How To Build A Skeleton Heart: love letters

How To Build A Skeleton Heart: love letters

November 2009

Once again this has been for you

I resisted for as long as I
could. I wandered around Kensel Green in the cold crisp air, beginning and
arranging in my head. Then I would stop myself angrily, disregarding everything
I had came up with. Why  bother anyway?
It made no difference. You don’t deserve it, I would think  balling up my tiny hands into fists at a
memory that proves this way of thinking.

You, on your phone, to one of
your many friends. I’m sitting next to in a train carriage. We are on our way
to your place.

‘Oh wow they are sharing a banana
now.’ You are saying to your friend. ‘That is quite hot.’

I follow your gaze to see two
Asian girls in their early 20s all shiny hair and cute smiles. They are indeed
sharing a banana. It is indeed quite hot. I feel a twinge of jealousy and hurt
confusion.

This memory helps my cause and I
resist for a few more days. There are some close calls. The pad comes out, a
pen gets uncapped. i sit at the desk staring at the blank page. I hold the pen
in my hand so tight. An overwhelming sense of déjà vu washes over me.

This is not the first time I’ve
been in this particular emotional cul-de-sac. How many times have I created
sentences and paragraphs and sentiment for an ungrateful or indifferent crush?
The answer is enough to get me up and out of my seat, recap the pen. I go out
so see a band instead.  The rain falls but
I don’t care, walking to the tube station to get to Camden Underworld. It is a
successful endeavour. The punk bands are amazing. She allows herself to be
overcome by the three chord molestation to my ear drums and soul.  Dancing and drinking alone is fun. The rat
featured front man of The Vibrators, stops mid set and accepts a sip of my
beer. All eyes are on me in awe and I can feel them all thinking the same
thing.

Who the fuck gave that little girl a beer?

The bands are awesome: Ramones
type guitar pop punk that makes me dance with abandon.  It was as if a maniac had set fire to the
souls of my Doc Martins.

Thanks to the nature of most
Brits and to the fact that The Vibrators are an old school Pop punk band that
formed in 1977. The crowd was mostly middle aged. There was no danger of your
little anti-hero getting knocked out or bludgeoned by a fist. Also Mr Vibrator
did not tolerate any nonsense.

‘Fucking cunts! ruining this gig
with their stupidity!’ He shouted into the microphone.

A fat middle-aged man in a
Vibrators t-shirt, was trying to slam dance clumsily. It was annoying
everybody.

This was indeed an old school
punk crowd. No emos’ in sight. No  pretty
fringe flicking, doe eyed depression due to middle class malaise.

It would not be a truly punk rock night, without a narrow miss in the venues toilets, with an middle aged punk. 

I am standing patiently in the toilet line. The older women who is short with dirty blond/ greying hair, is tapping a drumstick on the cubicle door. It’s quite irksome. Old school is asked sweetly to please stop.

‘’Oi ! What the fuck you say!? I
can do what I want.’ She says.

‘Ok.’ I say.

‘Hey, what was that you were
drinking from your bag earlier?” Her eyes are small and suspicious.

‘Icelandic vodka. It was filtered
by elves.’ I say.

‘You shouldn’t be doing that.’
She says.

‘Whatever.’ The cocky young
upstart (me) laughs as I lean down to tighten the laces on my left boot. On
straightening up, I find myself eye to angry eye with Old School, who pokes me
in the chest with the drumstick.

‘You’re not even from around ‘ere
are ya?’

Well not as such.’ I straighten
my tartan skirt with the ripped hemline and smile at the older women’s rising
wrath.

‘Yeah? So don’t come ‘ere from
god knows where and tell me what to do.’ Each word is emphasised by a drumstick
poke in my chest. Finally a cubical is free and I and my bladder fit to burst,
gets away from the enraged woman. Safe in the cubical I considers this may have
had less to do with freedom of expression and more to do with the fact that
woman was pissed off, a girl so young and cute as I, is at a gig she likes.
Perhaps that encounter was an anti small person thing. It would not be the
first time that this ball of unrestrainable adorableness had inspired hatred in
strangers.

 The gig ends I get given a guitar pick and purchase a record from the merchandise stand.

I continue to struggle with my dilemma, to write or not to write.

How does he feel when he finds
one of her letters waiting for him at his brother’s address? Does he sigh in
exasperation at the mere sight of the tan envelope, with each line of his
address written in a different colour sharpie? She thinks it looks more festive
that way and besides, a plain old pen is not good enough to use when writing a
name such as his. Does it pain him to read these mini mangled manifestos? Or is
it the opposite? This is what she barely lets herself hope. She feels the glint
somewhere deep in the cavers of heartbreaks past, a glimmer of hope that he
himself may hope every time he nears his brother’s house. She hopes that he
hopes there is a letter waiting for him from her and only her.

A letter to remind him he is not
forgotten. To remind him that though far away she still deems him worthy of her
time and effort. Time that exceeds the growing or fully grown social networking
nightmare. The time taken to write a letter holds far more romance than a
breezy cold and public greeting. Though in truth it never fails to fill her
body with hot blooded happiness at the sight of his name telling her he has
sent a message. The warmth fills her belly with silly happy glee, Always her
face breaks into a smile. Whether or not he deserves these letters is not the
issue.  It never is. Would she have been
compelled to write to him had he declared his undying love and begged her not
to go? It was because of this she knew she was an amateur writer. If she was
truly talented she would not need to be in such pain and angst in order to even
pick up a pen.