god came and smacked me in the face then, just because

dear me,
me me me in the future me,

Yesterday I received a letter from myself, my own name in my own black ink print scrawled across a white envelope. It was disorienting. It was wrong. I opened the letter in the dining room where I had not sat in years. I planted my feet onto the seat back and counted each breath like cherished china dolls. I made myself tea in a familiar unfamiliar mug. I wanted to tell my mother that, did you know, just last month your daughter almost tore open her own veins on the bathroom floor with an exacto blade covered in dried gesso and paint. That she put a metaphorical gun to her own head and said doitmotherfucker, like the answer was hidden somewhere in the back of her brain and she would find it in all the pieces. But instead she crawled back into bed, naked down the hallway, wondering if this is what twenty-three really looks like.

The letter I wrote to myself in the tenth grade found its way to this house now, right now, in this limbo between lives. A fitting time to write a letter to myself in the future, I suppose. I promise I'm not going to phrase this like the last one--I won't make guesses as to where you are. But I will ask you questions. Let me just say that I hope this inner peace I'm on a mission to find was in there somewhere.

The idea of writing a letter to myself creates conflicts of the "I". If I can write a letter to myself, apart from my now-self, then my whole concept of self must be skewed. Is the "I" dependent upon time? Does the me in this moment contradict the one that lives in the next? I talk about "my brain", "my hands" as if I own them, so my corporeal self must have been bought-out by ...my brain? Or my soul. Or all that jazz...... (maybe you can make more sense of this than I can)

Are you going to church? Age twenty-three, years declared a devout atheist, searching for god in the personal ads and underneath mattresses, in bold lines of coke stretched across mirrors in that apartment overlooking downtown San Francisco. Before seven beers and I passed out and woke up screaming and kicked him in the face, we did Tarot reading and drank champagne. John, I'm sorry. Maybe you're talking to him now. He's not a bad guy, and maybe it really was an accident. But try as I might, barefoot in the Mission or naked in his apartment, I could not find god there. While in Portland I went to UU church with Elisa every Sunday and it filled me with warmth like Sunday School never did. Gigantic big light. I hope you still have something comparable.

Last week I met a beautiful boy in Pittsburgh who wrote poetry that I was happy not reading, who had those dark, brooding, intellectual eyes that hold my interest long enough to make an impact. He was smart, I suppose, not shiny-brilliant. I knew well enough that he wasn't good enough for me. It was a curious feeling. I think he felt it too, as he blew kisses at me as I left, sure to probably never speak again. Keep your ego in check but don't settle. Oh there is that tall skinny artist with the dark nail polish, gaunt cheekbones, slightly pointy nose. He's bloody brilliant, bloody gorgeous. Do you still love him? He loved you.... loves you? I won't speculate on this one. He's probably still a mystery.

Watch out for yourself. Really. I trust people so completely and I hope you still do. I hope someone hasn't come in and bloodied you up and made you jaded like pretty much everyone else. Oh. And you're beautiful. Yah, I know, I forget sometimes, but I hope you've finally figured it out. Let go of high school, the last tiny shreds eating away at your ego like you deserve it. You don't. And that boy that you loved in high school? Maybe you still talk, that's cool, but I don't love him now and you better god damn not either. You better still wear turquoise, not turn your back on strangers, and give money to the street kids flying signs for change.

The God my mother tried to feed me may not have done me any good, but my grandmother's got my back. There is a spirit in all things.

I hope you found homeopathy and it made you happy. I hope it's finally something you can put your heart into and not question. Make it yours like you make poetry. You are on this planet for only so long and you can only hope to do as much good as you can while you're here.
Do it loud. Do it strong.
...and fuck anyone who calls it mumbo jumbo, new age crap. Excuse me. They are allowed their opinion. Enlighten them.

I hope you're a little less angry.
Did you really truly find that inner peace?

Meditate. Love. Listen. Dance. Laugh. (always laugh)

-k