Other People's Love Letters

Other People's Love Letters: 150 Letters You Were Never Meant to See edited by Bill Shapiro

2007

Weight: 1.4 lbs

Method of Disposal: Donating

This book was great.  It made me feel all the feelings out there! Maybe, most of all, it made me want to write my wife a love letter and then cherish her and then feel so lucky to have found her.  I really was grateful that the editor included letters about sex, fucking, illness, divorce, family, dating, war, peace.  The letters ranged from the early 1900s and on.  There were letters from a mom to a daughter's lover, from an ex to an ex, rejections, marriages, loss.  It really had almost everything.  I am really inclined not to give this book away. but I am.  I want it to bring someone else the joy it brought me.  

When I saw the drawing above I thought it was an adorable thing for a man to do for his mildred.  I wondered if he had heart issues or if he just exercised every morning. It wasn't until many pages and much later that I read the following, and I cried and cried and cried.

There were others that were happier and also wonderful:

And some that were unimaginable--that I hope I never ever have to know what it would be like...

Postcards from World War II: Sights and Sentiments from the Second World War

Robynn and Matt Clairday 

2001

Weight: 14.4 oz

Method of Disposal: Donating

The ideal honeymoon involves The United States Postal Museum and an Air and Space museum (one housing a shuttle) if you ask me.  I've been to that magical place with the stamps, mail trucks, and Owney the dog once.  It was amazing.  I bought this book of postcards there (amongst too many other things) and just got around to reading it a year later.  Sure, it is full of patriotism and propaganda, but it also has actual notes written by soldiers to their loved ones, and the voyeur in me thrills at that.  I love reading other people's mail.  Since that is a felony, the only way for me to live out this dream is to read published letters and dream......

Night Train

Night Train  by Martin Amis

1999

Weight:  6 oz

Method of Disposal: Gave to Tracy who will probably read and then donate

I was caught quite off guard with Night Train.  I was under the impression that I did not particularly enjoy Martin Amis.  When I pulled it off my shelves I noticed that it looked short and easy to read, which was what I was in the mood for.  I was turned off by the author and by the synopsis that put it forth as a mystery novel.  I still took it to bed with me.  The voice of the main character in the first couple pages irritated me, and I just knew this would not be a favorite.

How many ways was I wrong?  I think I have an irresponsible and potentially inaccurate view of Martin Amis, and intend to read his other novels, many of which I already own.   I thought he did a great job with Night Train.  It can be categorized as a detective novel, without being a pop mystery book.  I see that now.  I had some prejudgments.  I admit it.  I really enjoyed this book.  I could not wait to read it and viewed other, non-reading, moments of my life with disdain.

That being said, I do think the book had so much more potential.  I am not sure exactly what it was missing, but I think it was in the character and her voice.  I liked Detective Mike Hoolihan, but I am not sure I was ever convinced of her existence.   There is too much umph.  Too many stereotypes for one person, maybe?  There were necessary details that were never explained or used in any real way.  It was like they belonged, but they had not found their place.

Spoiler:

This book explores the suicide of a beautiful young woman with a seemingly perfect life.  The narrator tells her own story while describing the lead up to the death of the beautiful woman (her acquaintance) Jennifer Rockwell.  The book itself becomes a suicide letter from the narrator, Mike Hoolihan.  The reader is given clues all along, but like in real life, misses most of them, ignores them, or does not realize the full potential of them.  While we focus on Jennifer, her boyfriend, and her family we let Mike lead us through her own demise without us realizing it.  We know Mike is lonely, a recovered alcoholic with a dying liver, and bitter from her time working as a Police.  It is not shocking that she decides to end her life, but it is not what you thought the focus of the book was either.  

I really cannot fully explain what about this book grabbed me and would not let go, but I can say that I was in it the whole time.  I felt sadness, fogginess come over me at the end.  I was surprised by my reaction.  It was unexpected and so wonderfully welcomed.  I now say goodbye to the Night Train.  I bought it for 93 cents many years ago and never thought much about it.  Now, I will not soon forget it, and I have some Amis to catch up on.

Behind the Lines--Oh no they didn't! Get it, Lines/Lines.

Behind the Lines by Andrew Carroll
2005 (audio book)
Weight: 5.6 oz
Method of Disposal: Donating or giving away

I think about my brother often, and I think about him in different ways. I think of him as a child. I remember playing a post office game. There was some piece of furniture outside the door of my room with small drawers on the bottom. We would leave each other letters in the drawers. Is this where I developed my love of letters and of sending/receiving mail? I think about bodysurfing in the ocean and wiping out. Sometimes, I think of the mean sibling antics. I remember crying, as he threatened to “turn me off” with a remote control or key. The taste of batteries after he convinced me to lick them, they taste like candy. I especially like nice memories, like him giving me one of his favorite toys for my birthday. I saw a piece of the truck sticking out of the poor wrapping job, and I knew exactly what it was. I was so happy. I wanted to be just like him, have toys like his, hang out with him and his friends. He once saved up his allowance money to buy me a beloved Aladdin’s lamp, where the genie could come out and go back in his bottle.

 I think about him as a teenager. His massive Kurt Cobain poster and his constant strumming of an electric guitar. His girlfriend, his El Camino, and the Mane and Tail he used to grow his hair out long. We sometimes got in all out brawls. I once threw a tire at his head. Another time, I screamed at him and his friend, silencing them for once, and then walked straight into a shut door with such force that I fell to the ground, taking away all the ground I had gained. I also remember that when my mother told me that her and my dad were going to divorce, I grabbed my cat and ran, crying, to a nearby lake. My brother came after me to take care of me and to tell me it would be o.k.

Before he went away for boot camp, we watched atomic dog and talked about personal things, like my trying to come to terms with my queerness. He thought it was fine, better than fine, and was very comforting. He commented on how obvious I was, with all my Gillian Anderson pictures plastered on my walls. He noted that often the men in my posters were covered. I felt like he had become my best friend but then he had to go away. I wrote him letters all the time.

I often think about him as a soldier. I think about when he went to Iraq and how I had never been (and have not been) so scared in my entire life. The night before he left, I drank a bottle of vodka and had to stop at a KFC on (or near) base to vomit on our hike to the going away ceremony. I hated saying goodbye and could not look at him without bawling, full on weeping. I had to walk away and then run away. Another soldier was screaming at his mom in the parking lot, telling her he wished he would never see her again. I could not imagine it. I was in college dealing with relationship troubles, roommate situations, and ant invasions. He was getting shot at, sometimes I would see him in the local newspaper or on the news.

He is still a soldier, and he is also now a husband and a father. He is still amazing, and I am overwhelmed with love and protective feelings when we get the chance to hang out. The last time I saw him he read me a book while I drove. We learned all about plane crashes and why they happen.

Sometimes, when he is far away, I do ridiculous things trying to feel close to him. Things that make no sense. I buy things I would not usually buy—the consequences of being born into capitalism. Spend Money, feel better. I bought this audio book when it was on sale. I hope that I will never understand war fully. I do not want to know what it is like to lose friends, to have to kill people or be killed. I wish so much that my brother did not have to see the things he has, the things I rarely hear about, because he loved his country and his family. I do not want to know what that pain is like, but I do want to understand and know to the best of my ability. Does that make sense? I do not want to turn my back on one of the many facets of his life. I bought this book and others like it, trying to feel connected or get a glimpse. Sometimes, I would read or watch whatever I bought right away and other times it was too painful, and I would put the items away until I found them again.

The other night I noticed Behind the Lines on my bookshelf, amongst the actual books, and I took it to work. I listened to it while I cleaned out puppy cages and later in my car on a drive to Loganville. There were times when it brought tears to my eyes and once I even laughed. Components of it aggravated me. It seemed to have a Christian bias, didn’t it? There was an attempt at diversity. In some ways it was successful, but not in all ways.  The letters were from soldiers, civilians, people on different sides of the war.  There were men and women.  Some letters seemed to be selected with such an obvious purpose, like the one from a Japanese girl in an American camp stating that she was lucky to not be on the outside. With no other letters beside it I felt like it was such a placating, let us not think about what we did, moment. There were a lot of good things too. I have more positive feelings about it than little critiques. The letters spanned many wars and years. Soldiers of the past and the present were tied together by their feelings of love, fear, remorse, camaraderie, pride, hope. Overall, I liked it, for lack of a better word. They were actual letters and they all contained so much value and so much truth—some truth told through thinly veiled lies.

So many different people. I thought about the letters I received from Iraq and the many I sent. The letters that went to boot camp. The rare Yahoo Messenger conversation or e-mail. The photographs. And, while this book did not bring me closer to my brother in any unexpected way, I did find myself missing him again. That is why I was drawn to it after all. I did remember how grateful I am, despite anything else in life, that he is back, safe, with a loving family, and happy. I wished on every star, eyelash, and penny thrown into every pond from the day he left until the day he came back that he would come back alive, but also happy. How lucky am I?

224 books, 236.22 lbs

Art Nouveau Poster Cards in Full Color 24 Cards Edited by Hayward and Blance Cirker
1983
Weight: 4 oz
Method of disposal: Taking apart into postcards and sending them to all my friends, recycling the cover

I am attempting to quit smoking and so I am highly distracted and disjointed. That is why I have decided to go with the easy-to-get-rid-of and 4 oz book of postcards. Can it really even be considered a book? I have carried it around with me since Waldenbooks, like all the other books. I have a stack of cards, right now, on my kitchen table. They are all written on, stamped, and ready to go out tomorrow. I love the USPS.

Dear Sarah

Dear Exile: The True Story of Two Friends Seperated (for a Year) by an Ocean
By Hilary Liftin and Kate Montgomery
1999
Weight: 8 oz
Method of Disposal: Leaving somewhere, unless you want it



Dear Exile is another book from my Waldenbook days, and thus the first year or two of my friendship with Sarah G-A, whom I still love. We both purchased Dear Exile and read it. We thought we might end up writing each other important letters one day about feminism, books, and friendship. I would have been 16, maybe 17, at the time.

The book is, amazingly, still in impeccable condition and, much to my disappointment, it has no smell. Books usually have some fragrance. They smell old or new or, in the case of a particular children’s book we carried at Barnes and Nobel before it was recalled, like gasoline. It is one of the most wonderful things about an actual book.

They sell library and book perfume now so I guess it will be alright. I can spray Dear Exile with a Demeter fragrance before passing it on. I mean, if I am feeling dedicated. This book really might be in the exact same condition it was in when I bought it. How did that happen?

Before you think it, I did read it. I thought it was enjoyable but not life-changing. It was sweet and, like I said, it inspired a brief dream about letter writing way back when. One woman is in the Peace Corps and one woman is dating and living in her first real apartment. They obviously care about each other, and they write each other letters that make up this book. I guess I am sort of ambivalent about it.

I am not, however, ambivalent about how much fun it was to get to know Sarah G-A. through books, through working together, through Riot Grrrl, and through everything else in between. I am also not ambivalent about letter writing. I love it. I love mail. I love packages, letters, postcards, address labels, and stamps. I probably send out around 5 letters every week to a variety of friends all over the map, and it makes me quite happy. Who does not enjoy receiving real mail, not junk or bills? Holding this book releases all of these thoughts in me, and that is not such a bad thing.