Letter from Your One True Love Or Not

My dearest dear, you are nothing special to me. I have traversed these lands not at all and spent countless years just this second awaiting you, my love. The one who I will spend the rest of my life with unless I don't. You are the unobtainable freebie. That most golden of rewards easily given. The thought of you litters the parking lot of my mind, and you should really clean it up.

Even though we have spent but a few moments together these past few years I feel as if we have known each other for just that exact length of time. So indelibly are you reversibly burned into my heart. So smoldering are the scattered ashes of our love. If I had to choose but one person to spend the rest of my life with I would not most certainly perhaps choose you. And that would be incorrectly not wrong. Very much so.

When we first met it was not our first meeting, but our last, and the last time we would meet for the first time. I remember the day like it was something completely made up. You were there. I was there. We were elsewhere. And though we seemed an unlikely pair, we very much were. And I love you.

I do not know who stole the first kiss of the evening, except to say it was me. And I do not know where exactly we were unless I remember. But I know this with much uncertainty: I was never planning to go down on one knee so elaborately and so pre-medidatively. That is not a word but it is though it's not. It is not destiny that we are meant to be together, and if you don't think so then that's cool. Yes, very hot.

The hours between our last meeting just a moment ago grow longer. I must finish this letter quickly, for I haven't a lot to do, and must start my next letter to you post-haste and never again.

Be good, my terrible love. Do not pine for me, for I am right here and you are eating all of the popcorn. I will return soon after being gone forever. And once I return we shall let the world know quite unknowingly and with little grandeur that we have been united in unbreakable, flimsy love of a sort.

And the world will tremble in awe without tremble or awe. Our union of hearts will be strong. Wind-torn. Unquestioned. And confusing.

Sincerely,
I Didn't Mean It I Did

Letter from an Astronaut

Ten.

It is just so typical of modern life that even as an astronaut - as someone in a vocation that you spend your whole life learning to be, training to be, striving to be - you are still finishing your work right up to the very last second of the countdown.

Nine.

The folks on the ground, they don't even know about the enormous amounts of effort that go into making something shoot upwards for 60 seconds. The vast amount of resources. The yearly budget that rivals the yearly budgets of some of America's smaller states. The studious and carefully picked collection of brainpower, vision, and force of will that must ALL come together in perfect combination to make launch day a reality.

Eight.

I know I'm sitting on several thousand metric tons of the most explosive fuel on the planet. But, you know, I'm not really feelin' it. Mostly what I'm feeling is the forty pound suit that I'm locked into, and this isn't even all of it. The backpack - all the machinery that actually keeps you alive and breathing - is the real monster. There's no way any of us could wear that during take-off, though. Not with the gravity jumping several multiples every second.

Seven.

I am full of energy. Not nervous energy but pure adrenaline-fueled excitement. I'm hanging on to this feeling as long as I can. I don't want to be calm or serene or anything like that. Going into space deserves more than mundane reflection. It deserves to be seen and felt and anticipated in all its glory. I am seven years old again.

Six.

It's like shooting a skyscraper into the moon, I've heard people say. An extraordinarily well built skyscraper. Pshooo. Gone.

Five.

All final seals check out and everything is green. Everything that we can reach, anyway. They strap you in as soon as you get on board. We've still got a little over a minute until being sideways does not pose any difficulty.

Four.

This is it. This is my first flight. Not my last. I hope not my last. If it was my last then I could be happy. I could die happy. When the Columbia burned up I felt so mad. Not because of the tragedy or the families or the bullshit bureaucratic red tape that probably made the faulty O-ring possible. But because they got robbed of a happy death. This is insane to even think, I know. But if they had blown apart while heading upwards, then it wouldn't have been so bad. Not on the return trip. Anything but that. Isn't it enough you're being kicked out of the heavens?

Three.

I'm not technically an astronaut, you know. Not until I've flown 50 miles above the Earth. There's a rule that NASA's got. A classification. Anything below 50 miles is just another eccentric billionaire. In a way it seems like a generous place to put the line. The planet's atmosphere doesn't really start ending until the 60 mile mark. When I learned that number I was so astounded. Really? Only 60 miles thick? You could drive your car to the edge of space and be there in an hour.

Two.

I don't want to think of that David Bowie song. I don't want to think of that David Bowie song. I don't want to think of that David Bowie song. ERGH. Too late.

One.

It's starting to shake. Oh shit.

I want you to think of the room around you shaking. The entire thing. Just shaking and shaking back and forth, as if the very earth itself is becoming unhinged. The clattering and shrieking and the rumble...the rumbling that's so thick and so enormous that surely it will soon destroy you.

Then I want you to keep imagining that getting fiercer and fiercer, well past the point in your imagination where you usually stop imagining this sort of terror. I want the world to wobble uncontrollably in your mind and yet still somehow stay intact. Then you will begin to have an inkling of what is happening right now.

Only in nightmares have I seen the clouds rush at me this fast. And I have never EVER come as close as I just did to actually shitting myself. We have left the ground. Been unseated from the earthly plane. We have left the GROUND and we're not coming BACK.

Surely I would shake right out of my skin if there wasn't a giant invisible hand squeezing my entire body. They teach you how to deal with gravity stress, both sudden and gradual, but you never really get used to this kind of pain. This must have been what it was like to have been born. It's marvelous. I can see why humans do it all the time.

The blue is starting to fade. I can see stars peeking out. It is daytime and I can see the stars. It is transforming from night to day within seconds and I can feel the pressure relenting bit by bit. I can feel the planet reluctantly letting go of me. This must be what death is like. It is also fantastic.

Haha! This is amazing! 48....49....50! Fifty mile mark! I am officially an astronaut! An astronaut! Me! My entire life has led to this moment and I can say with complete joy that it has all been WORTH IT! Hah! I am in space! SPACE, motherfuckers! Fuck yeah! The astronaut is in space!

Letter from Campground Daughter

You didn't come back this year and he's not you.

This one has a lot of strange ideas about the world. He thinks the universe is made of water, and I can kind of see that, but he's not giving me a chance to digest this theory. Listen, he's still talking about it. We and everything are all water. Even the rocks. Especially the rocks. And water has no boundaries, water doesn't separate from anything and that's why we are all connected and that's why we should all be kind to one another.

He's cute in a rugged-yet-squeaky way, and I can't stop staring at his arms. I keep imagining them encircling me and squeezing me into him. Flesh to flesh. Protective. Overpowering. That's mainly why I brought him out here to the beach. And because I knew he had some grass on him.

And this connectivity and kindness we feel, he says, is why we believe in God. It's why we created God, so we would have a name for this feeling. Because deep down on, like, a really deep level, we know this. I mean, this is deep deep down. This shit is cellular.

You nor your family went camping this year, I guess. You're always here during the first weekend of August. Three years straight. Or, four, I think. It might have been four. I didn't notice you until three years ago, is the thing, so that's what I count it by.

You're not in college. Or the army. You're just not here and I can't imagine why and I don't want think too hard about the explanation, because there are too many. Far too many.

Did you think of me while your parents made the decision to skip this year’s vacation? Or when they decided to try a new campground? Did you protest or plead?

I think all the time about the first year we found each other. I was helping my mom fix a water line next to your family's berth and there were these really pretty acoustic guitar instrumentals just kind of wafting out from an open tent. And while I'm not easily impressed by guitars - my dad plays Jimmy Buffett songs on his constantly - I was pretty smitten with the cute young boy that stepped out of the tent. I knew I had to get to know you.

I remember how hard I tried not to look at your parent's faces when I came to your family's campfire that night. They had these big secretive smiles on. Do you remember the excuse they made before they left? "Well...we should make up the beds in the camper. Maybe think about taking some of our clothes to get washed." I remember being really embarrassed but I also remember you just not caring and...I don't know. I really admired that.

I take another drag off of his joint and details finally begin to pop out. The water at night is so ominous. Its purposes are dark and its gravity is monstrous. You can only see it as it laps against the shore, nibbling against the land, trying to reach you over and over. Sometimes I scare myself with how submissive I feel with it. During the daytime it's different. The water makes me feel serene, powerful, in control and completely connected.

I drag him down with me next to our little beach bonfire. But I don't pretend he's you. Not for a moment. I don't want to associate you with what I'm feeling right now.

You were so hesitant that first night. And playful. I think maybe you were trying to avoid kissing me, so we played cards. We talked about our lives. And then, when one awkward pause had extended for just a little bit too long, you grabbed a flashlight and ran into the woods. You almost ruined it, then. My preservation instincts kicked in and I nearly started yelling at you for being irresponsible and don't wander off and check yourself for ticks and blah blah blah. (Sorry, but when you live with it all the time it's hard not to repeat it.)

You took the flashlight and you made the trees and undergrowth into a shadowplay for us. And you spun a story, right then and there, from the insides of your head. And it wasn't about water or God or anything as heavy as that. It was just about life trying to get by.

Then the story ended, you clicked off the light, and you kissed me. I guess you must have known what you were doing after all because it sure was easier for you to kiss me there in the darkness.

We had five days after that. I remember holding hands for most of it. Talking about how scary and how exciting it was going to be next month when we entered high school. Hiking to spots that were off the scenic trails but were just as good (if not better because of the privacy). Chewing on birch twigs. ("It tastes just like the soda!") How quiet you were around my parents when they took us to the mini-golf place at the end of the access road. Your mom was sure impressed when I was able to get you all into the old lighthouse.

His hand is slipping up my shirt and I can't decide whether I like that or not. The flickering light from the bonfire is forming shadows that whip across his face. Every time he opens his eyes they're as completely black and impenetrable as the sea before us.

I should have expected that one day you wouldn't be coming back. And I did that first summer. But then you returned the next year and it was just as easy to get to know you as it was the first time. I didn't expect that and I've still never felt anything like that.

He's hard and I can feel it through our clothes and against my leg. He's become more urgent, more hungry. I reach a hand down and pull him tighter against me, eager to make him boil over.

I remember the first time you and I reached this point, up in my room during a rainy day watching videos and playing cards. You were so scared after it happened and I didn't know what you were scared about. I figured it out later. I think you did, too, though we never did manage to laugh at our naiveté. I wonder if you do now. Or if you even remember.

Have your parents gotten divorced? Is that why you're not here any longer? Are you trying to figure out how to get in touch with me? Shouldn't I be doing the same?

Abruptly, he and I slow down and he slides off to my side, still holding me in his arms, his head resting beside mine. The night is cold, it always is, but the fire is warm and maybe he'll hold me for a little while longer.

I shift to face the fire, to feel its warmth on my face, and suddenly I can't stop crying. The one beside me won't ask why, and I wouldn't tell him even if he did.

But you…you would know instantly.

---

Anyone interested should check out the first part of this story: a song called "Campground Daughter" by School For The Dead. (Off of their "The New You" record.)

Letter from the Guy Who Writes The Cover Copy For DVD's

I should warn you. The most creative thing I've written today was "There are tons of creature feature delights in the supernatural thriller Pumpkinhead. After the scream-filled finale, you'll never sleep with the lantern off. Just make sure it's not a Jack O'Lantern!" I don't know what the movie is about. They told me it was horror genre and the cover depicts a gaunt figure with a scary pumpkin for a head. Flames are coming out of his jagged rind of a mouth. So I improvised. I'm encouraged to watch the movies I write about, but I feel that doing so would be too much to ask of myself.

This job is the worst thing to happen to me since my high school prom. It's evil is insidious, a gradual erosion of my happiness. I answered an ad in the paper a year and a half ago and it led to my current drudgery. All I do every day for weeks and weeks is write cover copy for terrible DVD's. At first it seemed funny, quirky, almost endearing. I'd get paid for writing and probably have time to finally finally finally finish the first draft of my novel.

Nope.

Slap Shot 2: Breaking The Ice is next. Um. Hmmmm. I don't know. The cover just has two guys slamming against each other with spittle and ice and all sorts of other moist things frozen there in the frame. They're both very angry. This one could be straight-ahead sports rivalry or it could be over a woman. I better play it safe and just be vague. The more hockey puns I can think of then the less plot I'll have to disclose. "The cold rivalry between the two teams has never been as intense as this, but can they overcome each other's frigid indifference in time to face a greater threat. The..."

Hm. Yeah, not so good. I'll have to look the plot up on IMDB later.

Sometimes when I get bored, which is very often, I'll just stare at the DVD box covers and imagine the long strange trip these oddball titles have made. Someone out there with money actually spent time compiling the...let's see here...2004 Wisconsin Ice Skating Semi-Finals Highlights. And this person actually thought there was profit to be made from this. They must still think that, because it's on my desk awaiting a back cover description.

I wonder if the Wisconsin skaters on this tape had to sign off on this? There must be a voice-over narration on this, too. I wonder who you hire to do that. Do you get your lawyer, the most authorative voice you can think of, to do that or do you actually hold tryouts? Was there a want ad one day in the Kenosha Kronicle? What kind of jobless 20-something finds that kind of ad and thinks...hey, that's for me? I wish I had seen that ad. I totally would have done it.

I get DVD's of all kinds here in this office. Well, except, you know, good ones. I wish I could have done the back cover copy on Batman Begins or something cool like that. Just once. Just once! Something that I know would be sitting in millions of homes. I would always be able to call on something like that whenever I felt blue. It would cheer me up while I do the copy to, let's see here... Beach Patrol: The Entire Series.

Jesus, this one has episode commentaries. "Do you remember this day? The sun was wicked and the sand was so hot. The wind was always blowing it everywhere. It was insane. I totally believe it's winter though. The tight sweaters that Caitlin and Theresa are wearing, thats how you can tell. That's all Yuri. He's the best costume manager in the business. Yuri? Yuri do you want to say anything about this scene?"

The entire series!

Sometimes we get private DVD's, like this one from the Torrington High School class reunion, class of '85. Or promotional things from political rallies. Or employee motivational ones for retail chains. Those are the best. I hate this job, I mean, I really fucking hate this job. It's mind-numbing, repetitious drone work where I am constantly reminded of the endless stupidity of mankind and of the things they'll spend money on instead of giving to charities or the homeless. And I'd just plain out kill myself if I didn't get to work out of my apartment. But for all that, I really wouldn't be able to stand working in retail.

Alright, who's next in the pile who's next...oh! Oh yeah! This isn't exactly a good DVD but it's certainly close enough. A Girls Gone Wild knock-off series called Out Of Control. Like I said, I very rarely watch these DVD's but, heh, looks like it's time to take a little break.

Oh what now? The phone's ringing? Who could possibly be calling me? This is probably a telemarketer. So annoying.

Shit.

They just fired me.

What the f$%*!