How To Build A Skeleton Heart: Love Letters

How To Build A Skeleton Heart: Love Letters

27 October 2009

Oh My Gosh

I cannot believe that your gift
arrived exactly on my birthday! The package arrived today and I am so pleased.
I love the three framed drawings! Is the cute pink critter meant to be a lung
smoking a cigar? I love the title: The
Cute Smoke Series
as you named it. No letter with it…But that’s OK! Three
postcard sized illustrations are worth a thousand words. The pictures sit pride
of place on the mantel on this bedroom.

I write this at the desk in my
humble mouse infested room, in a house on Haycroft Gardens. The gift you sent:
three framed picture, sit on the mantel above the desk. The Cute Smoke series is the first thing I
see whenever I walk into the bedroom. The desk, at which I sit now, hunched
over a pad. Death Cab For Cutie is playing on JP’s iPod doc. Heaven Knows what
I will do when the iPod and my dear roommate return to Australia.  The voices in my head will no longer be able
to be drowned out. They will run rampant and unfettered by other more pleasant
musical distractions.  I have already
bought quite a few records from a punk record store in Camden. The store is
called All Ages Records. It’s small and full of great vinyl rarities.  I purchased a Descendents record because I
love the band and this album had a song called ACE on it!  So yes your pictures are much loved and stand
proudly. On the smaller shelf below the large one, I keep my books.

JP and I have become frequent
visitors to the Kensal Green Library. It is two minutes walk from our house.
The building is complete with stain glass windows and high ceilings with a chandelier.  A truly sacred place to house my favourite
works of literature.

I read. I read so much. It’s free and a good escape from the fuck wits that are a rampant mass of disease in this dirty city.

I enjoyed Big Sur by Jack
Kerouac.   It made me think of you. I know I said he was
boring and I stand by that, but I didn’t hate this book as much as the others.
The parallels between him and you are astounding. There was a paragraph in
particular that struck me. In it the character talks about the overwhelming
melancholy that washes over him whenever he climaxes.

..’’it is as though I have been
robbed of my spinal power. Right down the middle on purpose by a great witching
force. I feel evil forces gathering down on me from her.’’

Is it not familiar? You are not
alone. I know all too well how it feel to lay next to somebody who feels
remorse and hatred for everything after ejaculating, everything including me.

The night before my birthday JP
and I went to see a band called Health. It was an amazing brutal experience.
They were loud, fast, rough and ready while containing some melancholy melody
at the same time. This was due to the front men’s vocal style.  It was mournful and powerful. The drummer
went sop hard for the entire set. You could see his sweat fly and fray every
which way with every hit of his skins. 
The stage lights hit every bead of sweat and made it sparkle like a
thousand sweaty diamonds had been released.

It was really hot.

Hmmmm speaking of hot, I have
finally mastered my little object of artificial love. It is a wonder of human
engineering. It has been used numerous times to wonderful results. Every. Time.
Just yesterday I stayed in bed while JP was at work, until 2pm doing nothing
but myself and thinking of you.

 Do not get uncomfortable. I don’t imagine you think
of me when you’re doing that. Do you even do that? Or is it beneath you? Its
just I am not good at using some stranger off the street. That’s no fun, there
is no history of meeting of minds or anything deeper than lust. I am weird I
need the mind thing. Does that make me a brain slut?  Smart girls like smart boys more than smart
boys like smart girls.

Spent part of my birthday in a
dirty and rundown doctors office, in an attempt to get a prescription for my
anti depressants. What a hassel. Every medical professional in London is so
mrsn, they just assume I am a drug addict. This doctor in particular devoid of
bedside manner, told me I needed my entire medical history from birth to now. Of
course I cannot give that. I thought a written and signed letter from my doctor
back home would be enough but it isn’t.

I told the doctor that I hope
they like to read. Hope they have some time. Think War and Peace only more
blood and less southern hospitality.  The
nurse who gave me a preliminary check up was far kinder. I was weighed, poked
and questioned. It was discovered I was shorter than I was always telling
people. I am not 147 centimetres’ am 141cm.   I am 5 kgs
more than I was at age 12! I am a walking Talking and smart making
skeleton.  No wonder the Doctor thinks I
am a drug addict. The healthy weight for someone my height is 46kgs.

‘’Do you eat when hungry?’’ The
nurse asks me.

 I nod and say with easy laughter, ‘’Of course!
Who doesn’t!’’

I mean I think I do. I’m just…
rarely hungry, I am too sad.

Finally I burst into panicked
tears in front of the stern and unmoved doctor, all snot sniffs and hiccups.
They relent and give me exactly one prescription for one month of my
anti-depressants. ‘’You are lucky that I’m giving you that.’’ The Doctor says.
‘’I could have refused.’’ Fighting the urge to kick and scream I snatch the
prescription and say with barely covered sarcasm, ‘’Thanks so much for your
time.’’

We live near a graveyard and it
is so beautiful now that it’s Autumn here and all the leaves have turned. It’s
true you know what Regina Spektor sings.

‘’ Leaves become most beautiful
when they’re about die.

 When they’re about to fall from trees.

When they’re about to dry up.’’

I walked amongst the decaying tombstones.
Some were crumbling from age and others were impossible to read. Some were over
200 years old.

‘Hey!’ JP called out to me. ‘Come
read this one!’

‘Betty and Graham Oldham. ’’ I
read.’ A married couple that got married and died within a few days of each
other.’’

‘’Wow.’ JP said softly. 

The sky was a bright blue over
our warm hatted heads as we walked around the graveyard. There were piles of
dead leaves and I could not resist the urge to run into a pile and start
kicking the golden and brown leaves all over the place. JP joined in and we ran
around kicking our legs amongst the leaves till we became exhausted. I hope the
dead were cheered as opposed to annoyed by our antics.

I have always loved graveyards.
My mother used to take my younger siblings and I on field trips to graveyards
for fun. She would read aloud the inscriptions on the tombstones.

Time to go. Its late and this has
been a long and exhausting birthday.

Love Jx