Here’s another unfinished one:


So, don’t you love it when you get real high and then remember you’re supposed to text your boss something?

Like, I’m sure I just wrote a fairly normal-sounding text (“can such-and-such happen at so-and-so time?”), but the actual experience of writing and sending it was definitely more…

Sure, that could be good to go as is (most are).

And I must have come across that one at least one other time . . . over a year ago now . . . since I found all this other stuff with it, like commentary and other notes.

How many partial letters in total am I thinking I’ll probably find?

It’s a little confusing, since almost all are from around the time I was getting pretty set on writing out everything, anyway.

And you’d be surprised how much years’ worth of “everything” can be.

But yeah, here’s my notes from when I must have first rediscovered that unfinished piece to Mangelo above:

That had to have been a way earlier failed attempt, obviously too stupid to send, so now it sits halfway out of my inbox with the rest.

Why choose to be surrounded at all times by reminders of how dumb I can make myself?

This space before I change stretches on, now too thin to even see.

It threatens to implode with me inside.

But still I wait.


Could it be true?

Could even Mangelo have written me off?

How long…?

It reminds me of these two Rolands I once knew, both important, and both from HERE (strangely enough).

The first was a kid who felt sorry for me before I left.

Of course I never knew that was why we were friends.

But when I saw him again as a teen he . . . well, he had this cool girlfriend and everything.

They took me out one night, and I’m sure I acted like such a…

Anyway, the latter Roland helped me out a lot when I moved back.

He even let me stay at his house for free until . . . I guess until he and his wife got sick of having someone like me around.

I mean, they must have, right?

But I can’t even write to Christianson anymore.

It’s like I’ll get an idea for something to say, but then sense myself prickling up, trying to sound all superior and smart.

It’s stupid.

Why can’t I help it?

I must feel pretty threatened, or…

But, I mean, why would he even want to hear from me now?

I’ve already been gone for…

So, there I have it (since it’s only me).

So much left unsaid, packed with so many perfect reasons like hidden gears in long-dead clocks.

And none of it can probably even matter anymore.

Yeah, what could I say?

“Oh, by the way, all that crazy stuff I did . . . that was just art.

“It came from the same place.

“I get that now.

“So it must be fine?

“Back then, everything was rich with quick meanings and hard lines.

“But I guess what I see hasn’t really changed.

“It’s all the same stuff, just more (or less).

“But now I’m sure I have no idea what most of it really means or why.

“Sorry for all the damage I did when I wasn’t so sure of that.

“Each part was all there was when we were . . . were teens . . . each part of everything, right?

“All our feelings?

“Every possibility?

“Then we grew up and saw the same puzzle, but only enough to be taken by how much more beautiful and complex it was than we ever could have thought.

“What happened to whatever it all must have meant as we were set and coated in fresh layers of dullness . . . seeing without noticing ourselves growing ever smaller?

“We got to feeling so tired, and worn, and put upon, and slow.

“But really…

“Okay, so what would I really say?

“I’d only tell you not to worry so much about which lights you’ll be held up to.

“You’ll matter however you’ll matter whenever you should, probably more than once, and for at least as many reasons.

“For me, this . . . this right now . . . makes me happy: two slight hits from some delightful strain, listening to Hamac through headphones, and putting down whatever as if any of it could ever really be for you.

“Thank you.”


Reading back, it’s funny how I’m most glad now not to be so sure.

Reflections of thoughts written in fear turned out to be so positive they eventually helped calm all fears . . . even panic felt from years of failing to stop at clear red lights.

And I always felt like I was wasting so much time.

The truth is I haven’t been high in a while.

I found a tiny bit in a drawer tonight, and smoked just before I came on here and came across all this again.

It’s cool because I was thinking about Mangelo already, and then saw that old draft letter to him and surrounding [high] thoughts about it.

So, remembering past highs, this one feels quite peaceful by comparison.

Maybe they all were, really.

Maybe the experience of so many things can be way better as you get older because you’re not jumping so fast to fix “quick meanings and hard lines” to every part.

Life feels amazing, maybe partly due to all the different realities any of it could point to.

It’s odd seeing so many years’ worth of the “everything” I’m collecting connect and cancel pieces out to become the thing to make me better.

Or, no, it’s not odd.

I was going to say, “Seeing how it all connects reminds me of science, algebra, philosophy…”

But what I write are only blurry, partial pictures of whatever I have to see I’ve wanted and been saying (to myself) all along.

It’s just it can’t be like math or logic if it doesn’t end up somewhere real in the world, since only real things can cancel out the parts shown wrong, or that repeat.

That’s all.

And things did change.

I’m so looking forward to seeing Mangelo again soon, too.

: )

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