An open letter to my best friend, upon her departure from the country...

Kate,

Well shit. I tried and tried to come up with the perfect going away present for you--something light, something that wouldn't take up too much space, something emotionally significant--and I kept coming up empty. So here it is--you're getting a letter. It was either this or a journal, and Lord knows you'll probably get 10 journals minimum from other well-intentioned parties. So. A letter.
How do I say everything I want to say without sounding condescending...you know, sagely advice from Ms. Been There Done That [insert sarcastic tone here]. If I haven't been as engaged as you would have liked as you prepare to go on your adventure, believe me, it's not because I don't care or am not interested. I guess I've been trying to keep my mouth shut so as to avoid all the, "well, when I went to..." or "I think you'll find..." or "It's important to remember..." Because I know it wouldn't help. You need to go and discover and live your lessons, live your way into some answers, throw yourself onto the mercy and unbelievable bounty of the world. And besides, your experience is going to be so different than anything I have experienced. I'm so excited for you and more than a little jealous. I do feel I'm in the right place at the right time, living my way deliberately along my path, so I'm not jealous in the sense of "I wish I were going to Europe right now like Kate." It's more of a nostalgia for that feeling of being on the verge, of throwing yourself into the river and surrendering to it, letting it take you where it will. I guess life is always like that, whether you're traveling or not, but it's so heightened, so palpable when you're on your own, on the road, literally not knowing where you're going to sleep that night. I'm addicted to that feeling, and I miss it. So again, if you feel like I haven't been "supportive" lately, it's probably because I'm more excited for you than sad or scared. I do need to remember how scary it can be. But the one piece of "wisdom" I will allow myself is this: The World Holds You Up. It will buouy you. Even if you're sleeping outside, on the ground, in a rainstorm, your heart will continue to beat and you will be sustained. People will astound you with their kindness and genorosity. I know you know this already. It might just feel good to have it reaffirmed while you're on the brink, full of so much trepidation and uncertainty.
The other thing I want to say is this: you have a whole community of people here who love you very very much. They loved you before you decided to do this, and they will love you all the way through it and after you're done, whenever that may be. You don't have to prove anything to anybody. If you're scared or sad or lonely, say it. Ask for help. It will happen. And whether you stay 2 weeks or a whole year, you will have done a brave and amazing thing. I say this for 2 reasons: one, I know you and I know how tough you tell yourself you need to be, and two, because of my own experience in Africa. When I came home after 4 months I felt like I had failed, like I had let people down. So I just want you to know that no matter what happens over there, people here adore you and support you and there is no way that you can fail in our eyes, even if you get to the airport and decide not to get on the plane (as if).
It will definitely be odd to be in Minneapolis without you, but I hope you don't take it the wrong way when I say I'm sort of excited to see what unfolds. As you know, the ones who stay behind experience new adventures of their own, and it will be challenging and broadening for me to make my way here without you. Of course I'll miss you terribly. And I will be living vicariously through you, so you'd better warm up those typing fingers and get ready for some big phone bills cause I want DETAILS every step of the way!! And then you'll be back before we know it. Time really does fly. And if there's any humanly possible way for me to come see you, you know I'm going to do it.
I really can't begin to express how excited I am for you. You've been preparing for this for so long, and now you're about to do it. I know you're terrified and exhilerated. Just feel the love and faith and admiration of your friends and family, pushing you from behind like a wave you can rest on, and just keep putting one foot in front of the other, following your path wherever it leads you. I'm so proud of you, and so happy. And I can't wait to have you hurry up and go so you can come on home to me again!

I love you so achingly much.

Mo

wiggle room

The writer sits at her desk, ostensibly with so much to say, but nothing coming. She just ate a grilled cheese sandwich and is sluggish, cheese moving like drying lava through her veins instead of blood. She considers a nap. What to transcribe, what to put down, what to say. She wants to write a play. Has enough experiences and stories and characters to fill a book, but what’s the unifying factor? What, to be precise, is the point? Why should people care? She is at work, on the company clock, or surely she would take the nap idea and run with it, lay down with it, cuddle with it, the 10 hours of sleep she got last night notwithstanding. She sits next to a stack of books on writing: If you Want to Write, Writing Down the Bones, Bird by Bird, Writers on Writing. She reads them when she wants to write. They all say the same thing. Put pen to paper. Amazing that so many books have been written for people who want to write, and they all have multiple chapters, lots of pages, different publishers…and they all say the same thing: one word: Write. Right, right, just write. That’s easy, that’s…impossible…that’s like…the hardest thing in the world to do!!!! So the writer clicks her pen against her teeth, thinks about her teeth. Should she get braces again? Why didn’t she just wear her goddamn retainer as a child? She doodles a spiral, sings a Bob Dylan song in her head, plays with her lip. The lower one. Can you see it? Look. There is nothing to say! There is everything to say and no way to start, no door into the Universal. She gets up, resolves to try again tomorrow. Maybe if she reads another chapter of Writers on Writing, maybe if something interesting happens tonight, maybe if she gets more sleep, or less, or drinks more coffee, or bloody marys or…fuck it. Tomorrow, then.

THE GUILTY, RELAPSED SMOKER

You know you'd better buy that next pack of cigarettes
before you sober up,
while you're still fuzzy
enough to justify it.

You sit in your car
listening to the beautiful song
that gives you that ache
you can't put your finger on.
It's not exactly his absence,
it's not exactly him,
though that's the shape it chooses.

The wind is fierce,
tossing the fragile branches
with their new fragile buds,
the delicate green dancing just for you,
as you sit in your car,
a little drunk,
a little sad.

And then the song on the radio changes:
another sad one,
a duet,
and you're not sure about anything.
Not one single thing.

bienvenue

Well here we go and why not. I spend my days in a black box with a computer and a telephone, servicing customers and wondering what else I might be doing. As long as my brain spirals up and out of here, I suppose it's not a stretch to make my words do the same. Given the choice, I'd prefer the real world, real words, you know, being where you are. As long as where you are is open road, edge of the known, life's vibrant classroom. But, as I need to manifest some of that for myself in this box, I'll take this for now--a paltry contribution to the vast shared psychological wasteland, petrie dish, and postmodern performance place that is the internet. Don't know what I want this to be. A mandate to write. A naked page. Something true. Something risky. Let's see. On y va.