04.17.2003
"Writing old girlfriends"

Hey Daisy,
I got an email from an old ex- about a week ago. It was the sort of letter that might have belied a quiet desperation, like, "I'm sitting in a dark apartment, alone, on a Wednesday evening... What might things have been like if it had all worked out for the best? Where is this life taking me? Is it better without them?" —You know, the sort of thing that is exactly why nobody writes to long-ago ex-'s. Her's didn't imply that really, but it's the idea: That that's how your letter will be interpreted that sometimes makes writing them hard.

So I was about to just click "reply" and tell her that things are fine here. I'm just working, taking two classes, and am planning on moving around a bit after August... Tell her about my plans to do 120 hours of "Teaching English as a Foreign Language" classes, then jet off to SE Asia for a bit: Because I'm curious about the area and figure that as long as I've become so used to poverty and noodles for dinner that I may as well keep it up for a bit longer. Then perhaps write a while longer about tedious, banal things like stories about friends or recent parties and such— Just to throw in the "Perhaps you're alone, but I'm doing GREAT!" one-two combo that perpetuates the "I should have never written my ex-. What was I thinking?"

Instead I've decided to do two other things. One I'm doing now, which is writing you, because I am curious how you're getting along; am wondering where you are and what you're doing; am thinking that lots of time and water have gone under the bridge and it's silly that we don't at least keep in irregular contact.

The other thing I'm doing is not emailing a one-two typical ex- letter. Instead I'm telling her about going camping last weekend and about floating in the hot springs, looking up at stars, and recalling her and you and other ex-girlfriends. About quiet moments alone when all these things do flood into your brain and give your daydreams goosebumps. It takes guts to write to people you used to, and still do care about in a way, and nobody wants to come across as the lonely loser in the end...

So what would I say to you? After days and weeks and months and months? Perhaps that I'm still here, in Phoenix, still being an undergrad (until next month), that not much has changed. I am older, the weather is getting warm, I continue to drink coffee and press buttons in the Computing Commons (until next month). All admissions of a sedentary life which is the sort of thing I wouldn't want to report. Instead, perhaps, something about fast cars and expensive watches and wild nights; but that's far from the truth, and I'm happy sending you real thoughts instead.

Sometimes, when I'm walking past Matthews at two in the morning I think about making a Picasso painting out of paper and a smile flickers across my face. I look up at the night sky and wonder if you're doing well, and send a good thought your way. Not much help to you, really, sort of like handing someone a three dollar bill. Still, somewhat like a bogus Christmas gift, the thought is there: And it's genuine.

Peace,
Alex


Hey Erin,
So after getting an email from you the other day I went camping: Drove out to the Verde River hot springs and floated around with hippies and listened to the trailer-denzens a mile back in the campground have domestic disputes and rev their engines long into the night. The moon set, I floated up on my back, and watched the stars saturate the black sky as the last skeins of light faded on the horizon. And I thought about you, about lots of little things that we did, or things about you that I liked. And I thought about other girlfriends. And Orion passed overhead, and I shivered from the breeze, then called it a night.

Four evenings later, I'm writing another ex- and doing so by writing about what it's like to write to an ex-, because the act in itself takes some guts. Like you're going to come off as though your life is so lonely and empty that you don't have anything else to do but float on your back and reminisce about "What if's." Which, unless you're me writing to you about last Sunday night, certainly isn't the kind of impression you want to give. Most of the time, though, it feels like writing them or calling or emailing will belie that, and I can't really think of anyone whom I'd prefer to self-depriciate myself to less...

But we all have these moments, the quiet pauses in the busyness of living where the "What might have beens" seep through the cracks; flood into the brain and give your daydreams goosebumps. It's just what you make of those things, I guess.

The point? I suppose I wanted to email and tell you these things, about how you being brave and writing has caused a ripple in the water. (Forgive me if, in your opinion, no bravery was involved... if it had been the opposite way, if I had been the one to stumble across your email in my inbox and then sat down to reply I would have been feeling rather brave.) Like the cartoon where the man wakes up grumpy and kicks the dog on the way out the door who then bites the mailman who then yells at the little kid who lets the air out of the grumpy man's tires-- only in a positive way. You writing me has made me write someone else...

Like a weird chain letter.

"Writing your ex- might seem difficult at first, but just add your name to the bottom of the list and send this along to five other people and good things will come to you! Last month Veronica continued this letter along to Bob, Joe, Dan, Bill, and Jeff and her grandmother's cataracts cleared. Howard threw this letter away and was crushed like a tin can when a meteorite came rocketing through his suburban Chicago apartment..."

Anyway, it's getting late and I've got an email to write.

Peace,
Alex

(Names have been changed. Except mine.)