June 27th, 2008

Dear Brandon,

The fact that i write you the kind of letter hinged into my notebook pains me for two reasons. The first being since it makes up the individual leaves of my journal, it will never leave my possession, nor will you see it. The second one being that most of the letters of this nature tend to abide the first reason as a result of my need to get out some rather thick and bottled-up feelings. These are the kind of pure, visceral thoughts that their target should never witness.

Last weekend or so was the year commemoration of your insane tirade at me. I mark the occasion because that experience jarred me (and continues to), but also because my mind frequently falls on you. For all i know, you continue to take bogglingly-long walks, still only scarf one massive meal a day, and still work your mindless yet stressful job at the Bank. Your hair must still be short, and perhaps you've by now submitted your manuscript to several agents. Without knowing more, and with only that accidental voicemail that you didn't even know you were leaving to go off of, i'd say you've gotten on with your life and perhaps did what you needed to do that June evening a year ago (assuming you needed to "go on" with anything).

Sometimes i think about us reconciling, how that might go. What would i say? Would we do it over the phone? Of course, it would have to come from you, because it was you who expressed a contempt in me and a disinterest in continuing our friendship. I've thought a great deal about that. The old Brandon would be too ashamed to reach out, assuming that i would be filled with nothing but disgust for your outburst (which isn't true). Perhaps the new Brandon (the one that spawned that incredibly gyrating spasm) doesn't feel that way, and in some ways i'm glad for that to be the case. Perhaps the new Brandon stands up for himself more (or at all - no more the doormat) asserts his interests and needs, actually believes he's worth something (and i'm not talking about that rageful, megalomaniac who claimed that BRANDON was the POWER of 10,000 sons - give me a break).

I've said goodbye to enough people in my life to know that i need to let go of any notion we might reconcile. The new Brandon shares something with the old Brandon - his severe mental illness. You aren't well. You haven't been for a very long time. I will not excuse your disgusting vitriol and accusations that you splattered all over me by attaching it to the floatation device that is your mental handicap. No. You were there, in full consciousness when you erupted like a rabid, infected dog (yes, you even had foam coming out of your mouth). You are responsible for what you said and how you said it. But what you can't master, what the sickness you have uses to imprison you are your feelings. It controls and dictates your harmful paranoia. It might even give you the confidence or permission to speak to me like you did, but in no uncertain way do you get to avoid responsibility for the wounds you slashed into me. 

In fact, if the opportunity to reconcile ever crossed our paths, that would be my solitary requirement before we proceeded. You'd have to apologize and be genuinely sorry for the hurt and pain your idiotic screams caused. You little, fucking paranoid, piece of shit. The way you hole yourself up in your pathetic sick world and judge everyone with the same high-browed impunity you loathe in everyone else is the height of hypocrisy. You spoke to me with such vicious contempt that revealed how selfish and egocentric you truly are. To take some overworked phrase that you clearly edited over and over in your notebooks, finetuning it until it had the most poetic impact - that anything i've ever done for you came only after i "touched my balls" - and shove it out with your verbal vomit was pitiful and fake (seriously, who rants about the person closest to them and the one who has cared the most for them?). But worse, it was dead, fucking wrong, and you know it.

I may have my bad, sordid side (we all do, you prick). I may not be the most judicious person or tolerant. I may manipulate people (oh, and calling your ONLY friend to tell him your house had been broken into, but martyring yourself by turning down his offer of safe, secure shelter for the night is MANIPULATION). But, what i do know is my generosity and role with you. I've never had a brother. The level of loyalty and dedication i felt for you was higher than even my own parents. You trampled that loyalty and you pissed, shit and came all over that dedication.

I'm not ignorant. I acknowledge the bad deeds i'd directed at you, but none of them measure even close to the vapid bile you flung at me out of your twisted, gnarled, ugly mouth. And now, as i think about it, you knew this would be my reaction when you were launching into me. They were a smokescreen to cover what you really wanted - a way out. You'd wanted to evacuate from my life and couldn't figure out how. You blew up at me as a way to blast your exit out. It's taken me long enough to figure that out. Too long, actually. In my customary persistence (or cowardice), i kept trying to think of a way to mediate the situation, which must've boggled you based on how ugly you were that afternoon. You probably thought you'd set the bungalow ablaze so fantastically that no one inside survived. 

It was i who called a week later because i said we needed to talk. You declared that you didn't think we did. It was i who obsessed about you, like you were a lover who'd tossed me aside, even going as far to get you a birthday present, then use the occasion to attempt another reconciliation. You came into the restaurant just like my first love did when i'd asked her to come and give "us" a second chance. You practically strutted.

You don't want to reconcile, that's clear in your actions last June. It's only taken this long for me to realize that. You aren't struggling the same way i am, you'd already seen your way out. All you needed was to light the match, and drop it.

September 13th, 2005

Dear Jonathan Franzen,

It is strange where moments of "Eureka" occur. I was sitting on the toilet in the Entomology wing of the American Museum of Natural History when the latest one fell into my lap. Folded open, spine pinned back, i was reading an article you had written in the New Yorker about bird-watching. You represent to me one of those contemporary authors i try to avoid out of fear that i will hear how un-original my own voice is. As a result of this chauvinism, i've dismissed an entire era of writing (post-1960), insisting that i cannot be bothered by the present when so much past literature requires my attention (how much attention i give it, is another issue altogether). Nonetheless, left with nothing productive to do with my time in the bathroom stall, i let myself read your article, and quickly found myself engrossed.

You wrote a piece that never left the theatre of birdwatching, yet you were able to offer a tome to your glass bubble marriage that finally broke, and continued onto the delicious subject of your post-marriage dating cycle of younger women. In your expansion of these ideas, i found a parallel in my own circumstances, despite the fact you are probably 20 years my senior, and the similarities we share are the stripes on a watermelon's skin rather than the fruit inside. As i neared the end of the piece, i could feel that i'd made up a room in my head where these words and themes could stay for awhile so that i could visit with them and perhaps share a grey, cloudy day over a nice long conversation. I might, i thought, even indulge in my desire to go watch me some birds ever since i picked up that used copy of the Audubon Society's Field Guide of North American Birds at a stoop sale some 3 years earlier. I enjoyed your tone, your language, your relaxation with the written word, and immediately began to feel a little jealous. At this point, the recognition of jealousy, i looked up from my magazine, glanced to my right at the bland, grey metallic wall of the stall, and felt the processing of over 500 mental associations in about three seconds. "Eureka!" The lamp lit.

What i enjoyed about your writing is that you understood from the beginning your reasons for doing, feeling, and being and you articulated them clearly. You didn't litter the page with floral garbage, concealing how you really felt. You knew precisely why you enjoyed birdwatching and how that related to everything else you presented to your readers. You knew this and demonstrated it with such incredible precision and skill.

Now i believe that there exists people who are so connected to their brains that a blank page represents a surface to iron on the decal of their mind, but, alas, i am not one of them. In order for me to demonstrate a similar lucidity, i must be in a constant state of production, because in that effort, i will have expanded my thoughts to their fullest, most hyperbolic illusions. By giving room to every emotion, i can critically glean whether it is native, artificial or poorly identified. What's left is the placement of the quill directly in the grips of my gut. I'll then paint a page with the raw representations of my internal population, which is exactly what i look for in other authors. What i'd like to read is what i like to write. You accomplished this. You illustrated the rare quality of someone who has the anatomical blessing of their head being connected directly to their gut.

There can be, when this occurs, no separation from the writer and the page. To do so would cut off the life support for these types of auteurs. Their words are not approximations of a silhouette cast on the side of a moving elephant. What the reader consumes must be as close to the truth, as near as possible to the force that expels the roots from the seed buried deep in the earth.

I am not quite there. I put so much importance and power into the small, tapered point at the end of my pen, but i need to strive harder to bring it to the paper more often. Thank you for your inspiration.

Most respectfully regards,
DC

August 28th, 2006

An Open Letter To The Man Who Invented Parking Lots,

I don't even know who you are, or where to begin. Perhaps i should start with a little introduction.

I live in a city. I won't specify which one. I live in a city because i need hustle. And after the hustle, i need some bustle following that. That's awfully cliched and generic. Let me try this again. What i need is a place so small and compact that standing in a crowd makes you feel smaller. I want to feel small by virtue of the number of others around me. But, i want to be able to remove myself from this at anytime. I do not want Nature to have an unfair advantage over me. This is the opposite of where i came from: Colorado. The Centennial State is HUGE. Immense. But not because someone made it that way, it is gigantic with or without the people. I cannot dispel that largess, ever. Colorado is so spread out. This means that simple errands are carried out over large distances and durations. When i lived in Colorado, i would have to spend at least 10 minutes just driving to get milk. Never mind the walking to and fro the car, which was placeed in a parking lot.

Here's where you, kind sir, come in. I'm sorry to say, but i LOATHE parking lots. You don't have them here in the city (or they are rare species that have degenerative genes that won't be passed on). So much could be built on the land that parking lots consume (or more importantly, so much land could be spared the trampling). When did you think to invent them? I must know, when you came up with the idea for them, did you weep knowing you were contributing to the decimation of this great land? Or did you celebrate? Did you happily submit your plans for the first parking lot thinking you'd finally found a use for that pesky six acres of open space that was poking your community in the eye? Or, i hope, did you sigh with deep melancholy that you had created something society 'needed' but realized you had started something you could not stop?

I for one would like to go back in time and PUNCH YOU IN THE FUCKING NOSE. You are behind so much waste that has led to more waste, and so on. God dammit, i'm really pissed about this! I think i'll put my pen down...

...okay, that didn't work.

Dear sir, i hope that wherever you are buried, the current landowners receive a bid from some commercial real estate developer to graze the land of your peaceful last resting place, and pave it over with hot, scorching asphalt. And for every jalopy or hybrid SUV that rolls across your decomposed bones, you somehow, poetically, realize the error of your ways.

Good day,
DC

March 7th, 2006

Dear Mark Twain,

I just finished watching Ken Burns' documentary on you, and by its account, i owe you a deep gratitude for being able to amble about in my favorite craft - that of writing. It says you were the embodiment of the American pioneering spirit that opened the way to a powerful American verse to form. As one person put it (and forgive the banal re-quoting without citation) you swam deeper than anyone into the rich possibilities of the American vernacular, making it seem possible for others to swim at those depths as well. I offer my first of many disclaimers in what is a letter to a figure of literature whose name alone intimidates me so much i don't even mention it in casual conversation; your moniker receives the kind of fear i was told to reserve for God (who unfortunately fits well into the beginning of one of my favorite curse words). This person who placed you in such high regard in his documentary is just one person, one viewpoint, one editorial. I have to remind myself of that before i blindly accept that without Samuel Clemens the Great American Novel would never even be something for which writers strove. That being said, i can't help but be fascinated with the man behind "Tw--n", Mr. Clemens.

You came from the modest Midwest (for the time period, thought of as "the West"), rising up to great heights in the East Coast millionaire complex. The superficial parallels between that and my own origins and journey are not missed - minus the 'millionaire' bit. I proudly report that you didn't start writing novels and enjoying their success until well into your 30's. I soak myself into the Epsom salts of this fact, allowing my toes to poke a little above the surface of the water, thinking i may be allowed to let the bath cool a little before i must jump out. But, just as i resign to let my appendages wrinkle in the tub, i am forced to consider that according to this documentary, you weren't a mere mortal. In fact, according to Mr. Burns, you weren't even human. That's just great.

But wait. The one mistake you should be credited with (again according to Mr. Burns) is the length of your life. You lived too long. You enjoyed such great fame and accord for your writing which all came from a mind of incredible acumen. As a result of your success, you were able to live a life much longer than perhaps most people would, free of strenuous physical labor and squalor. This mind over the years would continue to conjure up schemes and scenarios in order to stimulate your addled attention span. Unfortunately, these conjurings did not match your early literary output, and most put you in a financial downfall that would lead to you living your later years in a struggle to avoid impoverishment. Nothing i'd learned about you in my juvenile years spoke of these later struggles. In fact, i can assure you that your legacy remains on solid footing 100+ years later, yet, something troubles me about the intentions of this documentary to show this aspect of your life. You are already, as i've stated, fictional. Even your name is fiction. What purpose does it serve to try to round out the common view of you by showing your foibles in conjunction with your successes? Ken Burns, a man whose view of himself could easily be labeled as "lofty", is attempting to bring you down singlehandedly.

That is not my goal. You are but one man. As i am. As we all are. Today, I was standing on the platform of a train stop that i rarely frequent and i noticed, in the span of my 10 minute wait, eight, succinct ethnic stereotypes. The fresh-off-the-boat Korean laborer; the beautiful Black homosexual; the fluidly seductive, blond Russian; the tired and indefatigable Orthodox Jew; the strangely jovial, petite Latino; the clean and undeterred, white hipster; the cross-minded East Indian; the pre-fabricated elderly woman. There i was, just one man appending these labels to these complete strangers, not yet prepared to accept the cannibalistic quality of this act. And then i thought of you. Well, i first thought of how small the categorization of my fellow commuters made me feel, and then, finally, i thought of your legacy and your America. You captured the American language into print, a form in which our accent had previously not existed. This has allowed so many of us that have followed you the ability to break our fellow citizens into categories like i did - something we do everyday - but never once consider a single one of those partitions as not a part of America.

I don't know if what i'm attempting in my written word amounts to anything worthwhile. That is not the question i should ponder in a literary world laying inside of your shadow. Instead, the attempt to further the documentation of this vernacular you first published deserves the real and meritous attention.

My deepest gratitude,

DC

March 11th, 2007

Dear Gem,
The date above means that it is twelve years since the last time we spoke. I wonder how long ghosts live. You've, since your vanishing from my life in 1993, continued to exist in my head in one form or another. At first, as an apparition conjured from many sightings wherein i would sneak around campus just to see you in the flesh. This growing old after a week or two, you soon took residence in my mind and subconscious.

Occasionally, over the next few years, your name would pop up in conversation or i would make the imbalanced comparison between you and whichever female counterpart i was currently seeing. As comparisons grew more and more blurry and obscure, echoing the treatment my memory of your specific qualities received, you landed a plum role in my dream world. You would sometimes take the form of the "One that got away" in the evening's star-studded lineup. You never went too far away in my mind, which may or may not explain actions on my part to continually revive your impact on my life by reaching out to you.

No one knows why i'm interested. You are not the same girl who 14 years ago professed an angry and perhaps regrettable love for me. Who knows what you are like these days, but i still find myself endlessly attracted to that cognition of someone as fruitfully as i had with you - once. You can end this infatuation simply by engaging me. I know, blame you for this, but i have no other explanation as to why after countless rejections of my attempts at reconciliation, i continue to find energy to draw up into this endeavor.

Honestly, you're nothing. You are nothing more than a 2-dimensional cut-out with clothing that adheres to you with the folding of a dozen tabs. You are a hobby, an endless pursuit that quite thankfully has never been snagged. I don't want to know you, in the end. I want to know the boy you fell for, and thus here trapped amongst your numerous refusals. In the end, you are not the fascinating personality i seek, and perhaps you realize this and thus see no reason to indulge such a self-centered individual's attempt at temporal hubris.

And frankly, i don't blame you.

Most sincerely,
DC

December 13th, 2006

Hey Dad,
It was nice seeing you during my visit out to Colorado.

You know what? Since you will never see this, I think i can dispose of any niceties I might normally adhere to and just say it was nice seeing you the second time I did. The first time was not enjoyable. I couldn’t crack your shell or span the distance you were keeping me at. You insisted on staying close only to Maggie and not engaging either Scarlett or me. Overtime, and with much reflection, I’ve come to realize that it is really important that you get to know and get along with Scarlett. The reasons why are not immediately clear. Well, obviously it has something to do with approval. But I’d hate to cheapen this desire by stereotyping it as just another battle in the decades long struggle to gain your approval. I think the world of Scarlett. She is my world, in so many ways, and it would mean a great deal to me if you showed as much outward affection for and interest in her as I feel I’ve gotten from her parents.

But, that isn’t why I chose to write you this letter. Something has been weighing down on me that I haven’t the gumption to bring up to you in person, not just yet. It has to do with my divorce. I haven’t ever fully shaken the belief that I made a mistake in seeking out Heather’s hand in marriage in the first place, and I do not believe I am alone in this sentiment. For the longest time, I’ve suspected that you think I made a mistake too. I know I rushed. I let fear of letting her go dictate my actions in both proposing to her and in betraying my own preservation during the short marriage. But I feel you think it was a mistake as well because of the impact it was going to have on your relationship to Maggie. It bothers me to think that you might look on my whole experience with Heather as an expression of overall shortcomings you believe i have. If you hadn’t ever married her mom, I don’t think you’d feel that way, and I believe the situation of your union colors your reactions to all of this.

My mind right now, on that thought, suddenly returns to the moment of your initial response when I told you that Heather wanted to get a divorce.

It was the next day, the morning after Heather told me she was in love with Jack and wanted a divorce. I was at the doctor’s office, pacing back and forth, waiting just outside, and I needed to call someone. ANYONE. Specifically from my family. My first thought was to you. I wanted your advice. I wanted your shock at the news to validate the tragedy of the moment. I wanted your comfort. I’d just gotten the words out of my mouth when you gave me your reaction.

“Well, you need to do whatever you can to win her back. Perhaps she’s not feeling loved enough by you. You need to pay her more attention, do more romantic things for her.”

You didn't accept the reality of the scenario. You didn't acknowledge that this was out of your's and my control. Basically, in my state, I took that as you putting the entire blame for the predicament on me. Until just now, I haven’t seen the impact of this implication and how I ended up taking your “advice”. In those initial moments, you evaluated the crumble of my marriage as my liability, never thinking to shoulder some of the blame onto Heather, which crushed me. At that moment, when I was reaching out, instead of doing the equivalent of holding me in your arms and telling me how sorry you were, you passed judgment and then tried to “fix’ the situation. Were you trying to quickly dress the wound and send me back onto the ice so that I could continue playing, when instead, deep inside you were fearful of having to face making a choice between Maggie and me? You needn’t worry, that choice has been made clear which way it would fall.

Man, suddenly I feel myself welling up with anger. Still, four years after the whole ordeal. Why couldn’t you have just felt bad for me? Why couldn’t you have just offered to come out here, come out here and just give your support? You must’ve been incredibly scared to hear the news of a possible divorce. How long did you process it before you thought about how you would have to intercept Maggie finding out this news, just so that she would hear it the way you wanted her to hear it? How quickly did you diffuse your emotional reaction in order to remain focused on the stability of your own marriage? You must’ve been full of insecurity (i realize i may be projecting here). That is the only explanation I can think of that makes what you said to me logical. But then, I can't know that, you’ve never offered your emotions surrounding this episode. Weren’t you pissed at Heather? Weren’t you a tad bit appalled at her behavior? Weren’t you angry at the woman who cheated on your son? Or would acknowledging that cause a quandry? Because if the daughter was capable of this behavior surely her mom possessed that capability. Instead, in order to maintain your safe, isolated bubble with Maggie, you insisted on a strict embargo of any information that would point to Heather’s culpability in our demise. I’m almost certain that Maggie, via Heather, convinced you that it was I who did the cheating. That’s why you so quickly defended Maggie’s sensitivity to seeing me in a photograph with my female friends only a few months after her daughter and I had separated. But how does that truly measure anywhere to the level of betrayal I experienced when i learned that you’ve shared several meals with Heather and the man for whom she left me? When do I ever get to wash that off my skin? My father, my own father, has sat across the table from the man who actively sought a romance with my wife, succeeded in prying her away from me, and you’ve BROKEN BREAD WITH THIS MAN.

I think of this. I think of the water I’ve been made to watch flow under the bridge and then I think of what I have to do just to get you to act in a normal and congenial fashion around the one person who now means everything to me, and I feel completely taxed. I want to be done with these issues. It’s not fun thinking your father blames you for your failed marriage. What’s worse is that I believe you blame me not because of what impact it had on my life, but because of what impact it had on yours, that i didn't have enough foresight to take care of the situation before it affected you. It's just like when you used to get mad at me as a kid whenever i accidentally spilled a glass of milk.

"You do this just to piss me off."

Perhaps, my need for your acceptance allows me to absorb the responsibility my actions have on your life, when you should be just as profoundly concerned about yours.


With love,
DC