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Unpacking
bets
teaberryblue
Unpacking boxes, I am finding all kinds of things I forgot about.

Tonight, I was about to pack it in and go to to bed at about 1:30.

Then, I found the longest love letter I've ever written. It's a book. One of those blank journals? I don't even know how many pages it is. Definitely fifty; maybe a hundred. It took me a full three months to write.

I obviously didn't send it. I feel like Beatrice Baudelaire. And there is a very reckless, very hopeful part of me that is tempted to send it now, years after the fact, because I don't feel any differently than I did when I wrote it. I do about some things; I've grown up, I've mellowed out, I've become more pragmatic and poised.

But not so pragmatic that I throw out fifty-page love letters I'll never send. It took me till three before I put it down-- and I didn't finish it, mind. I set it down, skimming through the second half. Only skimming. Finding the part where I finally declare "I love you," a full three quarters through the letter.

I am finding poetry and stories. A novella, illustrated, that was another love letter to someone else, also never sent. Never given, I should say, it was meant as a gift and then somewhere along the way I realized the person it was intended for would never care that I had written a book for them and them alone. I don't know. Maybe they would. There was a time when they would have cared immensely.

It's pretty wretched prose now, though. I would be mortified if someone gave this to me.

So far, now that the love-letter-book is found (and oh, how telling it is, and wonderful to read the intellectual curiosity I had at that age at work and on a page and swelling with fervor to find someone else who understood it and challenged it without competition), the only thing not found that I truly care about is my Pez collection. What does that say about me, really, that the things with the deepest meaning to me as reminders of a youth well-spent are an unsent love-letter that took a season to write, a Ouija Board from 1920, my tarot decks, collections of juvenile writing, books, and my Pez dispensers?

Really, what does it mean?

The most wonderful thing about reading that letter is now I feel inspired to live up to being the person I hoped I would be when I wrote it. And oh, god, I want the person I wrote it to to be what they wanted to be.

Remember, all of you, even though this letter was not to you (because it was only to one person, so it could not be to all of you, and it was to someone I knew before the advent of this journal, and that rules out all but a select few of you), that there is something in the universe that is deserving of your deep and complete love.


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Okay, you need to say more about these INDIVIDUALS. Plz, spill the gossip.

Nope! Then it would be about old unrequited love stories and not self-discovery. I like it this way.

BOOOOOOO oh well, I guess that's acceptable.

OKAY OKAY IT'S TO LEMONY. GEEZ.

If it was to Lemony you would have burned down by now.

lolz

Pez dispensers? I still have a bunch of those kicking around somewhere back home too. It's like...required by law that you have at least one from childhood.

Also the 50 page love letter thing is very cool. Would be interesting to see how much that person has changed as well.

Yes, but do you have over 200 Pez dispensers from high school,including one that once belonged to Jerry Seinfeld that you traded with him personally?

I LOVE YOU, TEA.

ETA: And... what does it mean? It means you are awesome.

Edited at 2008-02-22 12:44 pm (UTC)

I LOVE YOU, NIKKI.

You are awesome too!

That is pretty fabulous that you wrote a love letter book but even more fabulous is the missing pez container collection. It sounds like a mystery book. "The tale of the missing pez collection" *cue dramatic music*

THEY ARE NO LONGER MISSING. OH MY PEZ, HOW I LOVE YOU.

*cheers* The book comes to a successful close!

What does that say about me, really, that the things with the deepest meaning to me as reminders of a youth well-spent are an unsent love-letter that took a season to write, a Ouija Board from 1920, my tarot decks, collections of juvenile writing, books, and my Pez dispensers?

Damned if I know what it says about you. I can tell you it makes me even more eager to get to know you. You sound fascinating!

Hope you find those Pez dispensers.

And live up to your image of your future self. Worthy goal.

::nods::

My father found them this morning! Pictures will be forthcoming.

Sadly, one of the biggest disappointments is that I dreamed I would be a wunderkind and I'm a little old for that now. But on the other hand, I've realized that being happy is more important than being special.

Achieving awesomeness in adulthood is generally longer-lasting, anyway. Wunderkinds usually burn out young.

Fucking Keats. Fucking Mozart.

I think this is probably the thing I respect most about Drew Barrymore. She was able to be a prodigy, burn out spectacularly, and not die of a drug overdose and come back and be an awesome grownup too.

Word! I totally admire her for that.

I feel for you on the Wunderkind thing. I was a precocious thing - always praised for being SO YOUNG and yet so ACCOMPLISHED!

This does not happen anymore, as I am 40 now.

But that's ok. I actually like myself more now, and am no longer worried about people finding out that I'm not really so great.

Both because their expectations aren't quite so high, and also because, you know, I AM pretty great!

::hugs::

I think that is just about the sweetest thing I have ever read.

<3 It was a very good night for my memories of who I was.

Wow. I wish I had a fifty page love letter to someone to find. (I do have a couple of those novellas, though, and I agree about not wanting to share them with anyone any more.)

This one is horrible! The issue is that I used to draw all my characters (Still do) and this one person looked over my shoulder one day and saw this one character and said, "Oh, I want to be that one!" Without knowing anything about that one or the fact that the character's personality was loosely based on the person who said it. The illustrations I did are gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. But the writing is tripe and bad love story shit.

I just wonder if I would want to receive that love letter years later.

I think I would be pretty proud if that collection of things was what I had to show for myself.

Some of the writing is pretty incredible stuff. Not in that it is good, but what it says about me. I keep wanting to scan everything.

Man, I love looking through old shit, even if it isin't mine. My mom bought someone else's family album from the 1900s. Which is kind of creepy, but I love looking at it.

I think the love letter is awesome. I could never do that. But man, to be the person to recieve that would be scary. And king of super sweet. Oh, I still need to send your present.

Oops.

This is why I hate throwing things away. Everything is memories.

Also, it's nice to know I'm not the only person harboring love for someone for years and years.

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