The Coolest Thing

It could've happened anywhere, but I just love this city so dang much. It highlights the awesomeness of following your whims in a city where hustle and bustle almost always take the lead.

Wednesday night I received a postcard with a lovely Gauguin painting on the front of two smart and mischievous-looking women. On the back read:

Simonian,
I found an empty envelope on the ground on 5th Ave. and 14th St. It was a welcome treat to find such a lonely envelope and I felt it necessary to send a little postal cheer back your way. I hope this post-card finds you well and happy. Spring is coming and the city will soon be at its best. Good luck in all you pursue this spring and beyond!
-Emily

She included her address, should I want to write her back, and of course I did for a myriad of reasons. But mostly for this one - it's so easy to forget how to LIVE. It's easy to remember all the crap we have to do or get done, but it feels so extra-special to be on the receiving end of unanticipated well-wishes, and even more satisfying to throw a handful of seeds into the air and be content to see or not see - what grows. It's a reminder of how important, and easy it is - to keep life interesting.

Thanks Emily!

Thisisgonnabequick!

Listen. I have no business writing right now.... I'm supposed to be studying for a huge-o homeopathy board exam that I may likely fail (though I'm not supposed to say that). But my family and I have had a rough few weeks, as my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, then had a lumpectomy, and was deemed healthy yesterday. They got 'it all' apparently, and her protocol involves radiation and a drug she doesn't want to take. As a matter of fact, I'll post her email to all of us kids here:

Subject: Me Me Me
Just a quick note to let you know that I am going to live to a ripe (or withered) old age. My cancer hasn't metastasized and only one of three lymph nodes showed cancer. The next step seems to be radiation for 6 weeks and then whatever the oncologist suggests. Except that I am not open to oncology suggestions. I am still following an intense homeopathic protocol and at this time don't see the need for anything further. Thanks for your support of me and your dad through some rather unsettling days. Love, Connie

We're so happy. I don't know if you can tell what she's like from this email, but she's a singular lady. That was the big problem with imagining my mom dying. How would I explain her to anyone who never met her?

My friend Patty Griffin (I don't even know her, but damn, her music!) says 'As far as I can tell most everything mean nothing, except some things mean everything.'

'nuff said.

A New Dawn

I bet there are a lot of people who can't NOT WRITE - blog, email, letters, whatever - at a moment such as this.

Never have I been moved to tears of joy by an election. I've felt emotional, on the positive and negative side, depending on the election. But this brings up hope, love, and allowing ourselves to invest in a leader again. To feel something for a stranger - for a man we'll likely never meet.

I watched and listened to Barack Obama last night as he delivered his acceptance speech. The way he included us, included ALL OF US - especially those who didn't vote for him. He said 'I'm your president too' and said he'd do his best to represent all our interests. He urged us to come together, but mostly, he allowed us to remember what it's like to believe that is even possible. He's taken the most fractured nation and invited us to mend our wound as a people, as a country. He uses togetherness, instead of separateness - to govern, to heal.

We've been used to 8 years of the darkest form of governing possible. Fear tactics, lies, playing on differences among people to breed more fear. It's sick. We've been sick as a nation because of it. And here we've elected the right doctor to help us heal ourselves. He's inviting us to. That is reason alone for hope. We were able to make a healthy choice; we were offered an opportunity for change and responsibility and we recognized it and took advantage of that opportunity.

I've cried and cried to be able, to be given permission, to hope like this. But it's also scary to hope, to trust again in some ways, because what if this is taken from us? I'm not alone in my worry that certain diseased people will, out of fear of change, seek to obliterate that possibility. What can we learn from what Barack Obama is inviting us to do? He's teaching us how to hope again, to involve ourselves again, to take individual responsibility for participating in a nation that we create and nourish together. The gem of his guidance is that the world can be what we dare to dream and work for.

I'm off to a day in the new world today.

Nice-Ass Paper

It's been forever since I've written, and I have to say there are many reasons. (I always start these out with some excuse, so it's my format. Please be patient.)

I admit it here and now and will say it only once; I skipped about 4 days of letter writing. I've made up for them with doubling down on certain days prior and following, but this wasn't originally about putting out 365 letters, but putting them out consistently. But you know what? It's my project and my tiring life so it'll have to do. I will re-work and mold the rules as I see fit. Whatever it takes to make it so that what I actually did, works perfectly. It's nice being me.

A bunch of things have happened in the last month. I got married. That was huge. It was fun writing the letter on the wedding day. To whom, you might ask? My mother. I wrote my husband the following day, the first day of our married life together. He got a postcard because I was exhausted. A little foreshadowing into married life, perhaps.

I've been swimming in letters, postcards, writing materials and inquiries. 'Are you still doing the letters?' etc. is one of the more common openers from friends these days. It's replaced 'How are you?' and I'll take it. The answer is either Yes! Or an exasperated, grrr, yes - or a barely-audible-because-I'm-so-tired yes. There are many inflections to the answer yes, as I've learned from responding to the letter-project inquiry.

Mostly though, I want to report that today, in the mail, I received the following:
Four postcards. One from a friend who lives in Norway, but is on vacation in Paris right now. One from two friends in Brooklyn, where we live, congratulating us on the marriage. The other two are from a friend in Tennessee, and one contained a poem, even! Then a card addressed to both of us again. The last piece of mail was a check.

This is a red letter day for mail, folks! I've reached Nirvana. Not only way more personal mail than bills, but NO bills AND a check in the mail!!! The only potential problem I see here is that I will cease to appreciate my good fortune should it keep up. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to invite hate mail. Not ever. There's something more sinister about a piece of evil traveling through the post and making it to your door than if someone just called you or yelled in your face. I much prefer a hate phone call. But knowing someone took the time to write out the hate and send it your way, nobody needs that. Except the hater, maybe.

But curseth thee, thy haters! I am here to say that I didn't pick today's mail contents to discuss because it was so exceptional. Though it was better than average, today's mail actually represented the gestalt of my mailbox these days. Lots of love. So three and a half months in, my overall rating rests at WORTHWHILE. Only eight and a half months to go. More reports to come, but for now, I will adjourn - I have a friend who signed her divorce papers yesterday so she needs something written on some nice-ass paper. (That means 'paper that is nice'. I'm not going to write her a letter on fancy toilet paper, nor do I have stationary that says 'Nice Ass!' though, come to think of it....)

My letter to James Tate

I've mentioned my dumb letter to James Tate. Well, I'm publishing it here.

There are a few things about James Tate. He was born in the same year as my mother, who is also a writer. His father died in World War II, my grandfather fought in that war. And my grandfather is the writer who's letters inspired the letter-writing dance of this year. And all these letters of his that I've been drinking in, were written to my mother.

It's non-linear, but it's fun for me to turn over and over in my mind.


June 13, 2008

Dear James Tate,

I'm writing one letter a day for a year. This is the exercise I've devised to celebrate the lost art of letter writing and to get my brain tumbling forward.

That's the background. The fun part is that each day it becomes obvious to whom I should write. It's 11:46 and I'm staring at your book, "Return to the City of White Donkeys" at my bedside. I LOVE THIS BOOK! I've loved it for a few years, since I got it as a gift from the bass player in my old band, as he thought my roommate, who is a poet, would like it. (This is getting to be a long story.) Anyway, I stole it when I moved out. Or maybe 'claimed' it - is a better way of putting it. But it's a treasure. I use it like I use only the most special things. You see, the most special things are the only things that can truly do the trick.

One poem, maybe two - when I need to dial in. My mother gave me a music box (you turn the crank) that plays Beautiful Dreamer - when I was 8. That's a special relic as well.

Anyway, this goes on - thank you. I really love the book.

Best, Erika

Remembering and Forgetting

I am getting married in September. That's one angle of this whole thing.

So I figured, without thinking too hard about it, to somehow ORGANIZE my past. I know, it's ridiculous. I didn't really think about it, I just started doing it before I realized what I was doing.

My grandfather wrote amazing letters. I'm tempted to transcribe one here, but I can't make a decision on which one right yet - just too overwhelming. What I do know is that I took on compiling a book of my grandfather's letters for my mother as a thank you gift for hosting this wedding. And I've been swimming in the words of my family ever since.

Letters from my grandfather to my mother, his only child.
Letters from my father to my mother, before they were married.
Letters from my grandmother to other members of my family, but never to my mother, her only child. They didn't get along.

The lynchpin of the whole thing, the only surviving member of this vortex, is my mom. The rest are long dead. It is so strange to be reading these, flanking my day by reading one in the am, one in the pm. In some ways, it's a fantasy of the past, in others, a tangible reality - a piece of paper with thoughts written out, signed by the author. After all, you write letters when you're moved to communicate. It's getting all the inspired moments of someone and reading them at once, post-mortem. I wish my grandfather was back, but it's because I surface into reality every now and again. I feel like he IS here through reading all this. Every now and then I pop my head up from that world and check back into this one, remembering he's gone.

I'm still exploring, as there are more and more letters to read. I'm conscious of reading them only once, maybe parts twice. But it's much like a novel you don't want to end, but more. I'm walking slowly and quietly through this place, so as not to disturb anything. I want to stop and camp in certain sites before moving on or going home again. I feel like I'm with my grandfather, like he still lives with us, like he did when we were in high school. I didn't appreciate him then. Of course, I feel guilty about that.

A fact about my mom - she is about the least sentimental human being, a dyed-in-the-wool practical woman. So this leads me to the fact that I have to throw my body between her and anything I care to preserve. She won't explore a box of letters, a trunk full of old stuff. Paintings we had in the living room for years, suddenly without value. It brings up the question of value as well, as I've discussed with my friend Andy. His father is like my mother. Things that once meant so much, had SO much VALUE, so to speak, and are being sold at garage sales or plain thrown out. Brings up the question of what is value anyway? In observing my mother's and my very different styles (I save everything-) I've realized that we represent two kinds of people; those who don't want to forget (me), and those who either a) DO want to forget, or b) whose memories aren't dependent on tangible reminders of the past, or c) those who just don't care whether or not they forget. See, I need the letters to remember, to feel the vibe again, for transcendence to some other time in my life. Otherwise, I forget what seem to be important aspects of myself, of my past.

But, are they really important? If I don't remember them, do they matter? (A psychiatrist somewhere is having a field day with this one - like, YEAH. Ever heard of REPRESSION?) But I'm talking more the ilk of 'if a tree falls in the woods and no one is nearby, did it make a sound?' That kind of importance is debatable.

My mother probably wants to forget. Like Andy's father, she just moves forward from wherever she is, and moving forward is way more important than anything else. I don't know where I'm going with this post, except that this whole thing has become a whirlpool - and the whirlpool aspect gets put out of my head by writing about it. I guess now I can move forward.

I am still writing a letter a day. Sometimes to myself. I've written 3 now to myself. It's mostly when I can't stand to send anyone else my heart's wrestling-match-of-the-day. I also wrote a band I heard playing in Tompkins Square Park last Friday. The trumpet was soooo soooothing. They made me happy, so I returned the favor. I've received amazing letters in these past weeks - as well as books, postcards, gorgeous stationary and a magical pen. People are making me cry, actually. And I got word from my first person-on-board, Marta Lee. She started writing a letter a day two days ago, and started with one to herself that she'll open in 20 years. She's 16 now, so when she's my age, she'll be reading her younger self. How lovely... I hope she'll keep us posted.

Art of Letters Part 2 - Written July 11th

This is, in fact, about blogging. And what a horrible blogger I've been. When I embarked on this journey to write a letter a day (which I've done now for over a month, just 10 and change to go-) I thought, "This'll be interesting and fluid and full of discovery and oh, how I'll want to write about it." Well, though it has proven to elicit many wonderful curiosities of my heart that might never have otherwise surfaced, let's just say my enthusiasm for the project goes in waves.

Before I blather on, let me begin with the honorable mentions: My dear friend NINA FRENKEL was the first to write me back. She waited for whim and fancy and sent it my way. We covered primarily, questions of 'the name'. ie: Does one live INTO the name they've been given or is there some other relationship? We also considered those who rebel somewhat against their name. Like a devilish Angelica or a super-scientific Faith. Of course, for the regular namey-names like Erika, for example, that one COULD interpret, what with the K and all - to be kind of HARD. Good thing I'm all silly-putty on the inside.

KNIGHT BERMAN of the Marble Tea - also wrote an awesome letter. This is a musing and musical man, folks, a delight of a person to hang out in the same room with, or on paper. He and I have expanded and contracted our circles of thought together numerous times until we're either in the stars or talking molecular structure. (We don't know much about either, as it turns out, but we go with it.)

Even with consistent output on my my end, I still fail to receive very many letters back or even much acknowledgment of the letters I've written. My friend BEN (bencramer.org - not dot com, who is a Dutch pornstar, we discovered...) said he read someone's opinion that it is rude to write letters, as it makes the recipient feel they've got to write back. To this I say GET OVER IT. Is that my problem? Your insistence that you must write back, whether I care or not, makes ME rude? (Not putting this on Ben, though I have been known in the past to kill the messenger.)

Ben sent me back something pretty dang exciting - an ink-pad, stamps of the various letters of the alphabet, numbers 0-9, along with some stamp icons such as hearts and balls. (I'm still not sure what to do with the ball.) What an inspirational tool just when I needed something to get excited about! I thanked him for all the letters he sent me in response to my two. (Yes, I wrote him twice.)

Which brings me to the next topic (I haven't written about this in all too long so I'm trying to get it all in here...) which is, it's so interesting to realize to whom you want to write on a given day. And the recipient determines the tone and content of the letter. Some people just draw out different parts of you. Sure, we know this, but writing a letter every day makes you REALLY know it.

Rule #1 of this game - wait until it's totally obvious to whom you should write. It really does get revealed daily.

Rule #2 - you can repeat. It's a whole year, so you've got to go with inspiration in whatever form it arrives.

Rule #3 - You don't have to SEND all your letters. For example, I wrote to my favorite poet, James Tate and sounded like an 8 year old asking for an autographed picture. Actually, it wasn't even that interesting. I was tired, okay? I didn't send it.

My friend Jenny-Sue gets a lot of letters. As a matter of fact, she's my leading 'lazy fallback'. I can tell her anything, show her any mood, so she bears the brunt of my late night 'about to fall asleep and haven't done this yet' throw-away letters. I don't send her all of those, either. But she gets an honorable mention as well just for being her and providing me the downy mattress that she is.

My most major of realizations is that merely taking on a task of writing a letter a day is really not enough. You can't live your life with no time, chock full - and have this work or be fun in any way. You have to make time for allow for the whimsical nature of letter-writing to take over. So it's not just about getting it done daily - and believe me, I've treated it that way some days. It's really only satisfying on the days when I allow that time, dedicate half an hour to writing my letter, allowing the flexible time in my life that satisfaction from such an event requires. Then it's excitement all over again. Aaaah, letters. May I never write another.

More soon, and thanks for reading.

Art of Letters, Post #1

Written on June 8, 2008

Letters. That's what this is going to be about, from now and for the year to come. 

I really think letters - handwritten or typed, but sent through the postal service - are a lost art form. This romantic style of communication harkens back to the pre-e-mail period. (There's the Paleolithic Era, the Pleistocene Era, B.C, A.D, and then Pre-E.) Pre-E is not so long ago, folks. That's when we could write and people understood the emotion.

I recognize some overlap in the periods - between Peleolithic and B.C, Pleistocene and B.C., between A.D. and Pre-E. I forgot to mention the Plasticine Era, in which we are right now. (See Poland Spring and Evian for starters. It goes on from there and just ends up in a landfill, but that's for another day.)

Back to letters - this past week I've embarked on an exercise, all inspired by letters. The trajectory of how I got here is not quite so interesting, but the process is, and I recommend it. I'm writing on e letter a day for an entire year. Granted I'm 5 days into this project (just 360 to go!) but here's what I've noted thus far:

Rewards:

My mind keeps MOVING. It's fun to get the juices flowing daily like that. 

You remember how to write. Physically. 

You get to use up all those little address stickers that come in the mail. Whoda thunk?

You're communicating with people you love, and some others*.

Other notables - 

I thought I'd spend a truckload on supplies, but I've calculated that I'll spend approximately $152 on stamps for the year. Not bad, if I do say so myself. Paper and envelopes, let's just say another $50 (I'm into stationary, so I'm upping the price of regular paper here.) Besides, you have to keep it exciting and inspiring if you're going to do this every day. I think between paper bags I find on airplanes, plain ol' white printer paper, ripped out notebook paper and nicey-nice paper that I find in overpriced stores that I love, $50 should about cover it. 

Ways to even out your project costs, should this plague you:

1. Have 76 less store bought coffees this year. Make 'em at home.

2. Starve yourself for a week. You'll save money AND this is bound to make your letters more interesting. 

3. Write over text on junk mail sent to your home - a.k.a. recycling.

4. Seduce your mail carrier for some 'free delivery'

5. Try selling your letters. Kick up a table on the street, next to a mailbox - and lay them out with a sign saying 'BEST LETTERS EVER. YOU WANT ONE.' Then explain that each one is unique and amazing. The buyer 'buys' one of your letters for the price of a stamp, piece of paper and envelope (50 cents, maybe?) and you fill out their address in front of them, stamp it and drop it into the mailbox beside you. People love getting letters, people! This could work. 

I have a lot more I can say about this plan, the inception of the letter-writing campaign in my heart, it's inspiration, how it ties in personally so much right now, but I hesitate to blather it all at once. I plan to blog about this process a few times a month. I'm still in the pregnant phase, where those to whom I wrote the first ones might just be receiving them about now. I imagine I'll get some back, but who knows? I hadn't thought about that so much until recently. You can draw all kinds of statistics around the project. "Most likely to write back were 20-somethings with small dogs." Or "Least likely to acknowledge the communique at all were psychics." The world is wide open.

Join me on the expedition if you want and you can start anytime. When I finish on June 5, 2009, you'll still be going, which is fabulous; like a round - a reverberation of the personal letter, resounding throughout the land. 

* people you don't love, or entities, such as corporations or businesses, notably airlines.