Month: September 2007

From Personal Letters Written Between Ages 14 and 19

I’m no poet.

I love being by myself when it rains. It’s the only time it feels right to be alone.

This part of the day isn’t bad. I like it.

I can hardly picture your face anymore.

I hate people.

I’m talking like a soap opera star again.

Everything comes naturally to you and you don’t have to work at things very hard. Then there’s me.

I’m already putting decorations up and singing Christmas carols.

I feel so lonely but it’s not because I’m alone.

Last night I had a dream that my dad was alive. I didn’t like it. The thing is, I never see him in my dreams. There’s just some reference to “dad” or it is understood that he’s alive.

Today was a strange day. I’m not sure if I liked it.

I like you more than Spam. I feel like you said that to me once.

Today we broke up. It was terrible.

I’m cuter than my senior pictures make me look.

I’m really not a good writer. It’s like that poem about the thought flowing and the words lagging behind. I think about my idea or emotion, but the words don’t convey the intensity of my thoughts.


I had a dream that you were a space man. We got married and had a half-space baby. You also couldn’t breathe oxygen or eat soft brownies.

Question: Am I completely—or mostly—self-concerned? Do I only care about that which affects my life? Do I only like people because they give me something?

I hope the ’90s are better than the ’80s. I have a feeling they will be—people are becoming more accepting and more socially conscious. That makes me happy.

When we see each other, can we play Yahtzee?

The ever-present question: Are you still in love with me?

I’m not spastically paranoid of parties anymore.

I’m scared that this whole weird thing will repeat itself.

My dead bird’s name was Parker. He was named after Charlie Parker, the sax player, whose nickname was Bird.

We’ve really messed up the environment—who’d ever think we’d have 60+ degree weather here in Kansas City in February.

Well, I don’t like the whole music “scene.” Everybody criticizes everyone else and only picks out the bad aspects of other people’s music.

Unfathomable

I remember when 1 million seemed unfathomable—the number of zeros strung along after the 1, as well as what they signified, impossible for me to envision.

I remember people telling me things were supposed to be awkward during what they called my awkward years. I’m not so sure I ever grew out of my awkward years, although I am no longer gangly and my teeth managed to grow in straight.

I used to run away from everything by climbing up a tree or running along an overgrown path to one of many hiding places. It’s not so easy these days to run away.

As soon as I think I’m good at something, someone comes along and reminds me I am not, then tells me the reminding is for my own good.

They tell me I know what I want to say when I write, but that I don’t know how to say it. They tell me my writing is uneven, slightly wrecked. Of course that’s the case, since my writing reflects my life. How could it be any more together than I am? And what’s better: writing that is even and predictable, or writing with a pulse—albeit sometimes weak and irregular—writing that moves under its own control and in ways you, and I, could never anticipate?

For a time after my mother’s death I forgot how little I like people. I thought it was her I disliked and that her death had freed me from that feeling. Turns out it had not.

I went to the grocery store yesterday to have a cheese sandwich. I looked around as I ate it. I had no idea what anyone was doing or why they were doing it. Not one person in that store made any sense to me.

We are all wasting our lives in so many and varied ways.

Writing is just another way to waste time, but at least it allows me to keep a record of how I’ve wasted it. I will always know that yesterday I had a cheese sandwich and took a nap. I will always know the sadness I feel right now, even if one day I manage to move through and beyond it to something else—something that at this moment feels unfathomable and that I can’t yet see clearly.