When you walk into a used book store, head to S, and look for David Sedaris. That's my first move every time. Sometimes I find nothing. And I move on. But trust me on this one: mosey over to the Sedaris books and flip through every page. His books are an anchor: when they don't want the memories anymore, when they need to move forward and leave it behind, people slip their baggage into his books and they disappear. I don't understand the thought process: letting something go but still knowing it's within arm's reach if you went hunting for it, all coupled with the possibility that someone can take everything away--there's no backup and it's gone. That's probably the point. I write letters to people no longer in my life. These letters address everything from missed opportunities to takebacks, compromises and future meetings. They're all feelings and emotions--it's not necessarily what I want or need. They're just the thoughts that need to come out. These are not letters I mail or stuff in a shoebox in my closet. After I finish a letter, I wait a week, read it again, and destroy it. It's a way to feel strong when you're powerless.
Which must explain why I'm so fascinated by all the marginalia and notes inside books. Some books are full of careless highlighting or analysis straight out of Cliffs Notes, but on occasion there are the deliberate messages left to strangers. A note that explains everything I destroy in my own letters. I'm not sure if this note is addressed to me: the future steward of this book. But I like to think it is.
"Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim," by David Sedaris.
The note, modularlly speaking, is fascinating. There's a mix of black and blue ink and lots of pencil (which my camera does not pick up very well). The note starts off as a poem with indentation and morphs into a statement of purpose for future relationships, the handwriting curling up the sides of the paper. The portion written in black is annotated by pencil markings in classic call-and-response form. There's also a shopping list upside down in relation to the rest of the text. This note must have been written over a short period of time, with the author returning again and again to make updates--adjusting its utility. Maybe hashed out in an afternoon, during lunch at one of the overpriced cafes on Market Street, or maybe at my favorite breakfast place on Lombard: they let you sit and write and are apologetic when they break your concentration to ask if you want a refill on your coffee. Great Belgian waffles. Quiet. Simple pleasures.
The note in pencil (
black ink is bold, blue will be noted):
"you'd know I can't sleep
without you breathing on my skin.
Looking for sailing ships in the Clouds
Red wine, on raining
mint tea, and honey
warm arms around me
Kissing my body with your fingers.
phone calls at two in the
morning. Swimming for hours
dancing
on the bar
but only on sundays
James Brown and
momson the
stares of strangers,
makes you want to
know them
to touch them.
[
Flip]
missing you, I swear and
coffee, the boy in the
Coffee
if you knew me
Shop
but
you
don't know me and there fine
you'd know I hate the phone
y
ou'd know my love for christmas and t
you cannot
rue friends
love me
you'd know know that when I [heart], I love whole hearted.
unfortunately
(with my all)
[blue] because you [/blue] deserve
nothing less, than my
everything.
[Laundry list:]
Shampoo
Toothpaste
Nail polish Remover
City College Ap."
There's some other redacted text above the phone line, but is illegible [see squiggly marks in photo]. There's also a receipt from a trip to Anthropologie where she bought "JRNL LEMON DROPS BLUEBIR 9.95 T" She paid cash:
If she shops at Anthropologie she doesn't stop dreaming. Get out while you still can. =)
