1st of February 1963. Just a very few more letters to go - perhaps a couple of weeks worth. I've lost track of how many there have been. This one - well -
"My love, I have such high hopes for the two of us. Sounds petty sometimes but whenever I get to feeling, because of the way the Army operates, that nothing is for sure, nothing can really be counted on to happen as expected, I think of us and how 'pat' our futures seem to be."
Oh my dear, how I wish that could have been true. Reading it now, I so want to have been there for him, so want to have made his dreams come true - so wanted his dreams to have continued to be my dreams. I wonder sometimes if I would have been visited constantly by house dreams over the years. House dreams are supposed to be about looking for where you belong. I still have them once in awhile, but not like I used to have. I had so many house dreams over the years, and they were always about being in the wrong house. It was too small, or too big or not mine or something. Always something appearing desireable, but upon closer inspection would turn out to be houses of horror of one kind or another.
I fear it may have been letters like this one that impelled me to leave - that I knew I couldn't be counted on, and therefore left before things got worse, before I could prove myself unaccountable in even more hurtful ways. I know that I thought I had other reasons for leaving, none of which I was very proud of, but there they were anyway. I left school in the spring for Chicago and began an affair with a man I eventually did marry. I sent the fiancee' a "Dear Larry" letter, being too chicken-hearted to face him directly. Our engagement announcement had already appeared in the papers. My mother was already starting to be proud of me. I was the psychic equivalent of a suicide bomber later that summer. I blew the whole thing out of the water. Nothing quite as good was ever rebuilt.
I say again, I am not sorry about the life I have actually had, and I would have left soon anyway, I am convinced of that. After all, I left all the others. And it was years before I became anything like the person he thought he was writing to in 1963.
"...it has become foolish indeed to ask of each other 'Do you know what I mean?'...the answer...[is] simply a quiet appreciation of the fact that we have become one and of courre we know what WE mean...the question should rather be 'do you agree or disagree?'"
I miss that.
"My love, I have such high hopes for the two of us. Sounds petty sometimes but whenever I get to feeling, because of the way the Army operates, that nothing is for sure, nothing can really be counted on to happen as expected, I think of us and how 'pat' our futures seem to be."
Oh my dear, how I wish that could have been true. Reading it now, I so want to have been there for him, so want to have made his dreams come true - so wanted his dreams to have continued to be my dreams. I wonder sometimes if I would have been visited constantly by house dreams over the years. House dreams are supposed to be about looking for where you belong. I still have them once in awhile, but not like I used to have. I had so many house dreams over the years, and they were always about being in the wrong house. It was too small, or too big or not mine or something. Always something appearing desireable, but upon closer inspection would turn out to be houses of horror of one kind or another.
I fear it may have been letters like this one that impelled me to leave - that I knew I couldn't be counted on, and therefore left before things got worse, before I could prove myself unaccountable in even more hurtful ways. I know that I thought I had other reasons for leaving, none of which I was very proud of, but there they were anyway. I left school in the spring for Chicago and began an affair with a man I eventually did marry. I sent the fiancee' a "Dear Larry" letter, being too chicken-hearted to face him directly. Our engagement announcement had already appeared in the papers. My mother was already starting to be proud of me. I was the psychic equivalent of a suicide bomber later that summer. I blew the whole thing out of the water. Nothing quite as good was ever rebuilt.
I say again, I am not sorry about the life I have actually had, and I would have left soon anyway, I am convinced of that. After all, I left all the others. And it was years before I became anything like the person he thought he was writing to in 1963.
"...it has become foolish indeed to ask of each other 'Do you know what I mean?'...the answer...[is] simply a quiet appreciation of the fact that we have become one and of courre we know what WE mean...the question should rather be 'do you agree or disagree?'"
I miss that.
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