Thursday February 11th 2010, 9:02 pm
Filed under: Love Letters

To my father’s daughter in-law,

One year ago my father was diagnosed with colon cancer. Three months later he underwent a surgical procedure to remove the cancerous part of his lower intestine, which left untreated could have killed him in a matter of months. At the stale age of 73 a procedure like that became a statistical hypothesis, a guessing game where one gambles on the longevity of one’s time on this planet as a living organism. After disturbing complications from his surgery, he was released from the hospital in good spirits, only to find out the cancer had spread to his lymph-nodes, sending him back to the cancer specialists for six grueling months of chemotherapy.  And though his spirits stayed resilient, most likely due to the fact he’s as stubborn not to die as he is stubborn not to show his emotional weaknesses, he had many more months of recovery. During this period, I visited him on several occasions in hopes to open up an emotional and connected bond with him in ways never available to me during my childhood. I came to find out he was just as guarded, if not more now then when I was a child, with his emotional and clandestine secrets. His reticent and guarded thoughts were admirable– I could never withhold my heart like him, as I wear my heart on my sleeve for the world to pierce, poke and prod. Even though there was no “ah-ha” breakthrough moments to gloat about in our recent sessions together, I take pride and pleasure in the experience of his presence. It’s like two fingers touching without words,  Michaelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam” incarnate, only fleeting moments of “this is” and the connection of a human’s understudying to the touch of god. His health seemed to slowly regenerate, however with occasional hic-ups expected from such a traumatizing experience. ((Fast forward to the present)) Exactly one year after his first cancerous diagnosis, Dad’s now been in the emergency room for over a week. What started as a routine colonoscopy turned into something disconcerting and dire. After his mandatory bowel cleansing before a camera/tube was shoved in his anus, my father tried eating what was to be, hitherto his check-up, a solid meal. Something happened to his bowels and his small-intestine decided it no longer wanted to pass food through its opening. His body’s reaction was to violently vomit the ingested food, as it had nowhere else to go. Obviously this was a major concern for his doctors. If the body can not digest food, the body can not survive. The “specialist doctors”, or “body mechanics”, attempted another CT scan of his intestinal tract. However, if the body stops digesting food it also stops digesting CT dye, which is necessary to perform an accurate x-ray of the digestive tract. This becomes another troubling perplexity for the doctors. At my father’s age and with his history of complicated recuperation from these invasive procedures, the last option a doctor considers is opening the patient up again. Their best bet and their most educated guess was to stick tubes down his throat and vacuum his intestinal acids while slowly pumping bursts of air onto the small intestine’s opening in hopes of dislodging whatever was blocking his passageway. At this time, my father had not had a bowel movement nor had he passed any gas since his admission to the hospital. With his stomach distended like a starving 3rd world child and with no time to waste, he underwent this mechanical “suck-and-blow procedure” for three days. Twenty-four hours later, he passed a bit of gas, giving hopes that the procedure was helping move along whatever it was that was causing the blockage. In an optimistic decision the doctors removed the tubes and attempted to feed him solids like soup and jello. He immediately dejected the “food”, alluding to the theory that this was more than just a minor blockage in his intestine. After two days of attempting to unblock this unknown mass the doctors reconvened to discuss their next option. ((Breaking News)) I  just received a call from my mother telling me they are preparing to operate on him in the morning. Their best guess is the removal of scar tissue resulting from the original invasive surgery. My worse fear is that the cancer has moved from his large intestine to his small intestine, causing significant closure of his bowels. I’ve been in contact with him in this past week and his spirits continue to be at an all time high; however it is my suspicion his optimism is the same facade he’s known for during these understandably undesirable times. It is my hope he is currently without pain and suffering. I hope his blood pressure is low and his spirits are high. It is my hope he walks out of the hospital with a smile on his face and with the confidence of a man who knows he will live to be 103 years old and who isn’t ready to retire to the next realm. But these are MY hopes. I’m not done making this beautiful creature laugh; I’m not done surprising him. Even though I’m 3,000 miles away from his body, I feel more connected to him tonight than I ever have. He is the one who taught me to be man and how to make honest connections in life. I suppose after he passes, so too shall my commitment to the idea of manhood. I will be left in a non-definitive  world of pure existence. But until that time, he’s still my dad; he’s still the one I look towards finding peace in his mistakes. After all, like Father, like Son.

-The concerned son

Comments Off on 93

Tuesday February 09th 2010, 9:18 pm
Filed under: Love Letters

To a blizzard’s plight,

It’s winter in New York and there’s a snowstorm expected tonight. I moved here a little over a month ago leaving Los Angeles and its haunting stench and staleness behind. I miss my friends, although I know my absconding was justified as a matter of life or death. In the land of the lost I was quickly losing myself. No, never soft nor subtle, but only fast and furious. When I come, I come correct. I come with passion, ferocity and fervor, propelling ever closer towards the abyss, millimeters from event horizon. It is my suspicion that if I did not immediately leave Los Angeles, I would have been dead in no more then three months. This is not a Hollywood dramatization; this is candid concern for my conscious health. I left my friends behind, and as well my enemies. Most importantly, I left the self destructive part of me that was closing in on the slippery doorstep of death’s domain. No, this is not drama. These thoughts are the cause for my departure from California. So cheers to the rat that jumped ship. Cheers to the survivor and to the loner rodent running as far as he could from the haunting suspicion of an ominous and deadly storm. Yet, instead of running FROM these pathological uncertainties, I ran TOWARDS a better life, towards the Drala, towards the golden sun and the ineffable peace of a winter’s blizzard. Snow is peace; it is warm and cold congruently. It is a peace of mind which allows thoughts to wander into the nude nature of consciousness. Snow resets the cognitive mind like a freshly shorn scalp or a freshly drawn bath; it is the antithesis of the abyss. My natural instinct has been to strip off my confining clothes which inhibit me daily, and instead prance around in the magical freedom of snow’s white canvas. I am the artist’s brush dipped into the palette of the universe, ready to make my mark again. Yet the question prevails: will I continue creating the grotesque, or will I engage in unadulterated beauty? Only time will tell; only time and being will know. It’s beginning to snow now so I shall end this letter knowing my mind and heart are falling deep into to a falling blizzard.

– The Snow Flake

Comments Off on 92

Tuesday February 09th 2010, 8:45 pm
Filed under: Love Letters

To a positive outlook,

This year has been by far the most challenging battle I’ve faced on this god-forsaken planet. Consecutive imbroglios have beleaguered my opportunities and yet I still have a panoply of tricks up my sleeve to abscond the despondent strangle-hold I feel on a quotidian basis. Constantly reminding myself to laugh and enjoy life has been a major weapon against the sadness and depression my pathology is drawn towards. One must be burned by the flame to know that the delusion of beauty is the greatest trick of all; do not go into the light for your life will immolate. I offer myself life-lines of hope and happiness to stave off the surrounding invaders of despair. I quell my pain with laughter. And although seemingly insane at times, I still laugh to myself… out-loud… diabolically. And in the words of the late heath ledger as the joker, “why so serious?!”


Comments Off on 91

Tuesday April 28th 2009, 5:25 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the new mythology,

there’s a hero and he has a million faces. He looks just like her, just like him, and has a body of a tired extinguished star. We’ve seen this hero in our dreams, in our fantasies beyond the realm of what is; the hero surpasses being throughout the infinite. Therefore we can not see the hero, we can not be the hero. The hero only exists in our dreams, in between the synapses eluding reification and materialization, in-between the lines of poems and on the margin’s of the canvas. The hero knows nothing about quotidian plebeian life; the hero has nothing to do with this. The hero wants nothing but the best for everyone, a schizophrenic lover and and despondent foe. The hero is a manifestation of the plight of mankind. Man made the hero what it is today, that is to say, man made the idea of the hero, which could not exist without man’s understanding of what the hero purports to be… when the hero falls in the woods, everyone hears its pain. The hero craves nothing more than that which the hero needs, which is to say, nothing more than the ego-less protection of the hero’s surrounding: you and me. The hero is organ-less, desires nothing, needs nothing and produces nothing. It is perfect and alone.

-The Anti-hero

Comments Off on 90

Saturday April 25th 2009, 5:49 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

How many years has it been since I’ve written in this journal? What started as an escape plan from my own insanity has become an epic journey into the mind and heart of a lover’s path. Once a burning fire in my soul, you’ve now become a faint and distant star glowing in a sea of gaseous balls in the night sky. I know you’re out there and somehow effect me in ways I won’t pretend to comprehend; your effect is amongst the gravity of the infinite parts of a whole. I feel whole again. When I gaze into at the stars, I no longer feel an empty and cold universe staring back at me. Nietzsche’s quote “when one stares into the abyss, the abyss stares back” is but mere philosophical poetry. The warmth from all the parts and pieces ignites my passions and I know I’ll make my way through the darkness and into the light. Joseph Campell was right to study mythologies and how they interact with our personal understanding of the self. One can not feel or see the light until one is at the mercy of the bitter acrid darkness. I can not attest to how long this feeling of joy will reside in me and I do not care to know the answer. I’ve grown to love myself, to love the moments in life which remind us of who we are, where we have been and where we are going.

Comments Off on 89

Saturday April 25th 2009, 12:19 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

My arrogance and my ego are the cause for my need to help others. It makes me feel better about myself when others are benefited by my actions. However this will never fully satisfy my desire to truly help others. In fact, it shields me from ever satisfying my desires to be confident and rewarding, brave, the fearless rock I’ve always had the potential to be. And so, after supposing she would find safety in my forest, I found she was still lost, at no fault of mine. It hurts because I feel I have failed. All I ever wanted was for her to be happy, but I can not assist her happiness if I’m not happy with myself, if I just come with my bag full of ego-tricks, falsely helping others just to reward myself. I’ve been a martyr when I should have been a warrior. Yet I lack the wisdom to be brave, albeit, the ultimate warrior ensconced within will prevail: ego-less, selflessness, gentle, fearless, intelligent, powerful, just, caring, magical (inner and outer), ready to engage the world, implying truth, the jungle tiger, the snow leopard, the garuda (mythical bird), the dragon, meek, perky, outrageous, inscrutable. When I exist, I will exist for myself, bettering myself, my posture, the way in which I engage with my world– perception is key, slowing my actions, following through with my commitments, not forcing loved ones to improve themselves, but to be gentle and fearless, allowing the drala to interact with them. Not becoming sad and fearful, doubtful of the primordial goodness in the cosmic mirror. I will pay attention to space, existence in a vacuum. I must remember to give up hope, for if things don’t work out, I won’t be disappointed. I must remember to be doubtless, never “ah ha” or “I’m there” because there is no there. I will exist egoless, without “I”.

-the warrior

Comments Off on 88

Friday April 18th 2008, 12:00 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the serious side,

I have just realized something very interesting about how serious I take my lovers, but more importantly how serious I take my break ups. I don’t choose to be so dramatic; my mind just seems to go in the direction of depression and self-loathing when love fails. It’s as if I were predisposed to depression after an intense emotional relationship. I wonder if anyone else has come to this conclusion about his or her post-love state of being? Am I the only one in this world who feels destitute at the end of a relationship? Maybe I should develop a fallout out plan for myself, which I can follow like a nuclear threat document. A step-by-step guide to ending a relationship might be the only way I will survive my next love. Instead of making enemies with my ex-lovers, which I always seem to do, maybe a goal oriented document which I use as a daily reference, can lead me on the path of, dare I say, friendship? The steps to such an instructional manual would read as follows:
1. No! Whatever you are thinking right now is wrong.
2. Breathe.
3. You are making assumptions out of your emotional disfigurement which only have superficial relevancy to YOUR well-being.
4. Stop making universal conclusions about this breakup.
5. Smile if you know what’s good for you.
6. It’s not the end of the world, unless you kill yourself.
7. Breathe again.
8. Now is the time for you to turn to your friends without embarrassment to ask for their help and support. Don’t worry, that’s what they’re there for.
9. You are going to get through this, if you want to.
10. Stop blaming yourself, even if it was your fault. Shit happens, people separate, new loves are conceived, and yes, people die alone.
11. People dying is a metaphor; get used to it buddy.
12. Find something beautiful today, even if it is something minuscule or temporary.
13. Keep fucking breathing asshole.
14.  Do you really think God has time to get vengeance on you? No! God didn’t do this to you and neither did the devil. Remember, shit happens.
15. Crying is natural. Don’t hold in your emotions. That shit can kill you.
16. Someday, I promise you, you will laugh again. Even if it’s a macabre ironical laugh on your deathbed; you’ll still crack a lame ass death-grin.
17. You may never find another person like this one. But why would you want to anyway? If things didn’t work out the first time, they sure as hell won’t work out the second time.
18. Go watch the sunrise. Then go watch the sunset. Now think about home many people saw the same thing. You are not alone.
19. Stop winging about your loss. If you don’t smile, I’ll beat a smile into you.
20. Be nice to yourself. You’re all you have in this world now.

In conclusion, if you’re still feeling suicidal, sad, lonely, depressed, unnerved, restless, demonic, etc., feel free to punch things like walls and cars. However, just know, walls and cars don’t care about you, just like your ex lover. They will hurt you ten fold. Good luck, stay sharp, stay smart and remember, BREATHE ASSHOLE.

As you can tell, our breakup damaged me pretty badly, and I can only imagine how horrific the next breakup for me could be. In fact, the fear of what’s to come inhibits me from pursuing the thought or action of finding a next love. In terms of emotional connections with other humans, especially women, I’ve been recluse, almost to an extreme agoraphobic state.

-Silly me

Comments Off on 87

Friday April 18th 2008, 11:50 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

Divorce Papers,

You’ve signed them and mailed them back to the Los Angeles court house. I’ve been meaning to go check up on the process, but haven’t had the will power to do so. The courthouse is only ten blocks from here. Again, I’ve failed. My phone rang a month ago. Your voice on the other end of the line sounded like the sweet currents in the rivers of Hell. You asked if I had heard from the courts. No. I haven’t. And I don’t expect to. Not for another 4 months at least. I’m not sure why you decided to share this with me, but you told me you had plans to leave the country, to go travel to South America with friends. How lovely that sounds to my deaf ears. I want to be happy for you, happy for your travel plans, for your ongoing life. But I will not allow myself to feed on that pleasure. Depression is setting in. I can feel it in the back of my head. The muscles around my temples are spasming and my mind is clearly fogged. I feel confused by my wandering thoughts during lonely nights. The bed seems empty and cold and wrapping myself in a blanket makes me uneasily claustrophobic. It’ll be my 25th birthday in two days. And here I sit, a year and a half after our break up, lamenting and tormenting. The ghosts scream thoughts of suicide and self-destruction. 25 years old, and I’m lonely, cold and tired. I’m tired of meeting new acquaintances that go nowhere. I’m tired of thoughts full of self-doubt and pity. It exhausts me to think that I may never know another lover with eyes wide open. I’m mentally sleepy, and it shames me. I don’t write to you often. Now it seems, only in moments of desperate sadness do I turn to these journals to share with you the darkest side of my psyche. Good things have happened since my last entry, yet I can’t recall a single one of them. The nature of depression is the nature of the beast. Like Saturn eating her young in Francisco Goya’s painting, the ugly mother eats at my thoughts. Even before the depression, I have tell-tale signs of its oncoming. I start to feel numb to the world. My inner vision fine-tunes itself into a myopic tunnel. The world around me collapses as I refuse to interact with “the other”. Sadness prevails as I am swept away into the bleak and miserable void. Am I a cliché because of how inescapable desperation makes me? Are these the feelings of the classic manic-depressive states? If only there were a pill to make it all go away. Not just something to cure the symptoms, but something to dissipate everything. Is that death? Does it all end when I end? Wouldn’t the irony of an afterlife be a miserable conclusion to the nihilist? For my sake, and for the sake of anyone who just wants to finalize these curious demons, I hope there is no heaven or hell. I hope reincarnation doesn’t exist. I hope that when I die, I die forever. As a side note, there is a bible that has been sitting next to my desk for a few weeks now. I know I’m getting desperate because the thought of starting to believe in something better than the daily squalor I interact with is getting stronger. Weakness propagates the onset of depression. I want to find strength, somewhere, in something; and I know it’s not inside me.


Comments Off on 86

Friday April 18th 2008, 11:37 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

Valentines Day

Let us discuss this day of love. Let us delve into why this day even exists. That damn Grecian angel of love comes down into our lives, a living in hell, and shoots us with his hypnotic goddamn arrows of slavery. What kind of bastard anarchist saint of god would trap us in the dungeons of chains for its own amusement? No! No minion of a good lord would enslave humans in such a dark myopic cage! Cupid must be a servant of evil, or the lord Satan himself. Ever since I can remember, and from what I have read in human history, love has been on the tips of human’s tongues (and genitals). Love has been the epitome of “ultimate self-realization” because one can only love another if one loves oneself. Well, I say fuck this clichéd assumption of what love has been for humans in the thousands of years of our silly traditions. Let’s restate what love is for individuals living now, in the year 2006 (of our dear lord). Love is not an ultimate or a truth to cling on to, as if it were a scientific discovery of universality. “Love” is a word imagined by human-beings through their subjective understanding of their experiences; it does not define any truism set forth by god, saints, prophets or holy magistrates, and it does not constitute any sort of ultimate ominous doctrine for existence. Must one love another to procreate? No! Must one love another to cause pain and suffering? No! Must one understand a socially acceptable definition of love to gain social status? No! Our western (American) faith in the etymology of the word “love” convolutes the diverse and fluid existence of our human neurological process which we coin the term “love” as representing. “Love” is not monogamy. “Love” is not a tax break. “Love” is not a state issued marriage certificate. “Love” is not what we’ve come to understand through language. However, “Love” is a prominent goal in our western culture. “Love” is a wonderful feeling that westerners fight for, lie for and die for. We have faith in “love”. We believe that “love” is an ultimate stasis which can cure any illness, physical or neurological, no matter how far we stray from “love’s” path. But, let me tell you, my dear, “love” doesn’t destroy any demons we have stowed away in our inner neurological suitcases. “Love” is only a high that leads to clandestine machinations of our super ego. “Love” is an unlawful addiction without a 12-step program. Furthermore, “Love” is the culprit which makes hate possible. For what reason do we celebrate such an insidious emotion on this day, February 14th? As I pause to contemplate what I’ve just written, a voice inside is telling me how wrongfully hateful I am being. Ergo, I’d like to state a disclaimer to this letter: I do believe “Love” is the most important thing a human can hold on to. “Love” is the propagation of faith, which in turn is the answer to intuition, where intuition is the nurtured response to the nature of survival; hence, “Love” is Darwinian, meaning it exists to propagate survival, yet at the same time, “Love” is the only reason artists make art, while art has nothing to do with survival. “Love” is the only reason why I write these letters to you.

-A lover

Comments Off on 85

Thursday March 13th 2008, 1:49 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

Dear 2006,

You’ve come too soon, like an inexperienced man with no stamina during his first sexual encounter. Or maybe it was I who has come too late, possibly never cumming at all? Did you come tonight? I’ve yet to have sex with anyone besides you in the year 2005, which is a disappointment. Nevertheless, when I am sexually active, there is usually a feeling of emotional and/or physical satisfaction- post ejaculation- which is the evolutionary byproduct of survival; however, right now I am feeling nothing that resembles the sort of neural satisfaction I tend to enjoy post coitus because I know with the birth of a new year, coincidentally there is also a funeral for the death of the year which has just passed. We celebrate new beginnings with hope and promise for a better year filled with new endeavors, friendships, hopes, dreams and love; yet concurrently we mourn the loss of friends who have moved away, loved-ones who have died, lost jobs, depreciating bank accounts and fucked up events that preceded tonight’s celebrated (holy-day) holiday. On this eve there is an abundance of reflexive thoughts echoing through the minds of every American. It’s not just me this time! Cliché questions like, “what have I become?” “Where are we going?” “What’s the purpose in all this?” stroke the inquisitive minds of even semi-conscious beings. We think in terms of progression and digression when we dog-ear chapters in time. Henceforth, we make New Year’s resolutions that answer the mind’s plagued ponderings. “What can I do better this year, which hitherto tonight, for some reason or another, I couldn’t do last year?” “Who or what can I appreciate more this time around?” “Does any of this even matter?” Yes and no. New years are a time for reflection, a time to anticipate the future and to let go of the past. You are the past; you are my past– a most emotional time, a roaring rapid of lust and passion, of anger and aggression, blah blah blah. The new year is a time to wrestle with the brain and to figure what the fuck to do with ourselves for the next holy year, in the year of our lord, Jesus Christ the savior. Amen. New Year’s eve is an interesting holiday. It has astrological origins as well as religious ones’. It’s an agreed upon number by cultures throughout the world. I’d almost go as far to say it’s a humanistic universal standard (if there could be such a thing). It is the one day we celebrate as the defining point to start another trip around the sun. But how can one keep looking foreword when one is so fixated on the past? The new year is upon us: new beginnings and final endings; a time to reflect on what’s happened to us in the past 365 days and what to look towards for the next 365. Last year’s New Year’s eve was a tumultuous night for us, as I recall. We were at an anarchist punk show in the Mission where there were no rules, no laws, 40 Oz’s and gutter-punks. The smell emitting from the venue wasn’t from the stains on the floor, but from the stains on the clothes of the dirty mother bastards we called friends. Well, they were more your friends than mine, however I never had anything against them. They were some of the most passionate people I’d met in a long time. I could especially feel their enthusiasm in the moshpit. That night, I got clocked in the face with an elbow. My front tooth was pushed back a bit, but I didn’t mind. It was fun. Yet, That was then and this is now. I spent this New Year’s eve with my good friend Alexia who was in town for a few days this holiday. I even got a kiss from her when the clocks turned midnight. How sweet of her to bless me with her lips. We made our rounds around town by stopping at a few house parties. Nothing extreme happened, which I consider a good thing. Sometimes, no news is good news.

-XXOOXX to the new year

Comments Off on 84

Friday December 21st 2007, 4:52 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the year,

Today’s date is December 20th, 2005. It is the eve of our one-year wedding anniversary. I am shocked by the date, stunned by time’s ability to always push towards the definition of Being. One year ago, we were planning our wedding, scoping potential sites to hold the ceremony, wondering what the next day’s weather would be like. It was a cloudy San Francisco day when we got to the cave. The sun was hidden behind a curtain of fog and I was afraid that the following day would be just as gloomy. Yet I had hoped that no matter the weather, our wedding day would shine through the dark pages of history giving birth and light to our new life together. On our wedding, there wasn’t a cloud in sight. All my fears dissipated like the fog. The sun shined brilliantly that day. Refracted rays of our glorious sun illuminated the cave where we were wed. One year ago from tomorrow, we entered a cave of enchantment as two separate entities, ready to die as individuals, to be reborn as one being. It was a process of metamorphosis, witnessed by friends and family, blessed by the sun itself. I can’t pretend to imagine how you perceived our matrimony, but I know I felt blessed by the gods above to have died with you, to be reborn with you. We were reincarnated as strong as the roots to the tree of life, as beautiful as the stars above. Today I remembered how wonderful and magical it feels to be in love, and how blissful it is to share a bond with the woman I loved. It was so powerful, not even the devil himself could stand between us… On that day, the day of our wedding, one-year ago from tomorrow, those happy feelings metamorphosed into the two words we said to one another, “I do”. I think I will call you tomorrow to wish you a happy anniversary and to tell you that I will be sending the divorce papers to you this week in the mail.

– Memories

Comments Off on 83

Friday December 21st 2007, 4:37 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the spaces,

Today the sun set brilliantly. Feeling lost in its diminishing rays, I was clouded by its clarity. Today is November 20th; today is just another passing day. We are the passer-bys, rubbernecking the sun set, staring into its space. I messaged you last night when I was drunk with giddiness. I may have even signed my message with the words “I love you”. When I woke up this morning, I regretted my actions. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoke, yet I still feel connected to you. When will we be divorced, I wonder? If we continue living our separate yet connected lives, we will never be free from one another. Everyday I find myself questioning my current circumstance, yet I never come to any conclusions. It’s probably better that way. Thanksgiving is just around the corner. The holidays will be here soon. Our anniversary is the next major celebration on my calendar. I’m not sure what I’ll do to celebrate. I have dreams about suicide, but I don’t talk to anyone about those macabre thoughts. The other day at the office, while in a board meeting, while having my work critiqued, all I could imagine was slicing my wrists open vertically. My mind flooded with images of blood pouring onto the table. My co-workers, not knowing how to handle such a traumatic situation, were frozen with fear. This vision cheered me up for an hour or so. Mindy, I’m trying to do well; I’m trying to make others happy, to make myself happy. I’ve been trying to make art as well, but I find myself sidetracked with social stimulus, which deters me from being as prolific as I would like to be. I feel like no matter how friendly I am and no matter how joyful I make others, I never make them joyful or happy enough. I fool myself into believing in my reflection. It’s silly to create your own image through other people’s comments and critiques. But humans do this all the time. I think I will take a nap now. Goodnight love.


Comments Off on 82

Friday December 21st 2007, 4:29 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the wedding photos,

I cannot stop the tears from falling from my eyes. Trust me, if I could stop myself from crying, I would. Nobody likes a crybaby- especially a grown man crybaby who cannot get over the fact that his ex-lover no longer loves him. God damn those wedding photos for existing in the first place. Tonight was the night you and I said our final sad “goodbyes”, which made me curious how happy we were in the past. I remember being happy on the day of our marriage. I remember your smile, your kiss, your beautiful essence that dissected time and space. I remember wanting nothing less than to love you with all my heart. You made me a better person; you made me feel like a complete being. I look at the photos of you and I, stating our vows inside a mystical cave, and cannot believe how far we have come from the joyous occasion that was our wedding. What happened Mindy? Where did we go wrong? Were we too comfortable with our love? Did we lie to ourselves from the foundation of our lust for one another? What was it that metamorphosed our happy past into the cold bitter darkness we feel towards one another presently? And although I realize these questions are rhetorical and don’t have specific dialectical answers, I can’t help wondering about the decline of our relationship- just as much as I can’t help myself from crying when I think of our current state of affairs. Today you told me that we were at separate points in our lives. I believe this to be a true statement. However, can the self ever be in the exact physical, psychological, or metaphysical position as the Other? No, otherwise, the Other would be the self and reality would come crashing down. So I grant you this obvious statement, but my approval of your observation doesn’t account for us not trying to asymptotically bring ourselves closer to one another through nurturing love and companionship. The admittance of being separate individuals seems cliché at this point in our conscious lives. We should try to move on from such digressive and trite examples of differences to construct an architecturally sound commitment to the bond between two lovers. There were so many mistakes in our past. If only we could have done things differently. God, I hate hypothetical “what if” statements, which is to say, I hate myself. To conclude, my tears have dried; even though I have not come any closer to understanding how a love as brilliant as the love we shared could have died so disastrously. Our love is a child we raised; yet we let it slip away into the void of darkness because of our own egotistical and superficial actions.

-The crybaby

Comments Off on 81

Friday December 21st 2007, 4:12 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters


Hi there. I’d first like to state: I hope you are well today. You see, I can only hope for things like your well-being because there is no other dialogue to confirm or deny my wishes. We no longer speak to one another– the natural progression of separation. However, there is a part of me that wants to welcome you with warmth and positive thoughts. This part battles the beast in me that wants you to feel the suffering I feel. Dualistic beings ignite passionate battlegrounds inside my body. I have become a geographic location for battling self-consciousness. Although I have just recently observed these two opposing armies marching to war, they’ve always been inside me. The process of dualism is a process of conflict, of war, of treaties and compromise. There lies a plane of existence inside the self where intense wars are waged. Why do we turn to Hollywood to visualize such battles when all we have to do is turn our gaze inward and focus on our internal struggles and pains in order to witness intricate strategize battle. All conflict begins with confrontation between two entities, even if those two entities are within the self. The symbol “yin and yang”, black and white, here and there, are all the beginnings of conflict. And even though harmony can exist within such battles, we cannot negate the need for such dualistic philosophies. The heart of the matter takes its birth rite from the psychoanalysis of self and other – the first time the singular recognizes how un-singular it truly is. No matter how individualistic or godlike a star thinks it is, there are millions of other stars in the universe. But why then do we feel so alone in our pains? The answer is that no matter how un-alone we are, we all die alone. That is the gift of death– the ultimate sacrificial gift in the universe. What do you think it means to die a little inside? It’s an obvious figure of speech, however there’s truth behind the metaphor. When we witness our internal struggles battle with each other, there is a victor and a loser, a master and slave, as the outcome of these wars. Our internal battles allow the space for inner angels and beasts to kill one another. And even though these beings inside are subjectively labeled, the objective outcome to a war is control or death. We do actually die a little inside through this process of conflict and juxtaposition of opposing armies. Why is it that we care so much about the tale of the hero? There are countless myths, tales and stories of the hero (just go ask Joseph Compel!). The hero is the victor of conflict; he is a being that armies look towards for inspiration, confidence and support. The hero has experience in battle. He knows when to go on the offensive or when to retreat and defend. A hero has traveled far to gain esoteric wisdom and strength. He knows what it means to loose, and fights he for the greater good (or greater evil, depending on which side he’s on). The hero can turn the tables in a war; the hero knows when he’s been defeated. The hero cannot be found anywhere, but we search everywhere for him. The hero is internal; the hero is a role model. The hero lives forever. The hero never accepts the gift of death.

-Misled hero

Comments Off on 80

Tuesday December 18th 2007, 6:57 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

My progression,

There are nights in which my only outlet for my anxiety is intoxication– not always alcohol, but intoxication in the metaphorical sense. To stimulate my senses in strange, unique and sporadic avenues, whether it is by extreme focus or extreme disjointment. I intoxicate my mind, thus intoxicating my memories of you, which re-route these anxieties into dithered and confused pathways. Is this a normal activity, or better, is this a healthy way to cope with mental anguish? What do you do when you feel asphyxiated by your own chemistry? My fists clench into balls of iron-flesh and wish for nothing more than to slam into a hardened surface. However, I have enough scars on my knuckles to last a lifetime; I’ve even broken a few bones by hitting hard surfaces. But the consequences of those actions are too severe for those anxious moments of madness. Something subtler is more efficient to ward off these “demons.” Preoccupation with art, music, friends, etc. helps to keep me from reaching such extreme levels of anxiety. However, when I find myself alone and contemplating the life I’m living, my preoccupation with divergence morphs into a preoccupation with you (my better side- relatively speaking). When I become preoccupied with you and consequently with my reasons as to why things didn’t work out, I feel a surge of violence rush through me. Not violence towards you– oh god, I would never hurt you. Please don’t ever think otherwise – but violence towards the fates, circumstance and even the whole hegemony of love. What had started as a wishful adventure into the realm of an unknown love developed into something dark and cold. Brilliance turned into desolace as the days turn to night. All things end, except, for PI (but the scientists are still working on that one). But what I mean is that all things mortal, all things sentient, perish. Progression digresses, love turns to hate, man turns to mush, and we are caught in the tsunamis of synthesis. Isn’t this violent process naturally subsequent with the violence I feel late at night alone in my room? The hardest siege between two extremes is when laughter turns to tears. But my assumption is that the neurological centers of the brain, which control these limbic functions, must be near one another. As the laughter centers of the brain become super saturated with stimulus, the surrounding neurons become activated, thus inducing a seemingly bi-polar effect on the body. When we become intoxicated by whatever stimulus, our brain finds ways to incorporate all the incoming signals. I guess an easy way to visualize such a process is by imagining an ice tray that is to be filled with water. When enough water fills the space of one ice cube, the water then overflows into the surrounding spaces. This overflow, or intoxication if you will, is that which causes sporadic anxiety, as much as it cures such anxious moments. I’m sorry to bore you with this letter.


Comments Off on 79

Tuesday December 11th 2007, 1:32 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Dearest One,

Tonight’s conclusion: Fuck you. Oh wait, should I be more philosophical, more poetic for you? Ok, I’ll try– bitch. For whom heaven has cast out, for those where love is no longer life, for that which has seeped through the purest of hearts and the thickest of shields, there is you. You are a black feather on a white dove, a shadow in the valleys of sun, a tarnished stain on the chapel’s walls. DO YOU NOT SEE YOUR OWN DISGUST? Can you not feel the darkness that surrounds you? How can a speck of rust corrode a fine metal? A metal so pure that god herself can see her reflection in its shimmer. Are you a happy demon? Does destruction bring you gratification? Blessed by the horns of Lucifer art thou, and praise thee winged lover of death, as there is no other glorification you shall receive in this journal. The chaos you bring under your tarnished feathers of doom is that which brings my body to its knees. You are the destroyer of goodness; you are the temptation of that which is holy- my being. For your grace, I do not give thee praise, yet I allow you to consume my light, digesting its photons to produce and reproduce darkness – you are the machine which destroys goodness. And yet you call yourself a mortal woman? How can it be, a mortal such as yourself, has the power to convince my love of anything other than its original intention: truth, honesty, joy, laughter and kindness. You make this man, I, a being of light, turn to the shadows. My face cracks and the monster protrudes in your presence. To this day, even at this hour, god’s hour, the thought of you turns this scientist into a lunatic, a maniac of sorts that thrives on death and destruction. You are the poison in the well; you are the vile transformation I have become – a mirror for hate and despair. And yet, you are still my wife, my bond in “holy matrimony” and my official lover. Does this not make sense? Do you see the irony in this dualistic connection? Of course! Everything is coming together now, as the puzzle pieces snap oh so gently into one another. I cannot be the light without your darkness as my shadow. I cannot love without the hate I’ve built for you. The day will not rise if the moon never sets. So set then, you black heart. Fill me with the power to move beyond your void, so that I may shine rays of peace and love to my neighbors. Will you not do me this favor I ask? Can you not accept this truce? I beg of you, die already. Bury your disgrace in a mountain, so that I may rise over the ocean.

-Your Stupid Saint.

Comments Off on 78

Saturday December 08th 2007, 8:28 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the anniversary,

Can you believe it love? One year ago we began “chatting” online… ha! I sound like such a dork when I use the words “chat” and “online” together in the same sentence. Anyway, today is our one-year anniversary of when we began talking to one another. It’s amazing to me, how much can happen in a year. To think, you and I started this chat over the internet, which grew into phone conversation, which lead me to visit you in San Jose (twice); then you moved into my place in Los Angeles where you lived for four months. We moved to San Francisco, got married, found an Apartment and got a beautiful kitten. We both found jobs, you at the vet clinic, me at the University and had amazing passionate sex; but then you started hating your comfort, I fucked up with a drunken letter expressing my inner fears, we broke up, I moved to Mike’s parents’ house and you fucked Justin. I moved back to Los Angeles to a random house, got an Art Studio, moved to the place I am staying now (with friends and other like-minded artists) and finally, here I am today, one year later, writing to you in shock from how fucked up this year has been. There will be many “1 year” anniversaries for us this year, each with its own degree of emotional memories attached to the day. However, I know that I will be the only one celebrating these anniversaries because you could care less how brilliant this past year had been for us. You were living in a fucking trailer park when I met you, bored out of you mind, hoping for something new and exciting to come your way. Well, I hope I didn’t disappoint. I hope you found what you were looking for. I thought I had found what I was searching for when I found you, hence the marriage, but I turns out that there is a temporal nature to that which one wants in the moment. What we want in the now will change, always. I curse myself for not understanding this before we were together. There are so many people who could tell me “I told you so”– but I’d have to punch them in the neck if they did. I know they were right when they warned me about the temporality of lust versus the permanence of love. Maybe that’s why I am having such a hard time with our breakup. I loved you. It wasn’t just lust, like the other’s might suggest. You were the angel in my life; where as now, you are the thorn in my side. If last year was the year of rising up to the challenges of love, then this year will be the year of coming down from the high of our incline. I constantly feel like I’m falling, as if the ground is giving away, and all that is left under me is a black empty abyss. Happy anniversary.


Comments Off on 77

Saturday December 08th 2007, 8:14 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To Mindy,

It’s Sunday, heaven’s day, but by the feel of the heat engulfing my house, it could easily be hell’s day. I awoke searching for you, soon to realize that my dream had convinced me of a lie. I wanted to hug you this morning, but these wants and desires are starting to subside. Each day I’m without you, I grow more disdainful for our break up. I can’t remember the last time we spoke to one another; I guess that’s a good thing. However, there is a recording saved on my phone of you, in your most docile tone, asking for me to call you. I know it sounds strange for me to save this recording, but it helps me not hate you when I listen to it. You see, I’ve begun to imagine who you are; you have become someone strange to me, a stranger that constantly plays tricks on my psyche. And for that, I’ve grown distaste for you. Even the sight of you– pictures that I have– makes my stomach churn. But the message I’ve saved to the phone helps reconnect a healthy understanding of who you are, rather than allowing my imagination turn you into a serpent of evil intentions. There have been nights preceding this letter, that I’ve almost given up on existing. I ride the borderline between suicide and wanting to continue living. How can such polarization occur? It seems like such a thin division between killing oneself and propagating one’s survival. How would you tell the news of my death? I doubt you’d be too upset. I’m sure there’s someone in your life that will comfort your tears (wishful thinking, I know), and then you’d move on, as you should. You’d be a widower at that point, while I’d just be another sorry statistic. There are certain actions I take to help maneuver myself away from these incredibly macabre thoughts like: clean the house, find a friend to talk to (without telling him or her how fucked up I am), go for a walk or bike ride. I have to activate my body to assist my mind from venturing too far down the dark narrow road of suicide. Why am I suicidal, I wonder? Is this a chemical imbalance? Am I really that depressed? Or maybe I just don’t want to live because death seems so much more attractive than living persons like you, whom I constantly find in life, and remind me of my daily failures. You mock me when I think of you smiling in San Francisco. As my eyes close and I ponder your happiness, a dark clouded numbness fills my body– from my toe to the tip of my neck– and I begin to sway from the unbalanced feeling of no feeling. Is this a self-defense mechanism? Is my body in shock? The tingles, which rush through my extremities, are exhilarating. I feel drunk on darkness. When will it end, dear wife? I can only ask you these questions, as I’ve not built friendships to real people in the same manner that I built this dialogue with you. Therefore, I am lonely; I am alone.


Comments Off on 76

Saturday December 08th 2007, 8:04 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the exhaust factor,

I’m pretty sure today is Sunday; however, don’t quote me on this. The days pass by and continue to advance, no matter my mental state. Today could just as well be Friday, or even a Tuesday. It’s easy to lose myself in a week when I’m jobless and hopeless. There is a constant nagging in my mind “Get a job; get a clue.” I try to ward off these bitter toned commands with thoughts of positive experiences I’m having here in Los Angeles. Like last night for example, my friend and I did a live drawing at a warehouse gallery. We sat in front of a 4-foot by 7 ft canvas and rendered out a post-apocalyptic image of a deserted street scene, where nature has rebirthed and regrown around all the man made structures and technologies. The center of the piece had a car with a tree growing out from under its hood. When all was said and drawn, our piece was one of the best in the show. We worked on it for six straight hours, which I am proud of. Best of all, we now have a new drawing to furnish the wall of our living room at the house I am living. In sadder news, the painting I made of you and Konanni, lying together, was destroyed today by a vicious dammar varnishing. The ruined painting mocks me and so I can’t decide whether or not to throw it away. It was a nice intimate piece, which I hadn’t documented. And so, it is destroyed, and will never live as a painting that could have been hung on the wall of a gallery. On the bright side of this tragic death, I can now stop lamenting over those stupid photos of you and Ko. I transcended that pain through the painting and the painting is now dead. Therefore, my pain has died with it. My studio walls are bare, except for the dead monkeys drawn directly on the drywall. I feel bad because I haven’t been in the studio for two weeks, until today of course. But I’ve been keeping myself busy, doing design work here and there, as I narrowly skate by my bills this month. I have to find a job by next month, otherwise I won’t be able keep my studio space; and by not keeping my studio space, my mental health will plummet into a deep depression (worse than it already is now). There are many specters in my past that visit me from time to time. You, being an obvious one, visit me in my dreams; however, I usually awake even more tired than I was before I went to sleep – you exhaust me, my dear. Many other ghosts come in material forms, as reminders that spark memories of real people from my past. I’m pretty sure these specters are plain neurological consequences of a normal and healthy imaginative memory system, but maybe someday I’ll let a psychiatrist confirm this suspicion. What is it that makes memories ignite? Why can’t we pick and choose how the autonomous neurological mesh we call a brain, function’s with regard to memory? That would be a nice ability for me right now– to get rid of my painful memories and maybe even supplant them with imagined and made up ones. Someday I’ll find a way to make reality twist and turn to my bidding, but not tonight. No, tonight I will work on getting you out of my dreams. I hope the destruction of your painting is a sign that you are disappearing from my mind.


Comments Off on 75

Wednesday August 08th 2007, 9:21 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To Mrs. Cat Lover,

My house smells like puke, yet we can’t seem to find where the pungent odor is coming from. It’s not the cat, although she does have her own dirty kitty smell. She’s such a little whiner; our cat is. Her name is Wendy, though she seems more like an Amanda to me. Whenever I pick our baby kitty up, she cries a whinny moan. She can’t even meow yet. Maybe she’ll never learn such kitty tricks as how to meow, or catch a mouse, or climb to the highest, most unreachable spot in the house. When I see Wendy, I think of Lilith (I know, it sucks for Wendy but I can’t help such memory associations). When I spoil Wendy by feeding her four times a day, something you’d advise against, I am making up for the absence of Lil in my life. Your new lover, or boyfriend, or whatever, is probably filling my spot as the dominant male role in Lil’s life, which makes me sad. What does it mean when a kitty swishes its tail back and forth? Isn’t that a sign of being anxious, or nervous, or disgruntled? Wendy’s tail is swishing as I write this letter. She really hates human companionship and I can’t blame her. Humans stink like the puke smell in my house. And even if a human tries to cover its stench with man-made fragrances, the words and thoughts which come from its mouth are ten times as nauseating than that of our bitter, selfish and whinny cat. Speaking of human stink, hordes of boozing humans are spilling out of the bar conveniently located across the street from where I am sitting. Their conversations are filling the breezy night air, as their words float towards me in a garbled gust of language. The cat just knocked over a chair in the living room and my attention is shifting from trying to perceive the outside Los Angeles nightlife to trying to focus on my internal Los Angeles domicile. My life is similar to such ambiguous perceptions of knowing– really I’m just as confused as you are, trying to make sense of a senseless system of language, post-action. The voices have simmered across the street and the cat is gone. I am alone in the living room, contemplating the unknowns of tomorrow. My back is turning into a hideously misshapen lump of stress and complaining. With my head down low and my brain up high (coffee and energy drinks) the possibilities of existence never cease to amaze me. Mindy, this is making complete sense to me, as I think about my thoughts. But I know you have no idea, no intention of, nor understanding of my inner wonders in this inner-person state with which I reside. I wonder when this confusion will be supplanted with words of understanding? When is the apotheosis of my existence going to occur? Language is a game with no end and no winner. Children love to play with words, as they do with toys. What were your first words? I can’t recall my first words, yet I do recall my last thoughts of this tired yet sleepless night: Tonight we hold each other under the moonlight, dancing the tango; tonight we will eventually let go of one another to fall endlessly into ourselves.

-Good night and good luck.

Comments Off on 74

Wednesday August 01st 2007, 12:01 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a complicated system of loss and love,

As the months go by, my memory of you finds itself lost. Where did you go? What depths of my head have you made your home? Is it cozy where you lay? Are you happy there? I ask aloud even though I already know the answers to these questions. Your specter exists inside me, bound to me as my thoughts are bound to my mind. The more time passes and the longer we are apart, the further I find myself lost in reality. Depression has sunk its fangs deep into my flesh and I feel paralyzed by its bite. My days consist of fear and anger because I don’t know how to deal with our separation. The failures in my life mock me from the time I open my eyes in the morning until the time I pass out in a drunken stupor at night. My body has become malleable and plump which I blame on the beer. There are vague resemblances of happy moments when I find myself wrapped up in conversation with another artist, but beyond these teasers of warmth, I am alone, desperate and lost. This is my complaint: I’ve lost my confidence in myself; the same confidence that gave me the courage to come visit you for the first time in San Jose. My sexual desires are suppressed by low self-esteem. My need to paint is subdued by self-loathing. You are the only one I tell these emotions to, and therefore I keep a barrier facade in place as a confident, warm, outgoing person to the rest of the populace. I wonder if anyone who interacts with me realizes the depths of my despair? Today’s date took me by surprise, as we have almost reached our one-year anniversary from the day that I met you. Can you believe it? A year has passed us by. So much has happened in this past year, I can not begin to recap its magnitude of intensity. The memories flow like a rapid river, swirling thoughts into one another, creating viscous half-truthful stories in my mind. I was thinking of making you a painting for our anniversary, however, considering my mental retardation from the depression, I’d be an achievement if I could sketch a thought on paper for you, let alone paint a painting. Some people claim the self to be its own worse critic, and maybe they’re right in their claim, but for me, the memory of you criticizes me constantly. My inner voice has morphed into the sound of your yells, thus making you my worst critic. I know you have no concern for this process, in terms of how you are separating your life from mine, however, I am greatly concerned by this transformation of the self. The self, and its propagation through time, has been philosophies greatest questionnaire and survey. “Know thyself” spoke the Greek philosophers. Battling ignorance of the self has been a constant plight for great thinkers. I wish I could be ignorant of my thoughts on my self. I’m sure it could be blissful to disregard the self as the primary concern of human existence.

I’ve lost track of my thoughts tonight. It must be getting late.


Comments Off on 73

Sunday July 22nd 2007, 4:03 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To my only escape,

When the rooster next-door crows I know the sun is rising. The old cliché is physically in my world. My stomach gurgles and I realize I’ve been up all night, yet haven’t had any dinner. A man wanders home from the bar across the street, yet finds himself face down in a pool of his own blood, in front of my doorstep. Another man wanders outside the same bar as the first man, fighting with oncoming traffic. And all I want to do is draw. My forehead burns and my eyes are bloodshot red. An eerie light shines at the end of the hallway, but its only noticeable when I close my eyes and feel the heat pressing on my eyelids. The sun is rising, and I am half awake. It’s nights like tonight that make me miss you. There are perfect people and places for all different moments in our lives, and right now, you, in my bed with me, away from the drunk, blood-red, boxing men, away from the ominous lights in the hallway and away from the governing sun, is the perfect person in the perfect place. You were an amazing cuddler, someone I never wanted to let go. My arms could wrap around your body and feel like two consecutive puzzle pieces made from clay. It was a pleasure and a privilege to lie next to your warm soft womanly body; at least, it was my pleasure when we first fell in Love. I ask you, dear Mindy, what is the purpose in our lives? Is it truly some subjective contextual thing? Is it love? Companionship? Finding that perfect cuddle? How can so many people be so unhappy, searching for this unfathomable meaning? The meaning is not a needle in a haystack; no, it doesn’t exist. There is no purpose to all this bullshit we put ourselves through – or put up with. One can be in Love, happily married and stable, one minute; then one can fall out of love, go insane, or worse, destroy one’s entire existence the next minute. What then is the purpose of it all? Tonight a man wrapped his hands around my neck and he began to squeeze. My hands grabbed his hands away from suffocating me and I told him never to do that again. He was drunk and being a moron, but he backed off anyway. Why do we have to go through such conflicts to bring us no further towards cognitive epiphany? Is stupidity a mental disorder? Should I feel sorry for those who don’t have the cognitive capacity to know better than to squeeze another human’s neck out of sheer retardation? The world is a scary, intimidating, meaningless existence; however, its meaning lies in the hypocrisy and paradox of the word meaningless. To be meaningless, is to have meaning, a purpose. Jokes are meaningless, yet they still exist to propagate their own lack of need. Like humans, the universe plays practical jokes. History is using a meaningless system to piggyback on the beast we call meaning. Yet, the sun has risen, which means I must go to sleep. However, know that I am thinking of you, or of the memory of you, as I lay my pensive head on this pillow of semantic clouds. Even though we may never hold each other again, which is why a man can only take his memories with him to the grave, I hope for a day when there is some physical being in which I can hold, to get me through these crazy nights of disgust and hardship.


Comments Off on 72

Thursday May 03rd 2007, 11:55 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To formal friends,

Oh how my suspicions run high when you tell me things like “I went to the doctors yesterday” or “I’m hanging out with my new friend tonight.” I can’t help but to picture you getting on with your life, replacing your memories of us with with new and possibly better memories. Why did you go to the doctor’s office? Was it a check up? Did you think you were pregnant? You hate the doctors, so why, on this specific occasion, did you feel the need to go? Fuck, I need to let go of this. It’s time to stop these ridiculous tormenting thoughts. Foreboding uncertainties plague me with endless answers. All imagined responses only lead me deeper into the depths of depression. Every time you call and let me know that you are doing well, I sink further into a depressive state of solitude. Los Angeles is beginning to dissipate as a wonderful relief from the hard times I experienced in San Francisco because of your current updates of the fantastic life you are now leading. Fuck you for regenerating so quickly. Even though I have contempt for your happiness, I still feel love for you. Why is this? Why can’t I get away from these lingering nostalgic and warm feelings for you? Am I dwelling on a past that only exists in my head? My logic proceeds to explain to me that you are not my memory of you, as we are not the memories we remember reality to be. History is as fluid and transformative as the imagination can allow. Therefore, you, I, you and I, are only constructs in my head, which consume me as a work of fiction consumes its reader. Our story, told by our memories, is a context and validates itself within the individual. But most fictional stories only relay morals and examples; they are metaphors for instances which can never be fully documented without constraints, rules and frames. In our case, my memories are filtered by my perception, in fact, double filtered from the point of remembering, to the point of recollection of those memories. This sense of post-modern logic brings me further from any sense of truth (the ultimate the ultimate goal of history) and sends me down into the depths of falsity. The only truth to the memories is that they exist as fluid devices of the self, thus creating the formula that ultimately answers with a lie… I’ve lost my train of thought, dear wife, which goes to show that thought and memory are only temporal devices to propagate the human mind further into the universal beast’s mouth– the mouth and belly of history. To deny history its feed or to take away the main curse in which history devours, is to starve and kill reality altogether. Death can’t even escape the jaws of history. The re-appropriation of molecules continue to feed the beast and the beast feeds the moment. And that’s the cyclical nature of time. The moment eats history; history poops out the moment. And the future, well, the future is a cookbook of recipes in which reality has to make, bake, fry, or boil that which is to come.


Comments Off on 71

Friday April 20th 2007, 3:02 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To the midnight mania,

It was burlesque Goth night at Miss Kitty’s palace of pleasure. Bjorn invited the whole gang to come out and experience this dark and devious establishment. When we arrived at the palace, which looked nothing like the title suggested, Jon and Arturo pulled out their bag of mushrooms and engorged in a magical trip full of psychotropic wonder. Since I was driving that night, I declined to indulge in the pleasures of hallucination, however my plan was to enjoy the dance floor with a few drinks in me. Inside the palace was a complete surprise to me, considering the walls of the palace; videos of men fucking other men, women sucking men off and women sucking women off filled my visual frame. I couldn’t help but to feel stimulated by such erotic imagery. I began to realize how long it had been since I’ve got laid, and the reasons why I have not, as of late, had that kind of physical pleasure in my life. And of course, I then thought of you. You were to be my eternal source of pleasure, not just physical pleasure, but mental and spiritual pleasure as well. You being my partner, I meant that you were the other half of me that could give me what I needed to continue life as a fulfilled individual. But as we both know, these were mere fantasies of thought when juxtaposed next to the truth and history of our marriage. I wanted your pleasure, yes. However, at the time, I was uncertain about certain things: you wanting to please me, your need for pleasure yourself, the delicate balance between pleasure and comfort and my ability to accept such pleasurable states of being from you. The more I think about our pleasure dynamics, the more curious I get about how blinded by pleasure I must have been to not see these uncertainties as a flaw in our system of love. We were flawed Mindy; I’ll be the first one to admit this fact. But these moments of imperfection were natural and normal; they were to be expected. No system is flawless. However, every system has ways of operation that convert flaws and blemishs into desired beauty marks. These conversions are not easily accessible and individuals have to work out the details of the equations, but once a formula is set, any problem can be solved. Jeez, I sound like the geek that I am. It’s no wonder why you dumped me. And yes, that is how I perceive our break up. You threw me out of the apartment because I wrote a letter that said you are an emotional coward and that I didn’t marry out of love. Those inebriated lies got me kicked out, broken hearted and numb to the world. All senses of pleasure have ceased to exist for me. Not even Ms. Kitty’s palace of pleasure can cheer me up. I am a sad, numb, lonely boy, trying to reestablish some sort of pleasure-factor in my life. And even though my heart is still with you, my mind hates you. Logistically, I’m jealous of your ability to regain your sense of pleasure so quickly after our break up. The unfathomable intrigues me, and therefore I torment myself by answering your calls, questioning what you’ve been up to and how you’ve been feeling. And even though I can predict the general sense of your response to my mundane questions, it still shocks and hurts to hear how well you are doing. As time goes by, I become more lonely and depressed; my pleasure system is malfunctioning, just like the way our marriage malfunctioned– it’s falling apart from the inside out while the seams still stay attached, until the very end, when there’s nothing left inside to hold myself together.

-The seamstress

Comments Off on 70

Wednesday April 18th 2007, 1:20 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To my schizophrenic disgust,

After thinking about my love for you, a wave of frenzy and anxiety grabbed hold of my thoughts and those feelings, once lovely and kind, turned into disgust and jealousy. We spoke on the phone today for approximately forty-five minutes. The spectrum of conversation ranged from family politics to contemporary this-and-that’s. But most notably, we discussed whether or not either of us had been dating. My response to your question was “no” which is the truth for the most part (if I exclude the one instance of oral sex and the kiss from Lola). However, when I asked you the same question, “Have you been seeing anyone?” you gave me a vague reply of “Not really.” You then furthered my suspicions of your lone interests by stating that you still have a hard time being alone, and that this was something you were going to work on. What kind of bullshit statement is that? You know damn well that you’re never going to give solitude a chance to allow yourself the opportunity to contemplate. You spend your time with other people, and fuck them if you have to, so that you can sponge your way through life, never giving the moment a chance to reflect upon itself. If you didn’t have your profession, I’d go as far as saying your mental capabilities for dialectical thought and post-moment consideration are nonexistent because of your infatuation with another person’s presence. The reason you fear loneliness is because you bore yourself with your own monologue. However, your one saving grace is that you have a wonderful cognitive database for veterinary practices, and therefore I know your mind is not always mush. I’m feeling jealous right now because of one phrase you told me over the phone. You said you had been hanging out a lot with your mathematician friend Chris. First of all, he has the same name as me, and therefore I have a prejudice towards him for this reason. Secondly, how dare you replace one Chris for another Chris? Am I a swappable item that needed an update feature? Maybe he has better features than I do, like a nicer nose or a bigger brain. For whatever reason, I don’t like the guy, and I especially don’t like hearing about you not being able to be alone, or about you always hanging with your friend Chris. The quality of our conversation began to decline after you revealed to me your friendship with Chris, as I found myself wanting to get off the phone with you. Although I was superficially pleasant to you when we said our goodbyes, a rage of energy was racing through my body, as I could feel the deeper psychological implications this knowledge had done to me. My first inclination is to go to the liquor store and buy a bottle of sauce to drown my anxiety. However, it is mid-day and I would feel even worse if I chose to enact upon this desire of escapism. Most likely I will go with my second impulse, which is to escape through dreams. I am going to go lie down for a nap to hopefully calm myself down. I hope you and Chris are happy when you are together, and sad when you are apart. Hey, at least it’s better than the reverse of taht statement, which is how you and I exist.

— Anxiety.

Comments Off on 69

Sunday March 25th 2007, 6:20 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a reconnection,

And so my love, I did work up the nerve to call you regarding the security deposit. After the explanation I gave you, which was a flat out lie, you weren’t upset with me anymore. I immediately told you to keep the money. I said I didn’t have any use for it and that you should treat yourself to a trip to Hawaii. A little confused and a bit skeptical, you refused my offer, suggesting that I needed the money to repay my brother, to which I owed fifteen hundred dollars. I told you that I would get the money some other way and that if you weren’t going to spend the superfluous cash, then to at least place the money in between your sheets so that you could wake up with hundred dollar bills in your underwear. We further spoke of our cat and how lovely it would be to spend all the money on the feline princess; a nice shopping spree for kitty. I couldn’t speak long since I was cooking a fish dinner and my friend Tyson was helping me learn the intricacies of cooking it. Therefore, I had to get off the phone. However, the conversation shifted my perspective on our interactions, as I had a lovely feeling of a quasi-friendship with you. Later that night, the house I am living in hosted a drawing party, where fifty or so artists gathered to collaborate on creating a work that will be showed at the Hanger gallery later on in the month. Along with art came alcoholic states of debauchery. Everyone was drunk by the end of the night, conversing about Art, social politics and best of all, relationships. But no matter how terrible a story I heard from those inexperienced artists (in the ways of love, marriage and break up), I couldn’t help but to feel a sense of elitism because of our experience in San Francisco. The only other person who had a similar hardship, and the person I felt closest to, was Devin. His fiancé cheated on him one month before the wedding, which of course led to their not being a wedding at all. He and I quietly bad-mouthed relationships to one another, while at the same time discussing how important it is to find new loves. My ex-girlfriend Lola happened to be at the drawing party, and so I felt the need to reminisce with her about our failed love. She was, without a doubt, the most physically intense, unhealthy, and down right violent girl I have ever been involved with. She used to let me cut her while fucking her. I choked her in the shower until she almost passed out. She would slice her initials in my skin for fun – all out of love? Well, love is what we called it; however, I doubt many other lovers would share the same definition of love that Lola and I shared. By the end of our memories, we had rekindled a physical fondness for one another, which led to me kissing her. Even though her lips were plush and soft, the kiss felt platonic and meaningless. She’s a wonderful woman, maybe the most insane “normal? person I know, however she’s not my lover anymore; you are my lover… you were my lover. But I’m still waiting for the time I can state otherwise, or at least deny my love for you. After coming to this conclusion, I text messaged you “Hello Lovely,? but I got no reply.

— Typical stupid drunk me.

Comments Off on 68

Friday March 23rd 2007, 12:09 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the memory of bug bites,

This morning I awoke frantic, as I dreamed I was late to my cousin’s surgery. However, in all actuality, my alarm still had twenty minutes before it shouted at me to wake up and get ready to start the day– on time. After a brief cup of coffee, I left the house at eight a.m., and met my cousin at Shriners’ Hospital in Beverly Hills. Today he is having four inches of his small intestine removed by slicing into his stomach and detaching the part of his guts that are rotted and inflamed. He’s been battling Chron’s disease for years, but hitherto a few months ago, his Chron’s had been under control, though heavily medicated. So today I am sharing my support for his condition by sitting, waiting and just being a presence at the hospital while he’s in surgery. As I lethargically wait on the 3rd floor admissions ward, my mind wanders into memories past and of course, towards the thought of you, my wife. After our first encounter in San Jose, almost ten months ago, my back began to feel somewhat strange. But I was in Love, and couldn’t be bothered by mere physical manifestations of the body. A few days went by and my back began to develop small clusters of red bumps, all targeting a single latitude of my dermatome. The bumps were small at first, then grew into larger hives. My first inclination was bug bits– they must be bug bits and therefore I did not go to the doctors. After a weeks worth of development of this nasty rash, I then humored the notion that these bumps were most likely not bug bits, but probably a rash from something like poison ivy. Therefore I bought a topical crème from the supermarket and I began to apply generous amounts of ointment on my infected side. Another week went by and still, there was no sign of remission from the scourge that burned and blistered. I remember talking about the rash to you over the phone, suggesting to you that I may have shingles. You persistently countered my hypothesis with a ridiculing laugh, stating that I definitely didn’t have shingles. Another week went by– only this time, I took my wounds to a doctor. It turned out that I did in fact have shingles and that if I had gone to the doctors earlier, I could have lessened the effect of the virus with anti-viral medication. But since I waited almost four weeks before I went to the doctors, the virus was at a point where it just had to run its course. My ultimate fear was that I was going to visit you a week after my doctor’s appointment, and that you never had chicken pox before in your life. Therefore, you were a potential target and prey for this virus which burned bright red on my tummy. How terrible it would have been if I gave you, my new love, a potentially deadly virus during our second encounter together? When I did return to San Jose the following week, I kept a tight wrap around my blisters; constantly making sure you would not get infected. The anxious guilt I endured that weekend was quasi-unbearable, yet I could not stop my hedonistic tendency to enjoy, or rather love, your company. As I sit here writing about this memory, a tear drops from my burning eye – the physical consequence for my memory of our love. Those were wonderful times we had, even though I was a walking epidemic. I miss you today. I think about you as often as I think about Art. Today, I feel like I took you for granted. This memory is a plague to my thoughts, and keeps me from concerning myself with the physical world around me. This hospital only exists as a sub-reality to me; Instead, my world is inside my head.

-The pain of reality

Comments Off on 67

Tuesday March 20th 2007, 7:12 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a fed up wife,

You wouldn’t believe how crazy my life has been this week. Every night has aroused my attention, and every day has given me something to work on. The first query of the day is to look for work. The money I had saved is running low and the ominous pressure of being thrown out of my studio and kicked out my house, continually inspires me to find a source of income. I am jealous of your paycheck, dear wife. However, I have a job interview with the USC School of Communication as a graphic designer on this Tuesday. Wish me luck! The job is a full time salary gig with benefits. In preparation for the interview, I have been working diligently on my portfolio to bring with me on Tuesday. Other than the graphic designer position, I don’t have any leads to any other jobs as of yet; but I am still in high spirits about finding work. On the bright side of life, I have completed my first painting in the new studio. The work is a portrait of you and Konanne, lying together in a plush blue void. The skin tones are a pop-surreal mix of flesh and purple. Konanne has a hole in his forehead that is trickling blood and you have a hole in your breast bone, where your heart would be. I can’t say that I enjoyed the process of painting this portrait, but the final result put a smile on my face. I may even enter the piece in a show in late August, but only if I can find a nice frame to compliment the painting. Even if I don’t display the work at the Art show, I will hang the portrait in my studio to remind me why I have to continue to work hard at focusing on my life, instead of focusing on our failed marriage. And speaking of our failures, I would like to apologize to you for failing to answer my phone the last 3 times you’ve tried to call me. However, you must understand, I am afraid of hearing your voice, telling me how well you are doing in San Francisco. The two messages you left were quite opposite from one another, as the first one was sweet and tame, and the second one was fed up and annoyed. You mentioned that you were trying to return the deposit money for our old apartment to me; Mindy, I don’t want that money. My pride and ego are too full to accept your gift. But how can you know this if I don’t pick up the phone? Well I may call you tomorrow and lie to you about how my phone has been out of service for the last week and that I just received all five of your messages the day I’ll call you. You may or may not believe this lie, however, the point of the call will be to tell you to keep the damn money. Go to Hawaii with a new lover or treat yourself to something nice; whatever, I don’t care. Even though it was my money I used for that deposit, I don’t want a thing from you, except your forgiveness and your love. HA! Maybe I could buy your love for the same price as the deposit? Ok, maybe not. Anyway, we’ll see how I feel tomorrow, and maybe you’ll hear from me. I guess I’m a little upset that you only called me to talk business. Well, what are friends for if you can’t discuss business? Oh, wait, I forgot, you’re not my friend (after all, you are my wife.) But please don’t be too mad at me, darling. I don’t mean to be rude by not answering your calls. I truly am afraid of your casual updates. Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance. I want to go dancing. You and I never really danced, physically that is; spiritually we danced day and night. However, we never got down. I was in a break dance circle the other night while listening to Sonic Death Rabbit (an awesome band by the way.) But, this is a part of me you will never get to experience. I almost died the other day. A jeep ran a red light while I was crossing the street on my bike. Uhm … yeah. It’s 4 AM. I’m tired. I have to stop writing, love.

-Good night

Comments Off on 66

Sunday March 18th 2007, 2:11 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

Dear phone call,

I was in my studio tonight, working diligently on a new painting when my cell phone began to vibrate. To my surprise, the caller ID displayed a beautifully frightening phone number – your phone number. Along with your number, a photo of you flashed on the LCD screen. It was a photo I took of you on the train in San Jose from the first weekend we met. You’ll have to forgive me for not answering the telephone, however my hands were too busy painting to fiddle with picking it up. I am working on an oil painting from the picture of you and Konane, drunk together, lying in your bed. It is strange and coincidental that you would call at the exact moment I was working on painting your facial features. I wonder if there was some frequency or interdimensional connection between the painting and your calling? Why did you call me tonight, Mindy? What clicked inside your head that, after three weeks, you felt the urge to connect with me? A part of me wants to believe that you missed me and truly wanted to converse about the recent events in our lives; however, a conflicting part of me wants to believe that you had some pressing issue that needed to be settled, like our divorce, or something concerning the lease agreement. Possibly you got laid yesterday, and so today you could secretly mock me with your inquisitive “how are you” questions, knowing full well that your secret love encounters are more impressive than any response I could give you. To tell you the truth, my hands weren’t too busy to answer the telephone. I lacked the courage to speak to you. I pussied out and turned the phone off. I’m a chicken. You still hold a potentially dangerous power over me, which haunts me every moment I get the chance to decipher the energy behind my daily actions. Tonight, I want to call you my beautiful wife, in person, however this desire will fall short from realization. Instead, I think I’ll go to sleep.

-Goodnight love.

Comments Off on 65

Friday March 16th 2007, 7:37 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To an alcoholic haze,

Outside and across the street are socialites standing around smoking cigarettes and chatting about the atrocities of their Wednesday night plight. Through the bedroom window lies a portal to the outside, social and elite world that is hipster Los Angeles. The bar across the way is called the Little Joy, or the LJ for short. Beyond the smoky haze from cigarettes and musk is a beaten down dive joint that most Echo Park or Silver Lake hipsters can’t resist to experience. The outside of the LJ is guarded by an Asian man in his mid-thirties, drunk from his earlier imbibing of libations from the Short Stop, a bar two blocks East on Sunset Boulevard. It’s not proper for a bouncer to drink at the bar in which he is working. Beyond the bouncer is the cramped entryway to an alcoholic’s haven. The LJ isn’t much different from other dive bars, architecturally speaking, however, what makes the LJ special within the hipster scene, is that it has Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap, for three dollars a pint. Now, to you and I, this doesn’t seem to be anything spectacular, however, to your average Hipster, who swears PBR is the essence of a hip drink, PBR on tap is a fantastic phenomena worth every cent spent on this (in my opinion) white trash drink. The jukebox is always playing some eccentric, esoteric melody that I usually find to be just bad taste in music. But, what do I know about good taste in music anyway? You always hated my music, or at least would wait until I left to change the music to what you enjoyed � i.e.: the Cure, Skinny Puppy, Nick Cave, etc. The hipsters flock to the LJ dispensing dollars into the bar’s money hungry mouth, feeding the demons that occupy the sticky bar stools of the LJ counter. The pool tables are swimming with sharks, feeding from the fresh scent of beginner’s blood. I never play pool at bars. The pride and ego of pool players tends to be more than I can take. The range of beautiful persons at the LJ vacillates between attractive and fucking sexy, which complicates drinking alone because no man needs to be teased with a beautiful woman while drinking by one’s self. Yet those are matters out of the loner’s control. I find myself in this peculiar position most every night. I drink by myself, smiling at the randomness of my life, smiling into the air, thinking about you, and comparing the unfamiliar faces of Los Angeles to the unfamiliar faces of San Francisco. Not much changes except for the weather, but even the weather has patterns. Mindy, the point of this is that I’ve developed a dependency on alcohol. I have a drinking problem. And even though I can admit this dilemma, I’ve not an answer as to how I will conquer this devilish mountain. Our separation has pushed me into an ocean of booze, and I’m drowning in the sauce of demons. My mind feels mushy, and my thoughts escape verbalization. Alcohol is slowing down my brain, and I am scared of turning into my father. Fuck, I need a drink.

– The boozer

Comments Off on 64

Friday March 02nd 2007, 5:18 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the emotional upheaval,

I constantly think about the smile your face extends towards my suffering. And although you don’t know how intense my suffering is, somehow I imagine you spitefully enjoying my pain and agony. It’s been over three months since we separated, yet my emotions are still saturated with sadness. Each day something reminds me of a lost love and subsequently my state of being declines further into a dark void. When I look at myself in the mirror, a retched disgust overpowers my thoughts and I almost vomit. This self-loathing affects not only my private reflection, but my social interactions as well. There have been times when I feel so out of control, I can’t even leave the house. Suppressing these terrible thoughts is the only way to save myself, though why do I feel the need to be saved? As I was driving home from the art store, I had a vision of you lying on our new bed with your ex-fiance’. Neither of you were wearing clothes; only using one another for cover from the cold. Caressing each other, softly yet without restraint, you two were giggling, reminiscing over the past instances that brought you to the point you are at now, enjoying the comfort of your domestic San Francisco apartment. This image, which struck me as repulsive and vile, soon faded away like the sun that was setting before me. Those two nude lovers were soon supplanted with a new vision of me, in pain and drunk, trying to pull myself off of the street pavement. My skin had abrasions covering my torso and my front tooth was missing. I could literally smell the stench of urine emanating from my pants. As I focused on this premonition, a swelling of sadness erupted within me. I wanted to cry today, but I didn’t even have the courage to do that. With my head spinning and my thoughts in conflict with one another, I pulled off the freeway to have a moment of silence for this terrible vision. I cursed your name twice as I pulled back onto the freeway. It doesn’t matter how true or untrue these apparitions are. What matters is that they vividly affect my day-to-day life. When I meet up with old friends and they ask me why I moved back to LA, I gently explain to them that my marriage just didn’t work out. Some of them are shocked to even hear that I got married in the first place. I re-live our love through the stories I tell to people, however no one dares ask about us. It’s too sensitive a subject I suppose. And so, I re-live our breakup more often than I re-live our love, because the break-up is the most pertinent part of our story right now. Hopefully someday I will be able to look back at our situation and say “Yeah, that was fun! (Like you said on the last day we saw each other). However at the present moment, I can only see darkness, an abysmal state of despair. Fuck! You were so special to me Mindy. I still have a hard time accepting the reality of our relationship, which is to say, the nothingness that I have become to you. We haven’t spoken to one another in weeks, which feels like years, however, I haven’t called you, not because I don’t still love you, but because I’m so afraid of what you have become. The thought of your voice telling me tales of your new loves, or how great your days are, make me wince in emotional pain. Yet these thoughts of your current existence are what keep me alive (I know this seems contradictory. Let me explain.) I want to succeed and better myself, thus proving to you that I’m not the evil psycho you thought me be. Although I don’t want to prove this new me� to get back with you, but merely to reestablish my sanity’s standing with you. I’m not comfortable thinking about your hatred for me.


Comments Off on 63

Saturday February 24th 2007, 10:38 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the perpetual movement,

It’s been two weeks since I’ve landed in Los Angeles. Not a day has gone by since the initial landing where I’ve had time to sit and contemplate the consequence of my move. If I’m not moving boxes from house to house, than I’m reconnecting with old friends and colleagues or trying to find work. The job market for design seems slow and retarded. Therefore, I am still jobless. However, my inclination is, when desperate times arrive, something will turn up. The house I was living at in Highland Park was wonderful. My neighbors were chill and their pet pit bull loved me. Brianna, my roommate was a beautiful woman who has so much potential and talent. I must say, I’m a bit jealous of her knack to throw together fabric in sequences that, for lack of a better adjective, stun. Even though I really enjoyed living in Highland Park, I can’t stay there. An artist studio opened up in downtown LA, and I had to jump on the opportunity to have my own studio. However, the rent for the studio, plus the rent for the room in Highland Park, is too much for this out of work art kid. Therefore, I moved out of the house, and into the back room of my friend’s place in Echo Park. The rent for the room is half the price as the rent in Highland Park. The only setback to this ultimate machination is that I am sharing the back room, which resembles my parents’ closet, with another person. It’s not that I mind sharing the space; the problem lies in the fact that there literally is only enough room for one person in the space. But I have faith that everything will work out, and our ability to share the space will overpower our need for personal space. Anyway, I plan to be in my studio more often than sleeping at home. But let me let you in on a little secret, Mindy. I’m scared to paint. Can you believe it? I am intimidated by the high caliber of artists in which I am sharing my studio space. But this fear will hopefully dissipate once I actually push pigment along the canvas. For some reason, I doubt you care about my fears. But beyond this doubt, I still want to share with you a glimpse of what’s going on in my life. It’s been quite tumultuous these past few weeks, yet my hope is that once things calm down, in terms of moving and unpacking, I will settle back into a routine which will help guide the stressful doubts and fears which rule the inner circles of my consciousness. What have you been up to these days? It’s been a few weeks since I last spoke with you, and I’m beginning to suspect that it’ll be at least a few months more until we casually pass a friendly “hello? to one another. Have you met a new lover? Are you still house sitting? What’s the summer San Francisco weather like? Los Angeles is going through a heat wave, which is causing quite a few electrical blackouts throughout the city. In fact, I am writing to you in my underwear because the heat is too unbearable fully clothed. As I look down at my chicken legs, I’m almost blinded by how pasty they are. These legs are definitely not fully cooked. However, my upper body has its usual farmer’s tan from the repetitive wife beater I wear that allows a breeze on my shoulders. Well, you have yourself a good night love.

-Thoughts in motion.

Comments Off on 62

Friday February 23rd 2007, 4:53 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the drugs,

Habits are hard to break. The brain concretes as one makes progress through history. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that tradition is a societal and historical development whose goal is to become habit. Truth is a tradition, while searching for the truth is habitual. Since I’ve been back in the City of Lost Angels, I’ve fallen into the tradition of doing certain drugs at parties. And even though your voice calls to me, haunting me with the words “Take care of yourself?, I feel as if I don’t know how to take care of myself, especially if I continue these destructive activities. When I’m socializing, the part of my brain that knows when to stop destroying itself turns off. I know my limitations; I just don’t know when to stop. Traditionally, drugs are habit-forming. Have I fallen into a stereotype of use and abuse? Why do I abuse my mind in social settings? When you and I were married, we barely did any harmful substances. I felt clean. (That is of course if you don’t count the alcohol, however we only became extremely intoxicated on special occasions or on nights when I hated myself and felt like drinking my consciousness away). You were all the drug I needed. The endorphins of Love out-stimulate any man-made chemical one can put in one’s body. I swear by this statement. Therefore, I am constantly searching for Love, looking to inject such a beautiful substance straight into my limbic system. Oh how I wish I could be constantly high on Love, without any comedown. Love comedowns are the worse type of comedown. It takes weeks, months and sometimes years to recover from such intense mental stimulation, if one recovers at all. But whom can we blame as the dealer of love? Is it that fat cherub, Cupid? Is he the pusher that controls the love levels from his clandestine love labs? Like drugs, love makes humans do stupid liberal things. Shouldn’t there be some Republican motion to outlaw Cupid and his labs from dealing Love in the streets of America? Who needs Love when there’s marriage? We can commit ourselves on paper rather than share the drug of Love with someone we cherish. But love is an addiction, formed by habit, formed by tradition. Once one has tasted the sweetness of love’s awesome temptation, it is highly doubtful one will ever go straight and bitter again, that is, until after the rehab session of post-love-traumatic syndrome.

-The User

Comments Off on 61

Sunday February 18th 2007, 7:21 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Uncategorized

To the plague on my forehead,

One week after I moved into Robert’s house, a rash developed on my forehead. This curious excrescence came in two forms: pimples and boils. Along the veins of my forehead trailed the path of a disconcerting problem. My first reaction to the blemishes was to cover them up by wearing beanies or other types of hats that could conceal my whole forehead. However, when I wore hats, the rash seemed to spread from the contact with the cloth material. But I wasn’t about to parade around town, depressed and lonely, showcasing such an ugly face. I forced myself to wear hats, which made my face epidemic subsequently worse. As well, I couldn’t manage to leave the boils alone; I tried popping, picking, scrubbing, rubbing, poking, pretending they didn’t exist (but only for so long) and various other methods to alleviate this problem. But nothing worked to solve the riddle as to why these blemishes appeared. It’s been three months since the first appearance of my face. Some weeks have been better than others, as the rash subsides sometimes; however the dermatological condition has yet to go away. Through not-so-careful studies of my activities, my hypothesis as to why these disfigurements exist lies in the fact that I’ve been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day since the day we broke up. The chemicals in the smokes are making their way into my forehead veins and they are surfacing as this “socially unacceptable condition of ugliness?. If I touch my infected skin and spread the rash, the whole process begins all over again. It’s too bad I have such a hard time not touching the irritable boils on the outside of my frontal lobes, especially when I’m stressed out. My second hypothesis, why my forehead is now a general plague filled area, is from the stress of our breakup. As the subconscious and conscious levels of stress from our breakup increase, so does the severity of my facial condition. The rise and fall of social beauty has followed this graphable equation: Two days ago my skin was clearing up and relief filled my thoughts like a warm hug on a cold night. However, last night, I once again had a dream about our breakup, which subconsciously screwed my perception of reality, therefore, causing me to awake panicked and stressed. And wouldn’t you know it? The plague on my face reappeared as a telltale sign of this wicked subconscious process. Now, I doubt it is a coincidence that I smoke more when I am stressed about our breakup, which is making the separation of these two hypothesizes almost near impossible. Maybe I should go to a dermatologist and consult a professional on the subject matter; but having all of life’s answers given to me on a silver platter takes away from the fun of investigative critical analysis. So, I think I’ll hold out a little longer before cheating myself out of the dopamine I can potentially release into my synapses by way of appreciating the hard work and effort that is facilitating the understanding of this psychological, neurological and biological questioning.

-The ugly duckling

Comments Off on 60

Saturday February 17th 2007, 3:39 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the M trinity:

Mary: Mary is a short, sweet, strong and beautiful woman. Her intelligence spans across plains of wisdom, from post-modern philosophy to circus camp training. Mary has a special place in my heart because of how brilliant a woman she is. Her fine hair is concealed by colorful strips of dreaded yarn, which is intertwined from her scalp to the tips of her strands. Her skull is a bit larger than the average woman’s skull, however he cranium’s unique architecture only helps to support her expansive consciousness. I met Mary on Friendster shortly after my break up and wanted nothing more than to discuss the dynamics of relationships through a dialectical understanding betwixt I and the Other. Mary thought I was too shy to kiss her; however, a kiss could not compare to the intellectual consumption I craved from this born east-coast beauty. Mary was always too busy to spend the amount of time I wanted her to spend with me. What begun as a beautiful brilliance, ended as a flaky misunderstanding. She plainly didn’t have the time to develop a commitment to me. I don’t blame her for her busy schedule. I especially enjoyed Mary’s snuggles.

Morgan: The connection with Morgan was a curious one. We met on MySpace as I was going through lonely and macabre evenings in San Francisco. Her profile said she lived in SF; however a week before I first messaged Morgan, her boyfriend cheated on her, therefore she absconded from SF to move back to her home in Phoenix, Arizona. After weeks of messaging back and forth, I finally made the decision to visit Morgan in Phoenix. I had never been to Phoenix, and besides, I needed to make a new physical connection with a girl something to help me physically get over Mindy. When I arrived in Phoenix, Morgan was already drunk. She was sweet and docile, but as she progressively became more intoxicated a powerful woman emerged from within her frail essence. This precedence was enough to spark a curiosity in me, to find out why a woman like her could turn a Ms. Jekyll into a Ms. Hyde. Morgan’s dad left her at an early age, and her mom died when she was 11. She was raised by her uncle in Arizona, yet hates her wealthy frugal Aunt. Morgan may never leave AZ again. She feels as if her dream, San Francisco, was ruined and can never reoccur. I told Morgan that dreams end, you wake up, you go back to sleep and your dream begins again.

Mindy: You and I met on Friendster late last August. Needless to say, I was bemused by everything concerning you and your history. Sexually, you were a nymphomaniac, and I loved every sexual position you could bend yourself into. I honestly crave the touch and smell of your insides. The sounds you made while being fucked were angelic, or demonic (same thing). Your lips were tolls of pleasure that manipulated my lips in ways unknown to me in the past. However, your lips were also a source of pain, biting hard into my skin, as if you vacillated between a monstrous carnivore and delicate vegan. The dichotomies that developed inside your head were pleasurable to me, and I loved every word in which you spoke. Your boredom enticed me to reevaluate my own nature of boring you. I wanted to be everything to you, while hypocritically not allowing you to be everything to me. I continually reminded you of your beauty and physical gratification, however I never allowed you to complete me. I needed Art to do that. And this was a problem for our marriage. However, I still doubt how authentic your request was to be my “everything.? The sex was good, Mindy, even though I was boy number 37 on your list of men. You were my number 17.


Comments Off on 59

Wednesday February 14th 2007, 1:05 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a desert connection,

I am in the land of your father’s house. I am in the land of a scorched urbania. The Arizona desert is one of the hottest environments in the United States, besides Death Valley. This land is amazingly dry, with mounds of dirt sporadically placed along the outskirts of urban centers. No building is taller than four stories because it would cost more to air condition a sky rise than any business could pull in revenue. On average the temperature stays at a constant 105 degrees, but during the devil’s hours (3 pm until 6 pm) the temperatures raise to 112 plus degrees. The only saving grace which the devil offers the desert dwellers is that the heat is a dry heat, unlike other areas in the United States that offer humid damp heat, which asphyxiates as it burns the skin; At times Sacramento was such a city. The humid temperature of 105 degrees plus the smog from the valley’s inward slope made us not dare go outside on certain summer days. There use to be news report warnings as to how unhealthy the air would be on those abominable days. “Do not go outside? was cleverly disguised as “Spare the Air Days? in their television reporting. However, we always had the Sacramento River to play in, just in case we decided to tempt the devilish ways of the Sacramento heat. The river was a place for fantasy, for puckish play and childish manners. We were quite jovial growing up in Sacramento. The children I associated with were your usual suspects of terror and joy. On the weekends we’d go fishing with the gear we either had borrowed from our parents or stole from the local fishing shop. I was never any good at catching the fish but I always enjoyed the process of baiting a hook or fixing a pole. We felt free to be anything when we were out fishing; we could have been China men fishing from the shores of Hong Kong or pirates fishing for the days feast. We sometimes pretended to be on completely different worlds, experiencing what it was like to build society up from the ground again, going back to our Earthly primordial knowledge of how to survive on our own. If only there were women with us, we could have gone further into such fantastical scenarios; however, we were just four boys free from the pressures of anything outside of our imaginations, free from the dangers of heartbreak, repression, pain and suffering. We were the Lord of the Flies, the Kings of Unknown Lands. But the constant known was the river, the beauty of Fresh flowing streams. Our dreams were gentle in the summer currents of the Sacramento River. And though the dense summer swelter in AZ brings these nostalgic memories flooding back to me, I soon become disappointed that I can only wade in those childhood waters through my memories alone. When I close my eyes and imagine the currents flowing around my shins, I can almost feel the coolness of its waves. However, when I release my eyelids and allow them to open, the blazing white light reflecting the sun’s glare off dry desert plains blinds me.


Comments Off on 58

Tuesday February 13th 2007, 10:03 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To old thoughts and to unknown futures,

Yesterday you called me inquiring about the quality of my road trip to Los Angeles. The lethargic tone in your voice could have meant one of two things: you didnt actually care about the question you posed and therefore didnt care for the response I was going to give you; or you were too tired to put any effort into your question like a decent conversationalist. The latter seemed too straightforward for my imagination. However, it turns out from your banal attitude, it was the correct reason for your apathy. You bore me to tears, dear wife. Your mundane stories of your work and social life make me wonder just how honest youre being with me. No ones life is as boring as you make your life seem. I wish you could be honest with me concerning whats going on in your life. At least then there is the chance that I could be emotionally stimulated by your voice. Id rather love or hate you, than to feel empty boredom with you. Yet, I am a hypocrite. When I speak to you, I dont tell you about the exciting things that are happening in my life. Yesterday I had every opportunity to cut off your unexcited stories and let you know of my plans to go to Phoenix to meet a new girl who I have been speaking to for the past two months; I could have told you about the grass I smoked the other night with my friends; I could have even told you about my drunken alcohol binge which has yet to cease. (Speaking of these exciting yet atrocious activities makes my head swell with pressure and stress.) I could mention all the thoughts of suicide I had in the past week, or maybe I could have told you about how sexy I think my new roommate is. But these could have statements only bring us further from actual conversation. With every could have there is an equal statement did not. Therefore I will move on from hypothetical analogies, and tell you about my current standings. I am in the Bob Hope Airport, waiting for my flight to arrive. I am going to Phoenix tonight to meet Morgan. I have no expectations for this adventure. Getting out of California will be nice, however I hear the weather in AZ is 112 every day. I hope I dont melt like an otter pop out of the freezer. The airport in Los Angeles is full of beautiful people, physically that is. However, most cant hold a conversation longer than they can hold a crying baby, which brings their beauty ratings plummeting to the ground. And speaking of plummeting, today in the news there was an explosion that destroyed a subway system in London, killing 37 people and wounding 700. Al-Queida claimed responsibility for the attacks. Its always exciting to take sick pleasure in the pain and suffering of innocent victims across the globe. I have a prurient desire for such happenings. I think you do too, you sick individual. You use to peruse www.rotten.com all the time before I met you. I always thought that being a vet tech was a way for you to experience bloody carcasses as a socially acceptable profession. Come on, admit it! You like to see blood and guts. Hell, you were a mortician for a while. Only the sickest of the sick become morticians. Though I digress. My plane is here and they are currently boarding. I always touch the outside of the plane as I pass from the throughway and step onto the plane. Its a superstition I have. I actually loathe flying. It makes me nervous.

-A nervous boy.

Comments Off on 57

Tuesday February 06th 2007, 8:39 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a lonely Tuesday,

The heat of summer is suffocating. The weather in Los Angeles can destroy ambition. However, today I did accomplish a few errands such as: I built a shelf for my closet; I sent out numerous emails and resumes to potential job listings; I started working on building a PHP website for my old employer Fit For Living. Moreover, I was able to scout my local neighborhood for signs of life and excitement, even though I found none. The neighborhood Im living in is naturally beautiful and at nights, the chirping of crickets brings a warm nostalgic feeling for my childhood in Sacramento. But in terms of hip-action and excitement, theres not a single activity in this enclave of Los Angeles. One part of my prospects for survival is glad to know I wont be bothered by such rouse as I had been in the past; yet on the other hand, there is a part of me that wishes to live in the center of cultural excitement. So once again, Im torn between the decent solitude of my geographical location versus my need to be in a stimulating environment to keep in touch with contemporary culture. My roommate Brianna, who up until tonight I enjoyed immensely, told me tonight that I probably wont be able to paint in the house because she doesnt like the smell of the fumes. I dont like the smell either, however that doesnt stop me for craving my visual expression through paint on a canvas. And so Im a little upset about her qualms with me wanting to work in the house, especially since she has her sewing materials spread out through the entire place. In fact, the more I divide the space, the more I come to realize how unfair the current division is for me. The whole place is full of her things, yet we split the rent in half. Those types of fractions dont add up in my head. But, I will wait a little longer before I make any rash decisions about how I am going to problem solve this equation. So far Ive not one reply to my job searches, but its too early to become pessimistic. For Lunch today, Erin and I drove into Pasadena to eat sushi. I tried the scallop rolls for the first time. My advice is: dont get the scallops. The texture is like little gonads that pop in your mouth like a burst of fishy flavor. While driving around the city, I concluded that moving to Los Angeles wasn’t just an important decision, it was a necessary one. I needed to leave your presence; I needed to escape from your haunting memories. If I hadnt left San Francisco, I would have followed my self-destructive self into oblivion. It was a matter of pure survival for me to leave the ghost town that San Francisco became. And even though I feel lonely right now, I know I will be better able to cope with these lonely tendencies in Los Angeles than I could have in the wake of your wrath. Someday we may become so distant that your face will begin to blur as I try to recall your physical features, and Im OK with this prediction. Your voice will no longer linger in my memories and your tonal registration will be supplanted with the songs of new ideas and fresh thoughts. These are exciting hopes that are helping me progress through some of my pent-up anger I have towards you. By choice or not by choice, you have become a scapegoat for everything that goes wrong in my life. I look forward to the time when I will no longer use you as an excuse for the follies of my life. But until that magical moment of release, you are the cause of my daily failures. Let me apologize ahead of time.

-A cricket chirping

Comments Off on 56

Monday February 05th 2007, 3:08 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To my little house sitter,

Today was move in day at my new apartment, which isnt really an apartment, but rather a house that was converted into a triplex complex. Brianna, my flat mate, is an aerial specialist from San Francisco; however she is also a fire dancer. She needs two more elements to complete the scrosickg chart of elements, but I doubt she will be able to conquer Earth and Water as she has conquered Fire and Air. Brianna is 28 years old and has been living in Los Angeles for two years now. Shes very sweet, though I cant seem to see her and I spending much time together. We spoke about pulling up the carpet in the hallway and my bedroom, as well we have talked of painting the interior of the house vivid colors, unlike whats on the walls now, which is a speckled sand and white atrocity. All of the boxes have been moved into their proper planes, yet Im hesitant to unpack my things for a few reasons: I dont have any furniture to place my objects on; I dont want to unpack my possessions if we are going to paint the walls in the distant future; I just dont feel like working anymore today. The box moving has exhausted me; the heat has destroyed my will to work. Summers in Los Angeles can be very trying, in terms of how lethargic the heat can make you. My stomach is yelling at me to feed its ever-consuming vacuum, but I think Ill hold off from eating just a little longer. My neighbors in the triplex are very kind and offered me a portion of their BBQ as soon as I arrived to the house. They have a pit bull named Tia, who is two years old and the sweetest pit Ive ever met. Brianna has two kittens whose names are Quela and fuck, I cant remember the other cats names. Today is the fourth of July, which means Los Angeles, will light its skies with flaming explosions of red, white and blue fireworks. Ive never enjoyed the Fourth of Julys that Ive spent in Los Angles. Five years ago I got into a car accident while returning from watching the fireworks display in Marina Del Ray. The year after that, I was continually hit on by a co-worker from my job at Borders Bookstore, which would have been nice, if it were a female employee; though it didnt surprise me that he wanted to gobble my cock, considering that whole year of my life I was hit on by more men than hit on by women. Though I digress, you are housesitting this Fourth of July at some mansion in San Francisco. The fridge is stocked with beer and wine, and the Jacuzzi will be a nice relaxing atmosphere for you and your friends. And even though I may sound sweet and caring regarding you and your Fourth of July party, inside I feel jealousy, anger and depression. However, I wont let those darker emotions ruin this Fourth of July. Tonight I will see my friend Erin, most likely drink and then hopefully find a place to crash. I wont be staying at my new place in Highland Park tonight because I dont have a bed yet. Tomorrow I am going to try to attend an open interview session at a painting school, however I dont feel prepared or qualified for the position. I stare into blank canvases thinking only about my own wicked sadness. Therefore, if I cant paint, how the fuck can I expect to teach painting? Well, sorry to sound like a self-loathing asshole, but thats how Im feeling right now that and Im fucking hungry. I think Ill go eat now. Happy Jacuzzi madness, my cause of jealousy.

A lost Angel.

Comments Off on 55

Sunday February 04th 2007, 8:16 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the Frosty Queen,

The smell is rather feral and mimics the tainted color of its walls. From the outside, the Frosty King hamburger restaurant seemed like a beautiful contrast to the sweltering heat of the California desert an oasis and refuge from the brutality of the suns punishment for my current inhabitance. There are two arcade games conveniently placed in front of the fire exit as if to mock the seriousness of an actual fire. Archaic renditions of Atari 2600 video games continue to call out to the Frosty Kings patrons, yet no one wants to jostle the joystick, if you know what I mean. As I entered the Frosty Kings front doors, the irony of my stop became clearly evident and I was greeted with the same temperate climate as I had experienced in the desert. The Frosty King had falsely advertised on their road-way sign, a promise of a delicious cool treat. Yet even though the Frosty King was a building-sized oven, its ice cream machine could miraculously still deliver scrumptious treats to those who could stand the infernal heat. This I found to abnegate any assumed notion by way of contrast to their road sign, and relinquish the responsibility of the Frosty King to cool my sweaty brow with air conditioning. I ordered an Oreo cookie milkshake and sat in the corner next to the Mrs. Pac Man machine. As I gazed outside the window to a sun that is setting, my worries about the heat lesson and I begin to contemplate the journey still ahead. Ive driven two hundred and fifty miles from San Francisco and have another one hundred and fifty miles more to travel. Today is the beginning of an end, as well as the beginning to my new beginnings. The space between two cities is a vortex, or synthesis, past and present, as well as a giving or moving towards a future. Similar to the way in which one can never be nave, as one can never begin, but one is always beginning, my destination is neither an end point nor a future projection. The expansive presence of something that is beginning conflates into the territory of some that is ending, where one can no longer distinguish between the two concepts. My question for you: Where does the ocean begin, and where does the beach end? yet the rhetoric of such questions only brings us further from the more grounded presence of life: the smell inside the Frosty King is odious, the price of the Motel Six next to the Frosty King costs $31.99, or the concrete table outside is broken. In my departure of your city, I proclaimed my final farewell to a city that has dejected me from its amorous bowels. The song playing from my IPOD was inappropriate to my departure, and thusly I turned the entire radio off and drove away in silence. Yet in my mind, I bid you a fond farewell, and blew you a kiss to your lips as I crossed over the Bay Bridge. From the foggy shores of San Francisco, until I reach the smoggy hills of Los Angeles, you can count on my thoughts being forever focused on our love, which never made it through the months of our marriage. It is 6 hours of would bes and could bes, yet Ive already driven more than half way to my destination. With you in mind and an Oreo cookie shake in my hand, I will continue my journey southward to return to the land of the lost angels. As the sun deserts the desert, I too shall depart the from the feral Frosty King.

-The Frosty King.

Comments Off on 54

Thursday February 01st 2007, 3:33 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the Mindy,

You had me. We had each other. I do understand Mindy. I understand that I was not good enough for you. I understand that I make mistakes. I understand that I fucked up our marriage because you went out that night and I thought it was the death of us. I understand that you did not want me to be perfect, to be myself. I understand that I tried to hold myself together, and failed. I understand that you needed space. I understand that you feel completely alone, but you are not. I understand that I would have traveled across the globe to help comfort you. I understand that is not what you wanted. I understand that you feel you can no longer trust me. I understand these things. Now, you Mindy, understand this: I loved you. That letter was my fears. How can you not understand? Can’t you understand how fucked up I was? Can’t you understand what you really meant and mean to me? There was never ANY lack of love for you. I married you because I loved you so dearly. I came home that night furious because I thought you said you were lying to me the whole time about our entire love. THE WHOLE TIME! You told me you were only what I wanted you to be, the same thing you did to Justin, and nothing more. Everything that we shared fell to pieces in my mind. Moreover, you wanted to hold me? To comfort a bleeding brain? I couldn’t even look at you it hurt so badly. My life exploded. I’m not an angry evil person. I’m a good person. A loving and caring person. I hurt so badly. Death seemed like a honor at that time. You don’t understand this. And don’t you make me feel guilty for collapsing. I can’t slap on a fake smile. My body crumbled. If there is no trust anymore, how can I trust you? God damn-it Mindy. You are not allowed to hold this grudge against me. And you expect us to be friends? You can’t trust me, so how can we? You could check my email everyday for the rest of my life and you would NEVER find those words written ever again. However, that doesn’t matter to you. So, Mindy, now we understand each other. You can’t loose what you’re trying to salvage in your life. You can’t forgive me for not being perfect. You can’t trust me. You feel like I lied, when all I was, was just as confused as you were. And I cannot cope with this. I cannot be your friend when all I want to do is hold you. I cannot live with the torment. I cannot tell you how I feel, because you’ll shrug it off as if it means nothing so that you can feel better throughout your day. I love you Mindy. And you accuse me of hating you? It seems you are the one who hates me. You certainly don’t love me, and I doubt you even like me. Maybe one day you will forgive me for the mistakes I’ve made. But for now, walk away. We’ll both turn our backs. Remember, it’s easier to forget than it is to forgive. So lets take the easy route. Why the hell not? It’s not as if you’ll ever trust me again.
Sincerely yours.


Comments Off on 53

Tuesday January 30th 2007, 11:45 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters,Love Letters

To my Friday night phone call,

I was at work, designing websites for some friends of mine, when you decided to call me. There didnt seem to be any real purpose to your call, except to maybe check in on me to find out whether or not I was behaving myself. You spoke of your mundane life and about how much you disliked your job. They have been making you cover your sick associates schedules because of their lack of techs on the job. You seemed to have such disdain for your current employment situation. I asked you if you planned on staying with your current employer and you told me You dont know me at all. Of course I wont. Ill burn out in six months and quit this job like I always do. I wanted to tell you how I had no job prospects in Los Angeles and how jealous I was that you had a stable source of income. I dont understand how you could want to ruin such a good employment situation especially if you are paying such high rent for our old apartment. I wish I had the knowledge you had in terms of being a vet tech. Your job is an awesome opportunity to make a decent living, while earning desirable wages. However, I bit my tongue, as I have frequently in the past, and didnt delve into a counter argument. I feel as if I have to conceal parts of my thoughts in order to sustain a friendly nature to our relationship. But by hiding my thoughts, I am repressing a part of my being that I find to be one of my best features my wit and immediate comprehension of the surrounding elements of situations. This overt and covert repression negates a part of me that you once immensely loved. We can never go back to our long lost love if I continue to repress my coherence. The good part about this is that you never want to return to the warm loving understanding we once shared, and so you most likely enjoy my vocal repression because it allows you to dominate the dynamics of our current communication. You enjoy having power over your past lovers; I fear that I am allowing you this space to exist within your own enjoyment. Fuck! I guess you can consider me a carnival ride, ready for you to get on and be happy, while my mechanics are breaking down with each and every fare. I hope that someday you will tire of my ride, and will abandon me like how most amusement parks that go out of business. I wish I werent as nice a person as I truly am. I wish I could be an evildoer like some men I come across in my life. If only I could be snobbish and uncivil, discourteous and insolent to you, then you wouldnt feel the need to call me, expecting me to respect you. Oh how I wish my mother never taught me manners; at least then I could feel retribution for the pain and suffering you have caused me. You truly are blind to the torment our break-up has put me through. Im not moving because my friends are in Los Angeles, Im moving because Id kill myself if I had to stay in the same city as you. Ive come to terms with my own self-destruction and in a dramatic maneuver I am trying to propagate my own survival. But these are things I can never tell you in our conversations. I doubt youd listen to my cries anyway.

-Your Friday night answer.

Comments Off on 52

Monday January 29th 2007, 9:51 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To the hickey on your neck,

Dear bitch, Ive made it to Los Angeles! The Phoenix is reborn! But do you care about my reincarnation? Fuck no you dont, you selfish person. Tonight, after my arrival into this vortex of a town, I once again viewed your Myspace account. Low and behold, to my disapproval and contempt, you had posted a photo of yourself with a bright and shinny hickey on your neck. Let me first tell you how disgusted I am by your public display of your scandalous engagements. Why the fuck must you publicize your fallen physical repercussions? Do you find it sexy to narcissistically view your image of shame? Does it please your senses to use the internet as a mirror for your scandals? Why must you embellish your sex life with such vivid documentation? Well, in response to your actions, I can respond to you with a whole-hearted Fuck off! Let me tell you how the last hour of my car ride to Los Angeles went: I couldnt read the exit signs because my eyes were burning from the swelling of tears. I cried for an hour straight; and let me tell you, its no easy task to cry while driving a car full of boxes boxes which represent the turmoil my life is in at this present moment. All I could think about was my own defeat, represented by the loss of your love. However, I felt good emotions towards you, even though I could only criticize my own impotent actions towards our situation. I felt like a looser, someone who doesnt deserve any more chances at neither happiness nor success in life. On several occasions my muscles flinched, contracting my hands, which made me swerve my car. I almost died because of the self-loathing that I could not surpass during that last hour of my drive Once I finally reached my destination, I came to the conclusion that things were going to get better, and that you and I were not a failure, yet an ever-progressing germination of the process of our love and understanding the good times and the horrible times are part of the whole which constitutes our essence. Except I now have a new understanding of our essence, post-hickey photo: you are a hateful person and a fallen woman who doesnt have the decency to be monogamist, or to seve me with divorce papers before you go and make out (or make-love) to other people. Again, my rage and hate for your being has swelled and I can only think about how much I loath your existence. On the other side of all this, I am now currently 400 miles away from you and no longer have to be in your physical presence. The streets out front are not the streets of San Francisco, which I would be wandering right now if I were there. Instead, I have good friends around me and therefore I am going to work through this rage in a healthy manner. Furthermore, Id like to remind you of your lascivious yet fallen ways, by continuing to write to you as I have in the past.

-The rage inside me.

Comments Off on 51

Friday January 26th 2007, 3:19 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the fountain,

Two days after our wedding, you and I went to downtown San Francisco to wander the streets of this fresh and exotic new city while waiting for our friend Mike to finish selling his art on the streets. It was the day before Christmas and the streets were packed with last minute shoppers, desperate to find their ultimate gift for the holiday. Wandering westward from the Powell Bart station we found ourselves at the Yerba Buena Gardens, which happen to be sponsored by Sony Incorporated. Its funny to think about grass and water having a corporate sponsor, but these things happen all the time in our consumer based capitalist society. Nonetheless, the park itself was lovely, yet only sub par compared to you. We played by the fountains, daring each other to jump into the running water. However the weather was brisk and we both knew that any fool stupid enough to venture into the water would suffer from the freezing elements which Mother Nature had no qualms dispensing her wrath. And even though neither you nor I was foolish enough to jump in, we were fools in Love. Furthermore, we didnt care about natures consequences to our amorous wanderings. Our first test in trust was soon to be upon us, as we neared closer and closer to the freezing fountains. With your hands firmly grasping my hands, you leaned over the cement edge from where we were standing, tempting gravity and Mother Nature with your beauty. I held on as long as I possibly could, but my grasp was neither strong enough nor long enough to withstand the unforeseeable imminent future. Our hands briefly grabbed for one another in mid-fall, but our futile attempts were unrewarded by the bitter cold of the fountains revenge. With the wind picking up, our bodies quaked as the water surrounding us lowered our bodies temperature from steamy hot passion to holy fuck Im freezing. We laughed as long as we could before the reality of the situation sank into our thoughts. Since neither of us had a change of clothes, we were destined to bear the wrath of our water-soaked ways. And so it was, we were two lovers drenched in a fountain, and it was lovely. Five months passed working at the Academy of Art, I often spend my lunch break frequenting the same Yerba Buena Gardens in which we had our first lesson in trust. However, when I now sit next to the fountains which we once threw ourselves into, I ponder a long lost feeling that I no longer experience; you are that feeling which plagues my lunch hour. In contrast to our once foolish yet happy ways, I now feel somehow sadly wiser than I did during those lustful and romantic moments of our history. For me, wisdom has been brought about through a curiously painful process of loosing you, my love, like the loss of your trust I once gambled with on that fateful Christmas Eve day. Yet I have gained something quite peculiar in return the ability to metaphysically perceive our historical love as something we had no control over. We were at the mercy of gravity and nature, as we have always been. And yet, the fountains themselves are also controlled and manipulated by the external forces of physics that govern the tangential outcomes of the present moment. If the moment were represented by a math equation, the future is the equals, the moment is variable, and the past is the problem.

-the liquid boy

Comments Off on 50

Tuesday January 23rd 2007, 12:33 pm
Filed under: Hate Letters,Love Letters

To your ex-fianc vicariously through you.

In our previous conversation, I questioned whether or not I would see the security deposit for our old apartment safely returned to my bank account. Your response was quick, saying Maybe, if you stop squirting my friends with squirt guns. To this, I countered your request with a bowed head and a devious smile. And even though I have no plans to blast your friends with my water guns, the thought of spraying all your friends whom I loathed brought pleasure to my mind. You then told me that if I had squirted your ex-fianc Justin at his work, he would have jumped over the counter and kicked my ass. HA! That piece of shit dweeb you call a lover? He couldnt get near enough to my ass to pat it, let alone destroy it. If he ever tried to be violent or physical with me, Id destroy every living essence in his self-loathing body. This wisp of a man you call your best friend has been an enemy of mine ever since he and I met each other in San Jose. Our first introductions were quaint, yet developed underlying tones of jealousy and aggression: his words to you when he found out about our marriage was Ill help you sign the divorce papers. Fuck him for such terrible benedictions. After you and I separated, he was the first person you fucked. Fuck you for that. And now, the man-child feels the need to affirm his manliness by convincing you of his reactive predictions toward me squirting him with a squirt gun. And worse, you believe in his power over me. I suppose this shows how powerless you are in Justins disturbingly grotesque web. Justin is a hack of a human, designed to pity himself for eternity, and you give him the pity he cries for. Why? Doesnt his disgusting abhorrence get old after awhile? The only credit I will give the boy is that he is a talented musician. But besides his musical talents, he has nothing going for him. His wit is acute, but only wrestles with its own self-loathing to ever amount to genius. His physical features remind me of a twig with spectacles, and his prospects for a progressive future are shallow and vain. The man is a callow individual that I would never want as a friend. Theres a lot to say about a person by definition through the caliber of his enemies. Therefore, Id be doing myself a favor not to hold this grudge towards such a lousy opponent. It is undignified to hate one who has no dignity. However, let me state this as clearly as possible: if Justin ever tried to lay a finger on me, he would experience a pain so unholy, hell have to have an exorcism performed on his remains just so he could have a proper Catholic burial. Sometimes I wish for such an opportunity to unleash my demons into this physical world through physical violence. However, I usually find other avenues to fulfill these evil thoughts into physical fruitions. So, if you would dear wife, let your best friend know that if he were to reach over the counter to countervail my squirt, he would regret his ever meeting me so many months ago. I thank you for relaying this honest message.

(p.s. in retrospect to re-reading this letter, I do not wish any harm to you or your friend. this letter was an outlet for my anger at the time when I wrote it.)

Comments Off on 49

Tuesday January 23rd 2007, 6:08 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the process,

When I last spoke to you three days ago, I asked whether or not you despised me at this point not because I truly believed you loathed me, but because I wanted to exaggerate my assumption of your feelings so that you would counter my question with a thoughtful response. Even if you didnt despise me, you would at least consider a despicable feeling towards me, thus allowing yourself to question your own feelings, and respond with a dialectical answer. Your response to my question was No, I dont despise you, but Im pissed off at you. I found this statement interesting because it gave no outlook onto future feelings you will eventually have for me. If you were to say Im pissed off at you right now, then I could have interpreted the sentence as having a time reference. Its important for me to consider the intricate details of our conversations, otherwise our interactions would be lost in the void of ambiguity. I need to concern myself with the understanding as to know exactly where we are in terms of our post-love connection. Since I am leaving the city in four days, I want to be as clear as possible concerning what it is I am leaving behind. If I were to go to Los Angeles thinking I was leaving a possibility of us re-united at some distant point in the future, my current decisions about my moving would be altered because I would thusly be considering vague possibilities of our current situation. Geography is a major factor in any relationship, or non-relationship, because it is the space in which a relationship conceals itself in time. The process of giving and concealing is determined by the space in which the relationship can grow or dissipate through time. When we say through time, we position ourselves as a vessel that is, though concurrently is not moving through a non-existent dichotomy of points that is, from A to B there is a passage through space which has given itself to time, which is to say the space has continued to presence itself in the now. And so, geography is the space in which bodies exist, in relation to other bodies in space. The latitude and longitude, which defines our physical location, allows humans to mathematically experience similar environmental establishments. But more importantly than just observing the environment in our present location, is connecting and communicating with other sentient beings in your direct vicinity. Furthermore, the physical presence of a being presenting itself in the present, at a location in proximity to ones own presenting, allows the time and space desired to make connections; which we term relationships. Now, to get back to your statement of Im pissed off at you, which is in the present tense, which gives no indication of future prospects, or past histories, I can surely state that geographically placing myself away from your present presence will undoubtedly give my being a chance to conceal my life from you, therefore allowing you the time to develop a future prospect of your present feelings, thus turning your present tense statement into a past tense statement, again allowing a thoughtful dialectical processing of your emotions towards me, germinating a response which will give hopes to a history, present and future relationship between you and I or maybe to give hopes of a decisive concealment of our anger and emotions?
-The processor

Comments Off on 48

Tuesday November 07th 2006, 11:31 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To my dreams last night,

The aesthetic of the dream was post-apocalyptic. The anarchists had fortified inside the centers of every major metropolis. Normally one would think the enemy of the anarchist to be capitalism and the industrialization of the hegemonic systems of the west, but in my dream the enemy of the anarchists was the lower class commoners, the proletariats themselves. When the fall of modern civilization was realized, the green anarchists were prepared to survive that fall because of their preparatory life styles of living without the system. The proletariats, on the other hand, the slaves to the system, were chaotic and disheveled by the fall of an organized governmental regiment. Without a governing body to divide and subdivide official categories of constituents, clans and tribes developed by interests in survival tactics. The ironic outcome of the anarchist�s fortification was a satire on a system�s need for industrialization, and the coming to terms with the true nature of the anarchic rule: Anarchists are mirrors of the supposed system they claim to be their enemy. The poor and unfortunate only had their strength in numbers to fight against the anarchist strongholds. This set the scene for a more intimate story to be told. There was a friend anarchist who had been targeted for deletion by the proletariat faction. The proletariat used their strength in numbers wisely and attacked like a swarm of bees against specific targets, rather than spreading out their quantitative upper hand which would weaken their offense. Their planned assassination on an unsuspecting anarchist went off without a hitch, which dealt a blow to the anarchist moral. How could they be so careless to allow one of their warriors to the picked off so easily? While the head anarchists debated on retaliatory measures, within the ranks of the hegemony were quarrels and conflict between members. True anarchist beliefs, living without the system of hierarchical power dynamics, were creeping their way back into the mentality of the anarchist tribe. To contain themselves in the stronghold and to hold their egos from inflating too much was their only option for the survival of their kind. Within the stronghold there was a small room built with 6 ft concrete walls all around. Here is where the anarchist power really came from. The anarchist oligarchies put faith and trust into the decisions and predictions of one very punked-out beautiful fortuneteller. I happened to be wandering by the sooth-sayer�s room when I realized her door, a door that was never open, was cracked slightly, enough to see light coming from inside the room. Out of pure curiosity I opened the supposed fortified room and found myself face to face with the goddess of the anarchist colony. She was more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. Her hair was green with electric blue streaks. She wore knee high steel-toed boots with fishnet stockings. Her face was slim and slender with an immaculate vampiric complexion. But her eyes are where my dream ended. Her pupils swirled like the galactic cosmos. I was mesmerized by how much detail I could see within her gaze. She was the goddess in which the elders spoke of. I immediately felt the power within her stare. I was locked inside her when the dream ended. I woke up in a panic, as if I had learned something from this illusion�s gaze, but I couldn�t piece together the meaning of the dream. I suddenly had a concern for my mother�s well being. I think I will call her today.

Comments Off on 47

Monday October 30th 2006, 5:15 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the terrible writer,

I am a walking clich! When I think about love, suffering, pain, lust, etc. my metaphors come as if Ive crapped them out with last nights tomalley dinner. What the hell am I to do with myself? Metaphor is the only reason to continue living and if I cant think of better metaphors than the shit Im spouting, I have no reason to live. Life is a metaphor, a system of Appropriations that give Being its essence. How can I not use this as a learning lesson to my own expression? Language is a metaphor for stimulus and describing our experience through coherent thoughts. Its a dialectical and logistical process of supplanting reality with our perception of reality. Metaphor comes after experience and is a post-instant discourse of appropriation. But its not always easy to link profound ideas to describe existence. I have to admit to myself; maybe I dont have it in me to think metaphorically. I try to conquer banal thought by developing a metaphorical stockpile, ready to be loaded into the cannon of thought, but usually my metaphors ignite prematurely, blowing off an appendage of my ego. Appendage of my ego? What the hell kind of metaphor was that? OK, let me try again. I try to enslave banal thoughts by whipping the boredom out of reality using my magical metaphorical lasso oh god, this is getting worse each time I try to creatively explain the process of creative thinking. Isnt this why kids go to school? Shouldnt someone be blamed in the pedagogical institutions of my childhood for not teaching me how to develop a simple yet genius analogy? Someone must pay for my shame! Someone besides me, of course. Someone? Anyone? No? Well, moving on. The official scrabble players dictionary defines clich as a trite expression. Though isnt trite a socially definable and subjective word? Expression, on the other hand, is not a subjective word. Expression is the act that a being materializes through metaphorical devices. The expression of thought can be a painting, a gesture, a word, an appearance. However, expression requires a recipient of such a motion. One cannot express if there is not another being present to receive an expression; however, there can be no expression without the absence of such an expression. Its a process of giving and concealing, like most post-modern thought would state. There must be a space in which the expression finds itself giving itself to a recipient, even if such the recipient is the giver of such the expression. To fulfill the destiny of expression, one must propel oneself into the instant of action, an act of violence, to catch up with the moment, thus expressing a metaphorical relationship with the hierarchal dynamic of forethought, appropriation and a final expression that shoots from the non-existence of expressive action to a recipient of said expression. So, we dialectically described what expression is, however to get back to our subjective term trite, we can only infer that as things become dull, banal, or boring, which all things subjected to the realities of technology do, things become what is arbitrarily defined trite. Therefore, a clich is a conditioned response to certain expressions that continually propel themselves into the instant, and we as humans then decide when enough is enough for these monotonous, repetitive expressions. I guess this is how violence becomes funny, hysterical even, after a prolonged exposure to it. Hence weve developed a system of post-survival expression that can allow us to move beyond clich, finding it sardonically funny and boring at the same time.

Comments Off on 46

Monday October 23rd 2006, 2:08 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a dark and distant space,

He slowly approached the front door, crying in his heart. Wont you stay for a bit longer? were the words he desperately wanted her to say. Her silence said everything instead. As he opened the door with the heaviest of hands, she pulled him towards her it was to be their last hug. His arms wrapped around her fragile ribs, holding her as he would hold a newborn child. Tears swelled in his eyes, though he fought their coming on with all his might. Dont cry in front of her, he thought, as his grip tightened. Take care of yourself she sadly spoke into his chest. Her words bounced off his quivering skin, as he knew she meant them with all the care she had left in her. Their entanglement released and he took two steps away from her and into the void of a lost city. I want you to know, I really love you. Youre a wonderful person, he said, bewildered by his ability to say exactly how he felt for her. She half smiled, and with a moment of sadness she replied, I love you too. The words he had longed to hear were finally materialized. Through all his pain and suffering, I love you too could have healed his heart and madness. But these beautiful and docile words came too late. It was over; it was their last goodbye. His heart thumped, causing his body to half quake. The only words he could muster were trite and clich. Good luck, he blurted out. With all his essence, he turned about face and walked out of the apartment, his old apartment, her new home, and into the misty grey fog of the city night. His tears followed him throughout his old neighborhood, eventually catching up to him three blocks from the apartment. His eyes burned with a sadness that no animal should ever have to endure. His stomach became so twisted from the pain it seemed as if he had digested razorblades. Every face he came across on the street looked like painting by Picasso. The details of existence blurred into a mollified void. Up became down, left pointed towards the right. Though his tears shamed him, he did not hide his contorted face from the passer-bys. If he had to endure this public suffering, then the world must as well. It was his gift to this unsympathetic city of socialites. Walking was only achieved out of pure habit. It seemed as if he had walked miles before he could clearly see where he was going; he was going home to a homeless heart. His body, numb and with senses dulled, desired nothing more than a hug from a complete stranger. However, he couldnt even get the courage to lift his gaze from the grey flat cement which his feet firmly felt below him. Today his lover passed away, as all people do. Stepping into the streets he passed by a few junkies he had befriended on his lonely nights without her, but they could offer nothing to this broken senseless man. No drug, no prescription for the pain, could cure his defeated psychosis. Cars in the street stopped for his dazed passing, yet secretly he wished them to run right through. Nothing mattered anymore; no one could save him, as no one could kill him. He was already dead, a walking zombie. He wanted to be reunited with his deceased love, but was stuck in purgatory, or worse, Hell. As he maneuvered his way through traffic thaumaturgically, his phone rang, with her number on the caller ID, causing him to pause in the middle of Mission Street. Ironically a bus didnt see him and he was swept away from his sadness as one sweeps dirt under a rug. The citys immune system found a way to cleanse itself of this sick vile disease. He finally found his home, under the brilliant mechanics of the number 22 bus. Home James, he thought to himself in a last attempt to kill a monster with laughter. His heart thumped twice then ceased to beat at all. He was now finally home.


Comments Off on 45

Sunday October 22nd 2006, 6:56 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters,Love Letters

To the Good,

Yesterday I came over to your apartment so that I could sign over the pink slip to the car, as well as borrow the car for the evening. I had to move my things from San Francisco. We were quite pleasant with one another, which wasnt surprising. Theres a large part of me that wants to be your friend, as you can tell by how eager I am to have a decent conversation with you. I want to hug you, hold you physically like the way I hold you in my heart. Our cat was very friendly with me, however I doubt she remembers that I was the one who cuddled and loved her as a kitten. Your Apartment looks wonderful, and I can only hope that someday I will land on my feet like you have. Your new haircut looked nice, but was cut pretty short for my tastes. However, when I first met you, your hair was three times shorter than it is now, and I still found a way to fall in love with you. We talked about the security deposit and said you would try to pay me back if I stopped shooting your friends with squirt guns. I laughed over this sardonic comment, but you didnt think it was very funny. We shared a brief hug on my arrival to the apartment, but didnt even wave goodbye on my departure.

To the Evil,

Theres a part of me that wants nothing to do with you. I want to cut you loose and never cross your path again. When I become nostalgic for your affection, I immediately and subsequently fill with anger, passionately wishing for your demise. I dont want you to be so content with your life. Your new Apartment articles make me jealous of your new life. Theres no way I can cope with these raw guttural emotions that swell when Im in your presence. I have to bite my lip and continue on with logistical (un)developments in our marriage. You said you would pay for the divorce papers because I am too poor to pay for them myself. Youre so adamant on our separation. Fucking take it easy. Im fragile still, unlike you and your hardened outer core. And I know youre fucking new men these days, which only makes me sad because I havent fucked anyone since you. The Apartment has become totally yours, which pisses me off because my name is still on the lease. I dont think I will give you my new address in Los Angeles, just so you wont be able to send me the divorce papers. Itd be nice to fuck with you for a while, at least until I get on my feet and find a job. Just to spite you, I wont fail when I return to Los Angeles.

-My Ego

Comments Off on 44

Friday October 20th 2006, 4:40 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Fuck you.

I called you today and you told me you would call me back because you were doing stuff. You sounded so guilty. What exactly were you doing? And whom were you doing it with? Why the fuck did you even answer the phone if you were busy doing stuff. Maybe you were on drugs with your friends? Who knows? All I know is that I wanted to borrow the car so that I could take some boxes to Sacramento today, and youre too busy doing something to appreciate me trying to get my life together. Even though moving boxes isnt really me getting my life together, considering that I just woke up, have a hangover and have to clean the mess I made in my room last night. I came home plastered. After work last night I stepped into the local bar around the corner from Roberts house. Betty, the beautiful bar tender, who doubles as a mother, was working last night. I sat down at the bar and told Betty, I have nine dollars. Get me as drunk as you can for that. She looked at me and laughed, grabbing the Jamison and Baileys from the shelf. She mixed together two shots of her delicious concoction and poured me a Stella back. I offered to pay her the 9 dollars but she refused my monetary trade. I was surprised by her generositymost bars and bartenders arent as kind as Betty. Its too bad she was double my age (I think her daughter is my age); Otherwise I would try to date the woman. Its a shame that kindness and alcohol can lead to sexual desire. This is why so many female bartenders get hit on. If they smile back at a drunk patron, they are immediately seen as a sex object. When Betty closed the bar, she and I walked across the street to another bar to see if it was open if so we were going to share a drink together. But the bar was closed and so Betty and I parted ways. I didnt need another drink anyway. I stumbled home, barely making it to the front door. In fact I slammed my head on the front door while trying to get the key to fit in the hole. The stairway seemed taller than ever as I cautiously maneuvered from step to step. When I made it down the stairs, I let out a sigh of relief into the hallway by my bedroom, I was almost there, I thought. When I stepped inside my bedroom, I put down my backpack and stumbled into the window, knocking over a drum and a cup of change I had been collecting. I crashed into the blinds, which made a loud noise, and fell over onto the floor. After this fall I crawled to my bed to pass out. And this is why I have clean my room today. Whatever. This doesnt diminish the fact that youre I dont have any good thoughts about you right now. Dont be ambiguous with me over the phone. It just makes me hurt even more.

-Fuck You.

Comments Off on 43

Thursday October 19th 2006, 7:26 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To My Demons,

Goodbye Chris, Hello Monster! Saturday, 10:00 PM: I am at work, bored out of my tits. Tonight the computer lab will be open until midnight for no reason at all. Theres not a single person here working on their projects. However, our management feels it necessary to employ (enslave) three workers to secure the lab. The mismanagement of companies irks me to no end. Hopefully my next job will be with a management team that actually pays attention to the work involved. One reason I didnt like this job in the first place was because there was no room for improvement. The system is set in stone, and therefore cannot be changed for the better of the company. The job had no prospects of a raise, of an increase in responsibilities for the employees, nothing. How can one expect to feel like one has accomplished something, if one is stuck in a mundane job? I remember at the initial job interview, I almost didnt get the job here because I actually like responsibility and improvement. I am too ambitious for such a static work environment. And so, in response to this banality, I have decided to drink on the job. On my 1st break, I bought a can of Sapporo, and chugged that before I came back into the lab. When the effects of the Sapporo were wearing off, I went out and bought a half pint of Jack Daniels, which I am now sipping on while sitting in the lab. Since theres no one here who gives a flying fuck whether I am drunk or not, I have decided to get hammered before I leave this vocation tonight. Although the qualms I have with my corrupt job are quite substantial, theyre not the entire reason why Ive decided to drink tonight. All day today I have been contemplating how pointless my life is. The demons inside me are whispering in my ear words of death and suicide. Everywhere I turn, an object of self-destruction calls to me. The subway would be a quick and easy death. Running in front of a bus would do the trick as well. Slicing my throat with a straight edge razor could work, although any sharp object would finish me off just as well. Ive contemplated electrocution but I doubt I could manage to guarantee my finality with the means I have. I wouldnt kill myself at Roberts house, just out of respect for their family. Who wants to live in a house where someone committed suicide? And so, a toaster in the bathtub is out of the question. On Mission Street I could spend $100 dollars to buy enough heroin to overdose and die. I could jump off of the Golden Gate Bridge and make my death a clich, or I could turn my suicide into an art project like Ray Thomson did when he jumped off a bridge in 1995. There are too many options for me to choose which death I could give myself tonight. I am supersaturated with demonic ideas at this point. Do you ask yourself these questions? Are you satisfied with your existence? Do you think about killing yourself? Tonight? This evening?

-The Saint.

Comments Off on 42

Wednesday October 18th 2006, 6:57 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To Saturday,

With a thumping chest and trembling hands, I got the nerve to call you. Surprisingly you answered the phone (I hoped that you would just let the voicemail pick up). Your hello was pleasant, as was mine. I told you of my plans for leaving San Francisco in exactly one week and you responded with a shocking for Good?! Yes, for good I stated. I then went into the reason for calling you. I want some of my movies back as well as my coffee maker. There are a few documentaries on artists that I wish to take with me to Los Angeles, and well, you bought a new coffee maker, so you wont need my old one. I told you that Monday would be a good day to meet up, half expecting you to schedule a chaperone for our encounter. I still sensed a bit of animosity in you, but I didnt react towards your tone of voice. You told me that Monday afternoon would tentatively be a good time for you, and that we could meet up for coffee. I joked about meeting in the morning at 8 AM, and you responded with a Lets make it 6 AM. I countered your sarcasm with we could catch a sun-rise, and you replied, Fuck that! However, by the tone in your voice, I can only assume what you really meant to say was fuck you. You havent given the car to Justins parents yet because you wanted to run it through a car wash first. I doubt you will ever get rid of that car. It reminds you of Justins grandfather, and thus the Love you had for Justin and his family. I think its safe to say youre attached to that motor vehicle. Its too bad my name is still on the pink slip, but Im sure well take care of that on Monday. Besides the pre-phone call emotions, our conversation was banal and mundane. You and I dont make jokes or laugh together. Its sad for me to analyze our conversations to the point of banality, but its the honest truth. You told me you went to San Jose yesterday, but didnt explain why. Most likely you were visiting your Love, Justin. Maybe you two were made for each other? After all, you two have a lot in common. You both are content with normality and banality. And you both now have a common enemy. Justin and you were together for almost five years. You were engaged for six months before you convinced him to break up with you. Then, when you and I developed into the love we had, Justin waned in the shadows of jealousy, hoping you and I were doomed to perish. Well, it looks like things have finally worked in his favor. You and I are a dead memory while you and Justin are now rekindled lovers. I remember the first time I met Justin. I didnt like his curt attitude towards you and me. Hes actually a prick. But, its your life, and your decision. Its your decision who you love and who you dont love. I knew he would return in your life as a lover. I just knew it. Because of this he has never been a friend to me. I really dislike that manyour best friend, your new-old lover.


Comments Off on 41

Monday October 16th 2006, 2:30 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To the Time Developing,

Its been some time since we last spoke maybe a week or so. This may be because the last words you said to me were Call me later this week, to which I replied, Sure. I havent fulfilled my part of the deal, with good cause. I am too frightened to inquire into what youve been up to lately. Anxiety swells in me when I contemplate asking you simple questions such as How has your week been? or What are your plans for the weekend? With you I am a failure at small talk. I think my fear of your response is validated, not because of the specific answers youll give to my questions, but by the way in which those answers will be spoken. I know youll have a soothing tone in the gesture of your voice when you tell me of your mundane plans. Youll nonchalantly describe some banal existence. Like anything you plan to do, whether its going to San Jose, or hanging out in the Apartment, or having sex with a robot monkey is an acceptable plan. You wont ask my opinionyou need no input from me. You dont contemplate how your responses will affect me, and you sure as hell wont want to include me in any of your plans. Maybe Im jealous of your smooth-sailing-Im-gonna-be-OK plans because my plans seem so turbulent. Its likely my fear of talking to you is a fear of repression. I dont want to have to be a “yes-man” to anyone, especially not you. I can imagine your reaction to these thoughts Im having. Youd tell me to go fuck myself, that its not my responsibility to care about your plans, that I dont have a say in anything that goes on in your life. This all may be true. But why would you ask me to call you later in the week if you dont care to respond to me as a caring human being? It seems you want to keep a superficial connection with me, not because you honestly care about me, but rather to check up on me to see if Ive any plans to harm you in the future. Your fear makes you say things like Call me later in the week. And since Im afraid of someone who fears me, that puts us in a peculiar position, doesnt it? Maybe if I dont call you, youll realize the absurdity of you asking me to call, and we can sweep the whole calling each other thing under the rug like we swept up our marriage. Which reminds me, you switched your wedding ring from your wedding finger to your right hands 4th finger around the time you realized you were no longer in Love with me. This switch occurred three days before you found that letter on my computer (which made you take the ring off entirely). Why did you switch fingers so quickly? Everything happened so quickly for you. Our marriage and love was over in a week. Subsequently one week later, you asked me to move out of the Apartment. Everything was swept neatly under the rug for you. Hell, if you didnt tell anyone, no one would even know were still married. I wonder if you use me as an excuse to push away men after youre done fucking them? You can sweep them under the rug just as easily as you did our love. But sooner or later, youre going to have to vacuum the broken pieces of their hearts from under that rug, and we all know how much you hate to clean that apartment.

— Space-Time-Ego-Thing.

Comments Off on 40

Tuesday October 03rd 2006, 5:35 pm
Filed under: Love Letters

To my mid-day thoughts,

Dolores Park is a place I go to enjoy the mid-day summer. Its a park filled with luscious grassy hills, swing sets, beautiful people sun bathing, ugly people hiding in the shade and most importantly, space to allow thoughts to disseminate into existence. This park is somewhere that you and I have never experienced alone together. We may have come here once with your gutterpunk friends a long time ago, but as I recall we didnt even sit next to one another that day. Dolores Park has been a space for me to birth emotions into coherent thoughts and ideas. This is a place of life and fecundity. Ive not stigmatized the landscape of Dolores Park like I have with other parks in San Francisco. Glen Park was the first adventure you and I had in San Francisco. We drove from San Jose to San Francisco on the second weekend of our courting months. You and I climbed to the top of the Glen Park Mountains to find solitude in the urban jungle of San Francisco. It was at that point of our love that I first had difficulties with the fact that you didnt speak much. I couldnt tell if you were enjoying my company, or if your silence was a product of your disapproval. Before we physically met, you told me I am very shy, so if we meet, consider me mute. In fact, it seems this is a tired phrase you use on any new victim of your love. You posted the same message on your Myspace account. To re-appropriate these words to your new life, and by way of me seeing this on your biography, I became quite nostalgic for our beginning love. After the nostalgia wore off, I became saddened by your profile because I know of the eventual love you and I shared after you told me of your shy persona. Theres a part of me that wants you to never share the words you have shared with me with a new lover. I want a sense of singularity in your love, which would reflect a sense of individualism that Ive always have striven towards. But Ive realized the absurdity of this unspoken request; the futility in it lies in that those words you spoke directly to me were never meant for me to own. One cannot own anothers words. The closest one can get to singular ownership of anothers thoughts is through ones own interpretation of the language. However, the intention behind the vernacular is what one hopes to own. But even this system of intended meaning and interpretive meaning proves futile and hopeless. Its a difficult process to come to terms with the multiplicity of meaning regarding singular love and individualism. Language itself is a borrowed system of semantics, meaning we never own the words we use in discourse. The outcome of this library system for language produces a feeling of being disjointed in discourse, and therefore produces a lack of truth in regards to intention and meaning. For example, I can say the phrase, I love you, which is true, even though I have said this to four other women in my life (not including my mother). Those people no longer exist in a monogamous individual state through the language, though thats not to say I didnt love all of the women in my life singularly. In the moment of such a love, I honestly loved the individual, regardless of the language used to describe the love. But, to recount the difference between the who and the what, I loved things about my loves, and most likely not the who of my love. And so I fall prey to my own hypocrisy of desiring singularity for your intention behind our dialogues. It is here that I will discontinue my hope for singularity, and wallow in the sadness of inevitable multiplicity and the masses.

me being sad and lonely in a park.

Comments Off on 39

Saturday September 30th 2006, 2:49 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To my midnight madness,

There are certain objects that I come across in my daily routine which ignite flashes of emotions and memories of you. Chapstick is no longer a plain device to soothe and comfort my lips. You were obsessed with Chapstick when I first met you. You wouldnt leave the house if you couldnt locate a tube of Chapstick to take with you. It was this dreadful California weather which caused your lips to dry so easily. Since you grew up in the humid climate of Hawaii, the dry heat was a constant battle for your bodys moisture. Even your fair skin would tremble at the thought of being outside in the summer sun. You are a born Goth. When I met you for the first time in San Jose, you had just opened a new case of lip balm made from the essence of Hemp. I remember this particular Chapstick because at the end of our relationship, the case was completely empty. Our marriage paralleled the life span of that silly Chapstick dispenser. Your father continually invites you to go live with him in his mansion in Arizona, but youd absolutely melt in such an arid and dry climate. Another new memory association for me is meeting animals in the street. Any dog, cat, bird, or other small creature you would come across, youd walk towards, intrepidly, to pet and communicate with. I remember once while we were driving towards Palo Alto I asked you if you wanted to meet a cow. You werent hesitant at all with your response. Absolutely, you replied. We pulled the car to the side of the road at the first sighting of a cow farm. You told the pack of cows (more like cow-ards) that you were a vegetarian and that you had no intention in harming them, but they didnt listen to reason. A third object that will always open the floodgates to my thoughts is a wedding ring. I cannot see another person sporting a wedding ring without immediately visualizing you, my ex-love. These visualizations come in many forms and images. Sometimes I think of your petite body architecture, sometimes I imagine you lying under the covers to our futon bed. Sometimes I think of you decked out in your work uniform (your scrubs) that also functioned as your pajamas. Sometimes I imagine your freckles and pale skin, and other times I focus only on your lips. You have wonderful lips, dear ex-wife. Hence any jealous feelings I get when I think of you kissing other men. But as youve reminded me on several occasions, its not my responsibility to care for you or your image the way I continually do. Responsibility is a hard thing to abscond from, unless youre irresponsible. But Ive prided myself in my responsible nature, and have a very difficult time relinquishing any responsibility I have to my own memories and emotions. I have a responsibility to allow my thoughts to flow when I see Chapstick, cows and wedding rings. Otherwise, Id repress these interconnected fluid relationships and become a static monster of matter.

-madness making sense.

Comments Off on 38

Wednesday September 27th 2006, 2:30 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To my sadness,

The days seem to be getting shorter and shorter which is contradictory to the summer season here in the city. Soon I will start packing my room, getting it ready for the move back to Los Angeles. Moving has always been stressful for me because it forces me to intricately decipher the meaning behind my material possessions. While placing each article in a box, I interconnect with the object and come to terms with the emotional memory Ive placed on a material possession. Each item contains a vivid memory and emotion imbued in its essence, or at least in the essence I perceive it to have. Beyond the direct connection with my memory of the object and the object itself, I am creating new connections and associations with the object, as I see it in the present. I project a future understanding of how I may or may not utilize the object in my future life, using my past memory and connection as a reference point of my prediction. This process is very strategic and calculated, which needless to say, is very time consuming. The energy spent on packing memories into boxes would most likely be better spent physically moving boxes from point A to point B; in this case, from San Francisco to Los Angeles. To me, cities are mere expansions on the metaphor for object and subject concerning emotional and physical memory attachment. The buildings are the boxes which humans pack themselves into. You are most likely at work right now, stuck inside your pet animal hospital. I can never go to your specific work ever again, and I am glad your work will not come to me in Los Angeles. The people, buildings and entire cities we leave behind are just as inter-subjective as the TV I left at your apartment, or the bed Im leaving at my current residence. I am choosing to leave San Francisco just like I choose to leave photos of you outside of the boxes Im currently packing. But objects are never completely inside nor outside of the containers we describe for them. In this way, I am never outside San Francisco, even though I have momentarily left the city. Although my official address has changed, I can still wander back to the city and know certain things about the city: geographical locations, places to buy certain drugs, cultural signifiers that hardly change through time. Our old neighborhood will always stimulate memories and emotions to me. I paint the portrait of the city through the context of my own interpretations. The composition is laid out by memory and thought. Today, I picked up mail from your (our old) apartment. Just walking in our old neighborhood brought tears to my eyes. They werent necessarily sad tears of sorrow, but rather a nostalgic flow of memories and emotions nestled inside streams of beaded tear drops. Nostalgia is a function of vagueness that memories create. Ambiguous connections to smells, sounds, visual stimulus, etc. reach out to our inner emotional ties and networks of memories. The connection between stimulus and the internal gaze is activated through the network of cognitive organization. We try to contain our thoughts by a process of categorization, similar to placing objects from our lives in boxes. But what we come to find is that we cannot contain such vast networks of neural assimilation. With material possessions we are given the option to throw out the old stimulus and replace it with new items in our lives. Memories, even though they supplant one another in their hieratical categories, are not as easy to dissolve into the void of forgotten memories. In fact, the adverse reaction occurs when we try to focus on destroying memories. We re-contextualize these memories and help bind them into our cortexs neurons through such focusing techniques.


Comments Off on 37

Tuesday September 26th 2006, 7:06 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters


You are not the woman I knew (or thought I knew) a long time ago. Something drastic has changed inside you. In fact, Id say that the moment you became unhappy with our love, bored of it even, is when you changed into a completely different person. You no longer like to take risks. Youre getting comfortable in your ways, which has killed the amazing spirit you once had. Think about this. When we first met, you had a sense of humor, a sense of adventure. You longed for Love and would do anything to obtain happiness. This was the woman I fell in love with a passionate girl with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Your essence radiated with compassion and gentle thoughts. When we spoke over the phone, you had an interest in life that made my heart flutter with delight. I became totally devoted to the idea of your child-like passion for love and beauty. Conversations with you were never boring because you and I would imagine a world together that we would someday create. You were a seven-year old scientist and I was to be your lab assistant. There was nothing to stand in the way of our radiant laughter. It was especially exciting to hear you laugh about the obnoxious qualities of life, which you would change if you had your way. But now, when I speak with you on the phone, you sound drab and dreary. You no longer laugh with me, and the things you use to find humorous just plainly annoy you. The light has dimmed inside of you and all that is left are macabre, sardonic, unpleasant and rude ideas. The vast imaginative woman I once knew has concreted into the sad and depressive consumer. You use to never like to rent movies from Blockbuster because you thought they censored their films, plus they were a giant corporation, which you couldnt stand. Now, you go there almost every night. What happened to you? You use to write nasty letters to pharmaceutical companies because they continually test their death products on helpless animals. Now, you shop at Safeway and take medication for your illnesses. The girl I fell in love with would have kicked your ass if she met you now. How is it that youve locked yourself in your comfortable little cage when you use to be the cage-less bird- the free spirit of love? You could fly anywhere without attachments to the material world. And now, you cling to your apartment like a snail in its shell. I almost feel partially responsible for making your apartment so comfortable. I left the TV, speakers, dresser, coffee maker, DVD player, movies, etc. for you because I didnt have any attachments to those possessions. But, you could have gotten rid of any of those possessions at any time, (which you still may do, only to replace them with similar items which have no emotional attachments to our long lost relationship). I guess, what Im trying to get at is that Im disappointed in you. You had such a promise of being a child forever. I truly believed you would obtain an eternal love that would allow you to never grow old. I doubt you will ever achieve what I once thought possible. My only advice, dear Love, is to make the best of your time, and learn to laugh once again.

In all sincerity,


Comments Off on 36

Saturday September 23rd 2006, 12:54 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

Hello dear,

Hows your day going? I ask you in my thoughts. Have you been sleeping well and eating right? These are questions that will never actualize into words. What are your plans for the weekend, dear? Inquisitive ponderings glaze through my daily routine of thought and have an urge to unmask themselves by way of my vocal chords. When a specific question haunts me long enough, I eventually answer myself as if the question was never intended to reach you and was posed from me to me. The lingering and looming questions must be answered, I feel. Otherwise Id be stuck on a sentence that would eventually fortify itself in my head, blocking the progression of other thoughts to come about. I once read that the human mind thinks approximately 2000 words per minute. Some words combine to make sentences. Others bounce around in solitude until other words replace the initial thought. Invisible secrets supplanting one another, the thoughts immured in our consciousness flow like a river. And even though one can never step into the same river twice, the refreshing knowledge that our vernaculars will continue flowing through our mind allows us to journey into the stream of thoughts without the fear of drowning in stale static waters. But these questions I pose to you cause dams in my river of thought. My wonders that plague me become busy beavers, blocking the flow of pensiveness. Therefore, I must break through these fortifications by answering questions that are originally intended for you. Moving on from this stream of thought, Id like to inform you about my decision to meet a new friend in Phoenix Arizona. Her name is Morgan and I met her on Myspace a few months ago. I initially thought she lived in San Francisco, as her profile stated, however she moved from CA to AZ a week before I first messaged her. Like you and I, Morgan came to San Francisco with her lover to build a new life together. They loved one another for approximately a year, but Craig, her boyfriend at the time, cheated on Morgan with two other women. He later claimed that he still loved Morgan at the time of his polygamous adventures, though she didnt believe him. And so, she left everything in her new life: her clothes, her job, her rental agreement, and moved back to her safety net in Arizona. She feels like she failed at Love, and maybe she did, but isnt that the point anyway? Can one truly understand the nature of Love without the completeness of Love’s ending? Morgan and I have similar stories in terms of how abruptly our lives have changed as well as how hard these break-ups have been. Our lives parallel on the aspect of disastrous love lives. And so, Ive bought a plane ticket to go visit Morgan on July 7th. Im reminded of the first time I met you because of the similarities of our initial visit. I enjoy traveling to meet new romantic interests. The horizon becomes so much more beautiful when one looks outward. There becomes an emotional attachment to a new city of Romance. Actually, I cant travel to San Jose without thinking of the wonderful times you and I shared. The aftermath of these nostalgic memories are feelings of sadness and sorrow. Therefore, San Jose and I dont play nice with one another anymore. I cant enjoy myself in that city. I think San Francisco has become another location that I wont be able to travel back to without feeling intense and sometimes conflicting emotions. It is my hope that I dont come back to this city, back to you, for a very very long time.

-Your dearest.

Comments Off on 35

Monday September 18th 2006, 9:25 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a vague memory of happiness,

Im feeling a bit nostalgic tonight. My spirits are high and theres a smile on my face. The memory of our first weekend together is enchanting me to write to you and reminisce of our first interactions. These were most likely the more important moments in our short-lived love. The decision to travel to San Jose came abruptly after you told me you were enjoying your friend Bobs company the night before my arrival. I guess it was jealously that ignited my initial visits spontaneous development. I wanted to meet you in person more than any other desire in my life. You had completely seduced me; I was your slave before you even knew me. Even though I had a suspended license from my DUI months earlier, I was willing to risk jail time to fulfill my meeting you. TK, my roommate at the time, came up north with me as my wingman for the drive, but the plan was to depart ways once he dropped me off in San Jose. We left Los Angeles around 9 p.m. on a Friday night. We didnt run into any traffic along the way, which made our arrival into your city quite a beautiful trip. I was dropped off on the corner of 1st Street, where you and I were to meet. I waved goodbye to T.K. as he pulled off into the night to continue on his trip to Sacramento. The fear of you not showing swelled inside me as I surveyed the unfamiliar streets of San Jose. And there you were, perched on top of a light box, drawing the stripper across the street from you. I walked towards you and called out your name calmly and respectfully. You jumped down from your nest landing on your 3 inch soled boots. You were dressed in all black, as was I. We walked towards one another, landing in each others arms. The hug exploded into feverish kissing, and we became immediate lovers. I said to you Yes, lets be lovers. And you replied, Right here? It was the first time I laughed in your presence, in your warm embrace. You drove us back to where you were staying, your friends parents house inside a San Jose trailer park. I remember looking at your physical profile as we drove towards the house. You were beautiful, a true Angel in disguise. When we made it through the household doorway, there was an immediate visceral sensation, and it wasnt long until we were locked in each others lips. I almost denied myself the privilege of making Love to you, as not to proceed in haste. I wanted us to last forever. I wanted to love you eternally. But you insisted in making Love to me. We fucked without protection, which made me uneasy at first, but then I let go of my fears and embraced your love entirely. The next morning, we jumped into the bathtub with all our clothes on like traditional fools in Love. We made our way to the porch of a church that night as you gave me head on the steps, which eventually led into passionate love making. We fucked so many times that weekendmy penis was raw from the friction. I didnt want to leave you the following day. I wanted to stay in your loves light forever, but T.K. was on his way to pick me up. I was sad to leave you, however I knew I would be seeing you again in a weeks time. This gave me the strength to venture back to the land of the Lost Angels. I felt lost without you when I returned home. I knew I was in love, and that great times lay ahead of us. I was blind to the eventual darkness we are now experiencing. I truly loved you. I hope you someday come to terms with this.

-A happy moment.

Saturday September 16th 2006, 2:04 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters,Love Letters

My enemy,

There is a vacillation of emotion today: first I skip to the beat of a new song, as if the Angels themselves were banging on their war drums. Secondly, I pause in the moments between songs to mourn for the loss of my fallen brethren. However, when the call to war sounds again, Im back to my post as a happy pawn in the gods wartime musical. Few follow in the Angels footsteps, and the path to triumphant victory seems solemn and only large enough for one body to pass at a time. Single-file lines of separate conscious states build the hierarchy of my march. My mind has psychologically chiseled into an army of warriors, all lined up with their individual special traits, as well as all their hidden weaknesses. Im shielded by my egos protection, a primordial force field of strength and power. My vision is omnipotent through my loves all-seeing floating eyes. I can shoot words of wisdom from my mouths projective presence, or I can blast my enemy with twirling paradoxes and whirling dialectics. With the slightest gesture, I can penetrate my enemys defenses using the pen as my weapon of choice. But what I enjoy most is a subversive offense through song and dance. Like the pied piper I cozy up to you my antagonist, with verses of prose, sung loud if need be, or sung soft and gentle like a mothers sweet songs to her baby lamb. And when I am close enough to strike thee, dear enemy, I can use my fear to my advantage and show you the inner depths of what scares me, causing confusion and chaos amongst your warriors, reflecting upon what it is to be a product of such fear. I am the mirror of your warriors inner struggles. When my fears become their fears through pure projection and self-realization, your men will fall to their knees in empathetic terror. With their hands to their sides, I can breath words of compassion into the air, words so gentle and soothing that the angels themselves will stop beating their drums long enough to listen to my lonely destructive lexicon of death. And for those rebels who are especially deflective of my attack, I will strike those renegades down with the softness of my lips, a kiss for each and every enemy who defies the Angels calling. And what will you do then, my dearest general? What sorts of political means will you use to save your own precious life? As I drop my defenses and lower my ego, you will see me unarmed, nude, and crying, for I know the end is drawing near. You see theres no use for a warrior without war. And when man no longer can attack other men, man will eventually attack himself. Therefore, I deliver to you a treaty of peace, until the next time the Angels decide to call upon us to wage war amongst ourselves. Neither you nor I will disagree to this truce because after all, narcissism is the only reason we follow the Angels decree in the first place.

-Your ally.

Comments Off on 33

Tuesday September 05th 2006, 11:03 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To the trickster,

Ive figured out why you were so kind to me over the phone: you want to kill me with kindness. Youve figured out the formula of how to destroy your enemy the socially acceptable way. Your post-hysterical euphoria, which I mistook for a docile and authentic approach to caring, was nothing more than an attempt to destroy the monster within me using nice, kind communication devices. Your intentions are as transparent as your see-through shirts. You are Moloch, the devious mother who cleverly disguises its ferocious mouth full of razor sharp teeth as a puckered lip full of lovely kisses. Though I wont be fooled by your death kisses of kindness, I will call you out from the shadows and into the light of truth. You will not seduce me with your kindness dear woman. Ive met your type before: Ive been your type in the past. This is how I came to realize your machination all I had to do was look into myself and there you are. You, mother of madness, are the hideous creature of pure disgust. With no sympathy for your own kind, with no heritage to be proud of, you stand alone in the depths of the underworld waiting to strike at the most innocent of creatures. You are a true beast, an absolute aberration, a beast that cares nothing of children, or of being a child for that matter. I once asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up. You replied, Now thats a trick question, Christopher. I never want to grow up. I fell for your response at the time, but have now come to realize, you cant grow up if youre already grown. You have grown into your beast-like form, a killer of love and kindness. The way in which you kill is the most devious and odious of methods possible. You target those who are weak and not ready for anything else other than kindness. Then you pour your wicked words out from your jaws like a witch pouring a potion intended for immediate death; however your wickedness is masked by the sweet smell of laughter, and the scent of a warm heart, thus luring your prey towards you by convincing them you are a gentle lover. When your unsuspecting victim draws near to your open jaws, which by the way is also the same moment you bore of your prey, you leap from the shadows and clench down your muzzle on the throat of your entranced kill. You always aim for the jugular, knowing that one pierce of your victims neck will leave the delicious taste of its freshly squeezed blood in your mouth. The streets flow with the preys incarnadine insides as you devour any lover, any child, any monster, the way one would its most mortal of enemies. You have no friends because youve (sexually) devoured them all, as you spit out their flesh far into the rapid wastelands of this world.

-Your prey.

Comments Off on 32

Saturday September 02nd 2006, 10:48 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To 31 minutes of your voice,

You called me tonight, out of the blue. I was reluctant to Answer the Phone because of my fear of what you had to say. Could you be calling about the pink slip? Maybe you were wondering when I would bring you the divorce papers? Even worse, I thought maybe you reconsidered your decision not to serve me with a restraining order. But when I answered the phone, with a deep inward breath, you sounded as docile as ever, which made me very suspicious of the intention of your call. You asked me where I was and I told you at the Borders bookstore. You even asked me how I was doing, as if you really had a concern for my wellbeing. I told you I was fine and then went into my plans for leaving the city. I found a room available in Highland Park, Los Angeles; I will be moving on July 1st. Tomorrow, Im giving my two-weeks notice at the Academy of Art. You told me you bought our cat, Lilith, a new bed for her to sleep in and you bought yourself a new down-comforter as well. You even offered me my old coffee maker as a gift for my departure. Youve been having your gutterpunk friend Bob stay over at the house because of me, but just out of precaution, and not out of violent contest to my life. What surprised me most about our conversation was that you and I were laughing together about the squirt gun incident. You told me you thought it was funny, even though your friend didnt. I couldnt believe how your opinion of the matter had changed so abruptly, but I didnt mention my disbelief. You told me youve been going to the city street fairs, smoking pot and drinking mid day, just enjoying your off time. Why were you being so nice to me today? Ill never look a gift horse in the mouth (whatever that saying means) but I still have a suspicious concern for you sudden change of heart. But the wonderful thing about our conversation was that I had no hard feelings towards you. I didnt think anything negative during our talk, and actually, I felt a bit of happiness that we could communicate on such pleasant levels. Even though the conversation was superficial and disconnected with our past, I still felt a bit of warmth in your tone. Its probably nothing, and Im most likely over analyzing your words, but its nice to feel nicely towards you. After thirty-one minutes of conversation, my phone battery started dying so I told you I had to go. You ended the phone call with the words call me later this week. And I replied sure. Anyway, well see how things develop in our splitting apart process. I feel strangely right now, confused even.

-31 minutes of my voice.

Comments Off on 31

Friday September 01st 2006, 12:08 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

The darker side of me,

Today I dropped a letter off to my violin teacher. I wrote that, things have surged between my ex-wife and I have to leave town. Therefore, I will not be able to take violin lessons from you anymore. I apologized for the inconvenience, but reminded him that these defining aspects of my life are beyond my control. I sincerely regret not being able to continue my lessons; I had just learned how to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. You gave me this violin on my second visit to you in San Jose. I was shocked by this wonderful gift you presented me and couldnt wait to learn how to play. I always dreamed of being an elderly gentleman, playing the violin in my lonely old age. You never explained why you got the violin for me, you only smiled and told me I remember you saying you wanted to play. I was so in Love with you dear, as you were with me. Right now Im sad, but thats not new I suppose. I started taking violin lesions as soon as we separated. The violin just sat in the corner of the apartment while we were together. I wanted to use the violin as a release for my pain and anguish, but learning the violin is no easy task. I had to condition my fingers to bow correctly, to bend my wrist in ways it had never been bent before. Gerard, my instructor, would yell at me to correct my thumb position, my pinky position, to clip my nails, to practice more. I enjoyed his company. Maybe I just missed a pedagogical learning environment. Its nice to hear people critique me. Im not afraid of critique and constructive criticism. However, its when people call me unjustified names that I become upset and thrown out of balance. For example, when Im called an “insane psychopath”, when I consider what malicious intentions are behind such draconian words. If I hadnt squirted your friend with a water gun, I would be reciting Twinkle Twinkle to you as I promised you I would. When I told you that I learned to play my first song, a sense of pride swelled in you, and you requested that my first recital be in your presence, because after all you were the one who brought me the violin in the first place. However, this recital will never happen. Who knows, I may try to continue to play in Los Angeles when I can afford lessons again, but for now, all I can do is bow out Twinkle Twinkle, and a few scales. I always wondered if you wanted me to learn an instrument because of your love for Justins ability to be multi-versed in the musical world. I thought you may have been recreating your past love through me, but I never mentioned this curiosity to you out of sheer respect of the gift you gave me. I do thank you for the violin.

-The lighter side of me.

Comments Off on 30

Wednesday August 30th 2006, 8:40 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

My My,

I just saw a horrific ghost (twice)! Im sure you can guess what earthly form this specter tookIt was you. My dear lost love! You were walking down Church Street towards your favorite place to rent movies. I happened to be returning a couple of movies when, unbeknownst to me, you appeared on the street. Now, I know better than to taunt an angry ghost when I dont have my special ghost-zapping apparatus on me, so I played it cool, looked the other way, and rode off into the sunset. My pulse was racing and my heart was beating through my emaciated chest. What would have happened if I provoked you and said hello? Would you have literally kicked my ass like you promised to do not too long ago? Maybe you wouldnt even have acknowledged me, as we all know its difficult to make contact with the spirit world. Even though all my instincts tell me to leave well enough alone, to leave you alone, theres a part of me that wants to ride back to the movie rental store and try to make contact with you. However, I think Ill just write about this brief visual encounter instead of making any drastic actions that could lead to my own arrest. I want to think you were bluffing on the phone, but these actions will remain thoughts just in case you werent. You were so angry with me; I could feel your energy though the telephone itself. But on Church Street just now, you seemed like your docile quiet self. Im sure contact with me would have filled you with anger and adrenaline. These are two very terrible chemicals for you. Im not trying to ruin your life, as you suppose I am, however until I leave this city, there might be a couple more encounters between you and I. You can be sure that if and when we do meet, you will only be experiencing my physical form because my mind has long ago left these lands. Thats not to say Im crazy, but what I mean is that you no longer get the privilege of my kindness and mental equity. If we share words, they will be logistical instructions as how to make this official divorce function easier for both parties. Even though the visual sight of you still stimulates my nerves, rest assured that you will never stimulate my heart anymore than its already beaten and battered state. I know you think youve stricken fear into my heart, but you havent. I am intrepid towards your critique. The only one I fear is myself, and thats only because I havent laughed in a long while. Though it was nice to see your ghost, it would have been nicer if you had seen the ghost of my heart, my kindness. You only focus on the bad times, the fearful times. Well Love, my fearful times have been the most rewarding instances in the past. Marrying you, for example, struck fear in the deepest sections of my heart, but I still enjoyed the experience, even though I regret the outcome of our home-building project.

With ghost like thoughts,


Comments Off on 29

Tuesday August 29th 2006, 12:44 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the voice in my head,

You are still yelling at me in my mind. Whether asleep or not, your voice resonates through me like the sounds of a motorcycle driving by a glass shop. I feel fragile. Its hard for me to be alone right now but I have no other options. Im making secure plans for me to move out of San Francisco, but I do so with a heavy heart. I will miss this city. There are a few good people here that Ive met in the last two months who I will have to soon regretfully say goodbye. Mary, my blue haired post modern buddy, I will miss the most. Shes a brilliant young woman who I havent spent hardly enough time with. Id like to dance with her one more time before I leave. Shes shown me compassion on an intellectual level here in the city. I truly will miss her. Maria, my friend from work I will miss as well. Through all these troubling times, Maria has helped me go inside myself and remember to keep an optimistic approach to my psychology. She offered me a place to stay when I needed it, and a friendly outlook on the dark times. She use to live on the streets when she first got to this city, and so she has been able to empathize with my night wanderings. Shes also offered me food from her own stash when I was broke and starving. Those are what friends do. They help each other in times of need. I told you over the phone that I truly wanted to be your friend after our separation, but you never wanted to accept that responsibility. Friends care about the well being of their friends. You responded to my emotions by rolling your eyes. You said to me Cant you understand why I dont want to hear about your sadness? This maybe your true understanding of the nature of our breakup yes, you are the reason why I am sad. I am sad because I love you and can not share with you any of that love. Im sad because you could care less that Im sad. Im sad because I saw something beautiful die, right before my eyes. I couldnt be friendly to you when I was overwhelmed with sadness. But, you took this as a cold shoulder, as the fact that I didnt want to be friends at all. Well, I wanted your friendship more than you could have imagined. But, all this is lost now, we share nothing, not even sadness. You amaze me; you are absolutely amazing. But my sadness will eventually dissipate and I will have my life back on track again. There are tuff times ahead of me, but I will survive. I never believed I was meant to survive, and maybe Im not, but I will continue to work though this sadness to ensure my survival. These are epiphanies for me, considering the mind-state I was in last week. I can almost claim to have reached some sort of enlightenment. Anyway, I miss you.

–the other voice in my head.

Comments Off on 28

Sunday August 27th 2006, 8:45 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

My Beloved,

Though you may not know, and in fact, theres no way you would know, Im very sexually deprived these days. I had a wet dream last night. I cant remember who or what the details entailed, but I do know that my body requires a release of my pent up sexual desires. I cant masturbate like most men I know as I feel pathetic and hopeless when I do pleasure myself, thus not allowing myself to ejaculate. In a way, I proscribe myself the ability to narcissistically indulge in my own body. For some strange reason, my consciousness can only allow another to please me sexually. However, I do believe I told you quite enough of this problem of mine, and therefore will discontinue discussing these intimate details. Its Fathers day today. Will you call your dad to tell him you love him? You’ve always had a strange relationship with that man; of course there was the history of his abuse and neglect. He was never around for you, and therefore you never had a father figure in your life to be a positive male role model. Fathers teach young daughters how to successfully find other positive male persons in the daughters life. Your dad was rich, conservative, on drugs, would go from woman to woman, wife to wife, and allowed you, his twelve year old daughter to run away from home. He actually allowed you to go. That man is a disgusting example of what a good father should be. When I met you, you claimed to loathe the man. He would visit you in San Jose, not because he wanted to see you (or so you said) but because that was the location of his auto shops, and coincidentally, the place where you were living. However, as I began to better understand your need for his presence, even though he never really gave you much of anything in terms of love and fatherhood, I understood why you would want to meet him for lunch once a month, why you returned his phone calls with a hi Dad, and even why you ended those calls with an I love you. You want your dads love so bad, you look for it in every man you meet. But to your surprise, all men disappoint you. You are conditioned to reach out for a male figure, but your open arms only know how to net in men who will someday continue the tradition of hurting you. You search for men who can not show you the love youve always craved from your dad. Its an obvious cycle, but a validated one, none the less. This psychosis of a missing father is almost textbook. Ive been told by many people that with the shit youve been through it would take multiple lifetimes of therapy to work out. I didnt want to believe this haunting statement because I had faith in your mental and psychological abilities. But now, in retrospect to whats happened between you and I, I do believe you need help help that your friends cant give you. You need professional help, as do I.

–your belover.

Comments Off on 27

Friday August 25th 2006, 7:38 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

My ghost,

I am trying to fall asleep midday. Theres music playing in the distance, and the sounds of waves are crashing on top of the notes. I find that when I try to sleep, my body instinctively curls into the fetal position. I feel so vulnerable when I close my eyes. My thoughts become dialogues between us. My body sometimes quivers when I repeat your brutal and vicious words from our past conversations. Im sorry I hurt you. I didnt mean for us to turn out like this. I am plagued by my past actions, as you are plagued with fear towards me. Its so strange to know you truly fear for your life at this point. Ive been so kind in the past. I honestly tried my best to love you unconditionally. I would have never exhibited the anger I showed you in the past if Robert hadnt convinced me it was natural expression. Robert made it seem as if getting angry was perfectly healthy and normal. It was terrible advice. No one should raise their voice the way I did, especially not to someone they love. But this does not negate the fact that I indeed loved you. Whats more, I still love you. If I told you this, you would call the cops immediately, so I wont let you in on this emotional secret. You will never feel my love again and I have to accept that. I am not a monster. I am a romantic who never got it right. I feel like a failure with good cause Ive failed. You were my fourth love. Four times Ive tried to love with all I have and each time, something has happened with has broken the bonds of my Love. One reason I married you, beyond the fact that I loved you, was that I wanted something to work at, I wanted to keep us together when things werent perfect. When you asked me to leave the apartment, I knew we were through. You gave up so quickly, as Ive stated before, and destroyed my belief that our marriage could nurture us through those terrible times. Things have gotten increasingly worse between you and I. Now, you swear youll kill me if you see me on the street. If that happens, youll see that theres not much left to destroy. If things continue like this, in terms of my defeats and destitution, there wont any Chris left to punch or kick or beat up. But, as Ive promised, I wont bother you again. I wish things were different, and I suppose you do as well, but theyre not. One day we may look back at this and laugh, but well be laughing together for different reasons in different cities. Until that day, we must make the best of what remains and continue propelling ourselves into the future. The waves wont stop crashing and the music wont stop playing just because we want to turn our heads and laugh, or cry for that matter.

Your ghost.

Comments Off on 26

Thursday August 24th 2006, 8:50 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters


Even though youve explicitly told me you dont give a fuck about how Im feeling, Id like to inform you that Im feeling well, and that I dont have any anger or hate towards you. Though this emotional state will change, as it always does, for the moment, Im actually happy. Im downtown sitting on the corner of Howard and Main in the industrial district. The sun is shining brilliantly and the wind is a cozy breeze. The towering buildings surrounding me are mere obstacles in the way of beautiful puffy clouds. Theyre the type of clouds that one would love to dive into, like a down-filled comforter, or a heated swimming pool. Im still waiting for your phone call to give me instructions for signing over the pink slip to our car, but you can take your time with that. Youre probably at work right now, anticipating the moment they let you go, so that you can take your post-work-Saturday nap. I wonder if your fear of me has inconvenienced your sleep schedule? I know how much you enjoy your naps, so I hope I havent disturbed your daily routines entirely. I often wondered whether you use sleep as escapism. I remember you telling me you pictured death as a beautiful eternal nap. I appreciate this optimistic approach to the unknown territories of the post-mortem state. Its a brave outlook on one of the most terrifying aspects of life on this planet. I always wondered if I would accept God on my deathbed. I usually come to the conclusion that I would keep my agnostic faith, and liberate my consciousness by diving into the natural state of the universe. Humanity has a strange narcissistic perspective on life and death. Humans believe in their own importance so concretely that they make living forever (or as long as they can) the ultimate goal in life. Although technology serves in continuing the dominance of the human race, it is humans, however, that eventually rely on, in fact serve, technology. It is a master/slave relationship. Just think of all the seniors who cant survive without their medication. Think of all the sick individuals who rely on technology to propagate their lives. Technology propagates itself. For instance, the AIDS virus, or the newly mutated Super AIDS virus, requires technological advancements, or rather, technological mutations to battle the disease. Really, there are no human individuals anymore, but just potential mutants and biological mutations. God (or whatever it is we label an Absolute) itself is a mutation of human thought and understanding. Even something like history, once thought to be objective, has now mutated into a fluid-conditioned construct of the human mind. All this philosophizing about life, death, technology and an absolute makes me tired. Itd be nice to take a nap, maybe escape these thoughts for a bit. Anyway, this is what I was thinking about in this happy state Im in. I know you could care less, but I thought Id let you know.


Comments Off on 25

Wednesday August 23rd 2006, 8:06 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To my immediate Curse,

Im glad youve stabilized and fortified your life here in San Francisco. Its nice to know you have a good job with benefits, friends that care about you, friends who will protect you from the people like me and a home that you can go to when you need a break from the outside world. It makes me feel good to know youre doing well. Even though my life is a shattered chaotic system of unstable tangents, I know that someday I will be in a position similar to yours. My decision to leave San Francisco has lifted my spirits. I have hope again. Although I dont have any job prospects in Los Angeles, I am hopeful that when I get there, I will be able to start rebuilding my shattered life into a new exotic and powerful existence. Im sorry if I take some credit for your new beginning, but without the end of us, how could you have found such a happy place? Of course I cant take total credit for your happiness, as much as I like being part of the dark side of your life. It is comforting to know that now that I am out of your way, you can immerse yourself in the lighter side of things. But dark and light, dear wife, are mere subjective dichotomies, built on traditional thoughts of good and evil. Happiness is a fluid device, which functions as a crutch for survival, and is never an absolute Truth. Your happiness is a reaction to the sadness I have brought you. Without this sadness, you would have never been happy. I can say this wholeheartedly, because I know how unhappy you were when we were married. You werent necessarily sad, but you were definitely unhappy. I doubt you will ever give me credit for helping you find happiness by showing you sadness. But, come to think of it, credit is something I can care less about. On the same note, you have given me a chance to revitalize my life. Now, having gone through the destructive process of our break up, I can reassemble the pieces of my shattered life into a new beginning. Like a drawing by Leuvous Woods, or a building by Frank Gehry, I can re-contextualize destruction and chaos into a newly built superstructure. This is not to say that I will ever forget you were a driving force in the shattering of my life. That is where I give you credit. You were my accomplice in destroying this old fundamentally unsound existance. Together we destroyed something amazing, and I love you for that; this is quite possibly the same reason you hate me. But, like I said before, these outdated dichotomies are subjective and arbitrary. The bonds they share synthesize sadness and happiness. The fluid space between good and evil, love and hate, destruction and construction, etc. is the dwelling place of all our thoughts. I do not believe a dialectical understanding of this synthesis will bring us closer to an absolute Truth of being (which is a Hegelian perspective). The space between dichotomies is created by the power struggles of binary opposition (a Nietzschean perspective). And that space requires time and being to propel itself in the instant (Kantian perspective), by giving itself, and uncovering itself (Heidegger), through this secret visible and invisible metamorphosis (Derrida). Okay, so Im going off on post-modern tangents. My point, is that no matter how much you want to get rid of me in your life, you cant. Ill be stuck in your memories forever. You can cross me out, but I will persist through the stains of time and being. We are forever linked in this way, divorce or not, with or without verbal communication.

Christopher Robin Donham.

Comments Off on 24

Tuesday August 22nd 2006, 11:23 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the wife I cant afford to divorce,

I looked into the cost of divorce today$249, without legal representation. I have two options: Get the divorce finalized and be out of wedlock with you, or move out of the city without getting a divorce (but leaving you alone to continue your sad pseudo-happy life). The divorce is the most pressing thing on your mind, I know, but let me assure you that if I left the city, the situation would improve. You would feel safer if I was gone. Its so strange that I can put myself in your shoes, so strange to look at myself through such fearful eyes. You are scared of me, even though I have no intention of harming you or any of your friends. There are no secret plans, no machinations to destroy you, nothing. There is no convincing you, however, of my good nature. You go back into your cerebral dungeons, and padlock them with the most weighty and absurd chains. I dont mind your fear, though I do believe it is a product of YOUR own past, and not the moments of anger you and I have shared. The night I screamed at youthe night you went to Jhonens hotel roomI was convinced you hated me. And now you do. (Hows that for a self-fulfilling prophecy?) The second night I yelled because you tried to convince me that you were simply a projection of what I wanted you to be, that your love was just a reflection of my need for your love. I took this to mean that you never loved me (truly) and had been lying to me throughout our whole relationship and marriage. Yes I screamed and called you names. You cant understand what was going on in my head, I felt like you were a big liar, a liar who turned the tables and blamed me for being afraid. I loved you so dearly. Its amazing how this love has morphed into a most brilliant hate. This weekend I have to sign our car over to Justins parents. How will I get the pink slip, if you still refuse to see me? Will you leave it in the mailbox? Will you tape it to the door? Will you be gone when I arrive? Will you be inside the apartment holding a knife in your tightly clenched fist? It doesnt matter really. As I promised, your safety is my concern. I will not harm you because I have no desire to. I wish you could understand this; unfortunately, you think I am your enemy. Im sorry you feel this way.

Best thoughts to you,

The ex-ish-boy.

Comments Off on 23

Monday August 21st 2006, 12:59 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To my scared friend,

First of all, I want to remind you, Im not a psychopath. I couldnt sleep well last night because those words you screamed to me over the phone. Youre a psycho! kept haunting my dreams and my thoughts. You see, Id like to consider myself border- line between insane and genius thats all. Yesterdays stunt with the water gun has helped us be decisive about the future of our relationship its ending, very quickly, forever. You want nothing to do with me anymore and I can sympathize with your request. As I promised you over the phone yesterday, I will respect all your wishes. I do appreciate the fact that you arent getting a restraining order on me. You know how I hate legal enforcement in my life. However, I honestly dont believe my squirt gun antics were worthy of such a consequence. Laughter kills the monster. You should try it sometime. I really did want to be friends with you, but you dont know the nature of friendship, and therefore cannot comprehend what friendship means to me. Consequently, there was a huge void between you and I, post-breakup. We sent vague emails, didnt return phone calls, thought of each other as unfriendly, and at times, despised one another. But not out of sheer hate; merely out of your inability to sympathize with the hard times we were going through. However, talking about us being friends now seems a bit absurd and pointless. You now see me as an enemy, someone who is out to hurt you and your life. But this is your mere myopic perception of your narcissistic life. You now equate me with your ex-lover Rick, the one who broke your arm, your nose, who put a real gun to your head threatening to kill you, who almost killed himself in your presence. Well, Im not Rick. Im not the one who will stalk you on your way home from work. And Im damn well not the one who will hurt you, at all, ever again. We are through. You and I have nothing left. But, that doesnt mean I am going to stop writing to you. Just because you and I will never share a smile again, just because you think Im a psycho, doesnt mean I still dont want to update you on whats going on in this psychotic head of mine. After all, promises are promises. You said some pretty harsh things to me yesterday. I doubt you regret any of it.

Your not so scared husband.

Comments Off on 22

Friday August 18th 2006, 8:44 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

My soon to be ex-wife,

Oh my dearest memory. I was bicycling down Valencia Street when I happened across Konanis work. I didnt know he worked at that specific Buffalo Exchange. When I saw his presence through the window, I had to stop riding to contemplate my emotions (and of course, you realize he was the other body in your scandalous Myspace photos). Although I later came to realize those pictures were strictly platonic, even though the poses were quite suggestive, they still hurt me dearly. My dear, I happened to have a squirt gun on me at the time of this instance, so I decided to, in jest, approach this unsuspecting boy and tell him how much those photos hurt me. Hello Konani. I want you to know I was hurt by the photos form your vodka-birthday experience with my wife. Im sorry but I have to do this. I squirted his heart five times with my water pistol. He seemed to find the humor in all this, however, my perception must have been skewed. He called you, in a panic, telling you I shot him, blah blah blah. In response, you called me, hysterical, saying I was a psychopath and a fucking insane loser. I tried to tell you it was all a joke, a way for me to make light of the situation. You didnt want to hear any of this. You called the cops, and are filing a restraining order on me. You told me you would kick my ass if you ever see me, and to never come near you again (not like I was planning to go near you). You told me to send you the divorce papers in the mail and that you would take care of the rest. I did, however, return to Konanis work to contextualize my actions, and to apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused him from those actions. I didnt remember that his father was shot in the chest, mutilated and left for dead. I didnt think my joke would be so terrible to him. Youve told me to never talk to you or your friends again. I will respect your wishes and respect my new restraining order. I guess, what Im trying to say is, Im sorry, but I dont regret my actions. You and I will never converse again, except through these letters, but I wish you well in all your adventures. I dont expect anything in return.

With love your soon to be ex-husband.

Comments Off on 21

Wednesday August 16th 2006, 10:01 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

I made an executive decision tonight. Ive decided to quit using Friendster and Myspace. You and I started communicating on Friendster in August 2005. It seems like ages ago, but I remember that first inquisitive message you wrote to me. It said you seem interesting, tell me about yourself ?. And so I replied with a little autobiography, with hopes that I would meet you someday. Its amazing how quickly our relationship developed using technology as the medium for our conversation. But the immediacy of our relationship proved to be the downfall of our love. We were halfway to marriage after our second conversation. We gave each other all we could in those initial moments of our bond. But we had to, in all actuality, because we were living in separate cities. We depended on the Internet to weave together the fabric of our love. But that fabric soon began to untie itself when we were in the settled position of marriage. I remember regretting buying you your birthday present during the initial stage of our breakup. The computer you were using, my gift to you, became the enemy of our marriage. In the heated passion of my rage, I wanted to smash your computer in the middle of the street. I wanted to kill that which was killing me. I almost became the monster I wanted to destroy so passionately. But, I denied myself that release. Even now, you use your computer daily to meet new people, to converse with your friends, to plan romantic encounters with your new bed buddies. But we all know just how transparent virtual self is; we all know how transparent the physical self is as well. Thats why you make a good partner to the technology you claim to hate so dearly. You align yourself with your projected virtual image, thus negating any real substance. I always thought it was funny how you try to connect with the underworld through your Myspace account. But in all actuality, youre a spoiled princess who is revolting against your absent father, sans morals or substance. You are a wisp of an intellectual who claims to be a social chameleon. If it werent for your physical looks and your tendency to be a freak in bed, youd have nothing characteristically to offer anyone. You use other peoples hard earned philosophies to propel yourself from one person to the next. And this, my wife, is your virtual physical life. However, I digress. My point in all this is that Im sick of this transparent meta-self I project online, I need to ground myself as well as my thoughts. Therefore, as of tomorrow, I will have nothing to do with those virtual avatar systems known as Friendster and Myspace.


Comments Off on 20

Wednesday August 16th 2006, 9:20 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters


This life is hell. This life of living a lie is torturous. It seems that the natural state of existence for the universe is motion. Therefore human life, a spasm lasting a mere 80 to a hundred years, if were lucky, can only be a lie that the universe is trying to either cover up or destroy. Its no wonder why we as humans find so much conflict with our own existence. Gravity, the master of all humans, has been trying to kill us long before we ever knew of its powers. We have so much trouble dealing with death, when in all actuality, its the natural-un-natural state of the universe. We are re-born into motion when we die. This planet seems to be a truck stop for Atoms, a place to fill up on hate, love and the occasional scoop of ice cream. When we move on into the void, we become the void, thus re-uniting ourselves with the natural state of the universe and continuing our path of frictionless motion. Humans use happiness as a crutch, Oh, no, Im too happy to die. Just go ahead without me, Ill catch up later. Sadness brings us closer to the actualization of our own death, and therefore, we strive to be happy for the finite 80 or so years we exist (or dodge existence). So maybe the post-mortemists are right when they speak of death and decay as the ultimate goal of humanity. But, they dont take their philosophy far enough because life is not just about the death and decay we experience in the present moment. No, death and decay are mere symptoms of the absolute goal of humanity, which is to reunite with the entropy of the universe. In these terms, death becomes the ultimate blessing god can give us. We re-unite with the spiraling energy of the cosmos. This has nothing to do with metaphysics. Consciousness and the spirit are projections of neurological connections, and are the cause of conflict against gravity and the ultimate. The absolute truth Hegel speaks of, the will to power Nietzsche describes, and the cogito of Plato; all these descriptions are rhetoric describing the force of our enemy, the motion of the universe. This static and myopic existence will only serve us so long. And then, like a gas attendant letting us know his station has closed, we will be forced to move on, into the void in which we belong.


Comments Off on 19

Tuesday August 15th 2006, 12:40 am
Filed under: Hate Letters,Love Letters

Mrs. Buhl,

Quicksilver tells me to get over it. Get a grip, he says. Bjorn offers suggestions for distractions. Do some jumping jacks, play violin, run around naked, she tells me. Mary says that shes been there, that things will get better with time. Wow, she really had that much affect on you? mary asks surprisingly. Morgan, my friend in Arizona, told me Im young and beautiful. Youll get over her, you have your whole life in front of you, she optimistically said. Maria, my friend from work sympathizes with my psychosis, but still says, youll work your way through this. My mother tells me I have too much to offer to worry about one girl. You have so much to give the world, dont be sad about that. My bother, whose girlfriend just left him, empathizes with me by telling me yeah, that sucks man. Boomer, my friend from Chico, tells me to keep a strong head. He says, Player, stay strong. Kaity, my ex-girlfriend form high school tells me, youre so special. Why let one just ruin that? Alexia, my best girl-friend tells me how hideous you are. Mindys way too skinny and ugly for you. Josephine from Los Angeles keeps reminding me how loved I am by all my friends in there. We love and miss you Mister, she says. Corey, my most inspirational Artist friend, who thinks in terms of tangents and trajectories, continues to boast about the good times. Wha-hoo! he shouts over the phone to me. My father, whos been through a few divorces, tells me about the pain it caused him, but how theres light at the end of the tunnel. For a few months, you fell like the world is ending. You fell like youre dying. And then, all of the sudden, its over, and you wonder what you ever saw in the girl. Phil, my cousin in Glendale, reminds me that weve all been fucked over by someone, and how it doesnt really ever get any easier. You just have to learn to cope with it, he says. Even you, my dear wife, have offered me advise as how to deal with this situation. Stop self-loathing. Get over it. Move on. With all these words of advice, one would suspect Id be doing better than I am right now. However, I dont think there are any words that can stop the pain from inside me. None.

Mr. Donham

Comments Off on 18

Monday August 14th 2006, 10:42 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Ms. Ran-Away Buhl,

I’m alone, again, like always, thinking about your friends here in the city. I can’t say I’m jealous of your friends, specifically, because I don’t actually like any of them. They were always so insincere to me, except maybe Justin, which is why I dislike him even more than the rest. I know it was you who jumped him after your drunken game of chess (I can’t see him having the balls to make the first move), but still, there’s the matter of common decency that Justin should have respected. Clearly the fucker can care less about me, but when we talked in the past, he had an earnestness that I appreciated. Silly me for being such a terrible judge of character. I guess that goes for you too. I misjudged your character Mindy. I thought you actually had a caring heart, a compassionate center for those who try to do right. I tried, I tried to love you so much. Maybe I was trying too hard, but should I be punished for such conviction? I find your nature abhorrent. You are someone I use to love, someone I would have given my life for, someone I did give my life for, and now, you are a heartless beast, a mindless monster, which makes me feel nauseous when I picture you in my head. It’s a shame I picture you so often, otherwise I might not feel so sick all the time. You tried to make me feel so guilty for having a place to go after our breakup, but you have no idea how alone I am. I have NO ONE to hold me at night, no one to reinforce my sanity, no one to ground me. I have no one here to help me; plus I can’t afford therapy from a professional. So what’s a boy like me to do? How am I going to survive on my own? If only you could have tried to work through all this, instead of kicking me out, sentencing me to walk this terrible and treacherous road alone.


Comments Off on 17

Saturday August 12th 2006, 10:45 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

My Pal,

What can I say about today? I was at a coffee shop, the one I use to tell you about on Mission and 16th Street. I stepped outside for a smoke; as I was standing on the curb, a man walked towards me, quoting Kerouac, Joplin, Hendrix, Shakespeare, Williams and Ginsberg. I was terrified at how internally brilliant he was juxtoposed to how disturbingly insane he looked. He was foaming from the mouth and the smell of alcohol wafted from his breath and into my nostrils. I was perplexed, to say the least. But beyond his filthy smelly outward appearance, besides his intoxicated state, I could see the beauty in this mans eyes. His words were words of Love meant for destruction. Well destroy them with our love, well beautifully kill them. Who was he talking about? I realized that this man, Kevin, was speaking about any force that stood in the way of the love he was giving. Kevin had been on a 9 day drinking binge because a girl he loved chose an Ecuadorian man, who had money, over Kevins love. But how can we destroy them? Kevin asked me diligently. Well love them to death! he replied while thrusting his kung-fu-fists into the air, almost hitting an innocent passerby. What I found most beautiful about Kevin were three sentences he spoke: 1) If youre sad and down, get over it, laugh and make those around you laugh. 2) Drop your ego and roll around in the street for 5 minutes; get back up and move on. 3) Where is there? There is no there! I stayed with my drunken companion for a couple of hours. I sang and laughed and pondered my own happiness (and sadness). Ive been so desperate these past few days that Ive forgotten how to laugh, and how to make other people laugh as well. I use to be so good at the latter. I emailed you last night telling you I was too sad to talk to you on the phone and to complement you on the nice pictures you posted online. I havent gotten a response from you, and I dont expect one. I push you away, and you enjoy being pushed further from me (into someone elses love). And so goes the nature of us.

Your Pal.

Comments Off on 16

Friday August 11th 2006, 8:07 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters,Love Letters


I cant say that Im trying to get better because I dont know the steps to healing this dementia. I want to get better, not to show you my improvement or to prove Im a healthy person, but because I dont want to die, not yet at least. My brain feels like it is shutting down, even when Im wide-awake. The immediate space around me feels miles and miles away. Im drinking coffee to see if I can wake my brain up, but I doubt any amount of caffeine can pull me back to reality. There must be a way to renew my connection with the world around me. What I am feeling is the consequence of an overloaded limbic system. Its almost as if my brain is fried from too much stimulus. I short-circuited a chip on my motherboard. Maybe this is what a lobotomy feels like? I have nothing in common with the regulars in this coffee shop. How can I make friends when my brain wont allow me to a) communicate with others b) feel anything c) think of other things than my own sorrow and despair and, most importantly, d) get over the dementia. I coddle myself at night. I tell myself that Ill be all right, that I made it another day, which is progressive to say the least. Ive become my own best friend. You have Justin, your fuck buddy, and I have myself. I remember you asked me if I had someone comfortable to go back to, someone to fuck, and I said no. No, I dont have that. I only have my fucked up thoughts and myself. So now whos the lucky one, the one with people to catch you when you fall? Youve won. Go revel in it like the little brat youve become. Im so lost. I dont know where to go, where to turn to for help. I dont want to take this medication anymore. It makes me feel strange, worse than how Id feel without it.



Comments Off on 15

Thursday August 10th 2006, 8:49 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters


I feel ill. My stomach burns and my head is spinning. I cant tell whether or not these terrible feelings are from not eating or from my psychosis. This depression is devastating. When I see my reflection in the mirror, Im shocked at who Ive become. My face has become a wretched site as I cannot smile and I cannot look excited about life. Ive been drained of something lovely. I am the antithesis of Love. How can I expect to get my life back together when I look the way I do? My eyes are swollen and empty. My cheekbones press firmly against my skin. I lose myself when I stare into the void that is my essence. Where did Chris go? I wonder. Outside seems scary to me. Its hard for me to leave the house. Maybe Im terrified of all the possibilities of death that waits for me outside. When I step outside for a smoke, I tremble with fear. This is in such stark contrast to how well I was doing a week ago. All I want to do is lay in bed with the covers over my head. But even when I do that I feel dizzy and deserted. Im feeling so self-destructive today. I think its best for me not to go anywhere. Fuck, I can barely get out of this chair in which Im sitting, let alone leave the house. Im hoping these destitute feelings will dissipate eventually. I need a friend to come over and hug me. At least you have that. All of your friends would gladly hug you; they would gladly fuck you too. Hell, what are friends for if not a good fuck? Im hurting so badly right now. Numbness would be a blessing. I think I am going to try to lie down for a while. Hopefully my stomach will stop burning by the time I get back up. I feel disconnected from my body. My feet seem so far way from my thoughts that I practically dont even own them. These are such dark times for me. Even though the sun is shining so vividly I do not see its light. You have no idea how hard this is for me. I doubt youll ever know.


Comments Off on 14

Tuesday August 08th 2006, 11:53 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters


You just dont know, and you just dont care. The pain and torment eat away at my thoughts. I have become a masochistic carnivore and I dont know how to feed this beast, besides by letting it destroy me. There were moments when I thought I had this monster tamed. Laughter and dance have always been able to turn the most hideous of creatures into the most docile of pets but not anymore. Deeper and deeper I travel into the depths of its belly without any chance or hope or rescue. The irony of my own demise is that I will slay the monster with one last breath of air. Its a gift that I will give myself, the power to kill the beast that is killing me. But there will be no reciprocation to this final and most secret of presents. But, what do you care anyway? Why should you care? After all, you stopped caring for me a long time ago. Your life will go on, as it always has, while my life will end. Its sad to think of my own death, but I know no other options. Sadness is a temporal emotion, and will go away in Time. However, I will not bring myself to this task just yet. After all, I still have the life in me to endure this suffering; otherwise I wouldnt be here, in this coffee shop, writing to you. You are most likely at work today, helping poor animals, laughing with your co-workers. Im jealous of you Mindy. But youll never hear those words from my mouth (ever again). When you get home tonight, who will be sleeping in your bed dear wife? It doesnt matter to me anymore. Sleep with whomever you want; you could perform the most explicit acts in our apartment and it wouldnt matter. You are lost to me, a ghost in my mind. The destruction of myself has nothing to do with you anymore. This pain is my pain; this torment is my torment. But like I said, you just dont know. Youll never know.



Comments Off on 13

Tuesday August 08th 2006, 9:29 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters


I awoke shivering and tremulous, my hands could hardly function. Last night I went to sleep as early as I could. I didnt trust myself to be anywhere but in bed. That picture is burned on the back of my retinas. Even when I close my eyes, it shines vividly, as if I were forced to watch the most horrific of movies all night. I had no rest last night. The more I thought of it, the more pain I was in. And there was no off-button in this ordeal. I couldnt stop it I could only masochistically suffer. Why does your image bother me so much? I feel like Ive relapsed back into the first moments of our break up. The whole architecture of my sanity has collapsed beneath me once again. When you told me you fucked Justin, that didnt nearly affect me as much as those photos of you online. I wonder if it has something to do with the public nature of your display. Possibly, I feel that those photos should have stayed private, and especially out of my minds eye. The power of a photo is merciless. Fuck, Im an artist; I should have known this from the beginning. We humans understand the world as an image. From Television to movies to billiards to (most of all) the Internet, the world has flattened into a virtual screen of drying cement. But Im sick of re-learning who you are through photos and bios. Im quitting Myspace and Friendster. The temptation to look at you is too great, and it only causes me more pain and misery. You, are the cause of my instability. But Im also sick of blaming you for shit that I can control. So, Ill work on getting myself out of this insane position, while youll keep doing what youre doing without caring at all about me. Fuck you. Youre not the woman I married. Soon your powers will be have no effect on me, as mine are defenseless against you.

With insane thoughts,


Comments Off on 12

Monday August 07th 2006, 2:34 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To the worst part of my day: Yes you.

How can I describe the suffering your images have caused me today? I was planning on having a nice day, one without anxiety, fear, cold sweats, chills, and above all, without my heart breaking into a million different pieces. You bitch, you cheating bitch. I know, its not my responsibility anymore to care about you, to think in terms of us, but how could you post such horrific displays of coldness? You and your fuck buddy Konane can eat shit and die. When I saw the pictures you posted online, a wave of numbness surged through my body. I went into shock. To see your legs spread over his, to know what you two must have indulged in, you dirty fuckers. How could you do that, and then display those photos publicly? Are you trying to kill me? Do you not care at all that I am suffering over this? I couldnt feel my body for two hours after seeing those pictures. I didnt know what to do, so I rode my bike to the park. Have you ever tried to ride a bike while crying; have you ever tried to bike when you cant even feel your own body? I didnt care about cars, life or death. You did this to me today. Ive made my first appointment with the therapist I cant afford. Im lost because I have lost. And you wrote to me today asking, I thought you were doing OK, what happened? Ill tell you what happened: You happened. And I never thought Id say this, but I wish you hadnt. I wish I never met you. Youve ruined something beautiful in me, and you didnt have to lift a finger. I am shocked by your ruthless bratty behavior. You must know what youre doing to me. You must know how this is killing me. And if you dont, shame on you! Shame on you anyways for posting those pictures, for everything youve done to hurt me. Shame on you for not caring about me, shame on you. I just cant imagine how unsympathetic you are, how blatantly selfish youve become. I dont even know if youre worth my hate anymore. Youre worthless dear wife. Im sick with disgust.


Comments Off on 11

Sunday August 06th 2006, 11:08 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

Theres an imminent pressing force surrounding my thoughts and actionsConsumption. Ive lost so much weight in the past few months; I hardly eat at all. Well, then where does my money go? Ive been out of work for the past month, so obviously I havent had a source of income, but honestly, I dont understand why Im so poor. Ha. I remember once telling you, wealth is a state of mind, not a financial income. Maybe thats why I feel so poor these days. My mental health has not been well for the past week. Im considering seeking professional help, but I cant really afford that either. My doctor prescribed Lexipro for my depression; I doubt Ill take it regularly. Fuck, listen to all this. I consume myself with my own depression. My body is eating itself, my thoughts are eating themselves, and my bank account is eating itself. This force, this Consumption is gobbling away into my psyche. I dont even want to get out of bed in the mornings unless of course I dream of you, which in case I jump out of bed terrified and confused. I am excited about work starting again next week. I need something to ground me, to keep me from floating away. I talked to my friend Josh last night, about suicide. Its ironic really. He used to be the one I would convince that suicide was a terrible cop-out for selfish people. Now it doesnt seem that way at all. Sure people will be sad for a while, but theyll manage. Theyll continue on like good little Darwinian robots. History uses humanity to progress itself. History is just as selfish as the boy who kills himself. Of course we can talk about this later, darling. Sorry to be such a bore.

-Christopher Robin.

Comments Off on 10

Sunday August 06th 2006, 3:15 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters


Its not very nice of you to haunt my dreams the way you do. This morning, I dreamt you still loved me, that you wanted to hold me and lay next to me. I immediately awoke from the dream terrified. It seemed so real, so warm to my senses, so close to happiness. Yet, like a child ripped from the womb, I was torn from this comfort and awoke to the cold lonely empty room in which I am writing this letter. Ive been crying recently. Tears are annoying when its windy outside. Last night I was out in the Mission. I befriended a junkie named Glaze. He was selling outfits for a dollar. I didnt know what outfits were until he showed me. They are the unused syringe needles that heroin users buy. His business wasnt doing so well even though I think it is a some-what respectable profession. He wasnt selling any drugs to put in the outfits, just the needles. I asked him if he used as well, and he was honest with his reply, Yup, but I do crack. Ive never bought crack before, so out of morbid curiosity, I asked him how much crack costs. He told me he could get a tenr for seven dollars. I didnt know what a tenr was, so I inquired further. I came to find out a tenr is two hits of crack. In terms of the drug users and pushers on Mission Street, between 16th and 19th theres smack, crack and needles. From 19th to 22nd you can get pot and powdered cocaine. Not that I would buy any drugs from those people. In fact, I dont even do drugs these days; but, for some reason, I found this information fascinating. Anyways, Im going on and on about last night. Its funny really, all the crack-heads and smacked out folk dont scare me at all. What scares me are my own dreams. Today I will meet with an old friend in your and my old neighborhood. Im sure it will be awkward because I dont feel well today. I only wish you cared, like you did once before, like you did in my dream.

With thoughts and tears,


Comments Off on 9

Saturday August 05th 2006, 2:00 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters


Today you asked me, in response to my email, a simple question, How are you? I replied, Honestly, not well. But that was as far as I could articulate my distress. I wanted to write, Im depressed, lonely, upset at the world, self-loathing, insecure, ready to die. I wanted to write, I miss you. Id love to talk to you. I wanted you to call me, to tell me you missed me as well. But these are mere desires, a product of your seduction, of my wanting to be seduced by you. I wonder what youre stressed out about. I wonder who you are today, who you ever were at all. I understand you no longer have feelings for me, but I still miss hearing about your feelings. I miss sleeping next to you. I miss trying to make you laugh. In the end of our marriage, I could never make you laugh. I dont think I ever will be able to do that again. I feel powerless, stripped of any way to reach out to you. Im sitting in my room right now, staring at these words that are somehow being written on this page, but all I can think about is you. I project your image on top of these words. I dont just think about your laugh, I hear it in the back of my head. I really do hope youve found someone else to make you laugh. Maybe its this looming sadness hanging over my head? I dont know what to do about this. Maybe theres nothing I can do. I feel so hopeless. The world is stuck, concrete in its image. The visible bores me and the invisible alludes me. But these are things I cannot articulate to you in the present moment. You roll your eyes anytime I speak about my emotions, and that is why we cannot be friends. You are mean to my sadness. You kick me when Im down. Please, dont ask how Im doing. Its not fair.


Comments Off on 8

Friday August 04th 2006, 4:17 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

Dear Child,

The day has barely begun and already my thoughts are whirling about they are so proactive. Despite this heightened mental activity, my recent dreams, I must say, involve an unusually high level of monotony. No matter the subject or plot, there seems to be a meta-narrative simultaneously existing throughout the whole night. You are there, in my dreams, as always. And thus I wake-up each morning, thinking about you. Sometimes I recall wonderful instances in our past: Other times, I focus on the pain this has caused me. Either way you are the center of all the energy that comes out of this banal meta-narrative. But the day is beautiful, dear Mindy. The sun is shining brightly and the temperature is somewhere in the 80s. Its a lovely day, Love. I wish you were here, physically, to play with me today, but instead you sent your memories to play with my emotions. Even though I feel anger, rage and sometimes hate, I still love you. Oh, Im sorry, I didnt mean to say that this early. [Awkward pause] Lets move on, you know, like how you moved on from me. Yes, thats where well goYou didnt love me, long before we broke up. You were comfortable with me, which obviously caused you problems, which led to you not wanting to have anything to do with me. PLEASE STOP LYING TO ME ABOUT THIS. I could feel the discontent you had for our marriage. Just because I can logically describe your emotions doesnt make me wrong. Yeah anyway, the day is lovely. And I venture into it alone, ready for anything and nothing.


Comments Off on 7

Wednesday August 02nd 2006, 11:01 pm
Filed under: Love Letters


Happy godless Saturday night love! Where are you tonight? What are you up to? Whose warm body is lying next to you, possibly erect inside you? Ive been well, my love. No, I lied. Ive not been well at all. Can I be honest for a moment? Today has been shit. I havent had a moment of peace. My thoughts are crawling inside me like a tapeworm. I fear the worst; I fear that this cerebral parasite will soon surface to collect and devour the remains of its host namely, me. But lets not speak in ill-tongued metaphors any more. This depression is causing me to question the ultimate questions. I feel destitute. It is possible, and this is just speculation, that these depressive tendencies have been inside me for a very long time. Possibly, Ive tucked them away deep inside my consciousness, and have denied their existence. Maybe these feelings of absolute sorrow were waiting in the darkness of my mind, hoping some unsuspecting catalyst would step into their trap. You, my dear, might have been that catalyst –a fly in a spiders web. But maybe Im giving you too much credit, and not fulfilling my own egos need for survival. I dont know the answer to these hypotheses, but I wonder if you do. Were you an unsuspecting pawn in my psychosis? Did you not hurt me as I recall so vividly? Did you not fuck Justin a month after we separated? Did you not give up on us? Did you not project to the world just how single you were while I was still living in the apartment? I am angry right now Love, but at least its not depression. I hate depression. Its so lethargic and apathetic to all our other emotions.

With angry questions,


Comments Off on 6

Tuesday August 01st 2006, 11:19 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters


Its 2:00 pm on a Saturday in June. I am downtown right now, of course, thinking about you. The last time we were in this neighborhood together was the day you met Jhonen at the APE convention. That was the first day you came to my work as well. I remember being upset at you because you had changed your attire to a complete black ensemblewhich looked lovely, by the way, fitted with high heels and everything. It pissed me off, however, that you werent dressed up for me, or for yourself even, but for Jhonen. You dolled yourself up for your friend. Why? WHY did you do that? I never asked you about this, but it was something that lingered in my mind throughout the day. What were you trying to prove to this guy anyway? The next day was the day all of this (and by this I mean our break up) occurred. After the terrible dinner we both endured, after your look of complete dissatisfaction with me and with your life, you went to see Jhonen at his hotel room at midnight. Does it bother you? you asked. I replied No as I sat at my desk, pondering your gestures, your need to look pretty for Jhonen, and all the rest of my fears that had built up during the past month of our marriage. But, you know how this story ends, so Ill try not to recap the plot. I would like to say, however, that you are at fault for this just as much as I am. So how dare you accuse me of not being trustworthy? How dare you blame me for hurting you? How dare you make me feel weak about my emotions post-breakup? Who do you think you are, you little brat? And this is why you shut off and moved on. You denied yourself the dialectical understanding of the reality of our relationship. And you are a coward for not grieving. You think youve moved on but in actuality you just stepped backwards into your own void (example #1 Justin [fuck Justin]). Anyways, I have to go now. But thanks for nothing.


Comments Off on 5

Tuesday August 01st 2006, 10:42 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters,Love Letters


Let us once again embark on an adventure of thought. Let us sail away from the shore of materials, and journey into the sea of memories. I remember a girl I once knew, a girl who wanted to know love once again in her life. I remember her clearly. She was a beautiful presence, stunning beyond all belief. Her physical beauty only mimicked her internal self, as I recall. She was quiet, young at heart, and believed in love. When I met her for the first time, I instantly knew she and I would form a love so powerful that no one could stand in our way. We were to be the epitome of love that sacred being that is True love. I remember her warmth, caress, lips, voice and most of all her expression. I remember how I would fantasize about us being together. I remember marrying this girl I once knew out of the love we shared. It was an amazing connection that I shared with this girl. We built our new life together: we shared a home in San Francisco. I remember how hard it was to leave everything behind so that this girl and I could look towards the future. Our future was to be as bright as the sun itself. Our love was to be more expansive than the ocean herself. My wife became my angel, a presence inside me that embodied my thoughts. I remember making Love to this Angel. There are no words to describe the beauty of our lovemaking. This girl, this Angel, had become my life. But I also remember the fear I had in this new life. I remember not wanting to talk to my goddess about my fears. I wanted to continue moving forward as I hoped my fears would dissipate. Though I digress. I will keep this crusade of memories consistent to the thought of the girl I once knew. But let me clearly state, this girl, these memories, are mere phantoms of thought. To my surprise, my eternal Angel has died. You, M, have killed the beauty that was the essence of her vitality. You have drowned the poor child in a pool of freezing thoughts. You have murdered my love. So, here we end our voyage, in the cold murky waters of hate and despair. Get off this boat. I hope you can swim when your obese thoughts are tied to your thin waist, otherwise, you may drown as well. Oh the irony of it all


Comments Off on 4

Monday July 31st 2006, 5:37 am
Filed under: Hate Letters,Love Letters

M (runt be-gone),

Today, I write about presence. Not being nor time, but the becoming which synthesizes the object and the subject. More specifically, Id like to discuss your presence in my dialectic in the immediate subsequent instant. Your aura, the rational embodiment of your essence, reflected by my thoughts, is dark and cruel. It is, in fact, ugly. True ugliness. You have become, to me, a actualized fulfillment of the True beast. This, however, is a blessing for me, as I can now move on and concern myself with other philosophical instances of presence. However, I would like to point out the amazing capabilities of the cognitive process. It isnt everyday one finds oneself in full circle, with completion realized. You have destroyed yourself. What once I loved, I now hate; moreover, you have transcended through this paradox (by means of context) and have fulfilled your position as a True being. Your subjective self now complies with an objective, and therefore you have become an absolute spirit a filthy disgusting absolute presence in this dialectical procedure. I find this whole singularity perplexing because of the expedient nature of my thoughts. However, I do realize that these thoughts have not appeared out of nowhere nor are they a direct response to experience. These conclusions of my concept of you have dialectically been sprouting through cognitive investigation, through detailed gaze upon the subjective nature of our sacral, intimate, unfriendly (at times), and individual encounters. Even though I realize the fluid nature of Truth, and the superficial qualities of an absolute conclusion, I can, without any more doubt, approach you as a True being, with an aura, a presence (which I noted earlier fulfills the requirements of cyclical destruction, thus transcending into your being a becoming that is Truly disturbing and vile) and further, as an embodied spirit in reality.

Yours Truly,

a happy boy.

Sunday July 30th 2006, 8:29 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Dear filthy bitch,

Again I write to you from the tip of my soul to the bottom of my heart. This letter is in regards to Chance, my love. What is it about Chance that we appreciate so much? How about the fact that Chance led you to me, that Chance began all that was our love. However, with Chance comes risk, like the risk I took in marrying you, in loving you, in creating a now non-existent life with you. I gave up so much to help you, to be with us, to create our love. And to thank me for that riskto show your gratitudeyou fucked me over by giving up, you fucking quitter. You gave up; you took no Chances. You used my ability to love like a dirty towel. You washed your hands with me and threw me out. You dont care where I end up, if I end up at all. You dont care if I live, succeed, fail, or die. You are not my friendyou are loveless, selfish and narcissistic. Youre a fallen woman who knows nothing beyond yourself. You risk nothing and live off of the risks of others. For this, I hate you. You have a very special place in my life now. Ive never hated anyone before this Chance. You will die alone and unhappy. And because of this, I smile.

Thank you, and fuck you,


Comments Off on 2

Saturday July 29th 2006, 8:48 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters


Please, be afraid of my thoughts. Please, worry about how I feel towards you. Let me begin by stating, youre a quitter, a useless speck of instability that I find repulsive and vile. You are the odious worm who wanders in and out of the dirt to feed off the leftover mental accomplishments of others. You have neither the capacity for thought nor the ability to love. You areand I do mean this a terrible human being. Or maybe, you dont even qualify as human; you are below the lowliest human, an exotic ape. Humans are, in comparison to you, delightful creatures. You are sick: no, better, sickening. I become sick when I think of you. Your insides are rotting pieces of flesh that smell worse than the shit you spew from your little precious cracked mouth. A bowl of my own vomit would taste better than the taste I have in my mouth when I say your name. But I guess there is a place for you on this Earth, and it rests between the stovetop and the bottom of the pan. Not even Hell is bad enough for you. Somewhere in the stink of Satans armpit lies your home. Oh, and by the way, any pleasure you get from this letter, and pleasure you get from life, ever, belongs to NO ONE but me. This is the cost of my love that you gave up on so quickly. So, go fuck your ex, go fuck whomever you wish for all I care. Youre a fucking poor excuse for a human being. You dont have the mental capacity to experience any appreciation besides a good fuck. Please, by all means, delve into your retched self, your nasty narcissism, and fall flat on your face. The concrete will only be a release from your wicked life. Youre a dime-a-dozen dearest, and you know this. Your faade cant mask your emptiness for long. Good bye you bitch.



Comments Off on 1

About 99 Letters
Sunday April 30th 2006, 12:25 pm
Filed under: About 99 Letters,All Letters

“It’s amazing how, even in a short amount of time, a plethora of items and feelings can be exchanged. From your favorite hooded sweatshirt to the proclamation of eternal love and telling each other your deepest darkest secrets.”
– Gator

When I was a boy, my parents never liked each other; they fought all the time over seemingly stupid things, and it tore a hole in the bindings of our family. Now that the children have left the old home to become the busybody adults we were born to be, all my parents have is each other to stand by, to nurture one another and to love. As a child, I thought divorce would have been their best option, for the familys sake and sanity. I remember telling my father how I felt in the matter, that they should divorce and get split custody of the children. Dad, being arrogant with pride, looked me in the eyes and told me, No son, we’re staying together for the childrens sake. I didnt quite know what he meant by this at the time, and it seemed to go against his own wishes and inclinations, but I nodded my head anyways and pretended to understand what he was talking about. Upon retrospect, their love for one another has bound them together, in holy union, forever. Their marriage is the epitome of what I thought marriage should be. Beyond the legal vernaculars and state sponsored tax-breaks, marriage isnt something granted to just anyone, especially the weak-willed. Marriage is something to work towards, to fight for and to believe in.

And this is where my story begins. In the summer of 2004, in a flash of light and love, I fell madly, desperately in-love with my future wife. After living with her for only a short period of time, I knew we were to wed. She was the one I wanted to share my life with; in moments of passion or in instances of fear, she was to be my constant, eternal, forever. I wanted to have a commitment to something bigger than her, or me, or anything wed ever experienced. Our marriage was to be the bonds of our existence, or so I thought. But instead of reiterating this story on this website, here you can find the story of our love, from conception to destitution.

Needless to say, things did not go as planned. The relationship came to an abrupt end, which sent my mind spiraling in directions I never fathomed existed. 99 Letters was a promise I made to myself during this time of intense emotional hardship; these letters were to be my saving grace. To manifest these thoughts into written words was the cathartic nurture I needed to survive my own intensity. I had to get these thoughts outside of my head; otherwise they would have killed me, if I didnt kill myself first. These letters are the testimony of my love, hate, desire and disinterest for my ex-wife. Never did I mean to harm her in any way. What was written was solely for therapeutic reasons, and would never manifest into any sort of action or aggression towards her. If you’ve ever written a letter to someone dear to you, but never sent it out of fear of how they might react, then you can empathize with these letters. I wrote these letters addressed to my ex, thinking she would never read them. When I first started writing, she was a literal character who I could imagine receiving the letters. As I continued writing, she became an abstraction or a metaphor for my psychological distress. Now, she is but a vague distant memory disjointed and muddled by reflections of myself in an emotional cesspool.

The 99 Letters art project will go as follows: I will release one letter per day, for 99 consecutive days. The format will not change. When the last letter is uploaded, the site will be finished, the divorce will be finalized and I will have moved on from this chaos that was my marriage. I will be left with a body of written work, historicizing the cycle of the dichotomatic relationship between loving and loathing.


Comments Off on About 99 Letters