Not Angry Anymore

Dear C-----,

It's been a long time. Too long. Sometimes when I'm coming home from a long day at work and it's dark and the crowds are on the streets in front of the bars I wonder if I could just walk into the Commie and find you there. You'd be with the boys talking philosophy only on closer examination one of the boys would be a 17 year old university philosophy major first year student and she'd be drinking in your words like liquid gold only to go home disappointed at the end of the night as you retreat to your piano and a glass of scotch.

I know it isn't like that these days. You aren't here anymore.

I think sometimes I've accepted that you've moved on. Some days I'm fine with it. Mostly I just miss you. You revolutionized my world from the day I was little. Remember the road trip we took to E-------- when we spent the return discussing alternative energy sources that could be found on the prairies and how it could be the next big boom? Your optimism was contagious and by the time we arrived home I was convinced we could re-conquor the world.

The new boom in S------- is actually oil. I think that motherfucking sucks, although I admit the economy could use the boost. How will the arts community cope?

Remember when we went for four days on coffee and Grandma's cookies and my writing and your big ideas? I idolized you then and in a sense I still do now. It started when I was 16 or so and you were thinking outside the box and it gave me hope. Every time I wanted to slit my wrists I went deeper into my own dark places and found revolution. I'm not saying you saved my life per se, but your existence certainly made small corners of my world a whole lot brighter.

I think of you now, somewhere where the sun shines and there is always heat. Your ocean shore has replaced the wild north. I often wondered if your experience going to Uni here wasn't just the most massive culture shock ever and I've often wondered how you coped with that, where the you who meditated on clifftops fits into the you who is so full of idealism.... you'd lead an incredible revolution and at the end of it I'd be the one sitting at your feet as your fingers tickle the ivory, scotch to scotch, asking in a quiet voice if you are really alright.

Are you?

I want to know if you are okay. I have no idea what your life looks like now. I know all too well how a change of scenery and a pretty lady can alter a person's perception of everything... and I know what it means to risk it all because I do it every day of my life. I'm not sure you knew we had that in common. We do. I risk love every day. All the time. The kind of love that makes me think the M word is a possibility for my near reality. Love where there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of his voice in my ear, the hugs with no words that mean everything... I know you know what I'm talking about. You might be the only person I know who truly understands this fragile stability in the same way I do. That it is wonderful, tenuous, delicate and hell hath no fury like that directed at whomever dares fuck with this love. It is a line that is not ever to be crossed.

I'm sorry. I know I'm too harsh and judgemental sometimes, that I jump to conclusions and would rather fight with other women than be their friend. But it's the other side of that same love that gave rise to things I said, things I did, and things I left unsaid. I wish it hadn't happened as it did but I wouldn't be the person I am if I didn't..... speak my mind. Right or wrong, it is my truth. My perception, my story. Not to be judged just as I shouldn't judge. Who am I to call someone else's truth red or blue?

I'm sorry that your mum figures we've been fighting for ages, that somehow she had the impression that it went on for months. I thought it was a couple isolated incidences and then I didn't respond until I asked to be left alone in a not very nice way. Family gatherings have been tense without you but if you were to visit, when you visit, I don't expect to be invited. I don't know what I'd say if I was invited. I'd say I'm sorry and I'd mean it and I'd be accused of being insincere. It's happened already. I'd be nice and it'd be thrown back in my face. I'd be nice because I meant it. I'd reach out if I thought it'd do any good but instead I'm writing a fucking anonymous letter on a blog you probably stopped reading and... I don't know what to do. We can't just keep denying each other's existence for the rest of our lives. You were almightily influential in my life and for everything that's come of it except the not speaking I'm grateful. I have enough gratitude to tumble the pyramids. I don't know how to express it. I don't know what forum to use to scream at the top of my lungs that I love you and I miss you and I wish you'd just say something.

Maybe I wasn't that important to you. Maybe I was never anything more than something like a little sister wanting to be as cool as her older brother but never quite living up to all either of us thought I could be. I don't know.

I'm not even that sure I care.

Are you okay?

I love you you know. That isn't easy to say coming from someone who is dead to you. I never stopped loving you. I never will.

Sincerely,

J. Barrett

Persimons and dirty martinis

What's the sound: sizzle from the oven. Lights off in the fish tank, night, lights on in the living room, no red glow from the curtains on the window. Music loud, accusations of being bad neighbours. It is Thursday night. Coffee table needs to be washed down, hosed off, covered in gasoline and set alight. Shoes by the door, high heels reminiscient of 1945, navy blue, they belong to the woman in the navy dress with white polka dots. Her red lipstick is brighter than the curtains, a bit of a shine when the light hits her lips as she speaks. Her hair is finger waved perfection, brown and shiny, glossy like her eyes. She hooks a perfectly manicured finger in the pearls around her neck and rests her feet on the coffee table. She is beginning to get drunk and a dribble from her martini hits the carpet as she bends forward to put it on the table. She is telling stories about the last man she slept with, a married man who is part owner of the bar next door to where she'd been out with the girls the night before. She feels bad for his wife but she doesn't seem angry that he didn't bother to tell her he was married to the cute little nurse. Her language slowly becomes more foul as she begins to describe how their intimacy failed to thrill her. Her voice trails off as she stares after the olive in her martini. Her stockinged feet now fall gracefully to the floor, a shade different than the beige carpet. Her friend watches her, wonders where she bought the bra that gives her such amazing cleavage, wonders where the boys are tonight. Wonders where they could go within walking distance of home to pick up, wonders if they could both score on the same night. Wonders if they could score with nice boys who weren't more interested in doing a line of blow off their chests. Her friend wants to know how he could go back to his wife after she gave him a blow job and tell her he merely had a late night at work. Again. The martinis are starting to go to their heads and she asks the woman with the red lipstick if she feels like going out. Her friend looks at her like she's crazy and looks at her stockinged feet and when their eyes meet again they are giggling like schoolgirls, racing to the bathroom to fix their makeup. She shakes her head as they leave the basement apartment - they could definitely be mistaken for nice girls at first glance. They could definitely be nice girls - if they wanted to.