My T —

You already have my letter.

You already have my everything.

— Your Fortune Cookie

This has happened at least twice already. Are you looking over my shoulder? Or reading my mind? Hmmmm… Maybe it’s what they mean when they say —being on the same frequency… D.

My T — 

Hello! 

As you know, I love quotes. 

Wisdom, in a few words. 

(All anyone has time for now.) 

I collect them. 

I’ll pause a movie to write one down if I hear a good one. 

(I’m annoying that way.) 

Good quotes can surprise. So can where they come from. 

After Casablanca, the most quotable movie I know stars Fred Astaire. A lyricist wrote the screenplay. 

—He who does not love the faults of his love does not love at all.

(Proof you learn to write from songs.) 

I have a magnificent quote file. Here is my favorite, ever: 

…it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one…  

—Henry David Thoreau 

I found it when my first life ran out, when I left home. 

It stayed with me likely for that reason. 

It makes a great excuse for quitting a job, or anything! 

(I also have a great song for quitting a job, if you need one.) 

I love this part most: 

—I had several more lives to live… 

I too have more. Maybe, one more. 

It takes time to find your true life — 

the one you will protect, 

the one you will give everything, 

the one you will never abandon 

— unless you’re lucky! Maybe some are… 

The sad or funny or joyous thing is, I’ve known what I’ve wanted and looked for it forever, only to find it by accident. 

(No no, it was no accident.) 

—Let’s start a new life… 

That quote was the answer. The question was: —If Walden was so great, why did you leave? 

I’ve been there. I know why. 

+ 

I’ve lived a few lives. 

(I won’t bore you with the details.) 

Lives can overlap. I’ve even relived one. 

How do you know the time has come? 

You know. 

It’s like missing a flight; you know you should be home, but you’re not. 

You know where you belong. 

Relationships differ from lives but they can define them. 

(Her for example, any marriage or betrothal, a career or vocation.) 

Take this girl I dated. 

Her hand snapped perfectly into mine, but it felt all wrong. 

Right hand, wrong soul. 

You know to whom you belong. 

…relationships are like shoes: no matter how beautiful they are or how much you love them, if they don’t fit there will be pain with every step… 

I’ve worn those. I know. 

+ 

When asked —How did you sculpt David? Michelangelo replied —I removed what wasn’t David. 

(Mamet says his answer means —Fuck off, and he’s right!) 

We must abandon what’s not us so what is us can shine. 

You know who you are. 

Thoreau describes reincarnation. Michelangelo, molting. 

Lately I’ve focused on shedding…distraction. 

We experience this world through one body. Perhaps we experience this life through one lens. 

Mine is writing. 

I want to write my way into eternity. 

(No no, I want to write my way into your heart.) 

My dad could die at any moment (heart trouble) so I have given much thought lately to what will make my days matter. 

It always comes down to writing well, loving well. 

(For me, writing is loving.) 

—I’m a storyteller, man, that’s all I am. 

(Loving is loving.) 

The opposite of that quote is also true: we must put on what is us; we must dress the part! 

—Clothes make the man — and woman. 

I know it… 

+ 

I might have a new favorite quote — one I read from a subtitle on an airplane movie. 

(Someone else’s movie, lol.) 

It would have fit perfectly in the first letter I wrote you: 

—Love is as simple as “Hello!”

— Your D 

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)