Dear Matt,

This letter has lived inside of my body for almost a decade.   It’s the words that stream behind my eyes as I unsuccessfully search for sleep.  It’s the box of memorabilia that I pack from town to town and never open.  It’s the aging wound that gapes under even the slightest touch.  I saw you last night in my dream, your pants just inches too short, your Converse feet like pontoons compared to the rest of you.  You were always pale, even in summer, and seemed forever cold.  And I knew.  That I needed to write this.

I was on a bar stool in a long dead bar, next to a long gone boyfriend, when someone casually mentioned that a body had been found at 2nd point.  A suicide.  The son of the middle school principle.  Broadway Middle School.  My middle school.  My former principle.  My friend.  I knew it was you, I have never been more sure of anything.  My boyfriend laughed, you don’t know this kid, don’t be so dramatic.  But I knew it was you.  Without even knowing it at the time I had already felt your flame snuffed.  You were gone to me long before.  Those late night calls, the hang ups, the paranoid messages, and the rumors.  I was past you and tired of the shit.

My senior year of high school was a mixture of thrilling personal discoveries and melancholy, with you and Danny as my sole comrades.  Remember when you shaved my head?  I took one look at myself in your parents bathroom mirror and sobbed.  You brushed the hair off my shoulders, laughed, and said you liked it.  Maybe you made me fried rice.  Maybe we watched Friday, for the 79th time.  Maybe we drank jacked beers, listening for the soft pat of your moms imminent arrival.  I was more alone than I had ever been, but you never let me know it.  I always had partners in whatever crime I created.  You, me, and Danny.  You two boys insulated me from my insane home life and the loneliness of teenager-hood.    I was years away from finding the family that cradles me now and miles away from the place I now call home.  Aside from a few big booms, my body is intact and my heart is vibrant.  And you are dead.

A few of the surfers wondered about the bike that sat, untouched, in the surf parking lot.  Eventually someone realized you were gone.  And then put two and two together.  That stretch of coast is a sacred place to many who live in Seaside.  Many of my memories have it in the background.  The Point is a hostile and majestic country where we surf, build fires, fight, fall in love, and die.  I am unable to go to this place without experiencing a true rainbow of emotions.  It is a touch point of all things in my life.  And you chose this as the last earthly setting in yours.

I suppose that I am angry.  You broke my heart in a way that will never be repaired.  I will never stop missing you.  Even though, if you were still alive we would have lost touch long ago.  I just felt better knowing  you were there, somewhere.  Your skinny, alder like limbs folded into each other.  You seemed like an origami man.  All angles and edges.  And now you are bones.  And dirt.

I understand.  I am angry, but I understand.  Your life was too much to bare.  The weight was heavy and your road seemed too long.  And you chose to end the suffering.   Sometimes I dream about you.  I can see you so clearly.  And it fucking hurts.  And I miss you.  And I love you Matt.  I always did.




She said losing love is like a window in your heart.  Everybody sees you’re blown apart.  Everyone sees the wind blow. 


Hearing a beloved song from the past is like a surprise visit from a dear old friend.  And if that friend were carrying a suitcase filled with dusty souvenirs and decrepit childhood memories….I would curl up at her feet, slowly open the case and look inside.

The Red Balloon by Albert Lamorisse-1956iii2

I am thinking of the new year.  We all want to hit the reset button, start fresh, start clean.  I have to be a bit different about this one, however.  If I waited until January to reboot, there would be no me to work from.  Everyday has to be that new day.


There have been so many moments lately where I am so aware of my/our/your loneliness.  How badly we want to connect.  How desperately hard it is to do so.  We just want to be seen and chosen by the person who will fill the crevices in our hearts.  My friend put it perfectly when she said, ‘all I want is for someone to say, you, I want you.’  I see so many empty souls robbing the hope from those who dare to place themselves in the path of love.  If you happen upon me, thumb out, on the lonely highway towards love, don’t pullover unless there’s room for two.  These hyenas disguised as Lyons are ruining all the fun.  Just as I have often wished that peoples insides matched their outsides, I long for honesty in this pursuit of love.



And if you offer to me the truth, I will offer to you the vastness of my heart.  Nothing less.



On my walk to the post office today I heard “Graceland” by Paul Simon.  A door in my mind flew open and all of the worlds weather rushed in.  I felt the chill of time gone by.  I was burnt by the heat of teenage silliness.  I was lulled to sleep by the quiet blues of rainy days, so many.

Maggie Rizer in Jean Paul Gaultier Paris Couture Bride by Craig McDean-Vogue-October-2002


And my traveling companions, Are ghosts and empty sockets, I’m looking at ghosts and empties, But I’ve reason to believe, We all will be received, In Graceland