dispatch (vi)

thanks for letting me win

hi friend,

it’s been a long time since i’ve written to you, and i’m sorry about that. there are reasons for you to forgive me, but you do not have to. it’s been a long couple of months. i find myself saying that almost every time that i write, but it is never not the truth. in my last newsletter, i quoted jason molina’s farewell transmission (‘no one gets it right,’ etc., etc.,). these days, i’ve found myself gravitating towards ‘just be simple.’ in it, molina sings, ‘this whole life has been about try, and try, and try.’ i had a conversation, a few days ago, with someone i had just met. she said to me, ‘you keep saying that you try. how do you try? what do you do?’ it put me at a lost, made me feel off-kilter and upset and angry. who are you to question this about me?

she’s right, of course. i make a lot of fuss about trying and then do very little to remedy an unideal situation. i say that i am lonely, often. that’s the largest thing that i’m trying to fix. is fixing it really the answer, though? molina says, ‘why put a new address on the same old loneliness?’ and i’ve done exactly that. i live in a place where i don’t know anyone. i go to the office, come home, eat a mediocre dinner by myself. i read, sometimes. more than i was before i graduated, but less than most summers during my college years. it’s about putting yourself out there, they say, but where is there, and how?

anyways. this is all very self-flagellating and self-aggrandizing. i came home very excited to write this missive to you but now i’m finding it nauseating. or maybe it’s the fact that i didn’t eat until two, that i can’t get my caffeine addiction under control, that i miss virginia summer, humidity, bold rock, cheerwine, my friends, you. missing has never done anything for anyone, though, has it? it’s like yearning.

in my efforts to be less lonely, i have found another path. that is, i try and be more comfortable in my loneliness. it means i have been listening to a lot of music, reading more, watching less. part of this is a function of my job, which generally keeps me at the office until 7:30 or 8, resulting in an inability to do things in the light. it reminds me of elementary school in seattle. the thing about growing up in seattle is this: the sun rises very early, sets very early, and school for children between kindergarten and fifth grade, ends very early. i would depart most mornings for the bus just before first light, and by the time we pulled onto the street by my house, the clouds would have sunk low enough into the sky that it gave the appearance of night. the brightest part of the day was a mystery to me and my peers.

eschewing format, too, is what i am making an attempt at. being uncomfortable is not something i am very good at. fight-or-flight always tends towards flight (except, maybe, that one time, that one night, but we don’t have to talk about that).

an impossibility is eschewing routine altogether. i am a creature of habit. but it’s different, now, as many things are. but, a semblance remains.

i saw slaughter beach, dog live at the rockaway hotel in queens, and i thought about rowan. fenne lily was there, too — rowan again, and julia. i watched greg mendez perform two neil young songs at baby’s and i thought about john. julia and i always talked about going to baby’s, because of that samia song. why bonnie at union pool: vinyl tap magazine. sidney gish: janelle, mostly, and wcwm. mulholland drive was on at angelika and i thought about sarah and sam and nora and barrett and honey and the rest of the twin peaks crew. andrew martin’s early work takes place in charlottesville in the summer. i haven’t spent an entire summer outside of virginia in two years. fall, though, that’s what i’m afraid of. early fall, the first chill, is inextricably linked to williamsburg. i hope i don’t ever forget that. i hope that i do.

i write letters, now. well. i’ve written two. i want to write more. write me. send photos. tell me your favorite song. don’t forget about me. that’s it.

i love you,

van