Date: Thu, 14 Dec 1995 18:19:39 -0600
I am standing there last night watching all the people, maybe half an hour before close and the place is packed and I know all of them. I feel like I can tell you when and with who and why they're coming here. The reasons are all very similar actually, and, sadly, not very interesting. I wonder how they see those of us who work here; we're an odd, tight knit group, always playing Stevie Wonder or Parliament or Kevin's indie rock or my jazz or my sister's punk, none of the music they really like but they still come here and we know this because it's the only place they can be subtle in putting on their acts and we're the only ones who see through it because we see it often. It gets orange outside at night with all the street lamps reflecting off the snow, which is melting into too many footprint puddles...I wonder how they see those of us, and yet I look at them as they stand there and see their gears turning on who's noticing them and who they know, and if I haven't had enough of something, it can get very very tiring.Occasionally an ex or some other uncomfortable person will walk through the door and we all have to put on our best faces, or those of us who are not veterans head to the back and smoke, or just sit there. It's a situation much like finding a quarter in a dryer at a Laundromat, or the extra prize in the box of cereal, maybe one that's better than the one that's really supposed to be there. It reminds me of the fact that I always wanted to drive around town in a large station wagon back when I was in high school, and this in turn reminds me that I didn't know much back then, and maybe, no definitely I've got a ways to go, and so many of you are uncomfortable with this, but can't you see we have no choice?
We will kick you all out at 2:30 and then Matt comes out from the back and sometimes Andy and Kevin's usually there, the select few that we feel like dealing with after close...I am cleaning and Kevin is fucking around with the music and there is high energy and so Matt's rolling a joint to level us all off, the boy should be a chef or a general, and yet he doesn't have the look for either. For some reason I am thinking about a certain section of sidewalk, a crowded piece of desert afternoon. I burn my hand cleaning the machine. It's amazing how shot the nerves can be. Actually, I thought of you out in California and how I've only seen your digitized face, and you've got no clue really what I look like, and then I see the cover of someone's notebook that they left behind and for some reason it's all dispelled and I think it's maybe 1AM over in your part of the world, and that there's no sense in this anyhow. It's a distant closeness, pardon my sentiment, or clichˇ? I've never wondered if we were ever wasting our time, because we never are.
Kevin is laying on his back on the floor staring up at the high ceiling and Dayna and Dessa and Matt have convinced me to read a part of my story, so I say: I don't remember some parts and my voice is in no condition. But I read it anyway and it's maybe an hour later when I'm done? I don't know. I just look at them and they're looking at me, and Kevin gets up and walks out the front door and then a few minutes later comes in the back door and gets a cinnamon bagel and toasts it and comes up to me and says that's really good, you should send it to Details. OK? OK. If it were easier to transfer all this, I'd find out about it. Matt is still smoking and looking at me, then takes a piece of paper and starts writing something and Dayna just has her eyes closed and Dessa's boyfriend was there to pick her up and so she left, and so Dayna stayed over at my place, much to the dismay of Kevin and her boyfriend, but I don't think any of them really understood, including her, because for once I didn't want it to come together. In the morning you felt like more than one day, but not as heavy. I think it was maybe 6AM and we were all still sitting there like most of these nights this week, when it was too cold and we didn't all feel like walking home just yet. I remember Aryn once telling me my poems were self obsessed or self indulgent or something like that. I said to her of course they are I live in Wisconsin what else have I got to write about? "Oh the sweet dew upon the rumps of the plump pristine cows..." it doesn't work for me, but then, I never wrote for her so maybe that's why she was so upset. Attention is a dangerous addiction!
How were you as a kid? I've got this desire to know you and yet you seemed put off back when we first started writing by these personal questions from strangers. maybe I've been released from something. I don't know what it is, but I like your outlook and I like your writing. A lot of people borrow reasons to be. I don't see it in you. Then again, I've never seen you, and can't say I expect to. It's time to go to work which may be a bit of a problem, but only seems like it till I get there. Honest, I'm not insane, none of us really are?
What's the point of all this? It's under your eyelid as you sleep, or in the snakes I saw in a dream that lived in tunnels beneath the city just inches bigger than their bodies, making the streets hum with their movement. So in other words I've never seen your eyelid, and the rest was just a dream, so maybe there is no point to it, or maybe next time you close your eyes you'll be looking at the darkness for something like a little clue, or at least something different. But overall, it's really not that important. I'd just like you to take care of yourself and maybe say thanks for all the help back when things weren't so hot. no, not maybe, but definitely.
Date: Fri, 15 Dec 1995 03:57:03 -0600
You remind me of a fever or the flu because you make me feel HOT then very very dizzy. I won't see you for a few weeks, but this insanity you keep saying you feel, I think that's a bit of an extreme term for it. in using it you show your youth, which is not exactly unappealing, but we won't discuss the reasons. For awhile you had me reacting like turning pennies gold. For that same while I had believed that certain things were a similar color. But now I'm wearing new glasses and I poked my eye while taking out a contact so it's blurry and aching in a way that a woodland creature would tentatively gnaw at a pipe to see what it was made of. The effect is now that I feel hot and very very dizzy, making me feel in addition to this disappointed that today my day began late, and now it is almost over, because I'm unsure how much longer I can hold this swimming head up. I'll tell you this much: I'm currently believing in a curious blend of fiction and this world around me. It seems small and completely separate. So yes, I wanted to know how you were as a child and I had a guess in mind and what you told me I was right, which gives me other feelings about you, or hints, or clues...But anyway that part of it was a small part all yours among other people holding a relevance to me, and yet I was writing this and I was writing that, these two things take on a form that resembles a letter, but also that guy hired at theme parks to dress up as the various mascots on those 90 degree summer days when all you want to do is get through the lines and into the water rides, rarely giving the poor boiling character a 2nd glance. So he stands there sweating and waving for I bet 6 bucks an hour, thinking what a stupid fuck he was for thinking this job was going to be cool n easy in the first place.And then you told me that yes the full moon is beautiful, it was low in the sky that night and huge and yellow, but there's something in the incompleteness of the crescent moon that you like better. And I sat next to you as we were driving along I guess you could describe it as stunned into silence because my eyes were sliding back from the sky to the dashboard and I was thinking the same thought just a few seconds ahead of your saying it. That night we kissed like praying mantises fighting, and now I keep you a secret and you do too and only we can read our smiles. The juvenility of it is what keeps it going I think, like the current in the tubes of a television. but now this swimming head isn't stopping, and the lights'll go out, leaving this to be harsh on my eyes. Quiet and watching were all I was. Without those two words I would have not existed, although non existent is another...The angles of it all were so extreme and minute that if I were to draw them you would see a straight line.
I want a Christmas present from you and the only thing on my list is a phone call.
Date: Mon, 18 Dec 1995 04:10:41 -0600
This is the night I've seen the temp rise above our normal few days, leaving the streets wet instead of salt stained. You are sleeping naked in the next room, I am not concerned with your dreams, due to self preservation. I wonder how you will feel on that plane in a couple months, knowing that nothing with me will ever come back. And, still, my eyes are half-lidded as I sit here in the 3AM hour, not seeing a day in I don't know how long, still recovering from a very solid Friday night that actually followed through into a sunrisen Saturday morning, and it's like I can feel you walking by this apartment as I type this, on your way to write me another letter and then erase it, as I tell Matt how much I don't want to like you, and he tells me he's from a place where you have no choice in these matters. of course I know he's right, you don't have to ask me this, and had I known that my pupils were big enough to make my irises disappear, I wouldn't have looked at you, but you were the same way. "look at the floor", you said, "it's breathing". And you were right, as you touched my shoulder, and we stood in our thin shirts in the middle of Washington Ave, 20 degrees maybe, with the traffic lights blinking like a runway up to the looming capital, our eyes sucking in all the light, all the sounds, as you reached behind me and I pulled you closer and felt your breasts push into my back, like it was our little secret, freezing together the layer of heat that covered our skins. You tell me it's not the words but the music, and I'm thinking we may have grown up together; you tell me it's not the words but the music, and I'm thinking if you're like me then I must be like you too. I've started this circle with a fine black pen. I can't explain to you the ink. I'll tell you what you've told me and that's this: we've got to keep this tight. I knew what you were writing about and I told you, it freaked you out that I knew this. Our propositions are original only to those who don't know the two of us. I'll trust you with this? Maybe I will. Maybe I'll trust you like that curious pocket of air on the back porch, the door wide open as we lean together on the back rail, frozen wood creaking, the heat from my apartment warming our faces, but the cold from outside freezing our hands, and all these stories we crammed into those ten minutes alone back there, tuning out the voices from the room where I sit now... I could tell you about your eyes, we could tell each other about our eyes, but then the cold won over that small piece of heat and I could tell Dayna and Kevin wanted to leave and that was the first slight hint of the sun as we sat in this room with all the lights off listening to the music and staring at the light on the receiver, all four of us.You are shifting in the next room. I wonder why I lost you, but the remorse is finally gone.
What I didn't tell you was I left you all for awhile, I forgot my jacket and came back and then left again; something kept repeating in my head, no doubt due to the nonsense phrases Matt was saying directly into my ear, but don't tell him this, he'd get too much of a kick out of it. I walked the length of the block and stood in the middle of the train tracks and something from long ago came at me. I'm running over the frozen snow and each step sounds like broken glass, I am looking over my shoulder and turning around as the crescent moon just stands there, above me, I fall, or trip and then get up, these canvas shoes soaked through but I don't feel cold? I stop running because the cold air is now burning my lungs and I notice there is nothing but orange street lamps over a parking lot filled with white vans, ford aerostars, all the same, and the tracks, then the sky and far off a train car, a tanker. I'm thinking: you make no sense to me. For once you is not a labeled person, not a specific person. Then I think maybe I'm not thinking because I've never done this before, that none of this counts because it all falls under the category of the first time. I am running back and the glass is shattering all around me. Kevin says from next to me I know what you're thinking. "you couldn't possibly" I tell him, and I'm right, but he doesn't hear me. I'm thinking about how I want you behind me again, warming my back. In my mind I am still looking at the floor with you.
You are shifting in the next room. It's just the sound, and then the heat comes on.
Date: Tue, 19 Dec 1995 17:04:08 -0600
Mime-Version: 1.0
To: allison@hotwired.com (Allison Yates)
From: Zach
Subject: . . .(I can't figure out if that picture of you makes you look crazy or beautiful or both, but me, I've fallen off an edge that when you see it is only a foot drop, when I see it I keep falling, like falling weren't a cliche already... stop. don't think about it. it'll only make you wonder.)
Date: Fri, 22 Dec 1995 04:37:21 -0600
Mime-Version: 1.0
To: allison@hotwired.com
From: Zach
Subject: Disconnected (Clearing my head after the 1st shitty night in a long time)There is gravel in my head and it is my eyes. Blinking is a rough experience filled with fish hooks and grit. I stopped breathing I think a few hours ago, but I sit here still inhaling. There is no other way to explain this to you as the muscle in my arm remains coiled too tense its hurting and there's something in my mind there's something in my mind there's something in my mind and I can't quite find the words for it yet, so here I go:
I remember you approx. one year ago today as you come home from a late night and I ask you how things went did you have any fun? "Well I should hope so, otherwise I wouldn't have stayed out till 4am!" That's what you said, in a tone as if you were talking to an old friend or roommate instead of your lover. Do you remember? To be honest I don't really care if you do or not. It's hilarious how I look back on us now, or the shadow thereof, or the bones thereof, and I thank god that history erases insignificant relationships, or at least the ones that ended on one too many shitty notes. So I asked you who you were with, and you told me. I asked you if you were out screwing around with anyone, and you told me, no, I wasn't, I'd tell you if I was.
So I say: "Well that must have been one red hot curling iron then." and your face went ash and you ran to the bathroom and locked the door and stayed in there for half an hour. I could hear you crying in there, a sound that used to really tear me up because you did it so much, and with a good reason, but then I just didn't care, I just didn't give a fuck. those hickies didn't go away for a week.
Now we haven't talked in a couple weeks. I'm supposed to go over to your place on Saturday and bake fudge with you, call a truce. we haven't talked in a couple weeks but we still sleep together, and I remember you used to be the one who thought that was sick and fucked up, but now it's you calling me telling me you're lonely. there used to be something like a mist or haze that was the person I was in love with that followed you around. I would see it once and a while and for some reason be comforted by it, and yet frustrated because I couldn't let it go. These past days the phone rings and I dread it's you, now a total stranger in a body that from what you say I know better than you. What good's a car with no engine? I turn off the ringer and leave some message on my voice mail about how my vocal chords have gone home for Christmas and will not return till the 27th. it's stupid really and maybe I'll lose a few friends, but 'tis the season? As for right now, it is 4:16am of dec. 22. Matt, you walked off the job tonight and I can't say I blame you, tried looking for you around 2.30, but you were vanished, or cloaked, and the message from you was plain old not there. we were turned inside out, all the fucked up kids swimming through their individual worlds or planes, and I swear to god I'm just a glorified baby-sitter tonight, and they didn't even tip, silly me for thinking maybe people will be in a more giving mood.
Everything broke, and most of it is still, but I'm sorry I just don't care. I saw no Christmas bonus and nobody's doing me any favors. Anna showed up with a guy named Chris (I think) and her roommate, she was sick and I told her I can't tell her many things like I thought I could, only I couldn't tell her this because too many of the wrong people were there, so I was looking at her through the corner of my eye thinking it over and over. I will not sleep tomorrow night I work till 4am by myself and then catch a bus at 7am. I'll see you off in another place not reading this for some time, probably days after it's relevant, but I'll miss our talking.
I'll shut the power off and run on batteries. I'll watch you stand there and wait till you turn and tell me something else, or at least the same thing in a new way. There was this old man tonight, a step away from catatonic, heading there with two old brown suitcases, he came in around 1.30 and looked around as if paranoid or just plain afraid, then just sat down. He took his gloves off, and proceeded to look around, not once blinking. Then he stopped. I asked him if he needed help, he said no. he sat about 20 minutes and then got up and asked for coffee. I gave it to him, he made no move to pay and I didn't expect him to. He sat back down and the guy who was at times showing me his wedding ring and at times trying to pick me up for the past hour started talking to him. This old man, he looked straight ahead. he didn't respond, didn't drink his coffee. It sat in the cup on the table next to a lit, unsmoked cigarette.
An hour later I'm ready to leave, and this man has not moved. I've told him twice we've closed and it's time to leave. I've asked if he needed anything, could I help him with anything, etc., I got an empty dead stare, and this drunk guy at the counter keeps repeating "C'mon baby let's fuck". I tell him shut the fuck up or you're out on your ass, he looks at me a little stunned then leaves. He was in here the other night telling Kevin he could jack off on his face if he wanted to. Kevin wasn't interested. Laura has somehow convinced the catatonic man to put his gloves on and stand up, and soon after has him out the door. I am a little amazed at the patience this girl has. I am so definitely pissed off at this shitty night, the whole building is about to fall down, and Matt, you walked off the job. If I had things taken care of I'd do the same.
Date: Fri, 22 Dec 1995 16:32:40 -0600
Mime-Version: 1.0
To: allison@hotwired.com
Subject: Nothing like a dull snow to keep ya cold.I went in to see you today, at work, but it was busy as all hell and I was feeling a little claustrophobic and you looked a bit edgy so I bought a monk CD for my little sister and left. I remembered then that I wrote a poem about you, or having to do with you, last time I saw you in the cafe, when you were wearing the same red lipstick as today. I never thought I'd see you again, much less meet you, and I wonder when the next time will be, and then put it out of my mind. I suppose I could ask Clint about you, but then, I'm not sure I want to know. My ever optimistic friend john says you could be a freak. Yeah I say to him so could you. that's when it started to snow, falling off my shoulder and the top of my head, not at all wet, but more like the styrofoam stuffing in old beanbags. Who told you they were beans? they were lying. I walked around with that CD in my pocket, talking to john and going in and out of places looking for a copy of "war" because she liked the song "new year's day".
This is the time of day I'll sit here alone, answering letters but more specifically writing to you, who are constantly shifting, with the music, whatever it is, up so loud it's redlining. I'll look forward to sitting next to a fire with all of you for a while, drinking on Christmas eve night, then wonder at the reasoning behind the ritual. I'll just sit here and write for now, not thinking about that girl, not thinking about the holiday, or the Salvation Army address stamps I got in the mail today. I don't intend to talk to you for a while now, because you are in brazil or Denver or Rhinelander or California, or someplace other than here. you are no longer public and not yet private. I had this dream, at that place between awake and dreaming, as I was walking home from seeing you, though the dream took place after the fact, came over this hill and the rain that was falling changed to harsh water sheets, and the clouds reached down in thick twisting cords and grabbed the ground, making threaded, weaved tornadoes running across the earth faster than a jet or the flash or just anything, moving all around me, so I start back up the hill to see at the top of it these darker clouds slamming into the fields and tearing everything away. So maybe it wasn't a good idea to see you today, and thank god it only lasted a few minutes, and why after so many years am I remembering these dreams?
I'll see you tonight at work. I wonder if you'll understand why I can't sleep tonight, that it's based on practical reasons and you're not keeping me up at night, just like I'm not looking forward to it. After this I'll see you in maybe a week or a little longer, and people are asking me why don't I fall in love again, and after they ask they wonder why I don't answer. I'll try not to miss you but I'm not making any promises. I'll go to work in a few hours, after they're spent sleeping, a little groggy through the dull snow that will no doubt still be falling. the sun sets now and I'll be up to see it rise. I'm thinking of you as it does, this much I'll tell you now. I once told someone I couldn't look at blue eyes anymore. was I wrong? some of these things take years to prove. I've got 8 months left.