Dear You
A story is like a letter.
Dear You, I'll say. Just You, without a name. Attaching a name attaches you to the world of fact, which is riskier, more hazardous: who knows what the chances are out there, of survival, of yours? I will say You, like an old love song. You can mean more than one.
You can mean thousands.
-Margaret Atwood
I realized some time ago that I write a lot of things in the second person. Poetry, especially, but also prose. Sometimes the entire piece is addressed to someone(s), sometimes it's more of an aside, a small missive snuck into the larger body of work. Looking back, I realize that I have pretty much always done this: addressed my writing to a person, or people. When I was young, I addressed my diaries to various people. Sometimes close friends, as though my whole diary was one long letter (or series of letters) to them. Other times, I addressed them to my favorite fictional characters, or dead rock stars. I often addressed my journals to Anne Shirley (as in, from Anne of Green Gables). When I was fourteen/fifteen, I briefly wrote my journals to Janis Joplin, but then I turned Punk and alternated between writing to Sid Vicious and Johnny Thunders. (I know. Hush.) And I've been writing zines and blogs/online journals since I was very young, and those are like letters, too--letters to You, as in, hundreds, thousands. You, the reader. You, the other lonesome weirdo who might need to hear the things I need to say.
Of course, there are times when the You is someone specific. A former friend or lover I don't talk to anymore. Dear dead ones who I can't talk to anymore, except through writing, except in my own head. Friends or old flames or current crushes, people I still talk to but can't say that particular thing to. There are things I can put in poetry or prose and let hundreds, thousands of people read, that I couldn't send directly to the one they are meant for. I always hope the intended person reads those pieces and wonders if they're about them--because they can wonder all they want, but they'll never know for sure, because I'll never tell.
And sometimes, sometimes You is me. A lot of my things are addressed to myself--my younger self, my older self, or even me as I am right now. Sometimes saying you feels even more intimate than saying I.
This tinyletter is like that, too. I am writing to my subscribers, I am writing to my muses, I am writing to everyone I can't say these things to one-on-one, I am writing to myself. But I will say You, like an old love song. Dear You, I'll say, like that Jawbreaker album. Which a lot of purists love to hate on because it was released by a major label, but, after 24 Hour Revenge Therapy, is maybe my next-favorite Jawbreaker album.
Dear You, I Love You So Much It's Killing Us Both.
Dear You--
I wrote the first half of this letter yesterday morning; wrote it by candlelight and the wan cloud-covered light coming through my window, with a mug of lukewarm coffee next to me. I wrote it by candlelight because it stormed all night long and into the morning, and the last big storm cell that rolled through knocked our power out. I wasn't bothered by it, not at first. It was sorta romantic, to be writing by candlelight after a summer storm. I thought I'd save this as a draft, leave for a few hours and come back to the power back on, finish this letter, send it off. No big deal.
Instead, I came back to the power still off, and our basement flooded with six inches of water. I'm not going to say too much about it, because, well, it's terrible but also really boring. Suffice it to say that I spent my entire evening trying to move valuables and easily damaged things out of the water, and making phone calls to/dealing with WE Energies and the guys who came to pump the water out of the basement. Twenty-six hours have now passed since the power went out, and it's still not back on.
And a large portion of my zine collection got ruined, and I'm really fucking sad about that. Even if our renters' insurance covers some of the damaged items, most zines are long out of print and therefore irreplaceable. It's always hardest for me to lose things that have sentimental value, whether they're worth a lot of money or not. Thank god my photographs and scrapbooks and journals were all in plastic bins.
Dear You--
Before the flooding happened, when I thought it was just a power outage due to a summer storm--and afterward, when I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep last night--I couldn't help but think of my friend Erik.
He died a year ago, so he's been on my mind a lot lately, anyway. Yesterday, especially. See, his band had a song called "Lightning Knock the Power Out." So when that exact thing happened, almost a year to the day after his death, I took it as a kind of sign. A sign that he's still around on some plane, still fucking shit up. (Nitwit got the global joystick, and long may the cockroach thrive.)
I'm glad he's floating around in the ether and saying hello from time to time. But it really fucking hurts that he's gone.
Dear You--
It has been a rough week and a bit, full of personal frustrations and fears about the future, anniversaries of deaths, flooded basements, and a family friend winding up in the hospital. But there have been a couple small things that have helped me through.
One is the new Sheer Mag album. I'll write more about it later, but right now just let me say, good god, Tina Halladay's voice. It's absolutely scorching.
Another is my new typewriter. I've wanted a new one for a long time. Don't get me wrong, I adore my Underwood, but it's really old and hasn't worked properly in years. It needs a full clean-and-tune-up, which I plan on giving it eventually, but in the meantime I wanted something new, that was fully functional. Here she is:
Yeah, it's one of those ones from Michael's, made for Scrapbook Moms (which I guess I technically am, jinkies), but it's nearly impossible to find brand new manual typewriters these days. Any place I looked online that had new typewriters, or refurbished, like-new used ones, they cost at least $100 more than this one, plus shipping and handling. I hate the we r memory keepers logo, so I'm going to order this lovely Sylvia Plath-inspired sticker to place over it. Otherwise, though--what a goddamn sexy piece of machinery. I'm already so inspired by her.
That's all, for now. More next week or the week after, whenever I find the time.
Thanks for reading, dear you.
xoxo,
Jessie Lynn McMains