How To Build A Skeleton Heart: love letters
In a city as densely populated as London, it stands to reason that things like postage is delivered even on weekends. On this particular Saturday morning I was sitting in my usual spot, on the floor with back against the heater. The snowy street outside my window went unseen as my curtains were drawn to keep in the heat in. This was because the window panes were so draughty that the ice came in and froze on the inside of the window. I was sitting on the floor spending the morning with a hot chocolate and Kundra’s The Incredible Lightness of Being. The book was quite absorbing but my brain was doing quite a few things at once. Does your sexy mind do that? It’s like a splice within a splice.
One part of my brain was reading Kundra’s words, sentences and paragraphs. I was internalizing ideas and philosophies. Was He right in suggesting you can only get drunk on music and not books? Yes and No. I get the idea. I would love to write about music but it would be too difficult to try and write down the magic that surrounds my love of music.
Another section of brain is occupied with weighing up my options for survival over the next few months. Finally as usual, my mind was concerned with roughing out a letter to you. Is this a sign of genius or insanity? The ability to delegate parts of my brain to separate categories.
There is a timid knock on my door, so I place my book down on the floorboards and promptly knock over my mug of half finished hot chocolate. I left the mess with a curse and went to the door. There was nobody there when I opened it but, my foot kicked something. Looking down and see a yellow rectangular package. Before my eyes had time to even comprehend the words, I knew it was for me and I knew it was from you. Your handwriting is emblazoned across my consciousness. It is strange how such mundane things as penmanship can take on a whole new resonance and emotive importance, when the person is so very far away and longed for. I loved the quote you had written on the back of the package.
‘That is the problem with perfection; it leaves so much to be desired.’
I smiled and pressed my fingers over the words that were your name and address, words that you had written with your very own hands. Hands that had been so so very close to me, as close as a hand can possibly get to a person. Now those hands exist in a different time zone, a different country, a different season to my own hands, my own blood, bones and body. To say I loved the gift that I found on opening the package with eager hands, would be an insult to my feelings. ‘
For me, being a wannabe writer, the moleskin diary has always been considered a rather sacred object. Too self conscious to ever buy one, I marvel at them in newsagents and fancy book stores, all fresh and sealed in plastic. I think it is the fact that great writers and artists used them and those holier than thou posers in cafes.
Any matter, the fact I was given one by someone else, means that someone special acknowledges my aspirations and more than that this person believes my words are worth putting down in such a revered place. I sat down on my bed and read the letter that filled the first five pages of my gift and this only added to the value I placed on it. I do not care if you found it in a box of archive stuff, that information did nothing to lesson my glee. My eyes gulped down your words like it was delicious and giddy inspiring gin.
Don’t let the differences that exist in alternate places on the SAME planet dishearten you. Our thoughts are very close.
‘You had written and crossed out the word ‘together’ did you think that word was too much? Silly, always covering your tracks when it comes to the emotive. I found a few other things you had sent that I immediately blue tacked to my wardrobe doors. A cartoon sticker of your face, complete with reindeer antlers and a halo. Two A4 computer print outs of slogans that were perfect for me.I now have quite the exhibition going on now.
I read about the pleasure you took from simple and useless activities such as basketball being played in the midst of a January heatwave. Here I gather the same pleasure from walking aimlessly around in the freezing cold. The air so frigid it actually makes your face hurt, you can feel your blood working overtime to heat you internally. I walk and marvel at my breath fogging out.
I wonder how cold it has to be to make your saliva freeze if you spit it out. I let my fingers go numb before shoving my hands into pockets and heating my cold little knuckles. The big black boots on my feet crunch into the snow powder. I mimic the sound in my head crunch crunch crunch, it becomes a comforting rhythm.
After silently gushing over your
gift and haphazardly cleaning up the small brown river of drinking chocolate, I
made my way out to meet Catherine and Jane at the Imperial War Museum. It was
located In Lambeth north which is on my train line the Bakerloo! Its silly but
I get so excited when stuff is on my train line; it means you don’t need to
have any change over’s in over crowded platforms, no hassles. Of course I was
wrong this time as there were unexpected changeovers and a delay at Queens
It was bound to happen eventually as when the snowy powder falls silently, and is followed by rain and sub zero temperatures. The foot paths and roads can become dangerously slick like a glass. The pretty snow becomes a rock hard death trap, smooth, hard, beautiful and slippery.
While making my merry way to the tube station, happily and concentrating on my foggy breath (still not sick of it). My steps became less cautious and more devil may care. My left boot failed to grip onto the ice slick of a foot path; instead it slipped forward nano second quick. I had no time to feel panicky as fell backwards and landed flat on my back. The back of my head hit the hard ice hard. Oh the humanity the embarrassment! The helpless flailing of my arms. I lay there on my back with my eyes squeezed shut. Too scared to open them, my thoughts progressed thus.
Ow the back of my head had got
the brunt of the fall.
Oh my god I wish I could have
astral projected and seen that happen. It must have looked hilarious. A tiny
girl going crutch up.
Finally I was pretty sure I had
landed painfully on the occipital lobe of the brain. The part of the brain
concerned with vision and placing meaning on what is seen. There is an artery that connects from the
back of each eye and leads to the occipital lobe. It is for this reason that athletes get taken
of field every time they get injuries to the back of the head and given vision
tests. My eyes are sort of messed up in
that if I put to much pressure on the back of my eyes through hits or
accidents, these arteries could snap and I would be blind for ever. I am a girl that lives on the edge. My
optometrist who did all the tests and found this wonderful information out was
very cool. After shoving lights into my eye balls and making me do heaps of
tests. He looked at me and said.
‘You do indeed have lovely blue
eyes, but sweetie they are quite useless.’
This is why I was scared to open
my eyes, it was quite a heavy bump that the back of my head sustained. What
would I call my guide do? Holden Caulfield if a boy. Following a deep breath the prostrate person
opened her eyes. Blue sky, the dirty yellow paint job of a shop front, a fat
man’s kind concerned face as he looked down at me.
‘Are you ok?’ He asked in a
‘Yes thank you.’ I laughed gratefully as I slowly got myself up. My vision was no worse and my head hurt with a consistent thumping feel.
I am ok. I should just pay more attention to my surroundings and pay less attention to the inside of my own head. He he I know, as if i can do that.