I've been catching up with my Letters in the Mail subscription. The white, booklet-size envelopes fit perfectly into the back of my notebook along with the stamps, minicomics and other things. Sometimes they are about ghosts, sometimes they are about Los Angeles and sometimes they include a section on T shirts. Unsurprisingly, I like letters that are about letters; Maud Newton's was my favorite so far. Her writing is both comforting and subtly sly. Her letter was no different.

>>>>>>>>>
<<<<<<<<<

Went to my PO box and it was empty as the piggy bank on the last day of summer. This fact was slightly ameliorated by the fact that they had the new lighthouse stamps in stock. Also, my visit wasn't the usual shit show that it normally is. Everyone there was working and being awesome. Is there a new breeze blowing through the stank heck that is Atlantic Times Plaza Station?

ruined people

I've been dreaming of my friend Sally. I dream that I tell people about my dreams about her. I dream that I ask my ex if it makes sense for me to go to her house, let myself in and "wail into the carpet." I wake up before there are any answers.

As I've tried to do since my brother died, I think of ways to turn these dreams, this grief, this reality into something else.  I churn with stories unwritten; I am worried that they are all the same story.

But, enough about what I've been up to. Read this essay, Grief Magic, by Emily Rapp.
"What do ruined people do? Weird shit."

Writing poetry, riding in cars, comparing columns of numbers to rows of desires, picking up dog shit, reading Angela Carter, dreaming of old friends and, this:

And you?