6.01.2017

Letter

Dear _____,

Last time I saw you, you told me about how things ended with your boyfriend. Since then, on occasion, I’ll picture you in bed together, watching videos like you said. But visualizing this scene—t-shirts, bent heads—and lacking further context, the headboard was the one from my parents’ bed.

There is a mole on the back of my head. There is a president who wants us all dead.

There is a developer in New York City. He puts his palms to his lips; I want his hands on me.

I’ve even been toying with a pickup line over it: boy, you must be in my sensate cluster, because we’ve been fucking in my mind all day!

Imagine the reader, they advise to writers. You know you are sometimes the reader I imagine.

If I ever get around to writing fiction, I could make it an epistolary novel. I would write you about the disappearance of a mutual friend. I have not decided yet, but he might have vanished for supernatural reasons.

At yoga yesterday, the instructor played music from his phone during the class. At the end we lay there in corpse pose. “1979.” It was a cover. Not the original, which you put on a mix CD for my birthday.

The weather here is shit.

I went out to lunch with my boss. He thinks so differently from me that he is a good influence. He works, plays, rests with intensity. He told me he thinks of his life in five-year projects. “I only have four left!” It made me anxious. That was as good a reason to pick up a pen as any.

I took a break from writing you to consult an old journal. The writing is terrible, but I laughed to find a memory of my sister’s wedding. Arriving at the hotel, I found my grandmother sprawled on one of the queen beds in my parents' room. She greeted me with a hearty, “Brian, we’re drunk!” In the book I also noted a random daydream image: Medusa stepping from the shower, snakes detangled, hanging limply down her back. I could not find what I was looking for, or rather, I confirmed that I was right, that I hadn’t written about some night in Philadelphia. There are passing remarks on shitty things that happened, and a bizarre retelling of sharing Dixie Cup ice cream at Salem Drive School with my friend Mike.

Writing projects I have been thinking about: some short lines about cars, typing up notes from the Philippines, letters. I keep buying paper and then not using it. I wonder what you take with you.

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