Dear Friend

October 27, 2008

Dear friend,
Have you ever taken a walk, and just heard the music that would fit perfectly whistling by? As if the scene before you is in a movie and it alone would win the Oscars for both best score and best cinematography. It is beautiful how I can do that. The other night, I was alone, not willing to invest myself in finding someone to do something with for the night, when I noticed the blaze of the trees across from my house. Dashes of crimson amongst a sea of gold-- not just your grandmother’s locket gold, or a measly gold bar gold, but Helen of Troy style, Gloria Vanderbilt gold. The kind of beautiful that makes you stop. And notice.
The leaves rustled forty feet into the air, as I left my footprints on the shade-stricken dirt path that was sandy at parts. I knew where I was going, but I compelled myself to feel fresh amongst the terrain to make it feel like an adventure. The same way one craves truffle butter or peppercorn sauce—you know what to expect, but telling yourself not to just makes it all the more entertaining. The shade felt good, the way bundling up while watching snow fall feels good. I found “Pirates” by Francois-Paul Aiche on my iPod, and I went with it. “Let’s Get Physical” by Goldfrapp, “Little Bit” by Lykke Li, and then “Blonde on Blonde” by Nada Surf. I avoided that one, because normally it makes me sad, and nostalgic for my first heartbreak, and think how much I love the movie Summer Storm. It wasn’t that bad, though.
All these songs just fit perfectly, the leaves dancing to the beat as I walked by and the sun crept away.
I got home that evening after my walk, and turned on CNN, being the respectable and classy individual that I am. Now although Anderson Cooper did a wonderful job of distracting me for a moment—legitimately being the love of my life—I could not help but wonder why people don’t think like me. Seriously. I feel that I typically make far more logical decisions than those around me, those whom in most regards have years of experience on me. I mean, the ignorance of people is just appalling. Let’s spend our AIG bailout money on an executive getaway with $23,000 in massages. Let’s carve backwards “Bs” in our faces and say we got attacked by Obama supporters. Let’s get pumped up about a new Dodge Super Duty that gets 14 miles per gallon. Dumb! Literally: Dumb! I don’t know why breaking bottles over peoples heads is so frowned upon.
I do hope that I am not rambling, but honestly, I just don’t understand the thought process. People tell me that I am mature for my age, wise beyond my years, and all I respond with is an “I know.” Over the past few months, I have been contemplating my true age. 8 days stand between me and my nineteenth birthday, but I am able to gallivant around town with people twice my age. And no, these aren’t the vagrants and sad excuses you see showing up to high school parties with their kids at home. They are grown adults. Now, what puzzles me is how this transition took place in a matter of months. I have been to more than most of the “cool” places in this city, and around this city, and outside of this city. I have done it, seen it, lived it, and laughed in its face. People talk about “glory days,” and I grow fearful. If I have seen all there is, and I am unimpressed by what I have seen, then what hope is there? I look down the wall-length bench and see 37 year olds sipping Cosmos, and take a shot myself. I am worried that these are my days of glory, but I am terrified that they have already passed. I then ask myself if have missed out, and try not to think about it.
Do you ever feel like this? I really hope so, for I feel that this separates us from the world. I am a narcissist, I’m sure, and a manic depressive to boot, but I legitimately feel that I am not wrong in most instances. I am a logical person, someone who is able to understand that sometimes things are bigger than me. Someone who alienates those who deserve it for being something less than their potential allows. Someone who knows he is better than most, because he can be.
32. That’s how old I am, by maturity. You may doubt me, but sit down to a conversation, or take me home at the end of the night, and you won’t be a skeptic. My favorite compliment is, “You are way too young to be so good at this.” Outrageous, right?
And another dumb statement that keeps appearing before me: “I can’t believe it is so cold outside.” Really? You are really unable to believe how cold it is outside? October, in Colorado, leaves falling to and fro, and you are so surprised it is a little chilly? I can only shake my head and purse my lips. But yes, it is getting colder outside. I am now parking my car in my garage to avoid scraping my windshield. That’s a tedious task, no? For Halloween I have no plans at the moment, Thanksgiving will be probably be spent eating with a thick air of an awkward silence, since I haven’t eaten dinner with my family in more than 4 months. Don’t ask me why, because I really don’t have a good answer. And I asked my mom what our plans are for Christmas, and they do not include an 18 hour drive back to Wisconsin. I am surprised, for we have gone back for one holiday every year since we moved 13 years ago.
I will miss the after dinner conversation most, and seeing my cousins. It’s always about the cousins. Except now that we don’t play store, or make snow angels, or run around in the basement, I can certainly foresee it being quite pointless. And I am getting no presents because the family cut-off age is 18, so it’s definitely pointless. I love my family dearly, but I think for the first time ever, I can stand not to see them this holiday season. And that scares me too, for I would always be so excited about lining the presents along my grandma’s fireplace. I remember one year my cousins and sister and I got little bags of glitter that were labeled reindeer food. A man impersonating Mr. Claus gave them to us, at an age in which I was starting to catch on to the elaborate charade. He scampered out the back, and being the little curious kids we were, we followed right after him. This still shocks me to this day, so, be forewarned; I don’t know how this happened, and to this day no one will talk about it. But here goes. We went outside, to the part of the backyard with a large plot of snow-covered porch. The man in red had left, but I noticed that there were hoof prints on the ground. Hoof prints, in formation, with sleigh tracks that perfectly lay directly behind. Not a shoe print in sight.
A true Christmas miracle, at least for that year. A sign of false hope that, for the sake of me not being a hypocrite, was dumb to believe. But a happy holiday it was, so thank you Saint Nick.

Kiss-Kiss,
Dante

Dear Friend

October 5, 2008

Dear friend,
I have often times felt like a burden. Not an uncommon feeling, by far, but certainly unwarranted at times; amongst my family, primarily, though with the tendency to arise in mixed company. There is really no apparent reason, for truly my life has been one to be envied. No disputes, no issues, nothing outside of the high standards of Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood. My father, the hard worker and honorable, who misses my birthday every year, no matter what. My sister, the athlete I would never be, who I’m sure will suffer as I have beneath the expectations of my parents. My mother, the enlightened, is clearly me with time to let my essence settle.
One never wants to impose if they are pure in intention. Some day, years ago, while getting a bottle of water out of my fridge, I scanned the family calendar held up by a grip of rick-rack magnets. Tae Kwon Do, Dr. Zemel, Radiation, Softball Practice—I know, right? Approaching the subject lightly, I asked, “Mom, isn’t radiation for treating cancer?” She responded equally as lightly with a “Yes, it is.” I am sure a stunned look on my face conveyed my confusion, but, something was dying to be said. “So, do you have cancer?”-- Clearly ridiculous. She carried on, conveying that she would have told my sister and me eventually, and that this was not something to worry over. And it wasn’t. She did not make it a big deal to any extent, and even now, it seems to have hardly an effect. I have the tendency to down-play all of my accomplishments, my blunders and my endeavors. Complaining is just unsightly, and to burden someone with caring about me is simply unacceptable.
In the presence of my closest and most personal friends, however, I am far from a weight on anyone’s shoulders. Legitimately, through years of interaction with people with decades behind them, I have come to discover that I have the emotional maturity of a 32 year old. An attitude has been adapted on my behalf, one of stunning persistence. For the celebration of my eighteenth birthday, a timely three months late, we all went out for a night of debauchery I would never forget. On my way, in the back seat, excitedly nervous with an overwhelming air of confidence looming low, I understood something that I knew most never would—I have the ability to move myself into a state of infinite power. When I walk through a door, unconcerned with the opinions or authority of those inside, I am infinite. To show up where I want, looking however I want, and make it clear that I belong. Infinity is taking your sixth shot, having two strippers be interested in you for more than moist dollar bills, while being rightfully considered barely legal—and walking away, careless. To act like one doesn’t care is a test of will, but to actually not care is the tell of superiority.
I do hope you feel my regret for having to tell you all of this, for I am sure you are busy with better things than my well-being, but really, you can spare a moment or two. But do you see now why I have such problems with dating?

Kiss-Kiss,
Dante