events unfold.)

The old man repeated the question; the server continued to stare blankly at him. Finally, the old man told the server to cut the scoop of ice cream in half.

The old man looked back at me in disgust. I said —In America, everything gets bigger. Including us. Then the old man asked the server —Where’s the chocolate?

The manager came out —You didn’t pay for chocolate. But he pulled out a cup and filled it with chocolate and gave it to him anyway. The old man went away.

A few minutes later, the old man came back and said —What, no napkins? An older Mexican server, worn smooth by angry white guys, gave him some.

It was an entire Charlie Kaufman film ready for the taking.

My mentor at Harvard (who lived in the house Mark Twain did) had a basement full of file cabinets. I tended to them. He kept every fact that ever interested him filed away.

He always said —Creativity is confusion. Eg, reading the word seamen but thinking the word semen. I often imagine this bearded, wild-eyed man sleeping above his buried treasure.

(Sonic Youth said —Confusion is sex. So, creativity is sex.)

I think, people don’t need a push. They need a pull — something they can’t let go of even if they fall and skin their knees time and again.

They have to, to live.

Or if they don’t let it out…

I have hidden veins. At the doctor, they have to poke me 8 times before finding one. But when they do, the blood flows rich and quick.

When you find your story, it’s like opening a vein. Which brings me back to my story.

The problem in losing someone is that there is always a phantom love. There are many ways to make love. You choose the one you need. The unexpected is the best.

I bought a new camera and some “fast glass” — a lens that opens wide and takes in everything but gives back only the soul of something, much like the artist.

There is no limit to how much you can procrastinate.

— Ever D

P.S.

If you’re really stuck though, remember — dirt is rock. Powdered rock. If something can grow from that, imagine what can grow from your heart and soul.

P.P.S.

It’s my birthday tomorrow. This was my present.

Dear T —

It’s hard to tell your own story. I know. Right now, I’m digging up the seed of my life, a lost love.

We live linearly. But at any given moment, our lives — our pasts — are both heterogeneous and multiplicitous.

In other words, beyond us and a jumble — everything connected to everything else, without beginning or end.

Today we could reassemble it one way, tomorrow another. And did any of it really happen?

I don’t mean to be a nihilist. Truth is as incontrovertible as bone. Yet quickly, even a wound becomes a dream.

Then there’s perspective:

I once was an introvert, but went so far in, I came out the other side. Now no one would believe I’m not an extrovert. Including me. Who I was is different, because I see it differently.

Have you ever felt at peace with your past, unafraid of your future, and bathed in sunlight — in every cell of your being — in the present?

Once, a friend’s kid pointed to a drainpipe and said, “penguin.” There it was: the pipe, its head; a crack, its beak; some drips, its body; more cracks, its feet.

It was a penguin and was not a penguin all at once. Am I a penguin, or not a penguin? Who decides?

Perhaps, like a painting that a painter sees before painting it, the image of myself passes through me, while I still control each stroke.

Most importantly, whoever you are and wherever you find yourself:

Have you ever felt at peace with your past, unafraid of your future, and bathed in sunlight — in every cell of your being — in the present?

I have, only once and for a moment — before dusk, in the summer crowds of London, when I walked up to Her and said, simply, “hello.”

— Ever D