I will write tomorrow for I am exhausted today.
I remember the woman who stood up to describe her occupation…it was listed on the application as sprayer. With a word of titles and social status & judgments I had thought it a relief to have none. She described brushing, tearing and then cussed. I liked her and planned a good opinon of her until she spoke one word. I changed my mind. I have here once lived in a place. I traveled on a road I had seen thousands of times before and found freida place. Only it was spelled frieda. Only I had never noticed it in either context. I past humdingers, and I laughed. I thought of all the experiences that fit that word. I past the house where Jesus lives, and found an abandoned Spanish monastery with a wall made of bougainvillea that climbed up the eucalyptus. This house is to be my home. The cherry blossoms are in blom again and have since recovered from a near slaughter. I misread the freckles…or maybe I did not, and all of the curses were to lead me to where I am going. Or maybe they were not curses at all, but blessings because they brought me to where I am now. I drive down this road, I have driven down so many times before. I pass the house I was destined to live in and the lights are all out. There is no life there. There is a curb I knew intimately for a few hours of my life. I wonder why there are smoke stacks coming from the top of rose hills…Wednesdays darlings born april 10th…delilahs darlings born april 17th…sovereign. The gentleman eyed my purchases and handled the books as priceless pieces. He commented on each carefully chosen title, and I could feel the beams from my soul rejoice and my mouth unable to contain my happiness at his praise, this person a stranger, and their high opinions so easily given to me. A woman called today looking for cogan books. I was sorry to have to be the one to disappoint her. I saw this figure, tall and dark. I recognize the sounds of footsteps immediately and the original alarm subsides and turns to warmth. It is my father. Because your heart is bid goodnight get swept off…shared sauce on fingertips…blessed blessed the words runs through my head so I will not forget. I remember the woman with a daughter who wore dora lightup shoes and did not own any English words. The words of Pablo Neruda are never as beautiful as when they are spoken in Spanish. But not my Spanish. The Spanish that you are born to…someone once called me probresita. Smudges are not controlled…but I love things that cannot be controlled. No. I love the beauty in things that are beautiful even when they are imperfect. Because they are imperfect. He will paint like van gogh. You brought my light. I wish that life was not fleeting and that love could not be lost and that courage could be taught. I wonder that I could not always see the beautiful things. Every great tradition… my soul breathes again. I will offers my thought deliberately. My fingers are stained with the color of earth. I need a proper inkwell…ujjahi breathe.

darling, i was still suffering from the bondage of a psychopathic ranting and demonstration that could only be properly understood, having been witness yourself, therefore conveying the full meaning of such disgusting splendor with each detail so carefully blurred with the next as to be left unable to diagnose a specific word or misinterpreted delirium that would front such traumatic events as these? unfortunately i am suffering still, if not endless and unwanted, at least anticipated, and for this very reason, the sickness that had me so trapped in my early life has seemed to return, and with it the curse, as before, of isolation....so, i bid you farewell in the trust that this letter will find you well, if not better than myself and that you are not caught with such dreadful exposures as these…and as i saw, what i think is goodbye, and i am not all the better for it....it is not something that i ever wanted to say to you...i have a further inclination to pain that i do not quite decipher…i did truly enjoy the talk of better things...

"...only because I yearn for it with every fiber of my being"

It has been some months since I’ve spoken to you last, and I do hope that this letter finds you well.
I have put off writing you for so long, that I was determined to start anew all over again, for the former writings are no longer significant. You see, I have seen that you were gone, but where and why, I can only assume. I hope and pray for all of the best in your life... I do, most sincerely wish you every happiness. And if that is not possible, perhaps, then I do hope that everything else in your life proves to be a blessing. (I think that I know that you live off your soul as I do) For this reason, I do wish to impart how much it meant that just one person had faith (in me), and that someone had such a goodness as you. You wrote to me once and asked after my smiles. I want you to know, those words meant so very much to me. It was an especially wonderful thing at exactly a time in my life when I had believed that I might not have had strength enough. I read of your life, and it made my sadness seem all the more meaningless, and particularly unnecessary. I could hardly believe your strength and kindness. The way that you lived your life, with your heart to choose your decisions, gave me strength enough. I do believe that the confidence of others in me, made me believe again, and helped the smiles come on more frequent and faster, than had I been left alone in all misery. I do not know of your station. I will not elude to your current feelings, for I do not know them. I just wanted to let you know that it was a very kind thing you did for me, and for my life. I think of you often and wish you well.

I have the increasing suspicion that I am in utter disrepair. No, that doesn’t even make sense…I Haven’t the slightest idea why I am here, there is no mode of expression, or condescending verse in which I was truly inspired by. I am restless, I cannot sleep. I feel the dear panging constantly, at the lives of others, and which I can do nothing about. It is not for me to do anything. But yet, still, I cannot sleep.

I spoke, how do I say this, I spoke of this feeling, of which I can hardly describe. It is something deep inside of me, that I have always yearned to be free of, of this, I had thought it would be rid, as soon as something occurred. Perhaps this is why, as I spoke, I said, that I feel as if I have always been waiting. I do not have my own direction. This is not completely true, I find my direction. There have been so many plans,
There is a lovely woman of which, I was blessed enough to know, possibly even blessed enough to be loved by. This woman was 92 years old. I think of this now, she has watched an untold number of movies. It was a strange thought, to compare myself with such a different story as mine. But I think of her often in these days. My mind wanders, and I cannot believe, oh my goodness, that I have been so awfully blind. I have felt this insatiable need…but there is nothing in this, no truth, no consistent suffering will end this desire. There is no constant.
There was a movie in which the mother died, one or two or several of these, are movies that we watch, every so often, as is our custom, my daughter, the second oldest, she will cry and be completely without consonance. I hold her, and tell her pretend stories of other screen plays or perhaps books that I owned at one time or another that tell the real life ‘authentic’ story of this, which ever is the production at the moment, event, in which watching this thing, tragic and unbearable thing, that has brought her to tears, ends. I tell her of the end of ice age, where the mother meets them at the bottom of the pass. There are several other stories, lies yes, that I have told in order to stop the tremendous number of tears, that are genuine and never ending, had the lies not been told. My oldest daughter asked me, just tonight, she asked me, what would happen if I died. I had never thought to ask my parents, but I do remember the fear. I would wake up every morning with my father, perhaps 4 in the morning. And then return to bed with my mother. If I did not say that I loved them before they left, I would be left with a knot in my stomach that would not go away. It was a disgusting feeling. I have put these fears into my children, or allowed them to be placed there. Or allowed them the opportunity to form the concept. I sit here, at two thirty in the morning, and worry about dying alone. I will for certain, this is a sickening habit that I have formed, where I pour my guts out in front of a screen, begging for the attention of someone that will never be able to give it. There is no death at the end of my story. Not yet, I will not allow it. I will not sit in misery while I eat alone, or watch an untold number of movies alone. Alone is a very good place, where I love myself, and can be noone but myself. My children love every single thing in me. There is no bad, or judgmental topic, or dorky dance. Or horrible note of which I scream the wrong words to their favorite song, which they despise. There is not a time when they are frustrated without any hesitation and beat me until my guts fall to pieces. I am done with all of this, there will be no further seeking or endless trauma of which I cannot recover.