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. It’s 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 didn’t 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. I’ve 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 didn’t speak much. I couldn’t 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. There’s 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 I’ve always have striven towards. But I’ve 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 another’s words. The closest one can get to singular ownership of another’s thoughts is through one’s 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. It’s 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 that’s not to say I didn’t 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.

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