October 30, 2010
Dear W,
Today has been less than perfect, that's for sure. I'm not feeling myself today, I haven't been from the first moment I woke up. I probably should have better communicated that, but it seems like things were too far gone to go back to that and let you know.
What happened today? How did things get so carried away? We reached the peak of the mountain and instead of us starting the climb back down to normality, things just leveled at the climax and that is where we've been stuck, all day.
I do feel we've calmed - both of us, since this morning. I'm still hurt, but I not as worked up as I was. I'm not sure what got me going. Why was I so stressed out over those little errands?
I think life in general is just stressing me out these days. I feel stretched way to thin, I feel like I work very hard and get no where. I feel detached. After this week, I will be taking a break from things and will be taking it easy. I am promising myself this and hope it works out.
Tomorrow is Halloween. The day is going to be busy. I hope it will also be better.
I love you
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Apples, Cinnamon, Sugar, Flour, Butter
Dear S,
I made Apple Crisp last night. I've always found the process soothing. It's simple, I usually have the ingredients hanging around and I feel something incredible every time I make it. Apple crisp will always remind me of you.
I was young when things weren't that wonderful for you, but I remember it clearly. I was working my first job, I was 16. Sometimes, the memories are so clear of the events in your life at the time that I wonder if they really belong to me or if they are second hand - I saw them somewhere, a movie or something and imposed myself on them. I think hard and long and always come to the conclusion that no, these are false memories, they are true and they are mine.
It was hard for me when you were in the crisis center. The tension at home was excruciating and beyond my coping skills at that time. I took every work shift I was offered at that time. I didn't want to be in the house, but out doing something that distracted me from the fact that you weren't around and you were in a safe place because you needed a safe place. That scared me more than anything. I mean in moments of pure agony I think of you and wonder how you had to feel to want to destroy yourself so completely.
Visiting you there were highlights for me. The house was peaceful and I remember doing a big jig-saw puzzle with you one day. I also remember you telling me that you made Apple Crisp the night before. You marveled at how easy it was and how wonderful it tasted and with a huge smile, I remember you saying you would probably make another dish of it that night.
When you came home from the crisis center, our house was full of the scent of fresh Apple Crisp. I suppose the act was therapeutic for you, or maybe you just craved the homey taste of the dish. I really don't know because I never asked you. Why did you always want to make Apple Crisp in those first weeks at home?
When I start to peel the apples, when I mix the flour, brown sugar and butter together and dash it with cinnamon to make the top crumble, I always think of you. I miss you, I'm proud of you and I love you.
Love,
A
I made Apple Crisp last night. I've always found the process soothing. It's simple, I usually have the ingredients hanging around and I feel something incredible every time I make it. Apple crisp will always remind me of you.
I was young when things weren't that wonderful for you, but I remember it clearly. I was working my first job, I was 16. Sometimes, the memories are so clear of the events in your life at the time that I wonder if they really belong to me or if they are second hand - I saw them somewhere, a movie or something and imposed myself on them. I think hard and long and always come to the conclusion that no, these are false memories, they are true and they are mine.
It was hard for me when you were in the crisis center. The tension at home was excruciating and beyond my coping skills at that time. I took every work shift I was offered at that time. I didn't want to be in the house, but out doing something that distracted me from the fact that you weren't around and you were in a safe place because you needed a safe place. That scared me more than anything. I mean in moments of pure agony I think of you and wonder how you had to feel to want to destroy yourself so completely.
Visiting you there were highlights for me. The house was peaceful and I remember doing a big jig-saw puzzle with you one day. I also remember you telling me that you made Apple Crisp the night before. You marveled at how easy it was and how wonderful it tasted and with a huge smile, I remember you saying you would probably make another dish of it that night.
When you came home from the crisis center, our house was full of the scent of fresh Apple Crisp. I suppose the act was therapeutic for you, or maybe you just craved the homey taste of the dish. I really don't know because I never asked you. Why did you always want to make Apple Crisp in those first weeks at home?
When I start to peel the apples, when I mix the flour, brown sugar and butter together and dash it with cinnamon to make the top crumble, I always think of you. I miss you, I'm proud of you and I love you.
Love,
A
Monday, August 23, 2010
Me, Myself and I
To myself,
Ten years ago you were 21. Think hard, what was I doing back then?
-I was in University, getting close to finishing my arts degree. I think this was the year I was in my advanced creative writing class. I had a huge crush on the strange bald funny man (funny how that hasn't changed) who sat next to me. I remember driving him home a few times after class and will never forget the day he came to class wearing a sparkly 70s style T-Shirt that said "Worlds Greatest Grandma" on it. GRANDMA. He killed me, and had I met him when I was 26 or older, I would have slept with him.
-I was a drinker. I was getting away from the weed at this time and moving more towards the bottle. Both were still pretty prevalent in my life, but the drink was winning, for sure.
-I started spending my Saturday nights at Loaded Club, a mod themed night in the dark and gross looking upstairs of the Collective, which is now an American Apparel store, which I refuse to set foot in. I have issues supporting anyone whose adverts look like child porn.
-I was seriously getting involved in Buddhism. I was learning the eight fold path and studying a lot on my own.
-I was changing. I was still living at home, but not for much longer. A few years after this, I moved in with my sister, which didn't last too long. Soon after this I moved into my first apartment by myself. I miss that place. Sure it verged on ghetto but I adored it.
I never thought life would be like this ten years after the fact. Amazing how things can change. I never pictured myself tied down, with a partner and a child, but here I am.
Amazing how things have changed. The best I feel is when my child is happy. How crazy is that? I was so selfish at 21. Ten years later, my biggest joy is sneaking into my son's bedroom at night to watch him sleep.
I never thought I'd be here and I am slowly learning to enjoy this. I'm a good mother, at times. I provide for my family, I fucking bake. Sonja was right, I AM Martha Stewart.
So where will I be in ten years? What will my life be like at 41? Will it be much different? Kiddo will be a 'tween,' thought I am sure by then they will have some other crazy name for it. What kind of Mother will I be? I want to ensure I'm calm, that I'm respected by my son, but also loved. I want to be his friend, his confidant and his security. I will be his law. Trust me, this kid will have to work hard to get any thing past me.
So this is a promise to myself to stay on the right track. Don't fall prey to things that can damage you. Stay true and focused and express true love to all, at all times. My family will survive.
Love,
Me.
Ten years ago you were 21. Think hard, what was I doing back then?
-I was in University, getting close to finishing my arts degree. I think this was the year I was in my advanced creative writing class. I had a huge crush on the strange bald funny man (funny how that hasn't changed) who sat next to me. I remember driving him home a few times after class and will never forget the day he came to class wearing a sparkly 70s style T-Shirt that said "Worlds Greatest Grandma" on it. GRANDMA. He killed me, and had I met him when I was 26 or older, I would have slept with him.
-I was a drinker. I was getting away from the weed at this time and moving more towards the bottle. Both were still pretty prevalent in my life, but the drink was winning, for sure.
-I started spending my Saturday nights at Loaded Club, a mod themed night in the dark and gross looking upstairs of the Collective, which is now an American Apparel store, which I refuse to set foot in. I have issues supporting anyone whose adverts look like child porn.
-I was seriously getting involved in Buddhism. I was learning the eight fold path and studying a lot on my own.
-I was changing. I was still living at home, but not for much longer. A few years after this, I moved in with my sister, which didn't last too long. Soon after this I moved into my first apartment by myself. I miss that place. Sure it verged on ghetto but I adored it.
I never thought life would be like this ten years after the fact. Amazing how things can change. I never pictured myself tied down, with a partner and a child, but here I am.
Amazing how things have changed. The best I feel is when my child is happy. How crazy is that? I was so selfish at 21. Ten years later, my biggest joy is sneaking into my son's bedroom at night to watch him sleep.
I never thought I'd be here and I am slowly learning to enjoy this. I'm a good mother, at times. I provide for my family, I fucking bake. Sonja was right, I AM Martha Stewart.
So where will I be in ten years? What will my life be like at 41? Will it be much different? Kiddo will be a 'tween,' thought I am sure by then they will have some other crazy name for it. What kind of Mother will I be? I want to ensure I'm calm, that I'm respected by my son, but also loved. I want to be his friend, his confidant and his security. I will be his law. Trust me, this kid will have to work hard to get any thing past me.
So this is a promise to myself to stay on the right track. Don't fall prey to things that can damage you. Stay true and focused and express true love to all, at all times. My family will survive.
Love,
Me.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Muse
Brother T,
I'm watching you, on a cold but sunny day, skipping rocks. The date stamp on the video is this past April. April - it was cold, wasn't it? But it was also beautiful in April.
I was never able to skip rocks. I always wanted to but something about the motion just doesn't mesh with me. I grew up in the country, but never spent time at the lake or around any body of water. I think its something you need to learn young, that you have to start training your body and mind at from a small age. I'm to old to learn to skip rocks.
Now your making cake. I remember that cake. I remember, as intoxicated as I was, that you asked me to take the first piece. I still have it, sitting on a shelf in my bedroom. My piece of birthday cake from arts birthday.
Those videos seem so long ago. They are what, five years ago? It's been a lifetime since then, I think.
We've had a crazy relationship, one that baffles me but also one that I value. We both know this. This city hasn't been the same since you moved away, since I became a mother, since life changed everything about who we both were back then.
It's fine, really. It's a progression. I was young then, when I first met you. I felt beyond my years, I know I acted like I was far more that I was. What the heck did I know? I was 26 years old then and I thought I knew it all. I knew nothing, nothing at all.
It pains me now, at times, to look back and see my naive personality. I knew much but I haven't lived. When I first met you, I was started to live this crazy, young adult life. It went beyond my time with you and went on until my son was born only a year and a half ago.
I wish I often had the Bates Book. I debate asking you to send it back so I can read it, work on it, get creative with it and then send it back to you. You pushed me creatively and that damn book showed me I could do these things, I could be an 'artist' of sorts, that I could provoke people and make them think.
Art is subjective, for someone like me. I don't feel I'm 'good' at it. I can't draw, I don't paint, I am unable to play any musical instrument and my writing, as of late, has been weak at best. I lack motivation. But when I had you in my life, it was a constant. I never doubted my artistic outputs and I pushed myself so fucking hard.
What now? What's happened? I use my son as an excuse as to why I don't write as much as I should. What is my excuse for that writing being crappy once I do finally take the time to sit down and pound something out? I'm at fault, really, for being so out of practice. I made a pact to myself a while ago to write EVERY day, to carry my journal around with me always, like I used to. Do you think I have done that once since I made the pact?
I keep re-making that pact, telling myself to just get on the wagon again, start over. Bring that journal with me everywhere. Take the time to write in it, or to blog, or to create something written. To be truthful, I'm removed from the art world. I'm still here, I'm lurking. My 'fame' has kept me in some circles, has allowed me to do things and go places that I need, but I'm not putting anything out there anymore and I need to change that.
Sure, you would argue my show is a creative outlet, but to me, I've even let that slide a bit at times. I'm in a constant state of adjustment these days.
Fuck it. I need to regress a little bit, retake my writing vow and remember how much I created when I first met you. I always felt this need to bring something artist and created to the table whenever I saw you, but I also knew if I didn't bring it, or if I was lacking in anyway, you would never make me feel bad about it.
Remember that night you wanted to take those swords out on the king street and have me film you swinging them around outside the Pub? As drunk as I was, common sense kicked in and I said no way. You never made me feel like a goody-two-shoes, or anything less than your equal. For that I love you.
I miss you, Brother.
ALY
I'm watching you, on a cold but sunny day, skipping rocks. The date stamp on the video is this past April. April - it was cold, wasn't it? But it was also beautiful in April.
I was never able to skip rocks. I always wanted to but something about the motion just doesn't mesh with me. I grew up in the country, but never spent time at the lake or around any body of water. I think its something you need to learn young, that you have to start training your body and mind at from a small age. I'm to old to learn to skip rocks.
Now your making cake. I remember that cake. I remember, as intoxicated as I was, that you asked me to take the first piece. I still have it, sitting on a shelf in my bedroom. My piece of birthday cake from arts birthday.
Those videos seem so long ago. They are what, five years ago? It's been a lifetime since then, I think.
We've had a crazy relationship, one that baffles me but also one that I value. We both know this. This city hasn't been the same since you moved away, since I became a mother, since life changed everything about who we both were back then.
It's fine, really. It's a progression. I was young then, when I first met you. I felt beyond my years, I know I acted like I was far more that I was. What the heck did I know? I was 26 years old then and I thought I knew it all. I knew nothing, nothing at all.
It pains me now, at times, to look back and see my naive personality. I knew much but I haven't lived. When I first met you, I was started to live this crazy, young adult life. It went beyond my time with you and went on until my son was born only a year and a half ago.
I wish I often had the Bates Book. I debate asking you to send it back so I can read it, work on it, get creative with it and then send it back to you. You pushed me creatively and that damn book showed me I could do these things, I could be an 'artist' of sorts, that I could provoke people and make them think.
Art is subjective, for someone like me. I don't feel I'm 'good' at it. I can't draw, I don't paint, I am unable to play any musical instrument and my writing, as of late, has been weak at best. I lack motivation. But when I had you in my life, it was a constant. I never doubted my artistic outputs and I pushed myself so fucking hard.
What now? What's happened? I use my son as an excuse as to why I don't write as much as I should. What is my excuse for that writing being crappy once I do finally take the time to sit down and pound something out? I'm at fault, really, for being so out of practice. I made a pact to myself a while ago to write EVERY day, to carry my journal around with me always, like I used to. Do you think I have done that once since I made the pact?
I keep re-making that pact, telling myself to just get on the wagon again, start over. Bring that journal with me everywhere. Take the time to write in it, or to blog, or to create something written. To be truthful, I'm removed from the art world. I'm still here, I'm lurking. My 'fame' has kept me in some circles, has allowed me to do things and go places that I need, but I'm not putting anything out there anymore and I need to change that.
Sure, you would argue my show is a creative outlet, but to me, I've even let that slide a bit at times. I'm in a constant state of adjustment these days.
Fuck it. I need to regress a little bit, retake my writing vow and remember how much I created when I first met you. I always felt this need to bring something artist and created to the table whenever I saw you, but I also knew if I didn't bring it, or if I was lacking in anyway, you would never make me feel bad about it.
Remember that night you wanted to take those swords out on the king street and have me film you swinging them around outside the Pub? As drunk as I was, common sense kicked in and I said no way. You never made me feel like a goody-two-shoes, or anything less than your equal. For that I love you.
I miss you, Brother.
ALY
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Love's Labour Lost
Dear C,
I was kicking myself the other day. I was feeling lonely, depressed, unloved and for the first time in about five or six years, I wanted to read your letters. I felt even worse when I realized I couldn't do that. I had gotten rid of all the evidence of you - of us.
Did I ever tell you what I did with them?
I don't remember what happened between us that made me do it, but I do know we had some sort of discussion, were talking about something and I got angry with you. I was hurt and very upset. I started to drink the bottle of red wine that was in my kitchen, and when that was done, I started in on the Gin. I drank while I stared at the box I had put all your letters in. There was a good handful in there, including the one you wrote on the back of a paper place mat in some cheap dinner. They were all there; the love letters, the hate letters, the kiss and make up letters, the toss me aside letters. I kept them all and carried them with me all this time.
I carried you with me all this time. I got my first letter from you when I was 15 years old. I'm now 31. I think I was about 27 when I got rid of them. Twenty-seven. That means I had been holding on to all those letters for over ten years. That's a long time to be lost in those words. That's a long time to constantly carry someone with you.
Regardless, I drank the gin and in a quick fit of some sort, I decided I was done holding on to our relationship. I don't know what happened. Maybe I was just tired of it, or maybe I thought it was your turn to carry it on. Whatever it was, I decided I need to be rid of those letters, and fast.
I wanted to burn them. I remember closing my eyes and seeing the fire licking the air around me as they turned to ash. I wanted to burn them.
I was drunk, but not drunk enough to realize that I should be somewhat careful about this. I took all the letters and dumped them into the kitchen sink. I grabbed the matchbox next to the sink and paused.
Maybe common sense kicked in. I don't think so, because common sense would have told me to take them out of the sink, just package them back up and hide them in the back of the closet. Don't be rash.
No, part of my common sense was telling me that maybe fire wasn't the best bet. I was drunk. What happened if the fire got out of control? Would I be able to mute it? I didn't think I could so I grabbed all the letters, shoved them back in the box and put on my shoes.
It was late, I remember. Dark outside and the weather was beautiful. I wasn't wearing a jacket. I'm thinking it was probably near the end of summer? Maybe early September? I walked along the river to the Osbourn bridge. It wasn't too far, about a ten minute walk. It didn't sober me up. At one point, close to the bridge, I was confronted by a group of young men, probably a little younger than I was. They were skateboarding around the river walk. I heard one make a comment regarding me to his buddies - something derogatory. I pretended to ignore them, kept to my path and walked by quickly. I did decided, however, to take a slightly different path home. One that would avoid them.
When I got to the bridge, I didn't think. I didn't pause. I held the box over the ledge and opened it and shook the letters out. As soon as they left the box and floated down, I remember being filled with some sort of feeling of relief, of great relief. When I saw them land in the middle of the river, laying there and not sinking down, I started to feel some pangs of regret.
Was it wrong of me to do it? Now there is no written record of us. But was there ever really an 'us' to have a written record of? You were my tragic flaw for so long that disposing of the one concrete thing about our relationship freed me.
But did I want to be freed? I used to wonder about that. Why do I still think of you, or what you are doing? Why do I often wish our paths would cross?
It's silly to think these things. It's silly for me to remember the way you made me feel, and the things you inadvertently taught me about love.
One day, I will share these things with you.. one day.
ALY
I was kicking myself the other day. I was feeling lonely, depressed, unloved and for the first time in about five or six years, I wanted to read your letters. I felt even worse when I realized I couldn't do that. I had gotten rid of all the evidence of you - of us.
Did I ever tell you what I did with them?
I don't remember what happened between us that made me do it, but I do know we had some sort of discussion, were talking about something and I got angry with you. I was hurt and very upset. I started to drink the bottle of red wine that was in my kitchen, and when that was done, I started in on the Gin. I drank while I stared at the box I had put all your letters in. There was a good handful in there, including the one you wrote on the back of a paper place mat in some cheap dinner. They were all there; the love letters, the hate letters, the kiss and make up letters, the toss me aside letters. I kept them all and carried them with me all this time.
I carried you with me all this time. I got my first letter from you when I was 15 years old. I'm now 31. I think I was about 27 when I got rid of them. Twenty-seven. That means I had been holding on to all those letters for over ten years. That's a long time to be lost in those words. That's a long time to constantly carry someone with you.
Regardless, I drank the gin and in a quick fit of some sort, I decided I was done holding on to our relationship. I don't know what happened. Maybe I was just tired of it, or maybe I thought it was your turn to carry it on. Whatever it was, I decided I need to be rid of those letters, and fast.
I wanted to burn them. I remember closing my eyes and seeing the fire licking the air around me as they turned to ash. I wanted to burn them.
I was drunk, but not drunk enough to realize that I should be somewhat careful about this. I took all the letters and dumped them into the kitchen sink. I grabbed the matchbox next to the sink and paused.
Maybe common sense kicked in. I don't think so, because common sense would have told me to take them out of the sink, just package them back up and hide them in the back of the closet. Don't be rash.
No, part of my common sense was telling me that maybe fire wasn't the best bet. I was drunk. What happened if the fire got out of control? Would I be able to mute it? I didn't think I could so I grabbed all the letters, shoved them back in the box and put on my shoes.
It was late, I remember. Dark outside and the weather was beautiful. I wasn't wearing a jacket. I'm thinking it was probably near the end of summer? Maybe early September? I walked along the river to the Osbourn bridge. It wasn't too far, about a ten minute walk. It didn't sober me up. At one point, close to the bridge, I was confronted by a group of young men, probably a little younger than I was. They were skateboarding around the river walk. I heard one make a comment regarding me to his buddies - something derogatory. I pretended to ignore them, kept to my path and walked by quickly. I did decided, however, to take a slightly different path home. One that would avoid them.
When I got to the bridge, I didn't think. I didn't pause. I held the box over the ledge and opened it and shook the letters out. As soon as they left the box and floated down, I remember being filled with some sort of feeling of relief, of great relief. When I saw them land in the middle of the river, laying there and not sinking down, I started to feel some pangs of regret.
Was it wrong of me to do it? Now there is no written record of us. But was there ever really an 'us' to have a written record of? You were my tragic flaw for so long that disposing of the one concrete thing about our relationship freed me.
But did I want to be freed? I used to wonder about that. Why do I still think of you, or what you are doing? Why do I often wish our paths would cross?
It's silly to think these things. It's silly for me to remember the way you made me feel, and the things you inadvertently taught me about love.
One day, I will share these things with you.. one day.
ALY
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
This is motherhood
April 13, 2010
Mom,
Thank you. I don't think I've said that enough and I don't think I can say it enough.
Thank you for everything. For your calm strength and for your moments of vicious anger. Thank you.
Yesterday I had an experience that has finally, in a way, made me see the vast job that motherhood is. I knew what I was in for when H was born a year and a half ago, but yesterday it all became to real for me.
It really came to me yesterday while I was in emergency with H. I was alone with him, keeping him company on the little bed they had given him, behind our curtain in the busy emergency ward when a nurse came and told me that she would be taking H to get some X-rays done. I picked him up and he hugged me so tightly, mom. I rubbed his back, I could tell he was upset. I rubbed his back like you rubbed my back when I would get upset. You still do this and I love it, I never want you to stop doing it. We walked into the room and there were two other nurses there, both very nice ladies, soft spoken. They seemed to ready to prepare me for something awful - their tone, the way they seemed to walk on egg-shells around H and I. One of the nurses came up and told me that in order to get a X ray of a young child, that they would have to place him in this device that would hold him still. She warned me that it looked awful and that he would most likely cry, but wanted me to know that it wouldn't hurt him and it would all be over soon.
They put one of those heavy X ray covers on me and I watched as two nurses carefully placed H on this small, bicycle like seat. He looked over at me and started to cry. As they held up his hands and encircled his body in the clear plastic, he started to howl and sob. In the back of my head, I heard your voice, telling me that when I am calm, H would be calm and when I am upset, H would be upset. I did my best not to cry as I watched my poor boy in that contraption, but he just looked so sad, so dejected and so upset by the situation that I too, started to cry.
I quickly composed myself, leaned down and told him what a good boy he was and that it would all be over soon and he could have a big hug and that I was so proud of him. I told him all these things as calm and comforting as I could. I wish it would have stopped him from crying, just soothed him enough, but he wasn't ready for that. As soon as they opened the plastic around his body, he reached for me and I pulled him from the device and hugged him. Again, those tiny arms wrapped tightly around me and we hugged each other, my hand rubbing his back.
By the time we were getting ready to leave the X Ray room, he stopped sobbing. The nurses gave him two stickers for being brave - one with a dog, one with a cat, but both with the caption "I WAS BRAVE." He played with the stickers and looked so happy.
As I stayed there with him, waiting for a doctor to come back to see us, I felt angry and upset and confused and concerned. My son wasn't feeling well, my son was having issues and I could only do so much to clam him, to keep him comfortable. I never want him to be in a state like that again and I never want to feel that hopeless with him again.
But, I thought, this is the curse of motherhood. I brought this beautiful being into the world and forever we will be bound to each other on such a crazy level. I sense him and I smell him on me even when he's not around. This mother bond is intense, and crazy and beautiful all at the same time and I felt it so strongly last night and I felt the hopelessness it can make you feel when you can't do anything to help, when you can fix what is wrong.
So thank you for being the strong women that I needed you to be in those moments. The moments when I was too young to tell you what was wrong, but you comforted me. The moments when I fell down and hurt myself and you where there to clean me up and kiss me better. Thank you for the moments when I said words to intentionally hurt you and you still kissed and hugged me the next day.
Thank you.
Love,
ALY
Mom,
Thank you. I don't think I've said that enough and I don't think I can say it enough.
Thank you for everything. For your calm strength and for your moments of vicious anger. Thank you.
Yesterday I had an experience that has finally, in a way, made me see the vast job that motherhood is. I knew what I was in for when H was born a year and a half ago, but yesterday it all became to real for me.
It really came to me yesterday while I was in emergency with H. I was alone with him, keeping him company on the little bed they had given him, behind our curtain in the busy emergency ward when a nurse came and told me that she would be taking H to get some X-rays done. I picked him up and he hugged me so tightly, mom. I rubbed his back, I could tell he was upset. I rubbed his back like you rubbed my back when I would get upset. You still do this and I love it, I never want you to stop doing it. We walked into the room and there were two other nurses there, both very nice ladies, soft spoken. They seemed to ready to prepare me for something awful - their tone, the way they seemed to walk on egg-shells around H and I. One of the nurses came up and told me that in order to get a X ray of a young child, that they would have to place him in this device that would hold him still. She warned me that it looked awful and that he would most likely cry, but wanted me to know that it wouldn't hurt him and it would all be over soon.
They put one of those heavy X ray covers on me and I watched as two nurses carefully placed H on this small, bicycle like seat. He looked over at me and started to cry. As they held up his hands and encircled his body in the clear plastic, he started to howl and sob. In the back of my head, I heard your voice, telling me that when I am calm, H would be calm and when I am upset, H would be upset. I did my best not to cry as I watched my poor boy in that contraption, but he just looked so sad, so dejected and so upset by the situation that I too, started to cry.
I quickly composed myself, leaned down and told him what a good boy he was and that it would all be over soon and he could have a big hug and that I was so proud of him. I told him all these things as calm and comforting as I could. I wish it would have stopped him from crying, just soothed him enough, but he wasn't ready for that. As soon as they opened the plastic around his body, he reached for me and I pulled him from the device and hugged him. Again, those tiny arms wrapped tightly around me and we hugged each other, my hand rubbing his back.
By the time we were getting ready to leave the X Ray room, he stopped sobbing. The nurses gave him two stickers for being brave - one with a dog, one with a cat, but both with the caption "I WAS BRAVE." He played with the stickers and looked so happy.
As I stayed there with him, waiting for a doctor to come back to see us, I felt angry and upset and confused and concerned. My son wasn't feeling well, my son was having issues and I could only do so much to clam him, to keep him comfortable. I never want him to be in a state like that again and I never want to feel that hopeless with him again.
But, I thought, this is the curse of motherhood. I brought this beautiful being into the world and forever we will be bound to each other on such a crazy level. I sense him and I smell him on me even when he's not around. This mother bond is intense, and crazy and beautiful all at the same time and I felt it so strongly last night and I felt the hopelessness it can make you feel when you can't do anything to help, when you can fix what is wrong.
So thank you for being the strong women that I needed you to be in those moments. The moments when I was too young to tell you what was wrong, but you comforted me. The moments when I fell down and hurt myself and you where there to clean me up and kiss me better. Thank you for the moments when I said words to intentionally hurt you and you still kissed and hugged me the next day.
Thank you.
Love,
ALY
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
March 10, 2010
Dear Sleep,
We are battling again. I don't like this.
We fight way to often. Can't we just get along? You wore me out completely while I was pregnant by being so elusive. It really wasn't fair. I slept more after my son was born that I did while pregnant with him. Where did you go in those moments when I needed you most?
You came back with a vengeance after I had him. I remember coming home from the hospital, about a week after Hunter was born and laying in bed. I used to be so hot under the covers that I'd sleep with them completely kicked off, in little to no clothes. I remember sleeping in socks, long pants and a long sleeved shirt, under three blankets and still feeling cold. I laid on my back, it was the only position I could really do that wouldn't aggravate my healing c-section. I was still in some pain, so took a low grade pain killer and you came swiftly to me. You were like a lover returning from war and your embrace was warm and so welcoming. I stayed with you for hours, in a deep and soothing sleep.
That was the best sleep I had had in years.
Last night was close to the worst. Every noise, ever smell, every touch from the body next to me sent you further and further away. I hate that. All my old tricks to find you really didn't do anything, and here I am, hours before my bed time, ready to just go to sleep.
I think its time to pull out the old tricks. I'm going to put fresh, clean sheets on the bed. They were just washed today and smell so lovely. After that, I am going to have a shower with some new soothing body wash that I got (it's a cucumber scent, I think that should be relaxing). Then I will put on some fresh sleeping clothes, check on the baby and go to bed.
I will capture you tonight, I'm sure of it.
Soon to be together.. with desire.
Love,
ALY
Dear Sleep,
We are battling again. I don't like this.
We fight way to often. Can't we just get along? You wore me out completely while I was pregnant by being so elusive. It really wasn't fair. I slept more after my son was born that I did while pregnant with him. Where did you go in those moments when I needed you most?
You came back with a vengeance after I had him. I remember coming home from the hospital, about a week after Hunter was born and laying in bed. I used to be so hot under the covers that I'd sleep with them completely kicked off, in little to no clothes. I remember sleeping in socks, long pants and a long sleeved shirt, under three blankets and still feeling cold. I laid on my back, it was the only position I could really do that wouldn't aggravate my healing c-section. I was still in some pain, so took a low grade pain killer and you came swiftly to me. You were like a lover returning from war and your embrace was warm and so welcoming. I stayed with you for hours, in a deep and soothing sleep.
That was the best sleep I had had in years.
Last night was close to the worst. Every noise, ever smell, every touch from the body next to me sent you further and further away. I hate that. All my old tricks to find you really didn't do anything, and here I am, hours before my bed time, ready to just go to sleep.
I think its time to pull out the old tricks. I'm going to put fresh, clean sheets on the bed. They were just washed today and smell so lovely. After that, I am going to have a shower with some new soothing body wash that I got (it's a cucumber scent, I think that should be relaxing). Then I will put on some fresh sleeping clothes, check on the baby and go to bed.
I will capture you tonight, I'm sure of it.
Soon to be together.. with desire.
Love,
ALY
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Happy Birthday, Ted
February 18, 2010
Ted,
Happy Birthday, Bastard.
Only with you could I start a letter this way and know that you'll find as much humor in it as I do.
Really, Happy Birthday brother.
I feel awful. First of all I am a day late on this well wish. Your birthday was yesterday. I knew this in the back of my mind yet, somehow, I got distracted and my lack of desire to touch my computer has really hampered my ability to keep in touch and keep myself up to date with these things. Facebook reminds me of birthdays, events and the like, but little good it does me if I don't look at it, right?
My job all day requires me to stare at a computer. I go through these phases where the last thing I want to do when I get home is look at another computer screen. Fuck it, I say. I'm getting older and my eyes get tired.
I also feel bad because I would have loved to have called but I've been lazy and always forget to add your phone number into my cell phone after you call. I'm a horrible friend at times. I get so wrapped up in my desire for solitude that when these moments come, where I want to reach out to people, I've almost made it impossible for me to reach them.
This is going to be short, maybe sweet. It's late for me. Fighting a cold here and sleep has been evasive. I need to go to bed soon and try to get a good sleep in. My mornings are very busy these days and a good rest is required. I get up at six and then after getting myself cleaned and dressed, I move on to the baby. I love the extra time with him in the morning (now I get to see him before I leave for work, unlike before) but it means about half an hour less of sleep.
I miss you, I love you. I owe you a better letter than this...
I will write one. I promise.
Until then, be strong, my brother.
Congrats on another year...
Love,
A.L.Y
Ted,
Happy Birthday, Bastard.
Only with you could I start a letter this way and know that you'll find as much humor in it as I do.
Really, Happy Birthday brother.
I feel awful. First of all I am a day late on this well wish. Your birthday was yesterday. I knew this in the back of my mind yet, somehow, I got distracted and my lack of desire to touch my computer has really hampered my ability to keep in touch and keep myself up to date with these things. Facebook reminds me of birthdays, events and the like, but little good it does me if I don't look at it, right?
My job all day requires me to stare at a computer. I go through these phases where the last thing I want to do when I get home is look at another computer screen. Fuck it, I say. I'm getting older and my eyes get tired.
I also feel bad because I would have loved to have called but I've been lazy and always forget to add your phone number into my cell phone after you call. I'm a horrible friend at times. I get so wrapped up in my desire for solitude that when these moments come, where I want to reach out to people, I've almost made it impossible for me to reach them.
This is going to be short, maybe sweet. It's late for me. Fighting a cold here and sleep has been evasive. I need to go to bed soon and try to get a good sleep in. My mornings are very busy these days and a good rest is required. I get up at six and then after getting myself cleaned and dressed, I move on to the baby. I love the extra time with him in the morning (now I get to see him before I leave for work, unlike before) but it means about half an hour less of sleep.
I miss you, I love you. I owe you a better letter than this...
I will write one. I promise.
Until then, be strong, my brother.
Congrats on another year...
Love,
A.L.Y
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Dear Mr. J.D. Salinger
February 7, 2010
Mr. J. D. Salinger,
We've had a torrid relationship, haven't we? You, Sir, were my first great love, my first great obsession. To this very day, you sit above me at my writing desk, looking down at my from the shelf above my monitor. Good relationships, like ours, last until the bitter end and then some.
I felt a little twinge at the news of your passing. Wasn't anyone standing in the rye to catch you as you ran past? Where was your dear Holden? Was he sitting, depressed, on a subway platform? Was he drinking coffee at a table, thinking how he just doesn't give a goddamn care enough to leave the house and actually go to the field of rye to save you?
My first introduction to you was when I was at the tender and impressionable age of 17. High School, the golden years as we are to refer to them. I had a major project to do in my English class, one that would be worth a big chunk of my grade and I was lost without an idea in the world. My teacher suggested "The Cather in the Rye." He told me to read it, to see if I liked it and if it did, he suggested I make a study guide for the book. He handed me a small, hardcover edition of the book. It was very new, with a somewhat out of place rainbow in the top left hand corner of the cover. The text with the title was black, thick and strong. I wasn't looking forward to reading it. I think the only thing that made me read the book was the fact that I had no other leads for this project. I laid in my bed at the end of the day and opened the book, making the promise to myself to just get through the first chapter and then make a decision tomorrow.
Mr. Salinger, I stayed up all night reading that damn book. I almost finished it over night. I was instantly drawn in and enraptured with it.
For a good eight months, I loved your book, Mr. Salinger. I read, and re-read and re-read again. I became a clone of Holden and even started to talk like him, saying goddamn all the time. I took that book with me everywhere and would open it to read passages I had marked, pages I had memorized. I was obsessed.
I feel in love with Holden, which many people may find a complete oddity. Holden - the cold and frustrated young boy. Holden, the depressed and soulful. I feel in love with him because I was so like him. Our pain mirrored each other and I never thought I would find a man as perfect for me as Holden.
The project was easy. How could you not find the time or inspiration to write about something or someone you desire, with your whole body. I was so smitten. I spent my evenings at home, after my project was done, turning your lovely book into a full stage production. I wrote the script by hand, copying your exact words, you very dialogue. I wrote "The Catcher in the Rye" along side you and understood it even more than I thought I could.
You could imagine my pain when I present the script to the schools drama department as was told I had a cold chance in hell of having the play produced - ever. My drama teacher, who loved the script, told me more about you and your desire to keep Holden tightly under your wing. I cursed you, wished you let your baby grow up and leave the nest. I cursed you. I could not understand how you could not want to share Holden with the world.
I put you away. I stuck "The Catcher in the Rye" up in my book shelf and left it there. I buried the script I wrote away in filing cabinet.
These things, these reminders of you, stayed with me through three moves and its only now, years and years later that I wonder about them. "The Catcher in the Rye" was re-read recently, maybe three or so years ago? But where is the script? I wouldn't have thrown it out, I wouldn't have. I haven't seen in in years. I was angry with you, but I don't think I could have throw it away. Could I?
It's only now, years later, that I understand your connection with Holden. I wouldn't have wanted to let him go into the world either. He's to pure of heart to survive the onslaught that would have come around him. I realize this now, as an adult. My obsession made me blind and for that, I ask forgiveness. I was to young and stupid to understand. I was too in love and too obsessed to see beyond my rose colored glasses.
It's clear to me now.
Rest well, Mr. Salinger.
Regards,
A.L.Y
Mr. J. D. Salinger,
We've had a torrid relationship, haven't we? You, Sir, were my first great love, my first great obsession. To this very day, you sit above me at my writing desk, looking down at my from the shelf above my monitor. Good relationships, like ours, last until the bitter end and then some.
I felt a little twinge at the news of your passing. Wasn't anyone standing in the rye to catch you as you ran past? Where was your dear Holden? Was he sitting, depressed, on a subway platform? Was he drinking coffee at a table, thinking how he just doesn't give a goddamn care enough to leave the house and actually go to the field of rye to save you?
My first introduction to you was when I was at the tender and impressionable age of 17. High School, the golden years as we are to refer to them. I had a major project to do in my English class, one that would be worth a big chunk of my grade and I was lost without an idea in the world. My teacher suggested "The Cather in the Rye." He told me to read it, to see if I liked it and if it did, he suggested I make a study guide for the book. He handed me a small, hardcover edition of the book. It was very new, with a somewhat out of place rainbow in the top left hand corner of the cover. The text with the title was black, thick and strong. I wasn't looking forward to reading it. I think the only thing that made me read the book was the fact that I had no other leads for this project. I laid in my bed at the end of the day and opened the book, making the promise to myself to just get through the first chapter and then make a decision tomorrow.
Mr. Salinger, I stayed up all night reading that damn book. I almost finished it over night. I was instantly drawn in and enraptured with it.
For a good eight months, I loved your book, Mr. Salinger. I read, and re-read and re-read again. I became a clone of Holden and even started to talk like him, saying goddamn all the time. I took that book with me everywhere and would open it to read passages I had marked, pages I had memorized. I was obsessed.
I feel in love with Holden, which many people may find a complete oddity. Holden - the cold and frustrated young boy. Holden, the depressed and soulful. I feel in love with him because I was so like him. Our pain mirrored each other and I never thought I would find a man as perfect for me as Holden.
The project was easy. How could you not find the time or inspiration to write about something or someone you desire, with your whole body. I was so smitten. I spent my evenings at home, after my project was done, turning your lovely book into a full stage production. I wrote the script by hand, copying your exact words, you very dialogue. I wrote "The Catcher in the Rye" along side you and understood it even more than I thought I could.
You could imagine my pain when I present the script to the schools drama department as was told I had a cold chance in hell of having the play produced - ever. My drama teacher, who loved the script, told me more about you and your desire to keep Holden tightly under your wing. I cursed you, wished you let your baby grow up and leave the nest. I cursed you. I could not understand how you could not want to share Holden with the world.
I put you away. I stuck "The Catcher in the Rye" up in my book shelf and left it there. I buried the script I wrote away in filing cabinet.
These things, these reminders of you, stayed with me through three moves and its only now, years and years later that I wonder about them. "The Catcher in the Rye" was re-read recently, maybe three or so years ago? But where is the script? I wouldn't have thrown it out, I wouldn't have. I haven't seen in in years. I was angry with you, but I don't think I could have throw it away. Could I?
It's only now, years later, that I understand your connection with Holden. I wouldn't have wanted to let him go into the world either. He's to pure of heart to survive the onslaught that would have come around him. I realize this now, as an adult. My obsession made me blind and for that, I ask forgiveness. I was to young and stupid to understand. I was too in love and too obsessed to see beyond my rose colored glasses.
It's clear to me now.
Rest well, Mr. Salinger.
Regards,
A.L.Y
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Dear Gin
January 31, 2010
Dear Gin,
I curse you.
I love you.
I hate the fact that I love you this much.
I think you have been angry at me for not being around as often as I used to be.
I'm sorry.
No need to take it out on me in this way.
The headache I had this morning from my night in your intoxicating embrace was enough.
Why the second, worse round?
I know I haven't been around as much as you would have liked.
I haven't been around as much as I'd have liked.
Forgive me.
You are sweet on my lips. I made love to you last night.
And like a women scorned, I am in pain.
Damn you, Gin.
Till we meet again, in some random bar, in some strangers house, in a familiar setting, know this:
I love you but I don't love your wrath.
Regards,
Penny Lane
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Dear Hunter
January 30, 2010
Dear Hunter,
It's early on a Saturday evening. The apartment is quiet, save for some trashy reality TV show making noise in the background. You father is sleeping in the bedroom and you are not here. Earlier today we took you to visit your grandparents. You are going to be spending the night with them while your father and I go out tonight.
I have a gig. I'm going to be spinning some tunes at this event/fundraiser for the Winnipeg Ska and Reggae Festival called "The Ladies of the Winnipeg Ska and Reggae Festival" - original, huh? Trust me, the name was not my idea. I'll be DJ'ing along with three other ladies tonight, and for once I'm actually happy to be going first. I usually hate being stuck with the opening slot but ska and reggae, surprisingly, is not my favorite nor my strength. I enjoy the music, I play some of it on my radio show and I have been on the ska and reggae festival's organizing committee since day one but I really don't know how comfortable I feel with spinning a whole set of the stuff. It will be interesting.
We miss you. Your dad and I got home, had some food and while sitting on the sofa watching TV, we both noticed how quiet it was.
"I miss Hunter." I said. Your dad said he did too. I started to wonder what you were doing with your grandparents and figured that they were probably sitting you down at the table, helping you feed yourself some dinner. Your at that age now where you constantly want to feed yourself, but you lack the corodination to do it efficiently and without a huge mess. I know the only way you will learn is to do it so I deal with the mess you make of yourself. Besides, I packed soap and towels for you so grandma will probably give you a bath before bed.
On my desk, next to me is a picture you drew at day care this week. Well, more like a piece of paper that you scribbled all over with markers. Child, you have changed me so much. I used to look at these horrible 'pictures' people had on their refrigerators or hanging in their cubicals at work and wonder why on earth someone would not only save, but cherish something so, well, worthless? Its not what the picture is, I suppose. You made this, you created it and found joy in the process and as your mother, I am so proud of you and of this scrap of paper. I want to hang it up somewhere, but I first have to remember to date the back of it.
Hunter, age 13 months. January 2010.
Done. Next step will be to tack it up on the refrigerator.
I'm excited about picking you up tomorrow afternoon. I do feel guilty about leaving you with your grandparents overnight but this way your father and I can both go out and have a good time. We don't really get to do that very much. I know you'll understand. We will be back to see you around noon tomorrow, and we'll have lunch together with grandma and grandpa.
It's cold. I'm wearing a t-shirt and wish I had a sweater. I should be getting myself ready for tonight, but really, I'm feeling lazy and most of the work has been completed anyway. I keep thinking of you, so that is why I'm writing this.
I love you, Hunter.
I suppose it goes without saying, but I want to scream it from the roof tops. Seeing the world through your eyes is incredible. I mean, I never found sneezing funny until you came around. Now I find myself making these rediculious fake sneeze in the hope that you'll laugh, just a little, at it. You have given me new eyes to see the world and they are incredible.
I should get a move on. I need to pluck my eyebrowns and its hard to do when your home. Also want to iron some clothes. Again, hard to do when you are home.
I want to kiss you good night, so at eight PM, when you will be laid down to sleep, I am going to close my eyes and imagine me, kissing you.
Night, my sweet son.
See you tomorrow,
Love,
Mom
Dear Hunter,
It's early on a Saturday evening. The apartment is quiet, save for some trashy reality TV show making noise in the background. You father is sleeping in the bedroom and you are not here. Earlier today we took you to visit your grandparents. You are going to be spending the night with them while your father and I go out tonight.
I have a gig. I'm going to be spinning some tunes at this event/fundraiser for the Winnipeg Ska and Reggae Festival called "The Ladies of the Winnipeg Ska and Reggae Festival" - original, huh? Trust me, the name was not my idea. I'll be DJ'ing along with three other ladies tonight, and for once I'm actually happy to be going first. I usually hate being stuck with the opening slot but ska and reggae, surprisingly, is not my favorite nor my strength. I enjoy the music, I play some of it on my radio show and I have been on the ska and reggae festival's organizing committee since day one but I really don't know how comfortable I feel with spinning a whole set of the stuff. It will be interesting.
We miss you. Your dad and I got home, had some food and while sitting on the sofa watching TV, we both noticed how quiet it was.
"I miss Hunter." I said. Your dad said he did too. I started to wonder what you were doing with your grandparents and figured that they were probably sitting you down at the table, helping you feed yourself some dinner. Your at that age now where you constantly want to feed yourself, but you lack the corodination to do it efficiently and without a huge mess. I know the only way you will learn is to do it so I deal with the mess you make of yourself. Besides, I packed soap and towels for you so grandma will probably give you a bath before bed.
On my desk, next to me is a picture you drew at day care this week. Well, more like a piece of paper that you scribbled all over with markers. Child, you have changed me so much. I used to look at these horrible 'pictures' people had on their refrigerators or hanging in their cubicals at work and wonder why on earth someone would not only save, but cherish something so, well, worthless? Its not what the picture is, I suppose. You made this, you created it and found joy in the process and as your mother, I am so proud of you and of this scrap of paper. I want to hang it up somewhere, but I first have to remember to date the back of it.
Hunter, age 13 months. January 2010.
Done. Next step will be to tack it up on the refrigerator.
I'm excited about picking you up tomorrow afternoon. I do feel guilty about leaving you with your grandparents overnight but this way your father and I can both go out and have a good time. We don't really get to do that very much. I know you'll understand. We will be back to see you around noon tomorrow, and we'll have lunch together with grandma and grandpa.
It's cold. I'm wearing a t-shirt and wish I had a sweater. I should be getting myself ready for tonight, but really, I'm feeling lazy and most of the work has been completed anyway. I keep thinking of you, so that is why I'm writing this.
I love you, Hunter.
I suppose it goes without saying, but I want to scream it from the roof tops. Seeing the world through your eyes is incredible. I mean, I never found sneezing funny until you came around. Now I find myself making these rediculious fake sneeze in the hope that you'll laugh, just a little, at it. You have given me new eyes to see the world and they are incredible.
I should get a move on. I need to pluck my eyebrowns and its hard to do when your home. Also want to iron some clothes. Again, hard to do when you are home.
I want to kiss you good night, so at eight PM, when you will be laid down to sleep, I am going to close my eyes and imagine me, kissing you.
Night, my sweet son.
See you tomorrow,
Love,
Mom
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Welcome
Welcome to My Unmailed letters, a blog which will feature letters of all sorts. Mostly, these letters will be to people I know and have personal relationships with, but letters will also be written to people I wish I knew, or people who are fictional.
This is an experiment for me. I find letter writing theraputic and rewarding. It doesn't matter if these letters will be read by their intended audience. What does matter is that they are from the heart and important.
I will try to have at least one new letter a week. This is my goal.
Thank you for joining me on this journey of discovery and letter writing.
It is a lost art, indeed.
With love,
Penny Lane
This is an experiment for me. I find letter writing theraputic and rewarding. It doesn't matter if these letters will be read by their intended audience. What does matter is that they are from the heart and important.
I will try to have at least one new letter a week. This is my goal.
Thank you for joining me on this journey of discovery and letter writing.
It is a lost art, indeed.
With love,
Penny Lane
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