Tag: love letters

“these could be from your future husband. you could have three kids together”

Hit the ground, keep on running. Take this braille ink and trace it. Don’t stop doing what you’re doing.

I still haven’t. Instead I’ve arranged for dinner with Silva. Red, gold, her house is such a treasure. I leaned over and pulled a antique hunting horn out of the rubble of my room. Something to keep, something to throw away. He sat on the bed and looked around in wonder. The word trove. I leaned over and pulled on his curiosity, showed him the horn. Silva’s house is all silver and glittering crystal. Mirrors and shiny things. Cat haven, dinner at the table, fur at the feet. He took the ring from my keychain in the restaurant. It fit, but the price was impossible. Montreal. Could I fit in the luggage? Possibly. Cramped over in darkness, x-rayed and vulnerable to deprivation. The hallways at the hospital, plastic, granulated, we walk them, one pathway. Go left, go right now. Either way the answer is the same. The bed with buttons waits at the end, uninviting, unwelcome, too cold.

Katie‘s finally selling prints. I’m listed on her site as a “writer, among other things,” though I can’t say I’ve been feeling like it. I was published, but outside of that, I haven’t been doing very much lately. Nothing I come back to. I think it’s because I’m so rarely home. It’s difficult to concentrate at work. I’m interrupted too often to construct a coherent thread of thought.

I received another anonymous myth-letter arrived in the mail last night. I read it to Francois, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. “No way,” he said. “There’s a stack of them.” “And you don’t know who wrote them?” “Not a clue. I thought I’d guessed, but I was told I was wrong.”

we have blue eyes too

Dearest Jhayne,

Once upon a tomorrow, before the
applause fades away, a little boy sits
in a park, holding a fistful of feathers.
“I know where your wings are,” says
a voice from behind him, and he turns
around to see a little girl standing
there. “Don’t be stupid,” the little boy
says. “I don’t have any wings.”
“I’m sorry I told you that,” says
the little girl. “But it’s your fault for not
believing stronger.” The little boy just
looks at his feathers. “Nobody has wings,”
he says at last. “People can’t fly!”
“Don’t listen to the pigeons, they don’t
know anything,” she responds. For
his sake, she turns into
a swan before
she flies away.

X

Love.

Previous letters: one & two, three, four & five & six, seven.

It’s comforting. It solidifies my impression of message-based narrative and adds credence to the assumption that I am The Girl.

Hello letter-author. Thank you. You’re appreciated.

exploded in flames and left ashes by the water for the ocean to take away


you made the world
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

“I can’t come back here,” instead of “I can’t back here like this,” is important. A subtle difference, but a vital one. It’s important not to have distraction. Communication claiming different veins. I like neutral ground. Statements of starry nights, I was raised by multiple rapes and madness. Don’t ask this. Fairness, you stand at the edge of the precipice with me.

I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do and I understand.

Walpurgis Night. Happy fucking anniversary. That’s what the subject line said.

We were fire fit to break my heart. I didn’t realize I was counting until I looked at the clock today and my heart twisted. It’s Beltane, a mark of where the sun is in relation to our skies, the day I looked up, trying to memorize the texture of your voice, and we kissed goodbye. It’s May Day, the day I stood by the shore and shone. This used to be my playground. Another world. There’s a photograph, but not of you. It’s the 229th birthday of the United Kingdom, the day I walked out as if I owned the world. Science fucking fiction. It’s the day the Czech population kisses under the statue of a poet to celebrate National Love Day. It’s the day. A gallery of moments. I hate that post-modern relationships are still the new black.

Once upon a time, before music knew how to be written down and words didn’t know how to sing, there was a boy so beautiful that the goddess of the sky wanted to lick his tangled eyes.

It seems my anonymous fairytale letters have stopped. Every day I check my mailbox and find nothing. Their continual absence is chipping at me, like perhaps I was to have guessed the author by now. I’ve read the letters over and over, inflamed by how devious they are, prying at them for clues, but I still don’t know who to pin them to and now it’s too late. They seem to have guttered out. I feel like I’m letting someone delightful down, someone with a more magical imagination than I have, like this was some sort of enchanting test and my curious intelligence went into retrograde.

‘she offered her honour, he honoured her offer, and all night long he was on her and off her.’


Pike Place Market
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

http://twas.brillig.and.the.slithy.toves.did.gyre.and.gimble.in.the.wabe.all.mimsy.were.the.borogoves.and.the.mome.raths.outgrabe.jabberwocky.com/

Another letter arrived after the long weekend. This one with a different stamp.

Cherished Jhayne,

Once upon a yesterday, when hearts still
hardened and stones still bled, a boy
grew up listening to the wind. “It sounds
almost like singing,” he would say, and
friends and family would laugh at his
fancy. As a youg man he bought a pair
of boots and took to travelling, and did
not say that he was following the voice of
the wind. To himself he would say, “She is
almost singing, but cannot find the melody.”
A traveler one day came across the man as
he stood among the rocks, arms upraised.
“I am teaching the wind to sing,” said the
boy-who-was-now-a-man. The traveler moved
on but many years later passed by the
same spot, and paused upon hearing a
beautiful song. No singer
stood there, merely
the wind, who spun
around a rock
shaped like a
man, with his
arms upraised.

X

Love.

hello.

  • Monkey Fluids
  • Married to the Sea.
  • Cow abduction.
  • Your Paragraph Negates Woofer.

    Duncan as a sweet young thing: part one, part two.

    Saw Brick on Thursday with Sam at the Tinseltown special premier. I watched it with a feeling of deep appreciation, but I don’t think it made the same astounding impression on me as it seems to have on most of my friends. The idea was clever, the follow-through skilled and intelligent, but that’s what I expected. I wasn’t surprised.

    Three more mystery letters have arrived. The last two had no postmark, though they had stamps.

    Beloved Jhayne,

    Once upon a yesterday, when strangers
    woke in familiar places and other woke
    in familiar faces, a young woman walked
    through the forest searching for a flower
    for her hair. Now, any child knows that
    more flowers are found in fields than
    forests, but this young woman was vain
    and wanted a flower one had seen before.
    After much wandering she found a tree with
    golden leaves and blossoms that glittered
    like gems. When she plucked a flower, the
    golden leaves cut her hands and stained
    it red with blood. The young woman ran
    from the forest, and though her hands still bled
    when she arrived home, her mother only said,
    “What a pretty red flower in your hair.” The
    flower never fell or faded,
    and few noticed that
    her fingernails were
    golden and her
    tears glittered
    like gems.

    X

    Love

    		Sweet Jhayne,

    Once upon a yesterday, when the stars
    still sang and the sea still listened, the
    man in the moon came down to visit to you in
    a dream. He said, “Over the rainbow is
    over-rated, you know. I don’t belong in
    a place where blue birds sing, nor
    little girls from Kansas neither.” “I like to
    sing,” you replied. “You’re not from Kansas,
    now, are you?” said he. “And you know
    better than to stop believing in fairy tales.”
    “Sometimes I wonder,” you said, but for now
    you’d believe in dreams, and the man in the
    moon. It’s rude not to believe in someone as
    he sits at the foot of your bed. “I have to
    wake up,” you said, so you may not have
    heard him say, “When the end comes, I’ll be back. We’ll go
    under the rainbow,
    you and I – see
    how far it
    takes us.”

    X Love

    		Precious Jhayne,

    Once upon a yesterday, when certain girls
    cried diamonds and certain trees grew
    gold, a woman lived in a hour on a hill
    from which she could almost see the
    ocean, but not quite. Every night the
    stars would singer her to sleep and she
    would dream of a prince who would show
    her the sea. Every morning she awoke to
    the smell of salt. Once day a handsome
    man passed by her house on the hill,
    and she asked him “Are you my prince?”
    The prince looked at her and said, “I
    would not want an ugly woman.” The ugly
    woman watched as he walked away. That
    night, when the stars began to sing, she said,
    “I do not want to dream anymore.” The stars,
    silenced. Now the ugly
    woman does not sleep
    but looks to where
    she can almost
    see the ocean,
    but not quite.

    X

    Love

    • Ides of March, perfectly the day after Pi.

    He sounds like a man who would nervously laugh when you turned him down.

    Darling Thomas, I left you like bragging rights, like the falling end of winter. A tongue full of stars could not explain how kind your eyes were, how when you winked at me, I very suddenly understood exactly what you meant. Dried memories read from broken electric pages, light spilling in soft s-curves from your lips, the consonants ticking like rain on the window, that was my favourite. Lying in a transitional place scraped free of complications, your whispering to me felt akin to holding my hand over a precipice.


    entry
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    She sounds like a girl who wouldn’t remember your name the week after.

    We are a strange language, affectionate, improbable, and temporary, more a comprehension of melody than a general theme, bridging the artificial gap between where we are and where we’d rather be. Dreams of fractal social interaction, the idea that happiness is possible. Mathematics would deny our existence, stating us as too improbable according to our friends, (Aesop’s fables ignore us), but by candle-light, we carry the sun unmarked in our teeth. The lights off, it’s cats purring instructions on how to build the world a better and faster moon. Clear as a dancefloor, we are unexpected brass mirrors of old-fashioned magnetism, the current underneath the world that explains to blood which way to flow.

    dum spiro, spero (while I breathe, I hope)