Dear T — 

—When you take the right path, you meet the right people.

I believe that.

(That requires its own letter to explain. I’ll come back to it.)

+

I’ve said before, things find me:

I watched this movie I’d never heard of — made by all these people I had heard of — which made me smile inside and out.

Lately, I’ve had this one song stuck in my head, “Twilight Zone” by Van Morrison. Not the original though, the alternate take. (link)

The “Twilight Zone” featured prominently in the film. So did “Marty,” the movie I mentioned last time. Other things, too

It seemed like the script wove together several things on my mind into its own thing. Coincidence, I suppose, but I love that.

Things find me.

The right things.

(Side note:

I love so many Van Morrison songs because I have no idea what they’re about.

For example, and these are among my favorite songs of all time:

—”Joe Harper Saturday Morning”

—”Linden Arden Stole the Highlights”

—Pretty much every song on Veedon Fleece

I have my theories about what they mean and who exactly populates these songs — criminals and queens, mostly — but still, not much.

I love how they capture the emotional ripples of an event without ever naming it.

They embody mystery.)

+

Let me quickly update you on my menagerie.

(Me: Writer or zookeeper?)

I’ve written you about spiders, hummingbirds, chickens and now — 

This dog I saw leaving the coffee shop — a loaf of bread body with a biscuit face. As I passed, it looked up at me.

He had this happy/shameful expression, as if to say, —I know I’m ugly and unworthy, but don’t tell them. They love me and I love them!

(smart dog)

Butterflies flit everywhere now. They annoy me. Watching them fly gives me a headache.

Bumblebees have also come out. Did you know they’re blind? They fly straight into things. I love that.

I saw a kitten run behind a fence. It reminded me, when I was a kid.

My grandmother lived with us. She grew champagne grapes in our backyard. In the vines I saw a kitten.

I called to it. I didn’t mean it any harm. I was maybe seven.

It hissed at me, once, twice. Then it leapt out, leaving three bright red lines on my shoulder.

I wasn’t afraid or angry, just hurt and embarrassed.

I think I kept that in the back of my mind as a lesson, although I probably didn’t realize it then.

Never think forgiveness shows weakness. It can take all the strength you have. Kindness, too.

(Ironic, considering love steals your bones.)

My hummingbird, again.

When I see her, even for a moment, it makes me happy.

I feel stupid admitting this but, when she hovered in front of me, I said out loud —Miss you… Love you…

(hopeless)

Oh I almost forgot. This small, female jay has claimed the corner of the sidewalk at the end of my block as her own — the entire corner.

She defends it.

(aggressively)

Can you picture this?

I love thrashers.

(no fear)

+

In the playground next to my coffee shop right now a dad is tossing his daughter into the air and catching her.

Setting her back down on the ground again gently each time.

The kid loves it. She’s two.

The mom looks concerned but the dad is exactly right.

We need not fear every risk.

(There are safe risks and unsafe risks like there are rational fears and irrational fears.)

Some lead to joy.

Teach them young.

+

I have to tell you about my workplace drama. Next time though.

+

I had a few thoughts about honesty and truth.

We all selectively share — but why?

Two main reasons:

1) we want to fit in

(only natural)

2) we want to be that person

(more important)

Well why not?

Who we want to become matters more than who we are now.

Create yourself, like a work of art.

Seize the opportunity!

Can we do anything greater?

(—what a fruit, what a tree you shall be)

Not just for yourself, but for those around you.

I laugh when people say —I’m no good because I do x, y, and z.

People who know what they’ve done “wrong” know where to focus.

(The people who aren’t aware fail.)

—How?, you ask.

In my favorite scene from The Bear, s3e10, Thomas Keller teaches Carmy about wishbones. He says what my Rector always said:

—Do a little better than you did yesterday.

(every day)

That is all. That is enough.

(really)

Also:

Don’t think for a moment that if someone knew everything about you they couldn’t love you.

They couldn’t love you if they didn’t know you.

Real love begins with knowing.

To be loved, be seen.

(Shame prevents connection.)

This doesn’t mean you have to tell everyone everything.

It means don’t be afraid to share things with people you trust.

(It would surprise you what touches another person’s soul, what turns them on, what inspires love.)

As for truth, there are several kinds:

—factual

—emotional

—spiritual

Emotional trumps all.

Feel everything and say how you feel — or else why live?

+

You wrote this paragraph recently that I found so beautiful.

It moved, so gracefully, between the external, internal, and true.

(You didn’t even know you did, did you?)

You don’t have to write 24 books or 12 scripts to change the world.

You can write 124 pages that change everything.

(like Juan Rulfo)

+

I might get a skateboard.

If I do, no more letters, I will likely die.

I’ll write again soon. I need to empty my heart regularly or I don’t know what I’ll do.

— All my love (yesterday, today, tomorrow, always) D

P.S. I should mention, the other day I felt really sad and got drunk on Scotch and soda, which I haven’t done in years.

While drunk, I read your poem, which you had posted minutes earlier, about sorrow and whiskey.

A coincidence, I know, but I love that just the same.

P.P.S… …thinkers… …use… …ellipses… … … …

Dear T —

I’ve fallen in love.

This time with Groucho Marx.

(I’ll take Groucho over Karl any day.)

In English we say —Time heals all wounds. Groucho says —Time wounds all heels.

(truth)

I have so much to tell you I hardly know where to start.

(I always say that; it’s always true.)

I must have six or seven letters worth now, so I won’t tell you everything all at once — how’s that?

I watched “Marty” (1955) — such an adorable movie. The main character reminded me too, too much of myself.

In one scene, he just can’t stop talking (and says so) but he keeps on talking — like he’s never told anyone anything before.

That made me happy. I guess I’m not the only one.

I recently moved all my belongings into a storage locker — all but a suitcase of clothes, a few books, and some cooking utensils.

(I plan to move soon.)

It feels good.

I have profound minimalist tendencies.

Without the clutter, my head feels clearer and I feel lighter too, like I’m on vacation.

(I always loved that banker’s apartment in “9 ½ Weeks” — also a Harvard guy I think lol — maybe too typically a bachelor pad though.)

I may never stop living this way.

While going through some of my boxes, I found two short story collections I had written and completely forgotten about(?!).

Actually one was a collection of children’s stories.

I stood there and read them and it felt as if someone else had written them, probably someone had — a different me, a prior me.

I had no idea what to do with them. Back in the box…

(Reminder to share an update on my writing projects.)

I have been sorting clothes lately, putting winter clothes away and pulling out summer ones.

I have tons of clear boxes and I fold everything Marie Kondo-style and sort by type, size, and color.

I’m very organized and fastidious — I’m sure I’m borderline OCD — especially when it comes to things that I care about.

I have the boxes lined up like books on library shelves — I should create my own Dewey decimal system.

With all the colors and shapes visible through the clear plastic, they look like a Jackson Pollock, beautiful.

For a while, I dressed all in black, then military chic, then like a box of crayons — think David Hockney.

(I was in love with the whole white/pink/orange/camo look too.) 

Lately I’ve been dressing like a carton of Easter eggs, patrician pastels, preppy.

Next I may go full Thom Browne — medium grey suits, blush pink shirt, rose gold watch: me to a tee.

Just need a gin and tonic to finish…

(With my first paycheck from my first job ever, of course, I bought a shirt — I still remember how it smelled, like butter…)

I used to have one of those wooden, standing valets to set your clothes out on for the next day. Maybe I’ll buy another one.

I broke my glasses the other day — I’d had that pair for 4 years or more — but I had the same lenses put into an identical frame: also me to a tee.

Speaking of clothes:

I have decided to copy the couture collections and write a Fall/Winter project and a Spring/Summer project every year.

Maybe I’ll write one drama and one comedy.

I plan to have my current project ready by November but I’ll start the next one in October anyway.

I have been doing a ton of research for my current project, including some traveling — still much more to do.

I’m super excited about it — it’s very me. I’ll tell you more about it later, if you want to know.

I decided to shelve my Penpals project for a while. I made big progress, then I hit a wall.

(Right now it looks like Maria Callas when she was fat — I need to put it on a diet so it will sing better.)

I still have confidence in it though. I think after I have had a break from it, I will have a breakthrough.

I actually can’t wait to get back into it. This project scares me the most because I have hope for it.

My list of children’s stories keeps growing too. I have seven now in total. One is done. Two is half done.

(This does not include the ones I “found” either.)

Did I tell you each story deals with a mental heath issue? It feels very purposeful to write these.

I (half) joined a children’s book writers club — half because I joined but haven’t gone yet lol. I will, I will…

(—I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member. Groucho again.)

Assemble all these projects and you have my heart.

Well, almost all of it.

+

I read what you wrote the other day, about your father.

I couldn’t sleep that night. Tears rolled into my ears.

The next day I tried to hold them back, until I couldn’t anymore.

The pressure made my head throb.

If I can share some observations on my own experiences, maybe they will sound familiar to you.

…because of what happened:

—you feel, intrinsically, unworthy of love, you feel you don’t deserve it (or)

—you think you did something wrong, you think you deserved what they did to you (or both)

—you refuse love when it is given to you, you don’t believe it can be true

—you fear every attachment will go horribly wrong, if not now, soon enough

—intimacy equals fear

—you think love equals pain, it’s all you’ve known it to be

—you miss the only kind of “love” you’ve ever known, which wasn’t love at all, it was the opposite

—you distrust any love that doesn’t feel like that

—you see or hear something (for me, even today, it’s the jingle of keys) and you feel fear

—you push those who want to love you away even though you don’t want to

—you try to protect them from yourself because (you think) you are absolutely no good

—you hurt them to make them leave — viciously if you have to, if you think that’s the only way — and when they leave, they’ve proven your point

—you feel safe now, but disconnected and alone

—you multiply the hurt: you’ve been hurt, you’ve hurt yourself, and now you’ve hurt those who love you

—hurting more you hurt others more, as they say —hurt people hurt people

—you repeat this again and again

(until you face it)

I have done, felt all of this.

You can break this cycle.

(I did. Others have.)

It will take time. It will take help. It will hurt more — at first.

(I think of that man, his arm pinned under a boulder: lose your arm or lose your life.)

Get the help you need.

Nothing else matters.

Only trust can cure this.

Only love can heal this.

You are entitled to love.

(to receive love, to give love)

You are entitled to happiness.

You are entitled to peace.

(No one deserves suffering — not someone ordinary, let alone someone so extraordinary.)

We need your voice.

Your voice matters.

You matter.

You.

Matter.

(You have no idea how much you matter…)

The universe loves you, its own and beloved.

Let the light inside you reach other light.

You’ve already done the hardest thing. You’ve named it. You’ve said it out loud.

I am so, so proud of you for that I can’t even begin…

(I am here for you.

I will always be here for you.)

Every child comes innocent and perfect.

(every one)

I had to say this…

As a father of two healthy, happy, grown, independent children, a daughter and a son, nothing matters more to me.

You would rather hurt for them. You ache for them and with them because love connects you.

I didn’t know how to love before them. I know love now because of them.

(They never call, write, or text me — that means I did well!)

I was proud and ashamed to have only one principle as a parent: never, ever be like my dad.

(I never was.

It’s what I’m most proud of.

He taught me how to be a father by negative example.)

I loved it so much I’d do it again in an instant — dogs and all — only if she wanted it too, of course.

(I had mine really young. I was still a kid myself.)

Families don’t stifle dreams. They strengthen them. They strengthen you.

You won’t believe how strong you can be.

(Names matter, so I gave my daughter a palindrome: no matter which direction she goes in life she’ll always know who she is.)

Thanks to them, I’ve learned the important things in life from their teachers.

One taught me that kids act out to ask for love:

—Hold them, she said, so they know the pain inside can be contained, controlled, transformed…

I have always tried to do that — literally, metaphorically — absorb others’ pain.

Not to release it, but to reverse it. So they can do the same one day.

(I think of it as sucking out the venom.)

Hugging can heal, just like sex between a man and a woman can heal.

(Sex can be whatever you want, whatever you need, whatever you love…

…a bed is a blank page.)

You can give real love with your body.

You can touch their soul through their body.

They are one and the same.

I spent time with some friends recently and their seven year-old daughter.

They love this child so much.

You can see plainly how both parents have locked on to her frequency.

Children loved like this always seem so full.

They don’t have any empty space inside them; they completely fill themselves up with themselves.

(Maybe that’s why they are so heavy!)

The whole time I wanted to give this kid a great big hug, but I didn’t — it would have been for me, not for her.

I have more to say but I will save it for other letters. I promised, not all at once…

+

I haven’t eaten out much lately but the other night I had a meal that made me quite emotional.

The simplest things moved me the most:

—the butter, suspended, dusted with salt like diamonds

—the bread, steaming, swaddled like a baby in its basket

—a wine I’d never had before, from a grape I’d never heard of before, from a winery carved into a mountainside

You could have mistaken the small plates of duck and lamb for a Kandinsky or Malevich.

Everything tasted like where it came from, as if it took you (ethereally) to where it grew.

Each flavor woke memories, sweet and bitter.

I held back the whole meal.

I thought of movies you watch again and again, even though they break you.

(For me, The Iron Giant — why do cartoons about robots always…?)

Unlike films, meals too quickly become irretrievable, only memories.

Neither leave you though. They join you, change you, become you — permanent feasts.

In years you can ask –Remember that…? and it all comes back to you as if it had just happened.

The same way real love always feels like it just happened.

Fresh and warm and sweet as a summer strawberry.

— With all my love (there’s so much) and then some, D

P.S. Who among us actually lives in reality? Groucho again:

—I’m not crazy about reality, but it’s still the only place to get a decent meal.

Actually, I have a lot more to say.

(all good, i promise)

Stay tuned…

*Also, see below 📩

— D

T —

I love you.

I will always love you.

I will stand by you in my heart.

— D

I had a meal tonight that made me cry from beginning to end.

The simplest things moved me the most.

The butter — suspended — dusted with diamond salt.

The bread — hot — that tasted like a field.

An old, fine wine I’d never had before, from a grape I’d never heard of before, grown on ancient vines and crushed in a winery carved into a mountainside.

Everything tasted like where it came from, as if it took you to where it grew.

Each flavor raised memories and emotions, sweet and bitter, that lasted longer than you could believe.

I literally had to hold back through the entire meal.

I thought of movies you watch again and again even though they break you.

(For me, Iron Giant — why do cartoons about robots always fuck you up?)

Unlike films, meals too quickly become irretrievable, only memories.

Yet they never leave you. They change you, stay with you, become part of you — permanent feasts.

In years you can ask –Remember that? and it all comes back to you as if it just happened.

(I walked out, feet above the floor, with a smile that simply would not fade.)

See? — I’ve just relived it by telling you.

— E

*Forgot one thing.

In real love:

—they stand by you, no matter what

— D

Y —

I admit, I “reflect” a little a too much. It comes honestly, the habit of both an introvert and an intellect. So I thought I would try a descriptive approach this time.

(You’ll see why I never do this.)

I’ll start at the beginning. I wake up each morning around 6:30 a.m. I live in Los Angeles but work for a New York City agency, so my work day starts at 10:00 a.m. EST or 7:00 a.m. PST.

Actually, I wake up around 5:30 a.m. each day but just lie in bed half awake, half asleep for that hour — yes, you guessed it — reflecting on things.

Around 6:30 a.m. each day — still in bed — I do a quick scan of social media, check my email, then land on the New York Times.

(I am obsessed with politics and have been ever since high school. I may have mentioned, I once seriously considered becoming a diplomat.)

I read through as much of the newspaper as I can before my daily, morning team conference call — which I take from bed, with my camera off of course.

After the call (where we discuss all the job priorities for the day) I make an Americano using the fussiest espresso machine ever made. (It’s Italian, of course, and constantly needs maintenance.) My grinder, too.

I typically have 3-4 coffees each morning. I don’t have breakfast, or lunch. Instead, I have a small snack around 2:00 p.m. before I go to the gym. The coffee fills me up so I’m not hungry.

With my first morning coffee, I usually have a cigar. People like to have whisky with cigars typically (I prefer rum) though neither of those make for a healthy breakfast.

(As far as coffee beans are concerned, I despise African beans. I love beans from the Americas, especially Guatamala Antigua. My favorite blend I always buy in Santa Barbara from this boutique coffee shop.)

(As far as cigars are concerned, I detest Dominicans and Hondurans. I love Nicaraguans — Nicaraguan filler, binder, and wrapper. They taste of coffee, chocolate, and nuts, the feeling of being warm on a cold winter day.)

When work is busy, I can work from 7 to 2 or 3 or 4 without any sort of break. When work is not busy, I work on my own creative projects, constantly switching between my “work” and “personal” laptops.

(I actually have three “personal” laptops — a MacBook Air and two Chromebooks. I don’t know why but I feel less distracted when writing on a Chromebook, which I”m doing right now.)

After work I hit the gym. I had a personal trainer for a couple of years so I know how to build my own work out routines.

I used to box until I hurt my shoulder and I used to bike until I broke my knee. I still do both though, occasionally. I have excellent cardio. I could do a full 12 rounds of boxing easily. I think I still can.

Usually I buy groceries after the gym. I never know what I want to eat until the moment just before so I never shop in advance. I love grocery stores. I almost never go to the same one twice in a row.

I’ve recently gotten back into going to farmer’s markets, which are like flea markets with produce.

Weekends I sleep in. I love doing laundry, especially folding clean clothes and putting them away. I fold Marie Kondo-style. Did you know she stole her folding technique from the US Navy?

I love washing dirty dishes but I hate putting clean dishes away. Is that weird? Everybody tells me that’s weird. I don’t think so. It feels more satisfying to me. I feel more accomplished.

Maybe I have always just loved doing the dirty work.

You will never have to wash a dirty dish again.

(That’s my small gift to you.)

I also obsess over my beard, usually on Sunday. I use three clippers and two razors to get it right. I confess, I model mine after Ernest Hemingway. He had flair so I don’t apologize for it.

Sunday nights are also for complicated dinners. I can spend the whole afternoon preparing dinner. I look forward to cooking all day, any day. It relieves my stress.

When I cook, I am completely in the moment. It is — besides writing and smoking — where I am. I feel completely free and completely myself. I love that feeling and I love all those activities for that reason.

(I love grocery stores so much in fact that I actually created a playlist on Spotify of songs all about grocery stores. To be honest, I’m more proud of that than most things I have done.)

These days, after dinner, I will have a second cigar. Although I love cigars, I’m not too proud of smoking so much. I have been pretty stressed out lately, so I’m not judging myself for it and allowing it for now. I will cut back though.

Once I’ve finished smoking (and I smoke down to the very end where I literally burn my fingers each time) I move on to the highlight of my day — movie time.

I have a ton of streaming services. It often takes me a while to figure out what I want to watch, way too long sometimes. I usually am “in the mood” for a particular kind of movie and have to find one that fits.

I have cut back on my movie watching only because I want to increase my movie writing. I’ll write afterwards — sometimes for a little while and sometimes for a long while.

I used to stay up late (until 3 or 4 in the morning) but now that I have to get up early for work I have to get to bed before 1 a.m. Sometimes I don’t though.

When I had my old house, I converted my “garage” into a writer’s room. I’d stay up into the early morning hours writing and smoking with the window by my desk open onto the back yard. (I miss those days.)

Oh, before I forget, one of my favorite things is to watch movies with my friend Sarah long distance. I ‘m not sure how that got started but we will watch together and text together throughout the film.

It really, truly is one of the things I cherish most.

Actually, what I cherish most is Sarah herself. We met over 10 years ago when we both actively blogged. We had a rocky start. I think she chewed me out over something, anyway, we got into a huge fight.

We then didn’t talk for months. Then, I think simultaneously, we both apologized to each other and asked if we could start over. (Thank God) She is more than a friend to me; she is like a sister.

This isn’t a letter about Sarah but I have to say, I honestly don’t know what I would do, what I would have done, without her. I trust her completely and can trust her with anything — there is no judgment, ever.

She has seen me at my best (which happens occasionally) and my worst (which happens more often). She is a spark of joy in my life and I am blessed to call her my friend.

(Oh and did I mention we are not in the least alike and I have no idea how we are friends at all? It makes no sense but it works. I could not possibly love her more.)

Sarah lives in Tacoma, and as a matter of fact, most of my closest friends live in different parts of the country, so I never see them in person — and I never, ever call anyone on the phone lol.

I do text like a madman though, that’s how I stay in touch with people. As a writer and introvert, I think texting is an absolute Godsend and total genius. I’m more comfortable in writing…

Actually, I was going to say I am more comfortable in writing than talking but that’s not true. I love talking to people (even strangers) one-on-one but I completely shut down in a group of 3 or more.

I’d make a great talk show host, think Charlie Rose. I actually love people and find them fascinating. What I love most though is human connection.

For example, I have this vintage watch. It looks expensive but I bought it for 40 dollars. I put it on a striped, nylon strap with my college colors, burgundy and white.

One day at the grocery store, the checkout girl complimented me on it, said it reminded her of her grandfather. I said, –This is a real watch, it ticks, hardly anything is real anymore.

She nodded and we both just pondered that thought for a moment. I live for that — when you can arrive at the same place with a total stranger and each learn something about each other.

I’m probably reading too much into it. She probably just thought I was a weird guy bringing up esoteric topics out of loneliness. Maybe both perspectives are true.

Skipping back a few thoughts, I don’t just write my own stuff at night. I literally write all day:

Some of it I type out on my laptop between jobs at work. Some of it I tap out on my phone whenever it pops into my head. (I am an obsessive not taker; I must have thousands of notes on my phone.)

Most of it, however, I write in my head and I just keep it there until I can write it down later.

Like this letter: most of it I wrote in my head while just going about my day today.

You wouldn’t think by looking at that guy sitting there, doing nothing, staring off into space constantly that there was actually anything happening but…

I’m really sleepy right now so I will end with one final thought.

There’s this book called A Little Life — I despise the book but I love the title.

That’s pretty much me: I have a little life but it makes me extremely happy and I love it so much.

I really, really do.

Like right now, for example.

— E

T

(jjb) — 

Since late ‘23, I have been in relationship.

With a hummingbird.

(An actual hummingbird.)

Let me explain.

∙

First, some facts. Hummingbirds:

—live only in the New World

—can fly in any direction, including backwards, and can hover (no other bird can do this)

—are fiercely territorial (it’s said, if hummingbirds were the size of cats, people would never leave their homes)

—have a war cry (by over-beating their wings, they can sound like a WW2 fighter plane)

—have enormous intellect and memory for their size

—are all “single mothers”

∙

For the spiritual, they can represent:

—messengers between the spiritual and physical world

—love, joy, beauty

—romance, passion

—spiritual growth/enlightenment

—prosperity for those it visits

—fearlessness, courageousness, and bravery

—playfulness

—a sense of wonder

∙

To avoid any confusion, my bird is not:

—a “sign from God”

—a coded message

—a metaphor for any relationship, past or present

—a commentary on parenting/mentoring/counseling/friendship

—a goodbye

—plenty of other things…

But a bird is never just a bird.

∙

(Just as I typed this, it came and checked up on me.)

∙

This one lives in my backyard.

About our relationship:

I sit. It flies.

I watch it. It ignores me.

Mostly.

Sometimes it buzzes my head like a kamikaze, so it knows I’m “there.”

Recently it even shat on me.

(I assume nothing personal.)

We have gotten very comfortable in each other’s presence.

It often hovers in front of me at eye level, about a foot or so away.

(I wonder if I put my finger out if it would sit on it.)

We are — as an English friend of mine used to say — “on the nod.”

∙

I never knew if it was a boy or a girl.

(I didn’t want to offend, so I never asked.)

Quickly I got my answer.

∙

One day, I noticed two needles resting on the edge of the nest.

Eventually, two tiny faces; four black, unblinking dots.

They faced the same direction, beaks parallel, eyeing mom.

They sat so still, unmoving — at first.

Over the next few days, one began to squirm.

It spun all around in the nest, practically sitting on its sibling.

It began blinking a lot, cocking its head, taking in everything.

(That one had ADHD.)

Meanwhile, the mother ceaselessly flew in patterns, continually chirping, educating by example.

∙

When she wasn’t doing this, she sat a branch or two away from the nest, still and watchful.

∙

This went on for many days.

Then — moments after I took a picture of the squirmy one standing on the edge of the nest — it flew away.

The way they fly — they seem attached to some invisible Zip line.

The second bird (the runt) flew away two days later.

I didn’t get to see: when I checked, I saw just an empty nest.

The mother now comes once a week or less — though when she does she still buzzes my head.

I miss her.

(I’m a man lonely for a bird.)

This part of my life has ended.

∙

Usually a story I tell offers some meaning.

∙

Last night, as I lay in bed, I kept trying to figure out:

—Why tell this story? —What does it mean? —What does it mean to me?

I wasn’t sure.

∙

So I asked myself:

—What do I know? —How do I feel?

(Mainly, I know what I know by watching what I do and I know how I feel by watching what I think.)

Some answers, shortly…

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First, let me talk about chicken.

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I had been dating H for about two years when someone I knew murdered my close friend, stabbed her to death.

H hesitated dating me. She had just ended a long, complicated relationship with a woman.

We made an instant, fine pair though — happy, giddy, entwined.

We tumbled together like socks in a dryer, stalked the streets like a Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo.

We had only the usual misunderstandings that people have when dating.

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After the murder though, I shut down emotionally.

I couldn’t admit vulnerability, couldn’t bear attachment.

I broke up with her, broke her heart.

(It would have ended in time — it was shallow love, not real love — but I wish it had ended better then.)

Our mutual friends chose sides — all hers — so I grieved alone and drank heavily.

In this one drama, the main character sleeps in a room full of empty alcohol bottles.

The room glows green from the glass.

I had the same room.

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(It was the first and last time I ever drank like that.

I needed to numb the pain, erase all thoughts.

Know that I’m a happy drunk: I laugh at everything then fall asleep.)

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Eventually I quit drinking.

Finally my head had become as clear and sparkling as a freshly washed glass bottle — my heart fully poured out.

I had dinner with H one last time.

We sat facing each other.

Suddenly she began to sob, then said

—You cut chicken beautifully.

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Two years later I dated V.

We lived together.

We’d buy groceries, come home, put them away.

I’d always buy whole chickens. It annoyed her.

With my arms around her waist from behind I’d say

—I’m going to chop your chicken, then I’d lead her to the bedroom.

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V and I lived on a continuum: we’d talk, laugh, cuddle, make love, cuddle, laugh, talk again.

All again, and again.

We accepted each other fully, charmed one another completely.

With her, I first experienced real love.

I experienced it before I could name it.

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In real love:

—you feel safe and protected

—you give each other freedom and you each feel free (if you do not let them be themselves, then who are you loving?)

—you feel seen for who you are and loved for who you are

—you reveal the goodness inside the other

—you transform their pain and nurture their peace

—you feel sure of yourself and of them

—you offer each other your joys: above all, you share your joys

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I’d never felt happier. Of course, I ruined it. I learned though:

Living is learning. Learning is loving. Loving is knowing.

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I’ve never understood when people say relationships are complicated, difficult, hurtful.

I have never experienced that, not once.

(I can’t even imagine it.)

Though I’ve dated women I didn’t like and married a woman I didn’t love — I found it all easy.

(My marriage lasted so long because I made a satisfying partner even though I never loved her.)

Relationships are my superpower.

I think I know why.

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When life crushes your bones and minces your guts — as it did mine — it makes you softer, gentler, warmer.

(If you let it.)

When you heal (you do heal) you understand everyone:

You love people because you know pain.

Pain invites love.

Pain needs love.

Love does, undoes.

Love heals.

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Now that I’ve told you all about the birds in my life, what about those questions?

I don’t need to answer them.

(you know)

Right now an enormous Monarch butterfly keeps circling me and a chameleon just ran past me, changing from lime green to cocoa brown.

(true true, all true)

I will absolutely not get into any of that though.

— D (fc)

Dear Susan:

If you would allow me, I’d like to tell you about four of the losses that I’ve experienced in my life.

(Else, feel free to tear or toss this letter now.)

The first that I can remember occurred in the first grade. I had a friend named Paul. It’s been a minute since I was in the first grade, so to be honest, the only thing I can specifically tell you about Paul — besides that he was my friend and we played together every day — was that he had light, red-brown wavy hair and he was always smiling. That’s the picture of him I carry around in my head, all these years later, his plaid shirt, his shock of hair, and his smile.

In first grade, my homeroom teacher was Ms. Nutt — yeah, everybody got a kick out of that. Plus she was Australian, plus she was a former airline flight attendant — all of which I thought was really cool, even back then. I loved Ms. Nutt. Everybody loved Ms. Nutt.  That morning at school, I remember her seeing her in the hallway outside our classroom, crying. Needless to say, I’d never seen a teacher crying at school before and I knew I didn’t want to know what was going on.

Nowadays, schools have all kinds of “protocols” and maybe they did back then too, so it surprised me when she said what she said —That Paul was hit by a car and killed a block away from school. I knew exactly where, too, because I’d see him cross the street at the big intersection that you could see from the playground. I thought that if I just walked to the end of the hall and looked out the fence I could probably see everything happening in real time. School was just about to start. I didn’t though.

I’m sure that this was the first death that had ever touched me directly. My parents were too cheap and too poor to even get us a pet, so I’d never even had a goldfish die. To be completely honest, I’m telling you what I remember of that time but I don’t remember how I felt, or what I felt, at that moment. I can tell you now though that I can see all of that happening as clearly as if I were watching it on television. I’m sure not a year has gone by that I haven’t thought about it at least once. What I think of is, —What would Paul be doing right now, if that never happened?

(He’d probably be an insurance salesman and annoying and I wouldn’t want to talk to him. But you never know. I’m sure someone somewhere thinks that about me, too.)

The second one I still try not to think about too much. This was in college. A close friend of mine was murdered — in a horrific, gruesome way. Providing any more detail than that would be inappropriate. My friend called me the same afternoon to ask me how I was doing. I said —I’m great, how are you? Obviously, I hadn’t heard yet. My roommate was annoyingly polite and diplomatic, always. He told me what happened, without any of the details that would go on to horrify and haunt me. I refused to believe, told him he was a sick mother-fucker for telling such a joke, and hung up.

She was a happy person too. I always remember her laughing and smiling. She would always be the first person to tell you to cheer up, that everything would be all right. Which was annoying. We had some stupid fight about some stupid something, and it was finals, so when I saw her in the Yard — that last time I ever saw or spoke to her — I was rude. The other thing about this friendship is that I don’t think anyone really knew how close we were. We had different friend groups that didn’t overlap, though we were friends individually. My friend who called me knew, maybe one or two other people.

Let’s see. I quickly ended the three year relationship I was in, even though we hadn’t had any problems except the usual ones people dating at this age have. I began drinking heavily and hardly left my room. Since no one knew we were close, no one thought to console me. I didn’t have the sense to get grief counseling, of course, of course. And because I’d broken up with my girlfriend, breaking her heart, all our friends took sides — mostly hers. So I had essentially lost all of our mutual friends. Because of the drinking, I don’t remember much of that year.

I saw a TV show where I guy — also dealing with trauma — had a room that glowed green from all the booze bottles he’d stash away there. I had that room too.

They say that drinking doesn’t solve anything but, for me, I think it eventually did wash away all the memories and feelings I had about that incident. Eventually I stopped drinking because I didn’t need it to forget anymore — it was gone. My head was as clear and sparkling as a freshly washed glass bottle. Something good did come out of this though. (And I’m not going to tell you about it, because that is another letter, and another answer to another issue.) I actually, finally, began writing a short film about the aftermath of this event. That’s my way of dealing — of turning this pain into a pearl.

So you know, the “good thing that came out of that” that I just mentioned above? That too became a loss, a trauma — though one entirely of my own making. In short, I met a girl — a great girl — and messed it up. I’ve read that rather than exorcise our demons we should befriend them. No, I think we should tame them like dogs, make them do tricks — stand on their hind legs on balls and balance balloons on their noses. I think we should teach them to go to the corner store, pick up a sick pack, and bring back the change. I think we should teach them to play dead. I don’t know.

The fourth loss, I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m ready to talk about yet.

I thought that by writing about the four primary losses in my life that I would arrive at something profound to say about loss. (Oh — I say “primary losses” because I can think of 6, 8, 12 more things right off the top of my head that I could add to this list — couldn’t we all though?) A childhood friend, a college comrade, a first love. Well first, they’re gone. Then, the part of our lives we’ve attached to them is gone. Third, the love is gone. We know we don’t get them back. Do we get ourselves back? Do we get the love back?

I started a new writing project recently. It was very dark. I wrote some things after being hurt that I don’t believe, but they helped extract the venom. I wrote “we love people to lose ourselves,” either right away or eventually. I wrote “we can’t beat love but love can sure beat us.” I wrote a bunch of stuff like that. There’s another quote — I love quotes — about “being stronger in the broken places,” which I think is true at least strictly from an orthopedic point of view. (Getting hurt is sure great for sparking quotes.) That last one is a good one.

I guess I can’t generalize. I can only say how I think these things have changed me — or at least have tried to change me. Which would be: I’ve tried to make something of my life, because I’ve been given one that hasn’t been cut short (so far). I’ve tried to be a better friend, because being a lousy friend is worse than not bothering. I’ve tried to think of every love as a “first love,” an undeserved gift, to be protected as best you are able. (I am just literally crying right now.)

So do we get ourselves back? No, I don’t think we do. We shouldn’t. It’s the new self that really matters, the self after the loss, if we’ve truly faced it. Do we get the love back? Yes, and no. We get love, not the same love, new love, but it’s not for us to keep — it’s for us to give. To give, and give, and give. Love kept is love killed. Breathe it in and breathe it out. Let it give you some life then let it turn the air. Let it give someone else life too.

I’m sure I could ramble on for another couple of pages but I’m going to end abruptly on what seems like a “high note.” Sorry that it took me 4 pages to get 1 paragraph that may have any value. Emphasis on “may.” You are certainly not alone. The Republic of Loss has open borders, I’m told. May you find happiness and peace, and little bit of contentment each and every day.

Very sincerely yours: David Aaron

(A part of the More Love Letters project.)