Friday December 21st 2007, 4:52 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the year,

Today’s date is December 20th, 2005. It is the eve of our one-year wedding anniversary. I am shocked by the date, stunned by time’s ability to always push towards the definition of Being. One year ago, we were planning our wedding, scoping potential sites to hold the ceremony, wondering what the next day’s weather would be like. It was a cloudy San Francisco day when we got to the cave. The sun was hidden behind a curtain of fog and I was afraid that the following day would be just as gloomy. Yet I had hoped that no matter the weather, our wedding day would shine through the dark pages of history giving birth and light to our new life together. On our wedding, there wasn’t a cloud in sight. All my fears dissipated like the fog. The sun shined brilliantly that day. Refracted rays of our glorious sun illuminated the cave where we were wed. One year ago from tomorrow, we entered a cave of enchantment as two separate entities, ready to die as individuals, to be reborn as one being. It was a process of metamorphosis, witnessed by friends and family, blessed by the sun itself. I can’t pretend to imagine how you perceived our matrimony, but I know I felt blessed by the gods above to have died with you, to be reborn with you. We were reincarnated as strong as the roots to the tree of life, as beautiful as the stars above. Today I remembered how wonderful and magical it feels to be in love, and how blissful it is to share a bond with the woman I loved. It was so powerful, not even the devil himself could stand between us… On that day, the day of our wedding, one-year ago from tomorrow, those happy feelings metamorphosed into the two words we said to one another, “I do”. I think I will call you tomorrow to wish you a happy anniversary and to tell you that I will be sending the divorce papers to you this week in the mail.

– Memories

Friday December 21st 2007, 4:37 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the spaces,

Today the sun set brilliantly. Feeling lost in its diminishing rays, I was clouded by its clarity. Today is November 20th; today is just another passing day. We are the passer-bys, rubbernecking the sun set, staring into its space. I messaged you last night when I was drunk with giddiness. I may have even signed my message with the words “I love you”. When I woke up this morning, I regretted my actions. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoke, yet I still feel connected to you. When will we be divorced, I wonder? If we continue living our separate yet connected lives, we will never be free from one another. Everyday I find myself questioning my current circumstance, yet I never come to any conclusions. It’s probably better that way. Thanksgiving is just around the corner. The holidays will be here soon. Our anniversary is the next major celebration on my calendar. I’m not sure what I’ll do to celebrate. I have dreams about suicide, but I don’t talk to anyone about those macabre thoughts. The other day at the office, while in a board meeting, while having my work critiqued, all I could imagine was slicing my wrists open vertically. My mind flooded with images of blood pouring onto the table. My co-workers, not knowing how to handle such a traumatic situation, were frozen with fear. This vision cheered me up for an hour or so. Mindy, I’m trying to do well; I’m trying to make others happy, to make myself happy. I’ve been trying to make art as well, but I find myself sidetracked with social stimulus, which deters me from being as prolific as I would like to be. I feel like no matter how friendly I am and no matter how joyful I make others, I never make them joyful or happy enough. I fool myself into believing in my reflection. It’s silly to create your own image through other people’s comments and critiques. But humans do this all the time. I think I will take a nap now. Goodnight love.


Friday December 21st 2007, 4:29 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the wedding photos,

I cannot stop the tears from falling from my eyes. Trust me, if I could stop myself from crying, I would. Nobody likes a crybaby- especially a grown man crybaby who cannot get over the fact that his ex-lover no longer loves him. God damn those wedding photos for existing in the first place. Tonight was the night you and I said our final sad “goodbyes”, which made me curious how happy we were in the past. I remember being happy on the day of our marriage. I remember your smile, your kiss, your beautiful essence that dissected time and space. I remember wanting nothing less than to love you with all my heart. You made me a better person; you made me feel like a complete being. I look at the photos of you and I, stating our vows inside a mystical cave, and cannot believe how far we have come from the joyous occasion that was our wedding. What happened Mindy? Where did we go wrong? Were we too comfortable with our love? Did we lie to ourselves from the foundation of our lust for one another? What was it that metamorphosed our happy past into the cold bitter darkness we feel towards one another presently? And although I realize these questions are rhetorical and don’t have specific dialectical answers, I can’t help wondering about the decline of our relationship- just as much as I can’t help myself from crying when I think of our current state of affairs. Today you told me that we were at separate points in our lives. I believe this to be a true statement. However, can the self ever be in the exact physical, psychological, or metaphysical position as the Other? No, otherwise, the Other would be the self and reality would come crashing down. So I grant you this obvious statement, but my approval of your observation doesn’t account for us not trying to asymptotically bring ourselves closer to one another through nurturing love and companionship. The admittance of being separate individuals seems cliché at this point in our conscious lives. We should try to move on from such digressive and trite examples of differences to construct an architecturally sound commitment to the bond between two lovers. There were so many mistakes in our past. If only we could have done things differently. God, I hate hypothetical “what if” statements, which is to say, I hate myself. To conclude, my tears have dried; even though I have not come any closer to understanding how a love as brilliant as the love we shared could have died so disastrously. Our love is a child we raised; yet we let it slip away into the void of darkness because of our own egotistical and superficial actions.

-The crybaby

Friday December 21st 2007, 4:12 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters


Hi there. I’d first like to state: I hope you are well today. You see, I can only hope for things like your well-being because there is no other dialogue to confirm or deny my wishes. We no longer speak to one another– the natural progression of separation. However, there is a part of me that wants to welcome you with warmth and positive thoughts. This part battles the beast in me that wants you to feel the suffering I feel. Dualistic beings ignite passionate battlegrounds inside my body. I have become a geographic location for battling self-consciousness. Although I have just recently observed these two opposing armies marching to war, they’ve always been inside me. The process of dualism is a process of conflict, of war, of treaties and compromise. There lies a plane of existence inside the self where intense wars are waged. Why do we turn to Hollywood to visualize such battles when all we have to do is turn our gaze inward and focus on our internal struggles and pains in order to witness intricate strategize battle. All conflict begins with confrontation between two entities, even if those two entities are within the self. The symbol “yin and yang”, black and white, here and there, are all the beginnings of conflict. And even though harmony can exist within such battles, we cannot negate the need for such dualistic philosophies. The heart of the matter takes its birth rite from the psychoanalysis of self and other – the first time the singular recognizes how un-singular it truly is. No matter how individualistic or godlike a star thinks it is, there are millions of other stars in the universe. But why then do we feel so alone in our pains? The answer is that no matter how un-alone we are, we all die alone. That is the gift of death– the ultimate sacrificial gift in the universe. What do you think it means to die a little inside? It’s an obvious figure of speech, however there’s truth behind the metaphor. When we witness our internal struggles battle with each other, there is a victor and a loser, a master and slave, as the outcome of these wars. Our internal battles allow the space for inner angels and beasts to kill one another. And even though these beings inside are subjectively labeled, the objective outcome to a war is control or death. We do actually die a little inside through this process of conflict and juxtaposition of opposing armies. Why is it that we care so much about the tale of the hero? There are countless myths, tales and stories of the hero (just go ask Joseph Compel!). The hero is the victor of conflict; he is a being that armies look towards for inspiration, confidence and support. The hero has experience in battle. He knows when to go on the offensive or when to retreat and defend. A hero has traveled far to gain esoteric wisdom and strength. He knows what it means to loose, and fights he for the greater good (or greater evil, depending on which side he’s on). The hero can turn the tables in a war; the hero knows when he’s been defeated. The hero cannot be found anywhere, but we search everywhere for him. The hero is internal; the hero is a role model. The hero lives forever. The hero never accepts the gift of death.

-Misled hero

Tuesday December 18th 2007, 6:57 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

My progression,

There are nights in which my only outlet for my anxiety is intoxication– not always alcohol, but intoxication in the metaphorical sense. To stimulate my senses in strange, unique and sporadic avenues, whether it is by extreme focus or extreme disjointment. I intoxicate my mind, thus intoxicating my memories of you, which re-route these anxieties into dithered and confused pathways. Is this a normal activity, or better, is this a healthy way to cope with mental anguish? What do you do when you feel asphyxiated by your own chemistry? My fists clench into balls of iron-flesh and wish for nothing more than to slam into a hardened surface. However, I have enough scars on my knuckles to last a lifetime; I’ve even broken a few bones by hitting hard surfaces. But the consequences of those actions are too severe for those anxious moments of madness. Something subtler is more efficient to ward off these “demons.” Preoccupation with art, music, friends, etc. helps to keep me from reaching such extreme levels of anxiety. However, when I find myself alone and contemplating the life I’m living, my preoccupation with divergence morphs into a preoccupation with you (my better side- relatively speaking). When I become preoccupied with you and consequently with my reasons as to why things didn’t work out, I feel a surge of violence rush through me. Not violence towards you– oh god, I would never hurt you. Please don’t ever think otherwise – but violence towards the fates, circumstance and even the whole hegemony of love. What had started as a wishful adventure into the realm of an unknown love developed into something dark and cold. Brilliance turned into desolace as the days turn to night. All things end, except, for PI (but the scientists are still working on that one). But what I mean is that all things mortal, all things sentient, perish. Progression digresses, love turns to hate, man turns to mush, and we are caught in the tsunamis of synthesis. Isn’t this violent process naturally subsequent with the violence I feel late at night alone in my room? The hardest siege between two extremes is when laughter turns to tears. But my assumption is that the neurological centers of the brain, which control these limbic functions, must be near one another. As the laughter centers of the brain become super saturated with stimulus, the surrounding neurons become activated, thus inducing a seemingly bi-polar effect on the body. When we become intoxicated by whatever stimulus, our brain finds ways to incorporate all the incoming signals. I guess an easy way to visualize such a process is by imagining an ice tray that is to be filled with water. When enough water fills the space of one ice cube, the water then overflows into the surrounding spaces. This overflow, or intoxication if you will, is that which causes sporadic anxiety, as much as it cures such anxious moments. I’m sorry to bore you with this letter.


Tuesday December 11th 2007, 1:32 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Dearest One,

Tonight’s conclusion: Fuck you. Oh wait, should I be more philosophical, more poetic for you? Ok, I’ll try– bitch. For whom heaven has cast out, for those where love is no longer life, for that which has seeped through the purest of hearts and the thickest of shields, there is you. You are a black feather on a white dove, a shadow in the valleys of sun, a tarnished stain on the chapel’s walls. DO YOU NOT SEE YOUR OWN DISGUST? Can you not feel the darkness that surrounds you? How can a speck of rust corrode a fine metal? A metal so pure that god herself can see her reflection in its shimmer. Are you a happy demon? Does destruction bring you gratification? Blessed by the horns of Lucifer art thou, and praise thee winged lover of death, as there is no other glorification you shall receive in this journal. The chaos you bring under your tarnished feathers of doom is that which brings my body to its knees. You are the destroyer of goodness; you are the temptation of that which is holy- my being. For your grace, I do not give thee praise, yet I allow you to consume my light, digesting its photons to produce and reproduce darkness – you are the machine which destroys goodness. And yet you call yourself a mortal woman? How can it be, a mortal such as yourself, has the power to convince my love of anything other than its original intention: truth, honesty, joy, laughter and kindness. You make this man, I, a being of light, turn to the shadows. My face cracks and the monster protrudes in your presence. To this day, even at this hour, god’s hour, the thought of you turns this scientist into a lunatic, a maniac of sorts that thrives on death and destruction. You are the poison in the well; you are the vile transformation I have become – a mirror for hate and despair. And yet, you are still my wife, my bond in “holy matrimony” and my official lover. Does this not make sense? Do you see the irony in this dualistic connection? Of course! Everything is coming together now, as the puzzle pieces snap oh so gently into one another. I cannot be the light without your darkness as my shadow. I cannot love without the hate I’ve built for you. The day will not rise if the moon never sets. So set then, you black heart. Fill me with the power to move beyond your void, so that I may shine rays of peace and love to my neighbors. Will you not do me this favor I ask? Can you not accept this truce? I beg of you, die already. Bury your disgrace in a mountain, so that I may rise over the ocean.

-Your Stupid Saint.

Saturday December 08th 2007, 8:28 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the anniversary,

Can you believe it love? One year ago we began “chatting” online… ha! I sound like such a dork when I use the words “chat” and “online” together in the same sentence. Anyway, today is our one-year anniversary of when we began talking to one another. It’s amazing to me, how much can happen in a year. To think, you and I started this chat over the internet, which grew into phone conversation, which lead me to visit you in San Jose (twice); then you moved into my place in Los Angeles where you lived for four months. We moved to San Francisco, got married, found an Apartment and got a beautiful kitten. We both found jobs, you at the vet clinic, me at the University and had amazing passionate sex; but then you started hating your comfort, I fucked up with a drunken letter expressing my inner fears, we broke up, I moved to Mike’s parents’ house and you fucked Justin. I moved back to Los Angeles to a random house, got an Art Studio, moved to the place I am staying now (with friends and other like-minded artists) and finally, here I am today, one year later, writing to you in shock from how fucked up this year has been. There will be many “1 year” anniversaries for us this year, each with its own degree of emotional memories attached to the day. However, I know that I will be the only one celebrating these anniversaries because you could care less how brilliant this past year had been for us. You were living in a fucking trailer park when I met you, bored out of you mind, hoping for something new and exciting to come your way. Well, I hope I didn’t disappoint. I hope you found what you were looking for. I thought I had found what I was searching for when I found you, hence the marriage, but I turns out that there is a temporal nature to that which one wants in the moment. What we want in the now will change, always. I curse myself for not understanding this before we were together. There are so many people who could tell me “I told you so”– but I’d have to punch them in the neck if they did. I know they were right when they warned me about the temporality of lust versus the permanence of love. Maybe that’s why I am having such a hard time with our breakup. I loved you. It wasn’t just lust, like the other’s might suggest. You were the angel in my life; where as now, you are the thorn in my side. If last year was the year of rising up to the challenges of love, then this year will be the year of coming down from the high of our incline. I constantly feel like I’m falling, as if the ground is giving away, and all that is left under me is a black empty abyss. Happy anniversary.


Saturday December 08th 2007, 8:14 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To Mindy,

It’s Sunday, heaven’s day, but by the feel of the heat engulfing my house, it could easily be hell’s day. I awoke searching for you, soon to realize that my dream had convinced me of a lie. I wanted to hug you this morning, but these wants and desires are starting to subside. Each day I’m without you, I grow more disdainful for our break up. I can’t remember the last time we spoke to one another; I guess that’s a good thing. However, there is a recording saved on my phone of you, in your most docile tone, asking for me to call you. I know it sounds strange for me to save this recording, but it helps me not hate you when I listen to it. You see, I’ve begun to imagine who you are; you have become someone strange to me, a stranger that constantly plays tricks on my psyche. And for that, I’ve grown distaste for you. Even the sight of you– pictures that I have– makes my stomach churn. But the message I’ve saved to the phone helps reconnect a healthy understanding of who you are, rather than allowing my imagination turn you into a serpent of evil intentions. There have been nights preceding this letter, that I’ve almost given up on existing. I ride the borderline between suicide and wanting to continue living. How can such polarization occur? It seems like such a thin division between killing oneself and propagating one’s survival. How would you tell the news of my death? I doubt you’d be too upset. I’m sure there’s someone in your life that will comfort your tears (wishful thinking, I know), and then you’d move on, as you should. You’d be a widower at that point, while I’d just be another sorry statistic. There are certain actions I take to help maneuver myself away from these incredibly macabre thoughts like: clean the house, find a friend to talk to (without telling him or her how fucked up I am), go for a walk or bike ride. I have to activate my body to assist my mind from venturing too far down the dark narrow road of suicide. Why am I suicidal, I wonder? Is this a chemical imbalance? Am I really that depressed? Or maybe I just don’t want to live because death seems so much more attractive than living persons like you, whom I constantly find in life, and remind me of my daily failures. You mock me when I think of you smiling in San Francisco. As my eyes close and I ponder your happiness, a dark clouded numbness fills my body– from my toe to the tip of my neck– and I begin to sway from the unbalanced feeling of no feeling. Is this a self-defense mechanism? Is my body in shock? The tingles, which rush through my extremities, are exhilarating. I feel drunk on darkness. When will it end, dear wife? I can only ask you these questions, as I’ve not built friendships to real people in the same manner that I built this dialogue with you. Therefore, I am lonely; I am alone.


Saturday December 08th 2007, 8:04 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the exhaust factor,

I’m pretty sure today is Sunday; however, don’t quote me on this. The days pass by and continue to advance, no matter my mental state. Today could just as well be Friday, or even a Tuesday. It’s easy to lose myself in a week when I’m jobless and hopeless. There is a constant nagging in my mind “Get a job; get a clue.” I try to ward off these bitter toned commands with thoughts of positive experiences I’m having here in Los Angeles. Like last night for example, my friend and I did a live drawing at a warehouse gallery. We sat in front of a 4-foot by 7 ft canvas and rendered out a post-apocalyptic image of a deserted street scene, where nature has rebirthed and regrown around all the man made structures and technologies. The center of the piece had a car with a tree growing out from under its hood. When all was said and drawn, our piece was one of the best in the show. We worked on it for six straight hours, which I am proud of. Best of all, we now have a new drawing to furnish the wall of our living room at the house I am living. In sadder news, the painting I made of you and Konanni, lying together, was destroyed today by a vicious dammar varnishing. The ruined painting mocks me and so I can’t decide whether or not to throw it away. It was a nice intimate piece, which I hadn’t documented. And so, it is destroyed, and will never live as a painting that could have been hung on the wall of a gallery. On the bright side of this tragic death, I can now stop lamenting over those stupid photos of you and Ko. I transcended that pain through the painting and the painting is now dead. Therefore, my pain has died with it. My studio walls are bare, except for the dead monkeys drawn directly on the drywall. I feel bad because I haven’t been in the studio for two weeks, until today of course. But I’ve been keeping myself busy, doing design work here and there, as I narrowly skate by my bills this month. I have to find a job by next month, otherwise I won’t be able keep my studio space; and by not keeping my studio space, my mental health will plummet into a deep depression (worse than it already is now). There are many specters in my past that visit me from time to time. You, being an obvious one, visit me in my dreams; however, I usually awake even more tired than I was before I went to sleep – you exhaust me, my dear. Many other ghosts come in material forms, as reminders that spark memories of real people from my past. I’m pretty sure these specters are plain neurological consequences of a normal and healthy imaginative memory system, but maybe someday I’ll let a psychiatrist confirm this suspicion. What is it that makes memories ignite? Why can’t we pick and choose how the autonomous neurological mesh we call a brain, function’s with regard to memory? That would be a nice ability for me right now– to get rid of my painful memories and maybe even supplant them with imagined and made up ones. Someday I’ll find a way to make reality twist and turn to my bidding, but not tonight. No, tonight I will work on getting you out of my dreams. I hope the destruction of your painting is a sign that you are disappearing from my mind.