there is a love that exists inside the soul
that language cannot capture
a love my words can’t take captive whole
the size and gravity of rapture
all of my efforts, bound to fail
no snare or knot can hold it
nor trap, nor pit, nor jail,
and no psalm has ever told it
but you, my love, uncover
these mysteries and more
and, stumbling, i discover
you are all that i adore
June 12, 2006 at 7:24 PM
not sure if this was replied to already, but:
that is hands-down the best hire-me letter i’ve ever read. i sincerely hope you get everything your heart desires. when you two get down here give me a ring and i’ll set up a nice little welcome.
Mara!
Mara?
Neuroses? I’ve got neuroses. I’m a bitter, cynical, egomaniacal, self-deprecating hypocrite who trusts the hyperbole of the late Lester Bangs over the sagest moanings of her own junkie mother. Politics? That’s small potatoes, man. That’s nothing but ketchup on the double order of scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped, diced, peppered and capped, as the Waffle Housers say it. I know nil, nothing about Atlanta politics, but with the right kind of eyes you can take that as a boon. I’m tabula rasa, man, and jaded as I am, the Creative Loaf is like raisin toast to mine eyes that hath seen nothing but potato sandwich bread crusts for years.
Politics? It’s amusement, Ice-Capades for the carefully dressed with their carefully worded slogans, whether they be wily senators or drum-circling causeheads or just the average knowlittle-nik. Me, I like Ayn Rand and P.J. O’Rourke, Dr. Laura and Al Franken. I appeared on New York television during a fortuitous afternoon in August, 2004 dressed (with mask) as Richard Nixon as part of a publicity stunt put on by the LebowskiFest and Billionaires For Bush people. I listen to Fox News Radio and wore a shirt with a picture of Bush on it over the word LIAR! to vote in a rural western Kentucky elementary school during the presidential race of 2004. I was known to my college environmental law professor as a “bomb-throwing anarchist,” and like to credit myself with the total shaming of one of Flagstaff, Arizona’s mayoral candidates by calling his faux-rock tuchus out on not knowing the lyricist behind one of his so-called favorite songs, “All Along the Watchtower.” What does this prove? Maybe just that I’m a try-too-hard, too-eager, uncouth yippity pip who refuses to put her hand down and stop going “ooh ooh ooh pick me!” So yeah, I spose you could go with someone who knows more about Atlantan politics than that one time when y’all got burned down As Seen In That Movie With That Dreamy Clark Gable, but just remember what Mr. Thompson (he dead, man, he dead) said in “Better Than Sex” –
“The standard gets lower every year, but the scum keeps rising. A whole new class has seized control in the nineties: They call themselves ‘The New Dumb,’ and they have no sense of humor. They are smart, but they have no passion. They are cute, but they have no fun except phone sex and line dancing…. They are healthy and clean and cautious and their average life-span is now over 100 years (with women at 102 and men slightly under 100).”
For the love of all that’s holy and good and sparkling and spoon-danglin’ly wild-eyed, Mara, don’t let them hire one of those swine!!!
Just say the word.
Respectfully,
rumors of your death have apparently been greatly exaggerated, of which i am both relieved and dismayed. relieved because i can now remove my black veil, dismayed that, after all the tears i have shed, i may not be able to cry the next time you pass.
i read your piece on principle nelson of the adams school (excellent work! though you should have the web guy fix that fourth paragraph) and skimmed a few of the other fine offerings on ellsworthamerican.com. the duck article i found heartwarming, the photo of the grim reapers: chilling. it never occurred to me that there might be more than one reaper. i may have trouble sleeping.
you have certainly landed on a soft patch of land. now if you can find a handyman or short-order-cook with whom you could pal around and share playful and romantic banter, you will be like a living gilmore girl (yes, i realize that i have incriminated myself and that you are sure to judge the television that i may or may not have watched).
things are well here as well, since you asked. i have recently acquired an obsession with the game of go; the storms of april have given way to the mosquitos of may; i am wearing flip-flops; i am eating well; i am writing a social bookmarks application here at the big nerd ranch… in fact, i had better get back to it.
from southern sidelines and saving up for large quantities of roe,
ian
hey there missy, so good to hear from you and hear you are doing well. things here are all the same. you’re not missing much, but we’re sure missing you.
biggest thing that happened lately was when we had to take sally the sow to the big city doctor and so decided to make it into a vacation as well. shoot… pineapples on pizza, people scooping poop off sidewalks, boys putting jewelry in their ears and girls putting it everywhere else… don’t get me wrong, them big buildings are impressive, but all the big buildings in the world won’t teach you nothing about birthing a pig.
what else? farm’s getting hot, gnats and noseeums are particularly bad this year. papa took the tractor down to creek, cleared the path and dug out the swimming hole. you remember that time you and me walked down there – we must’ve been four or five tops – and we were exploring and all of a sudden you started sinking down in that quicksand? haha. you were up to your thighs in it by the time i grabbed ahold of you. the sucking sound it made when we finally got you out and having to explain to mama how you lost your shoes… those were good times, missy.
uncle orbin – aunt alice’s orbin – he’s not doing so good, so say a little prayer for him. orbin was always real sweet to you. he was the one that bought you that little plastic horse that you loved so much – the one on the springs. what with marvette dying and so many of the folks around here getting sick, i’m starting to wonder if those chemicals we sprayed to keep the bugs off the peanuts and cotton weren’t so good after all.
but it’s real good to hear you are doing so good. you got out of here and made something for yourself. you always were the smart one.
well, it’s about time for me to start dinner. we’re having cornbread, black-eyed peas, mashed potatoes and fried chicken. i’ll save you some banana pudding.
write again soon,
ian
12.13.2022
But it’s ok. We all have our samskaras. These are mine. They release the same way—by feeling into them and allowing them to pass through. Like a beautiful sunset. That is my work. Letting go of the content of my experience and returning to my eternal self. Each of these were simply events that I witnessed. None of them changes who I am. My soul is untouched.
12.22.2022
At some point, and I am not sure of the trigger, but I broke into tears. Oh, I remember. It was a thing that I had been waiting for—spending Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day alone. I felt into it and allowed the tears to flow. I didn’t push anything down or away. I talked through it while it happened. Talked about the process of leaning into the feelings no matter how painful and how much you’d like to avoid them. Let them move through you like a beautiful sunset. There is no need to explain them or get to their source. Understanding them is great, but letting them go is the sole purpose.
01.11.2023
Hey bud. I know that facing the same old fears can be scary. I want you to know that I am right here with you and we will not only face those fears, but allow them to pass through us like a beautiful sunset. One by one. Until all that is left is Love. I promise you that.
04.27.2023
This isn’t like a sunset. I want to take a picture and put that picture in a locket that I carry next to my heart always and forever. And no other sunset will ever be as beautiful. I’ll miss many sunsets altogether, opting to stare instead at the small, imperfect replica inside of my locket.
“Aren’t you glad,” she asked, and it was as simple as that. It was as easy as plugging a cord into a wall. As easy as tuning in a radio station. As lighting a match. As the birth of stars.
Instantaneously and delivered with unbridled delight: 1) “Holy what the fuck. Where’ve you been?” 2) “Do you know how much I fucking love you?” 3) “I want to talk to you FOREVER.” One. Two. Three.
All at once, I remembered. That life could be more. More beautiful. Brighter.
Without ceremony, I dropped a heavy stone I’d carried for twenty years.
since the abandonment and subsequent realization that nothing else on the internet would satisfy, i’ve thrown myself into life with renewed gusto. i have learned two languages, built a carriage house which i am currently renting out to hostelers, traveled to {array(tokyo, moscow, warsaw, belmopan (capital of belize), et al.)}, participated in four iron-man(tm) events (i placed in two!), adopted two chinese girls, been accepted to the mediaeval history doctorate program here in athens, become an ordained minister, and taught myself to make the penultimate southern breakfast. i have taken the lemons of your desertion and made three desserts and an entree: lemonade, lemon cookies, lemon pound cake, lemon sponge pudding, and goat shoulder with braised lemons and preserved prunes.
i do hope that you are living on lobster and wine and enjoying the rose-colored glasses i sent (i am guessing that the thank you note was lost in post along with my lottery winnings)…
