open letter week

http://www.lastmomonearth.com/2012/06/open-letter-week-letter-to-girl-at.html

Dear MKT,

I saw a picture of you.  You were younger than me, an age for you that is hard for me to wrap my head around.

You were pretty in a familiar kind of way.  I searched for myself in your face and was disappointed when I found very little similarity.  I hope to be like you someday.

There are pictures of you with friends, with your husband.  I am jealous.  I don't think it's fair that they got to choose you.  I was born into it, expected to love.  As a young child, this is something one may resent.

If we were children together, I would have braided your hair.  We would have been lake friends and climbed on rocks smelling of moss and pine.
Mini scrapes on our legs after a day acting as mermaids.
Sun-kissed skin and hair.

Later we would have written letters with first accounts of first loves, me feeling a little envious of the boys taking the place of late night phone calls.
Never censored, we would laugh with gremlin faces and wear over-sized shirts for pajamas, asking questions and telling all.

At your father's funeral, I would have stood, scared and awkward.  My own tears flowing, putting myself in your place.

Once a year through college we would visit.  I would tell you how beautiful you have become.   You would tell me how hard it has been.

I would have chosen you to be my best friend, but when it comes to this letter, I do not know how to talk about us as adults.

Your grace, understanding, compassion, knowledge.

Would you want to see me now?

You had such faith in me.

You know me better than I know you.  The memories you have go further back: you remember when I was born, I remember wiggling off your lap, embarrassed to be so loved.

In older years I watched my mother curling your hair.  Your eyes were closed.  You missed being touched, and relished, like the monkeys we are, being groomed.  You seemed so human I wanted to cry.

(Thoughts of us together as children, braiding your hair....)

This is my apology for being the youngest and late to the game.
For not being the friend I wish I had been had circumstances been different.
For being the boy in "The Giving Tree" while you, the Tree, gave all.

You are rooted deep in my bones.
That is unshakable.
And despite not choosing you,  I would have never wanted anyone else.  I am lucky.
You were loved and continue to be loved everyday of my life without you.
And I loved you, so much, when you were in it.

Just thought you should know.

Love Always,
Your granddaughter

Patti Smith gets it

"it is said that children do not distinguish between living and inanimate objects; I believe they do. A child imparts a doll or tin soldier with magical life-breath. The artist animates his work as the child his toys." -Patti Smith

"Discovering a New Fear, a Conversation"

Woman: I've discovered a new fear.

Man: What's that?

Woman: The fear of turning off the TV.

Man: Okay.  I get it.  I'll turn off the TV.

Woman: It is even on when it's on mute and I'm in the the shower and you're working on your computer.

Man: Okay, turn it off.  We'll listen to music or something.

Woman: No, see, now your think I'm attacking you.  That's not what I was doing.  I keep the TV on all the  time.  When you are not here, the TV is still on.  I keep it on when I walk the dog for Christ Sake. When I turn it off it's a bold decision.  I turn it on (snap) just like that....the minute I walk through the door.

What am I afraid of?

Man: I don't think it's a fear thing.  It's a habit.  A bad habit.

Woman: I've thought about this.  It's not like a fear of being along.  I love being alone in the quiet sometimes....often actually.

Man: So you want me to leave you alone.

Woman: That is not what I'm saying.  What I meant was....usually when I am in a situation where I find myself alone in the quiet, I think it's peaceful and nice.

Man: Hippie

Woman: Okay.  It must be a fear.  It's compulsive.....and my default emotion IS fear.  My compulsion to keep a background running at all times is my immediate way of keeping the fear at bay.
But what am I afraid of?
Turning the TV off?
The silence I cherish?
Getting actual true artistic thoughtful work done?  Committing to that?
...Oh shit.

Man:....What?

Woman: Am I afraid to actually get work done?  Like, real true to life true to art work?  Am I just delaying my fear of that failure?  Of failing at the thing I have wanted my whole life?

Man: I think you're just lazy.

Old Ghosts

I am not claiming to be brave. I get scared. I am terrified of having an aneurysm on the subway, of never achieving my goals, of getting hit by a car, of not being loved. And honestly, of Zombies. But I am not afraid of the dark, of water, of heights, or of the woods. The ghosts are not going to get me there. That's where I go for safety. It's my get-away plan. I do not understand the concept of messing with people, of haunting them. Maybe I am not bold enough, not brave enough. But really, where is the satisfaction in that? I love getting the last word, don't get me wrong. Dragging things out no longer appeals to me. Go towards the light, little ghosts. Leave this place. And rest in peace.

A quote from "Portnoy's Complaint"

"'Don't you see what my life is? You think I like being nobody? You think I'm crazy about my hollow life? I hate it! I hate New York! I don't ever want to go back to that sewer! I want to live in Vermont, Commissioner! I want to live in Vermont with you - and be an adult, whatever the he'll that is! I want to be Mrs. Somebody-I-Can-Look-Up-To. And Admire! And Listen To!'" -Philip Roth

Lil' Bugs

The driftwood is warm.
Almost hot.
On second thought, I kick it.
Lil' bugs go running not to the sand, but around to the other side.
It's high tide, this wood has just arrived, and it's already a warm home for someone.  someones.
I disrupted things.
I am their hurricane, earthquake, Godzilla.
The waves are rising.
The driftwood is rocking in the sand.
Red, brown, grey.
The sun is setting and I am not alone.
Lil' bugs are living their lives.

The Moral Hangover

A fantastic phrase. I wish I could take credit.  I know that one of my wittier friends came up with it, and, friend, if you are reading this, please remind me that you were the one to coin the phrase "moral hangover" as well as it's definition.
This is my struggle.  I second guess most decisions and regret much of the past. Here's the thing, I am a good person.  I do not speak poorly of my friends.  Ever.  I love my family and am a natural caretaker.  But when someone accuses me of an unkind action or gets the wrong impression, I second guess myself over and over again.
And truthfully, we don't always know how what we say are going to be perceived, do we?  I may go into a situation with the best intentions only to find that I stuck my nose where it did not belong or said something with the incorrect intonation, making it sound sarcastic or insincere.
I am no saint.   This is not what I claim.  That's laughable.  I have made mistakes. Many.
Here is the moral hangover: I am unable to forgive myself for things I have done when I was a child. 
I remember a childhood friend of mine who told me I was a bully.  What?!   And at the time I pondered over what I had done to him to make him say that...
Days and nights.
And then it hit me: as a joke while in the woods with our buddies, I told him to stick his head in the water to see if there were any leeches.  I didn't actually want him to do that, of course.  I don't even know why I said it. I do know what I felt when it happened.  I felt happy to be in the woods with my fun friends. 
As an adult, I can see how that was mean.  At the time, I just wasn't thinking.  I was playing.  I adored this friend of mine, and to this day I still feel terrible that I made him feel like an outcast, a victim.
Oh moral hangover, why must you last so long.
The reason I bring this up now: because my moral hangovers are heavy and abundant, I am reliving the past, recent and ancient. I comb through what may have happened that I missed....something I should not have done or said. And what gets me is this: I actually keep messing up!  I miss the mark, hurt feelings, put my foot in my mouth.  When it comes to my attention, the guilt is overwhelming.
This makes it very hard to grow up.
So, please forgive me? I betcha I didn't mean it!

Thoughts on living in a tourist area

Today is beautiful. Take the dog for a run. Shall we go to the Promenade? No. I can't even see the railing through the crowd. No worries, this'll just force me to take a longer route. We'll go to the park. I have been meaning to lengthen my runs. This is a surprise: a lack of Jehovahs. OR maybe they are just masked by the literal parade of mid-westerners walking the most fun part of my run, the down-hill part. Okay dog, we'll run on the street. No cars usually come this way. Ah, the park. It's in full spring bloom. Deep breaths. I have made it. I am happy. I feel great. Running is getting easier. The dog is smiling. It's good to dance around people taking photos. It's working muscles not needed in a straight uncrowded run. I will never get sick of this skyline. Instead of a loop around, why don't we take the streets back? This way I can stop running through people's memories. They aren't so bad. It is Sunday after all, and where would Broadway be without tourists? I am looking forward to conquering this hill, dog, aren't you? Oh. European tourists. Multiple groups of five walking abreast. My dog and I run single file. We are being polite. Really? REALLY! You can't move over just a little? Nope, I will not run on the cobblestone street. I am a clumsy spaz. I will twist my ankle and have to stop running and I will sit around all day getting out of shape. And you won't help me. You think New Yorkers are scary and rude. You think I'M rude because I am running through you, mother f**ker?! That's right. It's 15 against 1....no 2 including the dog. I am conquering this hill and all of it's challenges! An old man with a cane, a Brooklynite, stops to smile at me and the dog. He knows. He'll help me take them down if necessary. We share a knowing glance and a few words. Last stretch. In the sunshine. Lovely trees. Lovely flowers. I play unintentional hopscotch the last few blocks. I feel great. Stupid tourists.

stunted

I spent the night last night with my very close friends in New Jersey.  They are real grown-ups.
They own their own lovely home.  They have a beer fridge and a liquor cabinet. They have a two car garage and a front and back porch.
They also have two adorable children.
Playing with their kids is a highlight for me.  It isn't a biological clock thing.  It's fun.   It's plain and simple fun.
And the thing is, they know I'm not faking it.  They recognize my giggles and games as honest enjoyment.  I don't have the energy to play as long as they can, and I believe that I detected slight pity in their smiles as I said "wow, this is hard," and took my seat at the kitchen counter.
Here is the kicker, and I honestly cannot get over her timing: the beautiful three year old girl turned to me during dinner and said "You're like a grown-up kid."
Her insight shocked me.  Smart girl.
I think I may have to go over to their house to play more often.

Crabby Coney

Even though it was April, it was warm enough to go down to the beach.
So they did.
He waited on the boardwalk, content just to look.
She stopped fighting and went to the water on her own.  First her shoes came off, then her shirt.
Can't help but be self-conscious in a flesh-colored bikini, so her jean skirt stayed on.
The water still feels like April water.  It's not right: April water and June weather.
The shirt that washed up to shore followed by a plastic bag acting like a jellyfish sealed the deal.
It was too soon for her favorite season:
Summer.