Dear Mr. Ineffable Baritone,
Ha ha! I remember in that precious twenty hours, we had breakfast, you and I. I was trying my best to be a possibly engaging person for you to spend your day with, and asked you quite impulsively whether or not people liked you? And you looked up from your tea with that face of yours, that signature expression, and you answered flatly,
"Not really."
I wanted to take a picture and stop time forever. It was too good. It was that one moment that made me realize exactly who you are. Exactly the way your thoughts stream throught that magnificent mind of yours... and oh how they do. Ha. Well, I'm sure you know what I mean. I asked you why it was and you just peered at me over your cup with your dark eyes which eased, if just for a moment, in amusement at the sound of my thoughtless inquiry. And you told me you weren't so sure yourself.
"Intimidation," I couldn't help but to squeak it, "is overwhelming. It can make people feel bitter..."
"Intimidation? You think that is the problem, do you?"
"It's likely."
You lowered your gaze and focused dutifully on watching the steaming dark liquid ripple over itself in your porcelain mug. Your expression was easygoing, contemplative, mildly exhausted. I remember it well, although you do not. You are probably reading these cluttered garbles and wondering whether or not I'm just making all of this up, but I'm not. This is how I saw it. This is how it went.
No matter how much time passed, you yourself never turned to an unpleasant phase. I looked at you, your easy and graceful stride, and I couldn't find the coldness they speak about. There was no razor-edge or strange distance they warned me about, or rudeness or adruptness or alienation. Perhaps I am blind, I thought at first. Perhaps I'm seeing only what I want to see. Was I? Were they all right in saying that you're not a kind person? Even if I was, I truly can't believe it in my heart. My brain can tell me, "You're just being blind and it's all wishful thinking. Nothing is ever what it seems." And something else inside me tells me, "He's himself. Whoever he is, it doesn't quite matter. Because he's himself." And that's how I settled on it. I can admit sadly that I don't know you well enough to come to a conclusion. But in twenty hours, you did not show me coldness. You showed me gentleness, charm and a small flame of strong conviction burning beneath your wise and weathered eyes. I would steal your eyes and lock them in some gothic rusting token box and whenever I opened it I would be reminded of how you looked when you said, "Not really."
So you believed that you are not liked?
And I believe that I am emotionally blind?
Then I watched your face twist into a bitter smirk and you gave me the rest of your lemon cookie and told me, "Let's get going. It's going to be a long day." And we slipped out of our breakfast cafe and ducked around the side of the building so you could show me the paintings and tell me the stories about them.
And I really do think it is intimidation. You make people go eiher very white or very red and they stare at their feet and mumble, or they'll ramble rampantly to you in order to compensate for their obvious lack of esteem compared to you. They become uncomfortable. Do not ever believe that it's because you are "cold". The fact is, my friend, that you are stately and well-composed and venerable. You carry yourself with the gravitas of a much older person, you voice is likethunder. You strike awe in people. You strike awe in me.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Letter: September 5
Dear Mr. Ineffable Baritone,
I know you think you don't know me. But you do. You... did. For a very short amount of time, about a day. Twenty hours to be exact. We spent the day together, doing whatever we wanted to do. It was about a week before your incident. I am going to write to you. I am going to reconstruct things I remember about who you were. You have to forgive me when I skip around. I'm struggling to put it down.
It was an oddly misplaced phenomenon to view your being, stately and groomed as it always is, in McDonald's. Like that sculpture of a Grecian hero I saw in the Uffizi, and what it would have looked like if I were to place it in the center of Wal-Mart. A tropical fish in a trout farm. Amusingly, and brazenly, clashing like some surrealist figure... And the moment you spoke your voice made a conflict with everything surrounding you. So, even, that I had to bite back mirth.
Is it possible that I was only yards away from you? I don't think it's likely. Surely you would not be at Paddington Station in the late part of May. That would be something unconditionally lucky (on my part). I must have crossed paths with so many important, authoritative people that day but you're the only one I was concerned about. I've only seen you once. And despite what people tell me, once is not enough to last me a lifetime. Once is enough to drive me mad. Well, regardless of whether or not you were home that day in Paddington Station, I wasn't able to see much beside the pidgeons and some kind of love letter from Crete written in blue pen stuck to the bottom of my shoe. (Maybe someday I'll find out who wrote the letter. It was unsigned, addressed to "Beowulf", and says that "the weather is unclement in Crete this week". Why does that sound encoded? London is filled with mysteries. Including the toilets.) Well, yes. Pidgeons and a piece of paper stuck to my Merrills. What am I to do?
They say you're a cold kind of guy. I don't think so. I think you just know what you want and what you like and you probably don't bother with the rest. You could, but you don't. That's what I like about you. Your mind works in complicated intrevals and thought is oriented around soul. You want to know why I know that? So do I. It's driving me nuts.
Mr. IB, I know everything about you. I know how you think and why you think it. I can erad your actions moments beofre they even happen. My mind is tied to yours at the core like a correspondance system. Somehow I can never doubt what you're saying to me. And when you tell a fib or a lie about something, to sidestep a complicated subject, or to conceal some component of your life, I know it immediately. I may not know the truth behind your mild fabrications, but I do know that there is something brilliant lurking behind your eyes. There is something precious which you must not let out.
As I was saying, some people claim that you are cold. Distant and difficult to reach. I claim that you are startlingly warm. Like pulling a favorite sweater out of the dryer and feeling it bless your skin with its freshness. Something familiar and embracing. How could you be cold? You are no colder than a brick baking in the sun. You are not colder than a herald angel's voice. No more distant than a heart to beating. I feel every contour of yor thought processes as though I could run my fingertips over them. And, although on my part this is somewhat difficult to admit to you who are sitting reading and utter unremembering victim to my observations of you, I must imagine what sensations I could conjure if I were to run my fingertips over your physical form and be as equally so involved with this area of observation as I am with your mind. I would feel your palms and the work your hands have done. But I cannot.
So often you are incomplete to me, just as my own incomplete letters to you will never be signed with my name.
Do you ever wonder what my palms feel like too?
I know you think you don't know me. But you do. You... did. For a very short amount of time, about a day. Twenty hours to be exact. We spent the day together, doing whatever we wanted to do. It was about a week before your incident. I am going to write to you. I am going to reconstruct things I remember about who you were. You have to forgive me when I skip around. I'm struggling to put it down.
It was an oddly misplaced phenomenon to view your being, stately and groomed as it always is, in McDonald's. Like that sculpture of a Grecian hero I saw in the Uffizi, and what it would have looked like if I were to place it in the center of Wal-Mart. A tropical fish in a trout farm. Amusingly, and brazenly, clashing like some surrealist figure... And the moment you spoke your voice made a conflict with everything surrounding you. So, even, that I had to bite back mirth.
Is it possible that I was only yards away from you? I don't think it's likely. Surely you would not be at Paddington Station in the late part of May. That would be something unconditionally lucky (on my part). I must have crossed paths with so many important, authoritative people that day but you're the only one I was concerned about. I've only seen you once. And despite what people tell me, once is not enough to last me a lifetime. Once is enough to drive me mad. Well, regardless of whether or not you were home that day in Paddington Station, I wasn't able to see much beside the pidgeons and some kind of love letter from Crete written in blue pen stuck to the bottom of my shoe. (Maybe someday I'll find out who wrote the letter. It was unsigned, addressed to "Beowulf", and says that "the weather is unclement in Crete this week". Why does that sound encoded? London is filled with mysteries. Including the toilets.) Well, yes. Pidgeons and a piece of paper stuck to my Merrills. What am I to do?
They say you're a cold kind of guy. I don't think so. I think you just know what you want and what you like and you probably don't bother with the rest. You could, but you don't. That's what I like about you. Your mind works in complicated intrevals and thought is oriented around soul. You want to know why I know that? So do I. It's driving me nuts.
Mr. IB, I know everything about you. I know how you think and why you think it. I can erad your actions moments beofre they even happen. My mind is tied to yours at the core like a correspondance system. Somehow I can never doubt what you're saying to me. And when you tell a fib or a lie about something, to sidestep a complicated subject, or to conceal some component of your life, I know it immediately. I may not know the truth behind your mild fabrications, but I do know that there is something brilliant lurking behind your eyes. There is something precious which you must not let out.
As I was saying, some people claim that you are cold. Distant and difficult to reach. I claim that you are startlingly warm. Like pulling a favorite sweater out of the dryer and feeling it bless your skin with its freshness. Something familiar and embracing. How could you be cold? You are no colder than a brick baking in the sun. You are not colder than a herald angel's voice. No more distant than a heart to beating. I feel every contour of yor thought processes as though I could run my fingertips over them. And, although on my part this is somewhat difficult to admit to you who are sitting reading and utter unremembering victim to my observations of you, I must imagine what sensations I could conjure if I were to run my fingertips over your physical form and be as equally so involved with this area of observation as I am with your mind. I would feel your palms and the work your hands have done. But I cannot.
So often you are incomplete to me, just as my own incomplete letters to you will never be signed with my name.
Do you ever wonder what my palms feel like too?
Letter: August 17
Dear Mr. Ineffable Baritone,
We've established many things about each other over the last month or so, and I feel it is safe to share these truths which I did not hold to be self-evident, because it actually took a lot of time to investigate. Twenty hours is not a long time to get to know someone, i now realize with a sad heart. But no matter.
+ You were a stage actor, mostly for Shakepearean plays, in which you graced Hamlet in cloth and earth-shatteringly deep theater voice.
+ You do not need to eat. Not if you don't want to. Not anything. I have tried and failed to bribe you out of the closet with food, but apparently you do not accept leverage. Of any kind.
+ You would probably look very nice and suave and cleaned-up if you decided to shave-and-suit one day. Although I must say, the turtlenecks and battered blue jeans are kind of eye-catching.
+ You probably could get away with anything if you wanted to. The baritone, after all, is ineffable, and can convince nearly any person who isn't deaf to do anything or believe any words you wanted them to. (Then again, even a deaf person would be intimidated by the deeply-resounding vibrations you voice makes in the concrete.)If you told me that you were going to grind up power tools in a blender and drink them as an energy shake, I would totally go for it and set you loose in my dad's workshop and garage. I shit you not.
+ If I ever asked you to set me loose in your garage, you'd raise your eyebrows and tell me that I must be feeling frisky today.
We've established many things about each other over the last month or so, and I feel it is safe to share these truths which I did not hold to be self-evident, because it actually took a lot of time to investigate. Twenty hours is not a long time to get to know someone, i now realize with a sad heart. But no matter.
+ You were a stage actor, mostly for Shakepearean plays, in which you graced Hamlet in cloth and earth-shatteringly deep theater voice.
+ You do not need to eat. Not if you don't want to. Not anything. I have tried and failed to bribe you out of the closet with food, but apparently you do not accept leverage. Of any kind.
+ You would probably look very nice and suave and cleaned-up if you decided to shave-and-suit one day. Although I must say, the turtlenecks and battered blue jeans are kind of eye-catching.
+ You probably could get away with anything if you wanted to. The baritone, after all, is ineffable, and can convince nearly any person who isn't deaf to do anything or believe any words you wanted them to. (Then again, even a deaf person would be intimidated by the deeply-resounding vibrations you voice makes in the concrete.)If you told me that you were going to grind up power tools in a blender and drink them as an energy shake, I would totally go for it and set you loose in my dad's workshop and garage. I shit you not.
+ If I ever asked you to set me loose in your garage, you'd raise your eyebrows and tell me that I must be feeling frisky today.
Air-Cushion Finish
What's new now?
I'm in school, big bad high school. Which is actually sort of enjoyable. I have made friends. They are all from foreign ethnicities. I just happened that way. Krishna, Alexei, Ali, Yoorah, Laurence, Sarai, Kwo-Zong, In-yung. Just to name a few. I'm the white one. It's kind of funny.
I am currently fictionalizing my accounts of the someone very famous locked in my closet. It's better than cheese - super fun to write. But really sad, too. Really really sad. It's collaberated in a series of letters, sometimes poems.
I'll post a few today.
I'm in school, big bad high school. Which is actually sort of enjoyable. I have made friends. They are all from foreign ethnicities. I just happened that way. Krishna, Alexei, Ali, Yoorah, Laurence, Sarai, Kwo-Zong, In-yung. Just to name a few. I'm the white one. It's kind of funny.
I am currently fictionalizing my accounts of the someone very famous locked in my closet. It's better than cheese - super fun to write. But really sad, too. Really really sad. It's collaberated in a series of letters, sometimes poems.
I'll post a few today.
A Crank on Mr. IB
Maybe I should
give up and stop it.
Writing my weird & too-personal
unsigned letters
to a man who
has amnesia.
Maybe it was meant to
happen
like this.
Maybe I when my
stomach turns on
itself every night,
and I want to
cry out,
it's only because I know
that it's
too late
to save him.
give up and stop it.
Writing my weird & too-personal
unsigned letters
to a man who
has amnesia.
Maybe it was meant to
happen
like this.
Maybe I when my
stomach turns on
itself every night,
and I want to
cry out,
it's only because I know
that it's
too late
to save him.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Peas
Headache
Knots in the stomach, not altogether unpleasant
Just inconvenient
Extended groan.
Walk into a corner and tell yourself NO!
Don't do it.
Then walk out of the corner
And go and do it anyway
Can't control it.
Huge green peas!
Shiny too!
Get out of my head.
-
All right, so here's how it goes:
You're just sort of sitting there, and then you see this person, and then you're like...
Jesus.
And then suddenly green is your favorite color, all you want is some coffee, a good time, music, go to a breezy place and hang off a cliff.
See this person and suddenly your mind commits suicide and your stomach decides to eat itself.
See this person and suddenly it's never the same.
Look at old pictures of yourself and wonder, "Where did that girl go?"
Can't decide to follow person the person around, or just to fade into the background and TRY TRY TRY to forget. Can't do that, you tell yourself very sternly. You are going to make yourself be good.
But then you can't do it and it all comes crashing around your ankles!
Next time you are going to say something clever and memorable, right? No. Don't try. It's just like Jesse says. Don't kill it if you haven't killed it already. Don't try.
And then all you can think is fuck I screwed us all over.
Knots in the stomach, not altogether unpleasant
Just inconvenient
Extended groan.
Walk into a corner and tell yourself NO!
Don't do it.
Then walk out of the corner
And go and do it anyway
Can't control it.
Huge green peas!
Shiny too!
Get out of my head.
-
All right, so here's how it goes:
You're just sort of sitting there, and then you see this person, and then you're like...
Jesus.
And then suddenly green is your favorite color, all you want is some coffee, a good time, music, go to a breezy place and hang off a cliff.
See this person and suddenly your mind commits suicide and your stomach decides to eat itself.
See this person and suddenly it's never the same.
Look at old pictures of yourself and wonder, "Where did that girl go?"
Can't decide to follow person the person around, or just to fade into the background and TRY TRY TRY to forget. Can't do that, you tell yourself very sternly. You are going to make yourself be good.
But then you can't do it and it all comes crashing around your ankles!
Next time you are going to say something clever and memorable, right? No. Don't try. It's just like Jesse says. Don't kill it if you haven't killed it already. Don't try.
And then all you can think is fuck I screwed us all over.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Cluster of Nights
My dreams grow twisted. I haven't had a dream like this one in years.
If it were about anything or anyone else, I would probably be explaining what happened in my dream. But, because it is... the way it is... I will refrain from doing anything of the sort. Just know that it was very strange. The kind of dream that haunts you, sticks with you for the rest of the day and you simply can't shake the images from yours mind.
Parts of it were terrifying, parts of it were nauseating, parts of it were actually enjoyable. Dreams are like that. My dreams usually come in a cluster of nights all in a row, and I've been having strange dreams these days. Some are related and some are not.
"It's just a dream." ... This phrase confuses me. Yes, it was a dream, but why doesn't that mean it didn't actually happen? Who says it couldn't? Why is that things confined to my mind are "not real"? I think the things in the minds of humans are very real. We see them, smell them, feel them. How are they not real? Is anything ever really "fake"...?
If it were about anything or anyone else, I would probably be explaining what happened in my dream. But, because it is... the way it is... I will refrain from doing anything of the sort. Just know that it was very strange. The kind of dream that haunts you, sticks with you for the rest of the day and you simply can't shake the images from yours mind.
Parts of it were terrifying, parts of it were nauseating, parts of it were actually enjoyable. Dreams are like that. My dreams usually come in a cluster of nights all in a row, and I've been having strange dreams these days. Some are related and some are not.
"It's just a dream." ... This phrase confuses me. Yes, it was a dream, but why doesn't that mean it didn't actually happen? Who says it couldn't? Why is that things confined to my mind are "not real"? I think the things in the minds of humans are very real. We see them, smell them, feel them. How are they not real? Is anything ever really "fake"...?
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Roll Smoothly
I got my schedule...
Creative Writing
This will be fun - Holly did it and she said it was relatively enjoyable. And besides, I like writing. Obviously.
Honors English
Hopefully this will not drag along like my English class last year did. Of course, that was only because my teacher last year was an old butterball with nothing to offer except scathing sarcasm and pessimism.
Honors Ancient History
Everyone says it sucks after a while. I will learn to love it. History is good.
French
Freshmen must take French I unless they take a test to be placed in French II. I'm going to do that - there is no way I'm going to take French I again.
Art I
HELL. YES. It's art and that's all that matters.
Theater I
Well, I've got good stage presence. And even if I suck, I can still design the set and things like that.
Algebra
I decided to retake Algebra I. I'm feeling confident, because I did it all last year, and I didn't want to push myself beyond my limit with math. I suck at math.
Honors Biology
I like science. It'll roll smoothly enough. It always has. I got a 92 on my science final last year.
Creative Writing
This will be fun - Holly did it and she said it was relatively enjoyable. And besides, I like writing. Obviously.
Honors English
Hopefully this will not drag along like my English class last year did. Of course, that was only because my teacher last year was an old butterball with nothing to offer except scathing sarcasm and pessimism.
Honors Ancient History
Everyone says it sucks after a while. I will learn to love it. History is good.
French
Freshmen must take French I unless they take a test to be placed in French II. I'm going to do that - there is no way I'm going to take French I again.
Art I
HELL. YES. It's art and that's all that matters.
Theater I
Well, I've got good stage presence. And even if I suck, I can still design the set and things like that.
Algebra
I decided to retake Algebra I. I'm feeling confident, because I did it all last year, and I didn't want to push myself beyond my limit with math. I suck at math.
Honors Biology
I like science. It'll roll smoothly enough. It always has. I got a 92 on my science final last year.
Bask
Here's another letter that I will never send.
Dear J.K. Rowling,
You get a lot of fanmail, I take it. A lot of fan mail which you will never read because there's probably enough of it to bury you alive. You probably have a vault all for the fanmail you get, an enormous vault into which your workers and interns push wheelbarrows of adoration.
I am just another typical teenage girl wanting to know how the hell you did it. I am a normal fan who enjoyed your books very, very much. I would like to think that I am not, but I am. There is no way to deny it.
And I have a few things to say.
First, I think your name rocks. "J.K." Is that... seriously your name? Do people walk around calling you "J.K.", whenever you're not being "Ms. Rowling" or, better and more likely, "Ms. Rowling the Great and Talented"? I've always wanted a cool name. My name isn't anything good, really, only strange.
Second, what do you think of all this? What do you think of being the great mistress of your own alternate universe, your own fan-created cult, a movie series based upon your work of imagination? How do you handle it? More importantly, how do you get around town without being mauled by rabid onlookers? Do you wear a wig when you go grocery shopping or something like that?
And third, I really hope you keep writing and doing what you want. Really and truly. For you, it should be about you writing and creating things. I really hope you don't get hung up on all these fans expecting great things from you. Ignore us. Honestly, just write for yourself. Do not feel pressured. If you have another idea for a book, let it out and don't be afraid of disturbing the image of being "The Harry Potter Lady". Of course HP must be a very important part of your life, but I know, somehow, that is not what defines you as a person. You are a fantastic writer. And, now that you have all the world under your spell, you can do anything. Your opportunities are endless. Your are not Harry Potter and you are not your fans. You are you, and you can do what you choose to do. I hope you keep writing for the sake of writing, and not writing to please the world around you. That's what it's all about!
I'm behind you all the way. I think you are incredible, and so do thousands of others. Bask in your glory. It is well-deserved.
Best regards.
Dear J.K. Rowling,
You get a lot of fanmail, I take it. A lot of fan mail which you will never read because there's probably enough of it to bury you alive. You probably have a vault all for the fanmail you get, an enormous vault into which your workers and interns push wheelbarrows of adoration.
I am just another typical teenage girl wanting to know how the hell you did it. I am a normal fan who enjoyed your books very, very much. I would like to think that I am not, but I am. There is no way to deny it.
And I have a few things to say.
First, I think your name rocks. "J.K." Is that... seriously your name? Do people walk around calling you "J.K.", whenever you're not being "Ms. Rowling" or, better and more likely, "Ms. Rowling the Great and Talented"? I've always wanted a cool name. My name isn't anything good, really, only strange.
Second, what do you think of all this? What do you think of being the great mistress of your own alternate universe, your own fan-created cult, a movie series based upon your work of imagination? How do you handle it? More importantly, how do you get around town without being mauled by rabid onlookers? Do you wear a wig when you go grocery shopping or something like that?
And third, I really hope you keep writing and doing what you want. Really and truly. For you, it should be about you writing and creating things. I really hope you don't get hung up on all these fans expecting great things from you. Ignore us. Honestly, just write for yourself. Do not feel pressured. If you have another idea for a book, let it out and don't be afraid of disturbing the image of being "The Harry Potter Lady". Of course HP must be a very important part of your life, but I know, somehow, that is not what defines you as a person. You are a fantastic writer. And, now that you have all the world under your spell, you can do anything. Your opportunities are endless. Your are not Harry Potter and you are not your fans. You are you, and you can do what you choose to do. I hope you keep writing for the sake of writing, and not writing to please the world around you. That's what it's all about!
I'm behind you all the way. I think you are incredible, and so do thousands of others. Bask in your glory. It is well-deserved.
Best regards.
Insanity Mellon
Today at around 4 pm I'm going to this new high school of mine and getting my schedule and my picture taken. "Summer Insanity" is what it's called. When the entire population of the school is there to sort out the first semester. Apparently, according to my friend Holly, it gets very hot and sweaty, and therefore I should get my picture taken first to I don't look like a greased pig in my student ID. This will be difficult to achieve, because I look like a greased pig most of the time anyway. I will try my hardest to look normal. You know. Washed. Shaved. Hair effectively fried by my new wet-dry flat iron. I will be just another nameless face of a normal high school girl and I'll out at sea for the next few years. It will be fun. I am feeling optimistic.
Maybe if I take chemistry some time I'll meet...
No, stop me there.
Physics? Not likely, although I wish it were. I am fascinated by physics despite my inability to actually do it. My uncle is a physicist. He wrote two books about Optimization - I have the signed copies in my room. Sometimes I read them to try my best to understand. The basics are rather self-explanatory but I'm afraid that I don't understand the fundamentals, or dual roof whatnot... He is a professor at Carnegie Mellon. He travels the world and sends my brother and I post cards from places like Turkey and Pakistan. He is currently living in London. I would like to visit him there.
Anyway. My biggest concern is being able to take art courses. I must have a recommendation written by my former art teacher. I love my former art teacher. She's all heart. I'm going to go back and visit her all the time.
Maybe if I take chemistry some time I'll meet...
No, stop me there.
Physics? Not likely, although I wish it were. I am fascinated by physics despite my inability to actually do it. My uncle is a physicist. He wrote two books about Optimization - I have the signed copies in my room. Sometimes I read them to try my best to understand. The basics are rather self-explanatory but I'm afraid that I don't understand the fundamentals, or dual roof whatnot... He is a professor at Carnegie Mellon. He travels the world and sends my brother and I post cards from places like Turkey and Pakistan. He is currently living in London. I would like to visit him there.
Anyway. My biggest concern is being able to take art courses. I must have a recommendation written by my former art teacher. I love my former art teacher. She's all heart. I'm going to go back and visit her all the time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
