Dear Judgy McJudgerson,

It's true, we all judge.  You seem to feel all people are judgmental, so I wish to note a distinction between appraisal and judgement.  We greet each other and various situations with biological instinct, myriad social and cultural ideas, and personal experience.  We use these to evaluate people and situations.  This period of appraisal helps us decide how we feel, what we think, how we might act.   It is often a short route to judgement.  The opinion is formed, and we carry on accordingly.  Some circumstances require a steady stream of appraisal with thousands of judgements, big and small, filling in it's dimensions.  In the best of times we leave each other a little room.  

Figure it out,

The D.L.

 

Dear ghosts of violence past,

Where are we? East 76th? 77th? I know Jill and I passed Hodge on the way to her house. We talk on the right-side porch of it's narrow worker's frame. She may be chewing something.

The street fills with a rush of bodies. Jill's father (only remembered sighting) steps out of the screen door behind us. Her brothers are in the fist of men, and they fight suddenly, fiercely in the relative quiet of the afternoon. Our hearts pounded faster with their hearts as they pounded each other, waving their arms clumsily, but often, with cruel and meaty contact. Jill's father passes us, walks into the center of this throng and it seems for a moment that everything inside that circle of men is waving, showing itself slowly, showing it's circular patterns. It's musical arcs. Her mother opens the door in her suspicious, straight-backed way. Her shoulders slump. She is completely closed and a little electric. She looks thickly smooth, golden.

A nail poking through thin board hisses, and flattens the time shift. The nail finds an ear, tears through, pulls- it bleeds. We touch our ears. Jill's mother runs forward and the face of the lost ear blurs.

Enough! More dreams of flying.

The D.L.

Dear magic pie lady,

I was driving west on Waterloo when you appeared on the roadside at your card table with a sign reading 'Homemade Pies.' Six little pies rowed neatly around your table's center. They were $2.99 each which seemed funny in a 'you are super adorable!' way. As you approached me the sun lit your face, and the dark cropped hair curling around your head. The look in your eyes was incredible-- how I imagine a seasoned lioness basking at her day's end might, or a tree-covered autumn hill seen past a blazing valley. Gorgeous, glowingly warm, all at once intimate and impenetrable.

I said 'What kind of pie is it?', and you responded 'Sweet potato.'

I said I would like three, please.

Woman, it felt like you put a balm on my heart. Like honey into hot tea. Shocking. It felt religious. A gift of beautiful love seen in the flesh. Thank you.

Your balm wears away, but today it was there again in a deer rustling along the edge of my woods, a bird lit in flight, the same bird on a tree branch, the strange gorgeous rust of fall's decay brightly lit with gilded leaves.

Sweet potato.

That's all she said.

Thanks again for the pie.

Love,

The D.L.

Dear number two (RLoTD),

You were the one that really pushed the terrifying envelope. Brav-o (said like a Heather). Longest dream with hardest-dying villain ever!

In the beginning of this dream I am sleeping in a room that seems cobbled together from (what feels like) a few significant past bedrooms. There is someone standing near the door, behind me and to my right. I try to wake my husband up, but he tosses and fights to dispel sleep. His reactions are sludgy and sand-footed. His friend Chris comes in (!) from the other room (also at a crawl), and a panicked, frenzied cloud lies between us and the intruder. The cloud is literal though vaporous. Colors move through it in little flashes. The nightmare man is enormous. A total cartoon imagining of a giant dude-- unbelievably tall, thickly muscled, but not to the point of helpful slowness. Rough edged but sharp. Pretty calm, almost happy.

I say, among many things 'Who are you?,' and 'What are you doing here?'

He replies 'I am the rapist.'

I'm not sure if I say 'What?' out loud at this point, or am on a loop of repeating this and the above queries. He repeats, with slightly more pressure 'I am the rapist.' I am convinced of his honesty. A closet door divides us, and is open with photographs pasted to the raised wood outline. Each photograph disappears just before enough recognition for memory, but the form of an old friend stays on one. Her face smiles, then looks worried, then afraid. I look at the rapist, and we start the battle.

The rapist and I grapple unendingly, with occasional outbursts from my husband or Chris. His strength is ridiculous, and my furious arms struggling against him stop dead with fear every few seconds. We each try battering him, but he just keeps fighting along at the same pace, not tiring, not stopping. The head has been blunted with heavy objects, the midsection pummeled, the throat punched, the eye gouged, the face beaten. The melee spills into a large open kitchen. At some blissful point the police have been called, and run up the stairs like we're filming a speakeasy raid scene for some thirties gangster movie. Police fire on the rapist but he only staggers for a moment. I take a knife from the block as he comes toward me undeterred by his many bullet wounds. At this point in the dream it occurs to me that the phrase 'the rapist' is used to much comic effect as the word for 'therapist' in the prodigiously talented Maria Bamford's series The Maria Bamford Show. Though this is a very interesting development a satisfactory exploration is not forthcoming (ha ha).

In a room full of the previously able-bodied we carry on unhindered. This is when the stabbing happens. I stab the rapist in the back repeatedly, in a loose, frowny parenthesis of strokes. The knife changes intermittently (not the K-BAR! too scary! too unwieldy! This chef's knife is huge!) before settling on remaining a switchblade. Much better. Small, sharp, easy to cut deeply. Ugh. He drags himself along the floor with me on top of him trying to choke him out.

The last thing I remember is having his head cradled in my arms, speaking softly into his ear 'It's o.k. Please. Let go. Let go. I'm sorry. I'm sorry,' and the like over and over while i choked him. The feeling of intimacy was deep, and carried incredible sadness.

How's that for liberation?

Well, no rest for the weary,

The D.L.

Dear Clarion Group,

Please stop sending me your propaganda.  You are making me ill.  See: http://popprog.blogspot.com/2008/09/clarion-fund-puts-lipstick-on-terrorism.html

Your films fall on deaf(end) ears.  

Eek, dudes/lady dudes.  

Eek,

The. D.L.

Dear number one in a recent lineup of terrifying dreams,

So. I am supposed to take my grandmother to visit her neighbor Gus at the new house he is building in the wilds of eastern Ohio. For some reason, this fills me with inexplicable dread. Child-style dread-- like when you had no words for what was coming, but knew it anyway. The night before our drive I dream of being in a shadowy compound where helpless young girls are captive to some terrible, unseen person, or persons. The girls are all bound at the wrist, hands tied behind their slender backs, held in gloomy cells, coops, or packed earth-floored rooms with no windows. No light.

In this dream my arms are bloodied from previous struggles. I move quickly, and the scenes change with frantic speed. My trusty switchblade cuts the rope from each of their tiny wrists, and I whisper for them to follow me, to run. It is too realistic, so urgent that I free them that I stumble along in a pathless frenzy. When they turn their faces to me I cannot see them clearly, they become only roped wrists and giant eyes. It is as though Henry Darger is illustrating my most primal fears. I am convinced that this drive must be taken armed.

The next day, my grandmother and I follow Gus' perfect directions. The latter part of the drive is filled with the intense certitude of inevitable discovery. On our paths final road a compound appears on my right, but my grandmother is talking about dinner already. There are no signs of peril, only a single truck at the end of a tree-lined drive. We come to the house Gus is building in his woods. He isn't there yet. His dog runs around us in the car. A cat sleeps on bales of hay, then disappears. We take turns peeing at the edge of his woods. I treat our bodies with insect repellent. The house is lovely. Thick planks of lumber dovetail at its corners. Gus arrives and we chat. He and I each drink a beer. Oma wants to eat, so we head to town for what turns out to be a gorgeous meal at a fantastic diner. Pictures of 4H kids and their sows line the walls. Oma wants to head home. As we pass the dance hall on our way back out of the nearest town, I wonder what had me so frightened. We stop at someone's roadside stand for tomatoes, beets, and honey.

Though my subconscious is usually unbearably obvious, it takes all of this proof to show me exactly whose hands I was freeing. Whose wrists were felt bound. I am grateful no one had to bleed.

With sympathy for the unsure,

The D.L.

Dear Dad,

I know-- It's been years. However, the whole "... and the climate in Spain is more agreeable than Britain's'' is just not enough to establish a true and open level of communication regarding your disappearance. How about starting with "I left you children, and I'm sorry." That would be nice. What would work the best for us is another reminder that fairness does not exist. We were left delusional-- thinking that will could take us far enough. As my dear friend Karen states about re-incarnation-- that would perpetuate the idea that life is fair-- and my expectations are pretty low. Life is not fair. Life can be cloudy, and far less potent than you imagined. It's beauty lies in fragrant details, in vastness and endless gifts, but not so much in detrimental opacity.

They are so low that the work I have to do to get your attention again seems like more effort than it's reward. Is it? Shall I chase you to your idyllic residence in Spain? Should my sisters write, and wait for an answer-- like girls in love? If you have felt unsure, after these long years of ambiguity, were you sure enough to ask these questions: What is my responsibility here? Are these my children? What do I want? Have I tried? You have had plenty of time, and I say that with generosity of spirit.

If your audience is willing, it's not so much to ask for simple truths. These are questions you have presented to the world-- take responsibility for them. Of course it is awful-- we do awful things. Recognition is one of the only things I can think of that ever changes that. So many people I know-- in pain-- could be consoled by such recognition. It appears that it is not a good idea to leave a person with longing. Longing turns into other things-- it becomes self-worth, becomes identity, becomes recognition. Becomes longing.


At least tell my sisters of your sorrows, of your inability to speak. It probably isn't it enough that you have removed yourself so surgically-- now you have the honor of position, as well. Of dialogue. Of need. It sickens me to think of them waiting for a kind word from you. Real sickening-- lost opportunity, lost narrative-- forgoing an explanation that shouldn't be so difficult.

Step up to the plate, dude. It's not so hard. Here's how it goes: 'I wanted a different life. I found it. I abandoned you.' That's all, right? Sure, your intentions may have been different-- but you did it-- it's over, the bomb long gone off near the center. Surgery changes the shrapnel, nothing changes the bomb.


Sadly, we are still waiting,
TDL

Dear Saudi King Abdullah,

Word up. Nice job on your pardoning of a teenage girl of her penalties for being gang raped. Still 'convinced and sure that the verdicts were fair'? Jackasses. Please use this situation as a way to enact judicial and sentence reforms. You need to stop hurting women.

It is good that you acted (somewhat) on her behalf, and I am grateful for any scraps of reason out there.

Warily,
The D.L.

Dear Halliburton/KBR,

I will be brief. A true list of grievances would take more time and coordination of materials than I currently possess, but many of these are already fairly well-documented. Of Course, when DeWine and Voinovich voted against independent committee hearings on contractor fraud in Iraq, I wanted to punch them in the face (not unusual).

How fervently I wish for for legal penalties to unfold swiftly against you, completely, and with devastating impact. Perhaps until that point your employees in countries other than the U.S. will stop committing egregious crimes that you cover up in the name of protecting yourselves from further lawsuits. USING the U.S. MILITARY. Believe me, I hope that our representatives push for keeping corporations and those working for them abroad to fall under the purview of U.S. law, but if that doesn't happen you are not therefore excused from acting against that which is ethically imperative. Because I will tell you what, Halliburton-- if you don't, there will be more to ruin your day than the helpless muckracking of fantasy military forces created by loony bloggers. Not that it shouldn't already be ruined by guilt and self-loathing, but if you felt guilty I'm guessing you would allow victims of crime to do crazy stuff like make phone calls and receive proper medical attention. You wouldn't deny them food and water for twenty-four hours. Right?

Right?

I'm also guessing that if your last name was Jones, and your daughters name was Jamie Leigh, you would be very seriously considering a militia of your own.

Doesn't it literally make you sick? It should.

We cannot have you lawless assholes running around the middle east and elsewhere-- it is insane (do you co-host 'How to construct plausible deniabilty' seminars with Blackwater? Roll dice using the last few souls you've eaten as ante?)-- be decent. War profiteering, however constant and seemingly essential to those savages who revel in it, is gross.

Buckets of Weltschmerz,
The D.L.

Dear Ladies and Gentlemen,

A fight exists in me between peaceful negotiation and aggressive intervention. Overall, I'm a peaceful negotiation supporter, but it often lacks immediacy. It does, however, avoid the shiny-eyed militarism of aggressive intervention. Mmm, but results. So fast. Too fast? What about a small unit-- not mercenary, or anything-- of idealistic military talent with shared views that could be described as humanistic. Would you join such a group? We would do stuff like free people from the slavery of human trafficking, save lives, superhero action, but extremely quiet, invisible superheroes. I'm pretty sure it's not right, but man, it really likes to present itself in elaborate detail when certain circumstances of life are glimpsed.

This is an issue that I struggle with, so please think carefully on your possible commitment.

You will have to possess an almost delusional sense of idealism about your world, and enough bitter cynicism so that no one else hates you. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
The D.L.

Dear optimism,

You are a doozy. Oof.

Well, you can't win them all-- right?
Take it in stride, LBJ.

Subordinately,
The D.L.

Dear Justice Ministry of Saudi Arabia,

On behalf of women worldwide, whether or not I have their approval-- fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you. Using words you believe are holy to punish two victims of being assaulted and raped? For 'illegal mingling', because they were unrelated? F-u-c-k-y-o-u. We should do our best to respect the right to practice other forms of governance, but basic human rights supercede such philosophies. Regrettably, your judiciary feels that 200 lashes, six months in jail, your lawyer being thrown out of the courtroom, or-- as the man-- 90 lashes, and your licence being revoked are fair penalties for being attacked and raped by seven men. Totally fair, right? Seven men. Seven, people. Terrifying.

Hmmm, I definitely see this as a human rights issue. A women's rights issue. I know the unrelated man in question also received lashes (Lashes? Come on! Quit whipping people!), but the woman received an amended version-- um, a worse version. Sure, she would have had her licence revoked if she were ALLOWED TO DRIVE, SAY, TO SCHOOL FOR EXAMPLE, but that's one less worry for her. Like riding a bicycle on public roads, or leaving the country without her husband or male guardian's permission. What a relief it must be! So spiritually rewarding. I understand the value and reward of submission, but that is when it is by choice, with love, not accident of birth or governmental decree. Feel me?

Endless letters piling in your courtyards would never have sufficient numbers, nor their words enough weight to truly reveal what a devastation treating a person like chattel is, so that must find illumination in your own hearts and minds.

Gentleman, lay down your sabers and look for it--

Best of luck,
The D.L.

Dear LeBron James,

Serious world issues have been furrowing my brow, and the considerable lather such ills produce has left my weakened brain seeking light release in less serious matters. Like why LeBron James wore a Yankees cap to an Indians (home!) game.

Have you gone mad? Listen LeBron James-- I love you. Really. You represent the zeitgeist being awakened again in the soul of a city that has lost many battles. You represent winning the war. You are exceptionally talented, usually gracious, and as Dr. Von Drinkensnorten would say 'full of win.' It's not the success of your wealth, it's your success we elevate. I feel certain thousands of other Clevelanders feel the same. People here would kick someone's ass for you! You know it's true! These people are insane. Have you never noticed? How could you betray these people? The Indians are a part of this zeitgeist as well, of course, and breaking on the inside is how everything winds up breaking on the outside. Sigh. Totally! Do not break the inside, LeBron James! We trusted you! We believe in you! I know you've borne a great deal of responsibility, but there's more, and this is part of it, dude.

It's not like you can't like the Yankees--if that's your thing--, but you absolutely cannot wear their fucking hat to a playoff home game, or any kind of game involving the other great team from the city you play for! Come on! Nike contract, friends, childhood heroes-- all of these should pale as though drained of all blood when compared to your debt as a local hero and worldwide representative. That's the way the ball bounces, superstar. You have plenty of other time to wear the shit out of that cap, damned though you may be.

So, thanks for your time. You make basketball so much more fun to watch.

I have to go, for we are stomping the Red Sox, and surely on our way to the World Series!


With tender diplomacy,
The D.L.

Dear CVS pharmacy technician,

I swear to you that should you handle a future encounter with the same rude incompetency you displayed today I will leap into your pedestaled refuge in an unstoppable fury, and possibly harm you. At least my imagined fury will be more explicit.

CVS outlines its role for PT's thusly:

The role of the Technician is focused on customer service and prescription order processing, as well as problem resolution and inventory management. The role of the Technician is important because he/she helps to ensure that the right customer receives the right prescription, every time. Alas. I know what seemed to be a lively conversation was interrupted by my penetrating stare, but it was really unnecessary to launch into ill-informed chatter about my refill and its dangers of abuse, over and over again, more shrilly each time, to anyone in a thirty foot radius. The woman behind me was certainly piqued. I briefly considered asking for thirty boxes of cough syrup to help her ease into a lively internal dialogue. Alas, I was too busy explaining to you-- a woman whom I sort of viewed in the kindly light of sisterhood as a result of your 'Hello! I am mentally ill!' behavior-- that of course I knew of its nefarious reputation, but that I was accustomed to taking such risks under the advice of many esteemed mental health professionals. Your next explosion of parrot noises included questions about how many I took each day, whether it was a ten-day prescription, and that if it was a ten-day they could only fill it as such. I placidly reasoned that it had been well over a month since said prescription was last filled, and therefore should not even remotely raise the flags of concern and vigilance you so frantically waved. Service! Problem-solving! Nice one, CVS! You never did settle back into a feeling of ease about it, did you? No, and then you said the second prescription did not exist. You would have to call the doctor, but were unable until tomorrow. I should wait five minutes for my first prescription, and you would call me to the counter. Twenty-five solid minutes into JANE magazine, and pretty much bored to tears quite literally, I sauntered my drug-addicted ass to the pick-up counter. There waited two filled prescriptions! I asked after the validity of the new script, and made clear to another PT what you said to me regarding its possible non-existence. Your co-worker seemed befuddled (and perhaps a bit too sad, as we MDD's like to say). Much explosive parroting ensued. As the cacophony softened to chirps of advice or contentment I was told that the call was made, the new prescription not remotely exotic, and the meds were uneventfully refilled. She said she had no idea why you did not call me back to explain, but I do, nutjob. I do. Balefully, The D.L.

Dear Alberto R. Gonzales,

Whew!

It is about time!

With cautious relief,
The D.L.

Dear Ricardo Eliecer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto,

I like to say your full name, out loud, dork-style.

Oh, Pablo Neruda, so many of your poems have influenced my process of romanticisation it's difficult to single any one out of such a gorgeous lineup.

If it were possible, I would stalk you.

Lately I've come to some difficulty as a result (albeit indirect) of Sonnet XI. This is what I want.

Please see: Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.



I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.



I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,



and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Damn you, Pablo Neruda.  Damn. You.

Can you help me out?



O ye romanticized, suck it.



Yours Faithfully,

The D.L.

Dear China,

What the fuck, China?

TIGER FARMS?

Is there no end to this barbarous world's attempts to snuff out the tiny lights that remain (pulsing weakly) in our souls?

For the love of all that is still good DO NOT lift that ban on domestic trade in tiger goods. And don't even start with the '... but it could help the wild population' bullshit. It is completely crazy that there are tigers in farms right now --and bear farms, alligators, etc.-- because we are so attached to our own cultural traditions that we (still!) just don't mind committing outrageous acts of cruel oppression to foster them. We are all guilty of that. Can't we just agree to keep the good stuff we trade-- the art, the food, beautiful customs, awesome dances, outfits, philosophies, terrible pop music-- and leave off the part where we kill each other for differences in personal beliefs and FARM TIGERS?!

It's like you want to ruin us at our very core, tiger farmers. You will not ruin every one. Not ever. We need what is wild in our world. What makes us feel the earth deep inside of us, and that everything moves to a common rythm. That is the real wildness, that which is the most unaffectedly common in the purity of it's tone. I'm going to continue in this pretentious vein and add that it is NO COINCIDENCE that Blake's famous poem is 'The Tyger', and not a more issue-laden creature.  Anyway, you make me cry.

Now go look at some pictures of tigers, and think about what you're doing.

Angrily,
The D.L.

Dear comments@whitehouse.gov,

You should seriously consider changing your automated response once in a while. Just for fun, you know?

Late!,
The D.L.

Dear Pottery Barn Kids,

I admit surprise upon finding your catalog with my mail delivery. Perhaps you found my address deep in the brackish waters of the Williams-Sonoma summer catalog mailing, dreams of clambakes and lobster rolls nestled among its many pages, but you should leave the unwilling alone.

Furious at your gall (What if I couldn't have children? What if they antagonized me?), I called your 800 number, and the most delightful woman answered. I lost my fight. I was being bratty. She made right what you made wrong.  She sympathized like an oma who adores you.

Also, does Abby really need that giant bathroom? I guess she does. Do Erica and Logan need that cabana? With lockers? It freaks me out, PBK. It makes me feel gross and indulgent, which I guess I am by many standards. I have bathrooms! I have no time for extra existential crises, PBK! I will fight you back, crises! Como Mac Dre, I switch hit, and play with both mitts (Rest in thizz, Furl). Do not start!

We're square. I have to eat something.

H.A.L.T.,
The D.L.

Dear Robert Mugabe,

Some time ago my friend Chris and I considered who stayed in the suites at the Hay-Adams with a direct view of the White House. It was one of the '...things you would do if you are the louche head-of-state to a collapsing nation.' It was of you I was thinking.

Not only you, of course, but your situation is extremely serious, Mr. Mugabe. However, pretty much the thing that appeals to me least is leading a nation, so I try to comprehend the enormous responsibility and concomitant misrepresentation such a position would naturally involve. The thing is, I can never get past the blind-in-one-eye part of louche, metaphorically speaking. Are you turning a blind eye? Is it that you are no longer able to attach yourself to your own actions? It's something we all struggle with, though usually minus the dramatic scale and devastating repercussions. Ours is a slow death. You should, if your crazy ass is capable, think about what has happened in your Zimbabwe.

Forced property seizures. Food shortages. Fuel shortages. Rampant political repression. Hundreds of thousands of people emigrating. Political assassinations. Economic collapse. I'm pretty sure what is the world's highest inflation rate. It was one thousand or so percent, now it's four thousand, and expected to hit one million percent in less than a year. You are completely insane. Destroyed slums. Mostly state-run news and broadcasts. Torture. Intolerance. Shopping sprees.

You were jailed a decade for 'subversive speech' (Though you managed to arrange for that coup on Sithole). Ugh! How could you be that which you fought against? Like our own John McCain-- forgetting his own words, his own life, and sanctioning torture-- fuck the Geneva Conventions! Practice makes perfect, everyone! Act as if! You can do it.

Dude, let it go. Sally. Grace? Come on! You've had long enough. I'm not sure if I could do anything daily for thirty years, and there are some things you shouldn't even try. Alas.

You've already alienated most of the acting-as-if world, and yet you've managed to also alienate the Commonwealth of Nations, intending to come to your aid. I can literally only imagine what it must be to band as nations because of shared colonialist periods, but it is harder to imagine giving up my own fight, or becoming the willful oppressor. Honestly, I don't know how you do it-- it's bad enough indirectly! Congratulations on becoming the new colonizer. Noble!

Resign Immediately,
The D.L.