Long Time, No See

I attended a seminar at the National Writers Workshop last spring entitled Writing Life Stories. The speaker, Bill Roorbach, gave us an assignment, a prompt if you will. He suggested we write a letter to someone we haven't seen in a very long time and explain ourselves. Simple enough. And yet I'm looking at the screen thinking, "Can I really do this?" Here goes.

Dear You,

It's been ten years since you left. Ten years since we last spoke. And yet here you are in my thoughts, in my blog. Blogs didn't even exist when you left. Why am I writing about you here? Shouldn't this be private, just between us? Maybe not.

What have I been up to? Well, since you asked...I stayed here. Right where you left me. Well, not right where you left me, on the other side of town. Way on the other side. I have a different job, a different home, some new friends, but a lot of the old ones are still around too. I've grown up a lot. I am a very responsible person, except when I am completely irresponsible and do foolish things. Sometimes alcohol is involved, but sometimes not. Sometimes it's just me going with my gut, and my gut being horribly wrong.

My dad died. It's been four years. I still can't believe he's gone. I can't tell you how much I miss picking up the phone and hearing his voice. Today for example, it was cooler than it's been and I thought, "If I called today, he would tell me to stay warm, the weather's changing." I'd give anything to hear him tell me to bundle up, because "You always come down with something when the weather changes." Isn't that crazy? I wanted to call my Dad and have him tell me to bundle up. Of all the things I would want to hear him say, that's all I can come up with now? But that's what he would say, that was one of the ways he would tell me that he loved me.

He was sick for a long time and we were all with him when he passed. I'm blessed to have had him in my life and to have been there when he left his.

Now, let me tell you some good things before you get to thinking that everything has been a mess for the last decade. I live in an adorable apartment, I have a good job, I have some of the greatest friends in the world, and a loving family to keep me grounded. Plus I'm writing again, which I think is a huge deal.

After you left, I wrote a lot. I kept a journal for years. Then I slowed down. When my dad's health got really bad, I stopped completely. I didn't write for a long time. I couldn't write. I wouldn't write. I know, I always write when I'm hurting. It usually helps. But this was different. How was I going to write about this pain without everything inside me going haywire? I thought I had nothing left to say, no words to say it with anymore. I was wrong. I had a lot to say and about a million words at my disposal. I write for work, I write on my blog, I write long letters to people I will probably never see again, I write short cards to people I see all the time. I think I've gotten better as a writer. I even went to a national workshop for writers. And there were some "real" writers there. I guess that makes me real too. Like the Velveteen Rabbit or something.

You've been on my mind a lot lately. That's not so surprising, considering that I've been looking at the stuff I wrote when you were here. I've been tweaking it, posting it, showing it to people. I've been wondering what to do with the book, my book, our book. Should I try to get it published? Is it enough that it exists? These questions are slightly rhetorical, since I think I already know what you think.

Thank you, by the way. For always encouraging me, for being a fan of mine, for everything. Really. I know back then things sometimes seemed a mess, but you know what? I think back to that time and smile. We were young, slightly crazy and slightly a lot of other things. We were supposed to be a mess. Maybe time has colored my memories, but I think, for the most part, we had fun. I relish the good times and I appreciate everything I learned from you. And, yes, I miss you. And...yes...I love you still. Because we grew up together and because you were the first person I felt that way about. And because when you weren't making me crazy, you were making me happy.

Someone asked me once what I would do if you walked back into my life today. Well, once I got over the shock of seeing you and released you from a giant hug, I guess I'd ask you what you've been up to for the last decade. We'd probably end up at Rudy's, because that's where we always ended up. They have real food there now. I know that sounds like crazy talk, but it's totally true.

There's a lot more I want tell you, but I think that's enough for now. In a nutshell, I'm thirty-five years old, living completely alone for the first time in my life and trying to make the most of things. I'm not at the top of my game, but I'm not, as you once put it, "in a foxhole with shells going off around me." I'm not a superman, or a decoy. I'm just a woman in transition. I know there's a bright side somewhere. And I know I'm going to get there soon. I figure as long as I get out the door every morning, anything is possible. I know, I'm still a closet optimist. But that's what you loved about me.

I hope this letter finds you well and happy. And someday, I hope this letter finds you.

Always,
Me

Happy Thoughts

Lord knows I love to make a list, so I thought I would make one of things that have made me smile in the last two weeks. And no, it's not a cop out entry, it's an affirmation of the good things in my life.

Art Weekend II....every freaking minute of it. More on that later.

Beating out One-Nut-Tattoo at Liffey's, AGAIN and feeling like a total robot from the stars.

Eating Indian food and watching ANTM with the PerKwans.

Drew's map and prescription for a happy life.

Getting thank you notes from my niece and nephew.

Poodle's email.

Feeling like a friendship I thought was broken beyond repair might still have a fighting chance.

116 Crown.

Sitting on the living room floor, listening to music and getting tipsy with friends.

Running into an old friend at the Farmers' Market.

Helping a friend find the perfect boots at the Nine West Outlet.

Seeing Lars & the Real Girl with Peter. Then talking about what a great movie it is over beers.

Sleeping "all the way in," then having breakfast on the couch.

Talking to ML while I waited for my laundry to be done.

Laughing out loud while reading Bill Bryson's book, The Life & Times of the Thunderbolt Kid.

Napping.

Making myself a nice Sunday dinner.

Eating that nice Sunday dinner while watching VH1 Classic ALbums: The Joshua Tree.

Reading Wunderkammer: A Together Life and feeling connected to my friends.

That's a lot of good stuff for a little over ten days, huh? I'm a lucky girl. Hopefully, I'll remember that the next time I feel crappy.

Still Tweaking

I tweaked another poem tonight. Why am I still trying to fix things when they were supposedly "finished" fourteen years ago? Good question (on many levels). I think they can be better, I think I can make them better. It gives me some perspective. It gives me a new jumping off point. It's an exercise in editing. I'm stalling. Yeah, that's it. All of the above. Plus it's a rainy night, so it seems appropriate to post this one. Anyway, here it is.

Rescued from the Rain

Standing in my doorway
smelling like a wet dog
eyes pleading to be let in

And that stupid grin of yours
all those perfect little teeth
begging my forgiveness
you swore it was the
last time
“Scout's honor”

I believed you
gave you a towel
you sighed from underneath
endless apologies

Yet when I freed you
from my terrycloth grip
you were still grinning
no remorse
just those perfect little teeth
and the scent of a wet dog
rescued from the rain

Daisy C. Abreu 3.31.93
revised 10.24.2007

I don't know if I'll go through my entire catalog of poems, tweak and post them here. That seems daunting and I would rather get some of the newer stuff up (yes, there is some new stuff). I'm just not there yet. Also, I'm enjoying revisiting some of the newer older stuff. It reminds me of what my life was like back then, how far I've come with my work (and my life) and how far I've got to go (total cliche, but true).

I'm seeing some college friends this weekend as part of an artists retreat. I'm hopeful that good things will come out of that and be posted here. In the interim, please enjoy memory lane.

Tweaking The Old Stuff

I wrote this one wrote a long time ago, about that boy from long ago. The version below is slightly modified. I still like this one. It's quiet.

Star

I love you.
Is that too much to say?
Too soon to say it?
I do.
Every time I see you
I say it.
Softly,
under my breath,
so you barely know.
Mouthing it to myself.
A prayer.
Like the Hail Marys I whisper
while kneeling in an empty church
on any given afternoon.
Like when I'm walking home
and see that first star.
Star light,
Star bright.
Only you're that star.
That far off thing
I wish could bring me
what I want.
And I lie here,
knowing you're
lying with her,
praying to her,
wishing on her,
mouthing in her ear.
I wonder if she knows
she's your star
or that you're mine.


Daisy C. Abreu
3.31.1996
revised 10.22.07
for jpb

Enter Sandman... I Said Enter!

You know you have a crazy case of insomnia when you're sitting up listening to Delilah (You know...De-LY-La...Love someone tooooonight) and giving a crap about the people calling in with their stories about God sending them their one true love in the grocery store. Delilah can be hit or miss with the songs she picks sometimes, but tonight she seems to be dead on, bless her heart. She must know there's a skeptic listening. Why else would she play Michael W. Smith's Place in This World and Train's Calling All Angels?

Anyway, sleeping has been a challenge the last few days. I'm distracted, so I'm reading, watching TV or rocking out a crossword to try to calm my mind. It's not that I'm not tired. I'll be reading an article and my eyes will start to droop. The problems start when I turn out the light. My thoughts get all loud in my head, my anxieties take hold and I can't quiet things enough to get to the good stuff (sleep and a possible dream date with the Cloon...yes HIM again). That's when I pull out the alphabet game. Seems to work. I list authors in alphabetical order (Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Albert Camus, Charles Dickens...you get the idea). If I'm lucky, I'm out cold by the time I hit the middle of the alphabet. I know, why not count sheep? Counting is easy, literature is hard. Also, I count this as credits against all that money I spent learning about these authors in college. That's me, always multi-tasking.