IN ALL, NINE HOURS WERE SPENT working in the darkroom today.
I feel accomplished.
Author: approximately
P.O. Box 142
I RECEIVED A LETTER from my dad in the mail today. I love getting mail from my dad because he’s really not the sentimental type that would send a Hallmark card, or $20. Dad’s letters always come in a long envelope spattered with greasy fingerprints, his very own NORTHERN BRAKE SERVICE stationery. He addresses his letters to a Jenny Marie Christen, a title I haven’t seen written out since my high school graduation. Both my parents have always insisted on using my middle name, though I am hard-pressed to believe that they have any idea the disfavor I impart on it…
“Dear Jenny,” he writes on his stationary, a lined sheet with blocks of local businesses’ advertisements along the margins. “A slow day comes to an end, and I am making time to send you a short note.”
I picture my dad, standing at the front counter of the store, or sitting his his ramshackle chair at a sooty, defiled desk in the corner of his office. Surrounding him are dated family photos and calendars from years long passed, scraps of paper scribbled with websites he’d like to someday pass through and the names of people that can do something for him — or vice versa. Dad works on brakes all morning and afternoon, and when he’s not busy, he writes me letters.
There’s nothing overtly exciting in his notes — never “We won the lottery,” or “I bought your mom a new car.” Telling of his days at work is the benchmark, then occasionally of someone’s death, perhaps a paragraph about a relative, and then one of how my brother is doing in sports.
The one paragraph that pains me to read is when he addresses my college days, reiterating that they are numbered and leisure times in the future will be far and few. This paragraph always manages to creep it’s way in, and is always ended with a sort of sentence that tells me to relax and have — more — fun.
My parents know that I am immensely uptight, that I occasionally spend evenings in solitude and frequently worry about school. They know that I turn friends down to hang out at my apartment instead of going out, they know that my life has succumbed to the “work, homework, work” routine that so many students fall victim to. They know I would blatantly consider myself to not have a life. They know it, and I dislike it. I wish they weren’t right.
“Enjoy your time now,” he’d write. I want to tell him, I am trying!
Dad’s signature touch is slipping a crisp $2 bill into every letter he sends. It is not enough to buy a cup of coffee, coincidentally; regardless, I could never find it in me to spend the bills. They are too scarce in my eyes, too nostalgic, and I don’t dare squander Dad’s way of saying, “I love you.”
“P.S. This is an old $2 bill, hang on to it.”
I fold the letter back up, sandwiching the 1976 bill between all his words of wisdom, encouragement, and how my little brother is doing in sports.
I love you too, Dad.
What the French, Toast?
YOU KNOW WHAT? I don’t know.
As far as the opposite gender goes, I believe I lack the strength of character to make advances. It’s not that I couldn’t develop it, it’s that I’m scared to develop it. What if I fall flat on my face? What if they think I’m creepy? What if I am creepy?!
The most recent endeavor took place this past evening, where I found myself seated next to a handsome young man during a server training course. He would smile, and pick up several of the ID cards that had been dispersed amongst the tables, and lean in my direction to point out the unique features of an authentic identification.
“See that? ‘Minnesota’ is written horizontally in small type. See where it’s misspelled?”
I’d smile and nod, hardly gutsy enough to make eye contact (an act that I have always contended with), and we’d both go back to pretending we were paying attention.
During a 10-minute bout of silence that was the break in lecture, I stared blankly ahead. What does one say? Hi? You smell good? I like your shoes?
A simple, “So where do you serve?” would have done in this scenario, but I didn’t want to seem too keen right off the bat. I firmly believe that mystery is a beautiful thing (and frustrating, as others would argue), so I instead took my established route of saying nothing. Being awkward. Wondering if it would take me a nose stud, tramp stamp, and some sort of absurdly low cut shirt and/or whale tail to assure myself that I, too, could be easy — I just don’t want to be. Ever.
There is much of this going on in my life right now. Relationships, problematically peeled open and left to linger. Wishy-washy bygones, ambiguous connections and tension — lots of tension.
I don’t know why I’ve been thinking of it so often lately. It’s as if I must remind myself, I want to get attached. I want to share my life with someone in particular, every aspect and action with demure, honesty, righteousness. True, I desire these things, and would I give a fortune to have them this moment? True, I would.
I am in constant reminder of the importance that I stay true to myself, and find someone that sees allure in all that I am. This, I am learning, will take time and frustration, large hits of awkwardness and the occasional face plant (a event comparable in humiliation to having your fly unzipped for a lengthy amount of time). (Trust me, I would know.)
But really, what if they think I’m creepy?
Over-analyzation, over and out.
Good Eatin’
Fried chicken, a gingersnap latte, and ice cream for dinner.
What have I come to? I might as well be eating sticks of butter drizzled with fudge.
Hmm…
Last week’s news is still making me — and people around the world — smile.
I KNOW THAT I’VE BEEN posting a lot of poetry lately, but I’ve been writing a good amount for an English class and can’t help but enjoy it so very much. Also, I’m sure we can all agree that opening up a fresh post in Blogger is tenfold more comforting than creating a cold, depressing, and oft times sinister Word document. Am I right?
I wrote this about my old house on Shirley Court in Minot. I had some of the best days of my life at that house — what a happy, nonchalant aura that cul-de-sac resounds!
Here goes.
Number 19
The minivan outpours,
Mom, Dad, three, four, five, six, seven
A catholic cluster of curls and frowns
Big as the little house
Little as a house for two.
This house loves,
Your scents, your screams, your Legos
Watermelons and overflowing closets
Drying the grass, plugging the toilet
Squishing into the breakfast nook.
With rooms filled,
Boys with boys, girls and toys deluge
Makeshift space and attic dwelling
Where to grow? Where to play?
Nineteen is brimming.
The choice was none,
Boxes filled and packed bags escaped
Goodbye to the family 19 raised
A catholic cluster of curls and frowns
Outpouring elsewhere.
How I miss it all.
Sleep-Time Musik
Beautiful. Brilliant.
Week = Made.
I’VE BEEN BROWSING E.BAY for the past hour or two, looking for some new boots for fall/winter (see previous poem about boots falling apart). My boot-shopping “kick” (no pun intended) came after I made an afternoon jaunt to Savers and found the most gorgeous red leather boots for $10 — in all of their beautiful, leather size 6 GLORY.
“Look at THESE!” said the woman at the checkout. “Just a little bit of polish and these will be PERFECT!”
“I know,” I gushed. “They’re perfect.”
During my e.bay searches, one of the brands I am really keeping my eyes open for is Frye. They’ve been in the business since 1863 — that’s 145+ years of making gorgeous footwear, folks! Everything on e.bay is still out of my price range, and sadly, Frye boots are a little much for my little pocketbook. Sad, sad face.
“I wonder what brand of boot I purchased today at Savers?” I thought, after scrolling through the last page of Frye boot results.
And wouldn’t you know it, right there printed on the inside tag of my $10 Savers boots: FRYE. Etched into the leather? FRYE.
I literally turned to my sleeping roommate upon discovering this, and said “HOLY. SHIT.” And she’s sleeping, so she doesn’t care. I don’t even have anyone to share my excitement with, which is sad but — geezus! Frye boots!
So excited, doing a little dance in my chair right now.
Week = made.
(This does not mean I am no longer looking for boots…because I am. I always am.)
Love. Lots of it.
(Sidenote: What prompts someone to bring a pair of Frye’s to Savers? Certainly not for drug money…)
I cannot sleep.
Boots
Bare branches curling around wet pavement
Water glues leaves to the ground
High-collared jacket and a gust of wind
Turns a broken umbrella inside out.
Hair, tossed and sloshed
Boots leak as puddles touch deep ground
Hard and heavy, hard and heavy
Where’d I park? Where’d I park?
A long way off, sweetie — you’re a long way…
Street crossed and I skim the block
Boots, fail me don’t, please
On the other side and I contemplate
The merit of rain, of this day.
You made it — we made it
Nothing save your broken wedge
And watered, slippery black suede
So tarnished, so slick, so tired, so wet.
So tired, so wet.
There you are, crumpled
Sable pile on the kitchen floor, wheezing
Soaked in early November, destined for December…
To the shoe shop I’ll have you,
soon
tomorrow
today.
Without you, this season
simply
would not be the same.
approximatelyes.com 