a letter

pages are torn out. loose leaves. they flutter to the ground like wings without bodies. they were stories. what was. what is no more. but they are stories nonetheless.

the book is empty not knowing yet how to be replenished. not knowing yet how to be. forgetting to trust that it all comes as it should.

i’m in a hurry to write, to meet, to document. to make the history that would prove me not lonely. but that’s not how it works now is it? patience is gifted, not earned with white knuckles gripping the wheel in traffic.

hurry up to get there.
hurry up to not be alone.
hurry up to face time and silence.

the pages are blank.
and although it is beautifully lonely
it leaves me not knowing where or how to start again.

thrifted kicks and grins-1

i should write every day. these words i found with no date. one month? two months old? i can’t quite remember. fitting though, for me to find them this day. this day i begin a letter.

To the man in the big white truck,
it’s 82 degrees before the sun even rises. everyone knows the heat makes texans a little crazy in the head. and yet there you are, in my rearview mirror at 7:30am. my four cylinder with the AC blasting just can’t go fast enough for your stress. and for that i apologize even though i shouldn’t, but dude… you’re driving dangerously close to me and my son. me, the ten year old car in the slow lane trying to get up this hill. you are flexing your muscle, honking your horn.

i recognize your anger. i hear it even with my windows rolled up. the speed limit is simply not fast enough for you today. you shout and your coffee breath fogs up your window with spit as it flies from your lips.

would you call me a cunt if we were to meet face to face? i doubt you would have the balls. i doubt you would know what to do with a woman like me.

i have most likely never sat around a campfire with someone like you. you, i will not judge beyond this car, this morning, this word of power. are you the product of this stressful life? a product of a father figure, or simply a product of this  society crammed into cubicles devoid of human contact… forgetting what is decent and kind?

there’s one thing i am sure of, in this so called loneliness: i’m glad i’m not going home to you.

10 thoughts on “a letter”

  1. I’m always whining about decency and turning into my mother. But something has been lost in the inability to speak languages as they;re meant, in making everything so casual. Meaning is lost-and manners and standards.

    At least when I yell at people, I’m looking right at them through open windows. THe joys of being a pedestrian.

  2. Oh that word, that word just makes me want to crawl away. I hate it so. I mean, you can just feel the disrespect and anger in that word.

    I love the vibe of this piece, you totally get the sense you are in control and calm, and this person is not. That makes it better doesn’t it?

  3. wow. you are SO right.

    what possesses us to be so cruel to each other at times?

    you do sound calm, an eye in the storm.

  4. Cars make people feel bigger than they are. They go crazy with power. I had a man chase the vehicle I was in down with his monstrous SUV. I doubt he ever would have done the same thing to me on foot.

  5. Your photos always cause me to think, to muse on colour and composition.

    Much to be thankful for. Can you imagine? Hi, Honey, I’m home…with that!

  6. Unbelievably disrespectful. I feel. Sad. For the life he has. I feel Gratitude for the life you have with joy and love mixed all up in the lonely.

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