I don't read many blogs, admittedly. I barely update my own.
The blogs I do read happen to be either funny, interesting, inspirational or some combination of the three.
On Wednesday, a friend handed me a notebook that was given to her by another friend who knew it was my notebook. I had left that notebook behind at work carelessly. It had some work notes in it but it was predominantly a personal notebook with journal type entries, poetry, rants and attempts at lyrics for songs that may never be written.
I found myself embarrassed for the first time in a long time. No one noticed that I was embarrassed except for my inner critic, who, as expected, laughed his ass off. My embarrassment was rooted in the worry that one of my friends might have read through my notebook. My embarrassment was based in the idea that someone I care about might judge some of my darker, melancholy, unfiltered chicken-scratch.
I over-emote to friends constantly. I not afraid to share how I feel. I could argue that I've made some of the best and worst first impressions due to my inability to filter my emo-tsunami waves. I am not ashamed of those first impressions. I don't apologize for them. That's ultimately who I am. I'm the guy who tells you everything you asked for with or without asking for it explicitly. However, if you discover those same emotions on paper without my presence or implied permission, somehow it embarrasses me.
In April of 2006, I found some of my own emotional writing in a place I didn't expect to find it.
My Uncle Joe kept his important things in the top drawer of his bureau. His car keys. His wallet. Pictures of
his kids. My letter from Christmas 2003. I'll explain.
In December of 2003 (probably around the 22nd), I had my (since then) annual panic about how I'd afford to do anything of value for my family and friends. I'd chosen a path of financial risk. Hopeless romanticism and performing arts. Those crooks steal from me every fucking day.
My thrifty and, I thought, heartfelt decision was to write handwritten letters to my family to tell them how they've shaped me as a person, an artist and an adult, human man. I spent hours writing each letter. I'd do one or two a night and I remember feeling mixed emotions writing them. Ultimately, I felt like these letters were more than just a gift. They were a guaranteed connection. They were love. They were forgiveness. They were understanding. They were thank yous. They were me for you in an envelope.
My Christmas letters weren't universally well received. I'd be willing to bet most of them were recycled by 2004. No one outright chided me for the letters but I don't think, at the time, anyone realized how important the words on those effort crinkled papers were to me. To me emotionally charged, handwritten words should be transferred like a pint of blood, with care and purpose. This letter is mine but it's also yours.
Blood might be thicker than water but it's not thicker than words on paper, that's for sure.
In 2005, I tore my ACL doing an Unnatural Selection show on a Thursday Night in July at ImprovBoston, back when we still nested in a tiny, alcove in Inman Square. It just so happened to be my birthday.
At the time, I was two drinks away from completing my Dead Author's Club mug challenge at the neighboring Bukowski Tavern. I was also in the dead phase of a relationship that went on two years too long. There was much ado about Dana on July 17th in 2005. That night I earned mug #89 (Nostradamus) and the next morning I earned a date with an arthroscopic surgeon on September 1st.
For the next couple of months, I walked around on a cane. In August, my friends Bobby, Blake and I were in Toronto to perform our camping show Fort Awesome at the Toronto Improv Festival. I gimped around looking like even more of a douche than usual.
My mom, aunt, grandpa and Uncle Joe actually came to Toronto to catch our set at the festival. It baffled me that they'd be so unconditionally supportive. It even frustrated me. Seriously, I'm doing improv. It might suck this time. We don't know yet. IT'S IMPROV.
In retrospect, I wish I had been more respectful toward their pilgrimage. It was at an outdoor cafe in Toronto, Ontario, Canada that I learned about my Uncle Joe's cancer. Coming to see me pretend with my friends in Canada was an escape, a retreat, an apology, a trailer for a movie I don't want to see. It was a hint at goodbye.
A month later, I spent what should have been a miserable week of recovery at my grandfather's house recovering with Uncle Joe who had begun his radiation treatments. It was one of the best weeks of my life in the most matter of fact way possible. See, Uncle Joe was more than an uncle. He was a best friend. If he were here today, he'd be walking me through my latest heartbreak as if it was his job. He took even my most trivial speculations and made me feel justified going there. There are times I pick up my phone to call him, somehow forgetting that his phone number has long since changed hands. If only phone numbers took on the qualities and personality and life of the person who used to own them. I'd call his cell just for that comfort again even though there might be a voice I didn't recognize on the other end.
Joe reinforced everything good about me. Forgiveness. Kindness to strangers. Confidence. Standing up for yourself. Unconditional love. Humor. A love of music. Generosity. So, when I was writing his letter in December of 2003, I spent a long time trying to communicate just how much his contribution to me had been appreciated, recognized and indelible.
I had mentally recycled those letters in 2004 myself. Fast forward to April 2006.
I held the letter I had written 3 years earlier and it was the closest I'll ever come to zen. Despite the tears running down my face, I knew Uncle Joe got the message. It was the most bittersweet satisfaction I have ever experienced and I can't imagine the scope of the impact that moment had on my life.
The letter was still in it's original envelope. Mint condition. Either he wanted me to find it there or it was meaningful enough to him to keep it with the things he wanted everyday access to.
Since that day, I've made a promise with myself to tell people how I really feel to the best of my ability.
If you're lucky, I'll put it in writing for you.
I love you all.
DJB
