74
Wednesday August 08th 2007, 9:21 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To Mrs. Cat Lover,

My house smells like puke, yet we can’t seem to find where the pungent odor is coming from. It’s not the cat, although she does have her own dirty kitty smell. She’s such a little whiner; our cat is. Her name is Wendy, though she seems more like an Amanda to me. Whenever I pick our baby kitty up, she cries a whinny moan. She can’t even meow yet. Maybe she’ll never learn such kitty tricks as how to meow, or catch a mouse, or climb to the highest, most unreachable spot in the house. When I see Wendy, I think of Lilith (I know, it sucks for Wendy but I can’t help such memory associations). When I spoil Wendy by feeding her four times a day, something you’d advise against, I am making up for the absence of Lil in my life. Your new lover, or boyfriend, or whatever, is probably filling my spot as the dominant male role in Lil’s life, which makes me sad. What does it mean when a kitty swishes its tail back and forth? Isn’t that a sign of being anxious, or nervous, or disgruntled? Wendy’s tail is swishing as I write this letter. She really hates human companionship and I can’t blame her. Humans stink like the puke smell in my house. And even if a human tries to cover its stench with man-made fragrances, the words and thoughts which come from its mouth are ten times as nauseating than that of our bitter, selfish and whinny cat. Speaking of human stink, hordes of boozing humans are spilling out of the bar conveniently located across the street from where I am sitting. Their conversations are filling the breezy night air, as their words float towards me in a garbled gust of language. The cat just knocked over a chair in the living room and my attention is shifting from trying to perceive the outside Los Angeles nightlife to trying to focus on my internal Los Angeles domicile. My life is similar to such ambiguous perceptions of knowing– really I’m just as confused as you are, trying to make sense of a senseless system of language, post-action. The voices have simmered across the street and the cat is gone. I am alone in the living room, contemplating the unknowns of tomorrow. My back is turning into a hideously misshapen lump of stress and complaining. With my head down low and my brain up high (coffee and energy drinks) the possibilities of existence never cease to amaze me. Mindy, this is making complete sense to me, as I think about my thoughts. But I know you have no idea, no intention of, nor understanding of my inner wonders in this inner-person state with which I reside. I wonder when this confusion will be supplanted with words of understanding? When is the apotheosis of my existence going to occur? Language is a game with no end and no winner. Children love to play with words, as they do with toys. What were your first words? I can’t recall my first words, yet I do recall my last thoughts of this tired yet sleepless night: Tonight we hold each other under the moonlight, dancing the tango; tonight we will eventually let go of one another to fall endlessly into ourselves.

-Good night and good luck.



73
Wednesday August 01st 2007, 12:01 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a complicated system of loss and love,

As the months go by, my memory of you finds itself lost. Where did you go? What depths of my head have you made your home? Is it cozy where you lay? Are you happy there? I ask aloud even though I already know the answers to these questions. Your specter exists inside me, bound to me as my thoughts are bound to my mind. The more time passes and the longer we are apart, the further I find myself lost in reality. Depression has sunk its fangs deep into my flesh and I feel paralyzed by its bite. My days consist of fear and anger because I don’t know how to deal with our separation. The failures in my life mock me from the time I open my eyes in the morning until the time I pass out in a drunken stupor at night. My body has become malleable and plump which I blame on the beer. There are vague resemblances of happy moments when I find myself wrapped up in conversation with another artist, but beyond these teasers of warmth, I am alone, desperate and lost. This is my complaint: I’ve lost my confidence in myself; the same confidence that gave me the courage to come visit you for the first time in San Jose. My sexual desires are suppressed by low self-esteem. My need to paint is subdued by self-loathing. You are the only one I tell these emotions to, and therefore I keep a barrier facade in place as a confident, warm, outgoing person to the rest of the populace. I wonder if anyone who interacts with me realizes the depths of my despair? Today’s date took me by surprise, as we have almost reached our one-year anniversary from the day that I met you. Can you believe it? A year has passed us by. So much has happened in this past year, I can not begin to recap its magnitude of intensity. The memories flow like a rapid river, swirling thoughts into one another, creating viscous half-truthful stories in my mind. I was thinking of making you a painting for our anniversary, however, considering my mental retardation from the depression, I’d be an achievement if I could sketch a thought on paper for you, let alone paint a painting. Some people claim the self to be its own worse critic, and maybe they’re right in their claim, but for me, the memory of you criticizes me constantly. My inner voice has morphed into the sound of your yells, thus making you my worst critic. I know you have no concern for this process, in terms of how you are separating your life from mine, however, I am greatly concerned by this transformation of the self. The self, and its propagation through time, has been philosophies greatest questionnaire and survey. “Know thyself” spoke the Greek philosophers. Battling ignorance of the self has been a constant plight for great thinkers. I wish I could be ignorant of my thoughts on my self. I’m sure it could be blissful to disregard the self as the primary concern of human existence.

I’ve lost track of my thoughts tonight. It must be getting late.

-thinking