Once I was told that a letter should be worth reading. It's sort of an aphorism, and sounds Mark Twain-ish, maybe I heard it from a professor. Anyway I put some stock in that thought and if you and I correspond, you know I try and make it worth reading. You and I don't correspond, though. I know this because basically the only people I write letters to regularly are half of the Summit staff (I publish a daily missive at work) and my mom and dad. I get told that I should bind the dailies at work into a book, and one day I might. I would have to take out all the names to protect the innocent.
In the meantime,
here's another letter...
Its a Thursday morning. Its raining. Do you know they say you should never begin a novel with a sentence about the weather? Then again writers say that you should never listen to other writers. I am not a writer.
The neighbors will be mad if they are home. He could not help himself and genuinely did not care, however. He jumped higher and higher each time, mumbling along since he truly didn't know all the words Chuck D was saying, jubilantly cheering, "Can't Truss it!" along with Flava Flav when the time came. Fleetingly he considered downloading all of Public Enemy's music, but instead sipped more coffee. His beautiful and talented girlfriend had left the apartment moments before, in a rush to catch the bus that took her to rehearsals. He had made her scrambled eggs and brought them, an adoring fawning man deeply in love, to her along with coffee spiked with Swiss Miss and 2% milk while she reviewed dance videos by the rain smeared window. Yesterday the couple had begun the day even earlier, he had trudged through the slushy snow to the car, a rented Audi. She peered into the mirror applying mascara. She was nervous because she was shooting with very hot photographer http://michaeldonovanphotography.com/portfolio4.html and wanted the shots to be good. Her agency had labeled her a "bod girl." Her agent, a woman who had plucked her from a yoga studio, was planning to use the commissions she made from Marissa's work to buy a new Porsche next year. Marissa could not conceive of such success and was naturally demure about her looks. He smiled and knew better. The dishwasher resoundingly clunked in the kitchen. He noticed that the carpet needed vacuuming.
He began to sneeze. The sneezes came from deep in his lungs and he moved not unlike a strange bird dipping into a pond as he found his way to the bathroom and spun the toilet paper from the roll. He loved the sneezes, they felt somehow great. He needed to think about leaving the house. Outside the weather was uninviting. Rain and cold. He would leave anyway, as soon as he had finished writing to his mother.
His thoughts went to his younger sister. She was brilliant, and she had the same quality of youthful enthusiasm for life that had made him jump around to the music earlier. maybe this was genetics? Passed down from mother to son and daughter? He had to get ready, although the appointment he had was of not to significant importance: he had a physical therapist who was helping him to improve his running. Such was the life that he now found himself able to focus time and money on hobbies.
Life was good for this man, and he knew it.