Jul. 05, 2003 - 12:15 a.m.
Dear Vincent,
letter ONE hundred SEVENTY
I thought that since this is letter one hundred seventy, (scattered applause) that I would start it off festively. Since this is a letter, and there are only so many festive ways to start a letter, I settled for starting with a sentence fragment with unnecessary capitalization. I debated about starting with some onomatopoeia. Then I realized, that's so flashy and cheap. Romance novels usually start and end with a good 'BANG', with a few purchased in ink in between just for the sake of consistency. So I skipped the onomatopoeia, and instead began the uphill struggle of trying to spell it.
I sense that maybe letter one hundred seventy should be remarkable. Shocking revelation, plot twist, especially witty... I suspect that none of the above will actually happen. Because after one hundred and seventy letters, I'm still a small town blond who can't get out of the habit of jumping the last three steps when I go down steps and who bruises easily and in varying shades of violet, the most attractive of which is plum. And because I'm still just me, I can guarantee Vincent, that letter one hundred and seventy will be relatively docile.
I have a black umbrella. It's a very austere, upright umbrella, that would do well to protect the head the most respectable businessman. It would do well at that, except it doesn't for I am no respectable businessman, nor would I ever desire to be such. And since it is raining here, again, the umbrella has begun to escort me out. I offer it my arm and off we go. And when I arrive, I arrive, alas, very dry. The red haired four year old across the street who floats the neighborhood freely like a bit of driftwood, likes to ask me where I'm going in her pipe like voice. Far from being annoyed, or affronted, I find it almost a welcome question. She is a very exact child. When she asks "Where are you going?" an acceptable response is not "for a walk." Gravely, she looked at me just today when I told her I was "going for a walk" and said, "that's not a somewhere, where are you going to?" I greet her the same way, "Hey Em, what's up?" Sometimes she turns my own question back at me, "Hey Em, what's up?" When it's very early in the morning, I tell her, "me. I'm up."
What if umbrellas were impervious to things other than water- like insults? You could be sitting in a coffee shop not minding your own business but doing a good job of looking like you are, when it becomes clear that there is palpable tension between the couple to your right. Maybe it's that steely way he's focusing on something over her shoulder, or the way she snatches a napkin from beneath his finger tips to swat the dot of coffee he spilled when he set his cup on the table with just a bit too much emphasis. Then, they're fighting in sibilant whispers. Rather than sit back and face the insults much like a camper without bug spray or a bug zapper or an outlet to plug the bug zapper into faces mosquitoes, yup much like that, the squabble becomes a tragic parody of an old western shoot out. She reaches for her antiquated long floral umbrella. He's a little behind on the draw but he smiles a smug smile as he whips out his compact little black umbrella which opens in one smooth motion when he presses the little button on the handle. Despair is written on her face as she makes a desperate effort to get her umbrella unfurled. Wait! The button on his umbrella is sticking. Panic writes itself in his eyes and he watches in horror as she clicks her umbrella into upright position. You can see his face contort as her carefully chosen insult slips past his umbrella just before it pops into place. Argument and pain, avoided. The thing is you'd have to be really careful about putting your umbrella in crowded places. Because maybe you'd escape a few zingers from your honey, but if you put your umbrella up in the eye of the WWF wrestler sitting next to you that umbrella is not going to protect you from the sickeningly painful punch that will kiss your face with a crunch and mangle your umbrella on the way.
I have another 'what if' for this letter. What if people had to audition for life? Wisps of would be people would sit around in a waiting room riffling frantically through their scripts. One would be would sit next to another and glance curiously at their part and maybe say something like, "It sucks, I'm trying out for this part as this guy who sleeps through the night at three weeks but becomes an insomniac later..." "Yeah well this woman's husband" (gestures to script) "leaves her with a kid but her business takes off about a year later, and she sleeps really well after the kid goes off to college..."
Yesterday, I went into town for the parade and fireworks. I didn't sit through the whole parade. I left after the port a pots rolled by. I can't say I didn't take anything away from the whole experience though. I did get a plastic American flag for free. It was great- red, white, blue and black. Yes, I said black Vincent. The black was what the words "MADE IN CHINA" were printed in.
"Atonement." I finished with "Atonement" a while ago. Note, I did not say I had 'finished' "Atonement" just 'finished with.' I got within sight of the end and couldn't gag down another line. The author can write, but he is not a writer. The plot was so dry it was dusty. The characters are static and distant. The title, however, was skillfully chosen. I indeed, felt as though I were doing penitence for something awful I'd done while I read "Atonement." To it's credit the plot synopsis of "Atonement" is the most brilliant of its type of writing. It takes a perfectly miserable, pointless, and plot less book with aspirations of profundity and makes it seem as though it could be the read of the century. And so Vincent, I beg of you, let's not shelve "Atonement." It's not worthy of a shelf. We could use some of its pages as tissues, and some to make paper airplanes, or we could cut the middles out of the pages and make a book box. But by all means, let's not read any more of it. Care to choose another or should I?
Doubtless, the August Suspicious Clowns endeavor at Second City will be amazing. I'm glad you had your doubts because it seems when you worry things come off famously anyway. Therefore, the misgivings you had about the various impending shows must be a good omen.
And by the way, the punning in your last letter was punderful... :)
In association with,
Meghan
what they said - what they will say
