What has 18 legs and lives in the cellar?

You know, the thing about love letters - well, for me, anyway - is that I long to receive them, but when they actually come with salutations like: "My love, Barbara..." I feel slightly queasy. I wonder why. He signs most letters with: "I am fine and very much in love with you..."

Did I lose respect for him due to the damned endearments? Was I so used to my father's lack of sentimentality - there were no loving hugs from dad to mother or vice versa in our kitchen, no friendly pats on the butt, no indications of any kind that there was "love" going on, although the word itself was used from time to time. It just never sounded very real. It sounded rather Biblical. "As god loves me, so I love you." That sort of thing. There was always an air of aloofness to love in our family.

And so, since I have spent the years since choosing men who do NOT use endearments - probably don't even feel them very often - did I decide they were worth more respect than those who did use them? I did have one guy who ostentatiously worshipped the ground upon which I trod (which didn't stop him from arguing with me when drunk). I dumped him. And it wasn't the arguments. Well, yes, it was. But it was also the worship. I couldn't take it.

Or did I feel that I wasn't worth loving, and therefore had no respect for those who believed I was - what could they know, after all, if they thought I was worth something? Even now, I know I wasn't worth a hill of beans in those days. I think better of myself now. But I still can't quite forgive my younger self. Or those who loved me.

Answer to question at top: The Cubs.

"I must find o ut how to live in a lonely crowd; I must keep an eye on values, see the crowd as a whole and seek to understand it."

Apparently I wrote that, back in 1963. He quotes me in a 5-page letter (keep in mind, these are all actual letters written in longhand with pen and ink - that's how old I am!).

This from Google (a wikipedia page):

The Lonely Crowd, a 1950 sociological analysis by David Riesman, along with Nathan Glazer and Raul Denney. It is considered a landmark study of American character.[1

There's more. Google it yourself. It was de rigeur reading in those days.

His thinking is going deeper: "I wonder if I don't feel sometimes that I am just as bad, in a way, as those people who disgust me with their apathy, indifference, and false securities. Now, if I do nothing I am just as bad. But if I take on some additional worthwhile activities, which are instrumental in bettering myself and allows me to progress, then I can truthfully say I am better than these and am also doing my part for the betterment of my world."

So he is comparing himself to these others he despises and wishes to have no part of them. I am certain I was doing much the same. It took me years to rejoice in being part of them. And still...what of the "other" in myself do I still deny? As for doing my part for the betterment of my world...was that the inspiration for my deciding much the same thing several years later? And what "worthwhile activities" are these? Reading "The Lonely Crowd." Seeing "Days of Wine and Roses?" Listening to jazz? The civil rights movement is a mere blip on the horizon now, and Viet Nam is where?

The end of this letter was a bit of a shock to me, since as I said, I do not remember doing any drugs at all in those days and this man would be the last in the world I would suspect of encouraging anything like that. And yet, apparently I had been feeling poorly...

"Go see the doctor. And while you're there, you might ask him for some of those capsules you asked me to send you. Tell him you need pills to help you stay awake upon arising and don't let him give you vitamins and those weak little pills which only work for about 2 or 3 hours. Ask for Denzedrine or if you can, Benzedrine."

Good god on a bicycle. How "Valley of the Dolls" of him. (Google that, kids!)

23 January 1963. Just over 44 years ago. I might have received this letter exactly 44 years ago. Does that mean any fucking thing?

He is going to see "The Days of Wine and Roses," which has just come out, starring Jack Lemon and Lee Remick. He tells me he stayed up almost all night in the barracks reading the paperback. The only information I can Google about that title is that the play and screenplay were written by one JP Miller. I see nothing about a novelization or paperback version of the play, but there must have been one because he wouldn't prevaricate about a thing like that. He wanted to read it first so that his impressions were not influenced by the movie, although he says he has already seen "previews" (trailers, we've learned to call them), so Jack and Lee now personify the characters in his mind.

I see Larry and me in that song, although we did not love each other through thick and thin (me rudely inserting the thin part about six months hence) and we were never winos of any kind - even had I stuck it out, alcoholism was not in any of my futures. I see us in "Diamonds and Rust," as well, even though that was never us either. No anti-war or civil rights demonstrations for us. We were long past before I got there. I don't know if he ever did. All we had was one semester at college together, a year's worth of letters, and then I left.

I remember Michael (the crack-addict boyfriend) telling me about seeing "Days of Wine and Roses" in rehab. Apparently it's a big favorite there.

More Christmas cards - handmade - signed Mary. Wonder if this is the elusive Mary Whitley - drawing of Christmas tree with happy skier perched atop it. One of the last places I heard of her was in Boulder, CO - even before that, in Chicago, she had broken a leg skiing. Tucked inside - another card with snail drawings pasted to it - signed Sue, Doug - or Dave - or - ??? - and Barb. Whoever they are.

Wish I could find Mary. I really want to know who she turned into. She had already turned into somebody very interesting. Except for the drinking. I worry about that. Not that I am not still surrounded by drunks I know and love - had a couple of them wandering around the house this morning. But I don't really appreciate it like I used to. Still and all, whoever she turned into, I'd like to see her again.

Musta hit a Christmas pocket. Card with three holly-based candles from my old college roommate Char and "my favorite Bruce." Wonder if they ever got married. Wonder if they're still married.

I used to have to double-date with Char. Her boyfriend Bruce had a best friend whose name I have erased from the memory banks. I was always cajoled into coming along with them to "chaperone." This may have been the 60's, but they hadn't kicked in yet, and it certainly wasn't San Francisco.

There was absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go in Carthage, Illinois in 1961 - or 1962 - or 1963, for that matter. What we did was get in cars and go park somewhere. Someone usually did have a car. There wasn't even bus service into Carthage. Somebody (some upperclassman) would buy the booze, and we would just all drink. I suppose we would also laugh it up and have a good time, but I did not have a good time with Bruce's best friend.

I thought I was relatively safe, since I did not get pressed into this duty until my sophomore year and by that time I was safely engaged to Larry. More fool me. Nothing stopped this bozo from wanting to fool around as much as a "chaperoned" date could possibly do, and that was quite a bit in the back seat in the dark with the couple in front paying little or no attention to anything else going on around them anyway. I defended myself with the whiskey bottle. Not to hit him over the head or anything actually useful like that. But I would use it to come up for air, insisting that I wanted another drink. I rarely wanted another drink, and I came to dread these "dates" because I would invariably get dizzy and sick and tired of fending off the buddy. I was never a very good alcoholic.

I don't remember if I ever told Larry about this. I didn't count it as cheating, because I would sooner have stuck pokers in my eyes than get into any serious mischief with Bruce's buddy. It was just kind of embarrassing that I ever actually went out with the creep in the first place. He was from the "other" fraternity. He wasn't cool at all.

The item today is totally obscure and unimportant - a Christmas card from somebody named Paul, completely unknown to me, featuring a group of sugary sweet little baby angels. What can one say about it? Something, I suppose, about the kitsch of Christmas art over the ages - this one seems to have hardly changed since the 60's when it was sent. I'm certain we could find the same one somewhere today. Have some essentials changed so not at all over the last 45 years? Boy, I'm stretching for a topic here, huh?

Switch to present tense - spent the weekend in Olympia with the Washington State Dems and the Progressive Caucus. Hong Tran got elected chair of the State Progs (in opposition to my candidate, Chad), but I'm glad I went and voted anyway. Brandon will have rent soon. Looks like my financial security is assured for the next two months - always like that.

And the big news - got the novel proferred to the Writer's Workshop at Norwescon for April. I think I'm accepted - but then, I think all or most applicants are accepted. I only noticed that people who applied after the deadline would only be accepted if there were room - nothing about people who got their stuff in on time. I did. We'll see.

Whaat this really means is that I now have a 1,000 word synopsis of the novel, as well as the 25-pager, and am nearly ready to send to editors/agents. Nearly ready to make something else up. Something else over 500 pages. Don't worry. Not here.

Babbling - no point in going on. Hope there's something more interesting tomorrow. Bubble bath time. Now.