Within the ethos of love, loss and or just being simply pathetic, communication seems to be a practical notion of life. Growing up in the generation where you called the home phone while silently praying that her Dad didn't pick up first; having an auditory experience with another human being means a lot to me when there is distance involved. I've experienced all forms of distance. From having a crush on the girl that's just down the block, to trying to keep up with family affairs thousands of miles away, I am no stranger to picking up the phone. But with that said, I am also one who is terrified of the phone. There have been late nights, early mornings or sunny afternoons where I've picked up the receiver to hear news better saved for when hugs can quickly be applied. So when one is attempting to transverse the miles and miles of your own unexplored personal constitution, you tend to need that auditory experience to keep you grounded.
As I've been exploring not only my own personal cognition, but as well in the academic world, I have come across two rather interesting things that I begun to apply to myself. An ontological framework and epistemological conclusion. Ontological, or ontology is from the branch of metaphysics that deals with the nature of being. Traditionally this philosophical framework deals with this question of what is real? Essentially ontology makes you question the existence of 'being'. Yeah, I know what you're probably thinking, "Dude... are you trying put me to sleep?" Well just think about this, if your body can simulate a fever but you don't actually have one, is the simulation of the fever more real than an actual fever itself? Or what about this. You are fairly positive that someone has caught feelings for you. So therefore you do everything in your power to find out if these feelings are real or not. And for a short time you interpret everything that person does through the lens of "They like me." What is more real in that situation, the feels that you perceive, acted on, and also can cognitively sense, or the reveal that the person actually does have feelings?
As for epistemology, it is essentially knowledge. Basically, what can be known. So take the previous example of the random dude/chick that you perceive to totally dig you. You calculate what is known. They've texted you several times.
They've smiled in your general direction, whether you were looking or not.
Your friends constantly tell you, "Hey, you'd be a great match."
Hence, it is simplistic data gathering.
Basically what I am saying is that every time you look into a persons eyes and think, "Sweet Jesus, I think want to go the party in their pants", you're about to have an ontological and epistemological experience. Are these feelings real? And what do I know about these feelings or that person in particular (this is also a very post-structuralist way of dealing with feelings, but I won't get into that). I believe that we become very philosophical when we are horny. Balancing out the "do's and don'ts", the pros and cons of doing this or that, and so forth. Perhaps I am the only one who believes that we don't only think with our genitals when making an intimate decision. There's math involved.
ANYWAYS.
Back to the phone, or lack there of.
Back in October, I wrote a series of letters to Scully. I oddly preferred epistolary relationships, which is essentially what we did as kids. You'd be in class, and you'd find yourself passing notes to that cute girl several rows back. Just the idea of receiving physical mail made my heart flutter. That feeling of parchment in your hands. The ability to imagine their face while they wrote it. Oh, it was all glorious. The written word was my phone. And I always was certain that she would call.
I called a lot.
Sometimes my conversations were short and sweet. All nicely dulled out on the back of a scholarly postcard. As for the others, well they were pages long. I know for a fact that some of these letters were received with glamour. The others, well it took a fortnight till I got a response, and the response included a single sentence and an emoji. The sum total impact of those letters on her heart or mind are still a mystery to me. I simply ran out of data to collect. My referential sign of our reality faded like a song that ends to soon.
Either way, I was digging through my documentation box on my computer this evening and I found a letter that had not been sent. It was a phone call that never happened. As for why I never sent it, well I can only assume that I buckled on the pressure of trying not to be a complete psycho. Or perhaps I was just to sad to send it.
But now, here it is.
And if you're wondering how I am doing mentally right now, here in this very instant.
Well to be honest.
I am completely fine.
Whether you believe this sort of expression is unhealthy or a sign of mental fortitude, I personally this method of unearthing the past extremely therapeutic. To be able to present it, call it for what it was worth and move on is the greatest form of personal healing that I can do.
And also, may I remind you... You don't have to read it either.
This song is what this letter sounds like me. And no, it's not on the playlist. But there are hints to what was on the playlist within the letter itself.
But to complete the playlist, tune in next time.
October 14th, 2015.
Dear Scully,
It is with sincerest apologies that I have not written you since my arrival in England. I’ve clearly had plenty of time to do so. But admittedly I have been so distracted by this personal adjustment. Seeking tutors, unfolding clothes that still smell of home, job hunting and pleasing new faces in hopes that I would be able to call them ‘friend’. There is an ugly truth to my distraction, and I have shown a fragment of this portrait through our correspondence on Skype. Though I only revealed a pixel of this tapestry that beds me feverishly. In truth I have been wrestling a rhythmic pounding of my muddied depression. This ‘old’ friend, depression, he has come back into my life as though I had sent for him in the night. In the darkness of my quiet time he would unfurl himself in layers, wrapping his roots around my heart like the hands of a greedy child. Each night since I have been here I have laid in my bed without stirring; my eyes straying past the ceiling and into an abyss of my weak memory torturing me to paralyses.
Now not all of this is bleak or carries the weigh of an empty house, for I also have had positive moments that have arguably bolstered my mood. These moments could be rattled out quickly though, much like coins from the hole in a a pocket. For much of them revolve around massive amounts of intoxication in hopes that drunk friends make quick friends. I also got the job at the Odyssey which came with a slew of new people to enjoy. I’ve worked on my dissertation, which was and is the primary reason of me being here. So, yes there have been glimmers of bright colors within this dark portrait that I have painted for you.
Even with that said, I have strayed from communicating honestly with you; avoiding pen to paper, hand to keyboard, and even voice to phone because I feel as though that I have topped off my words like melancholy additive instead of the glory of adventure. Embarrassingly I have not wanted you to think of me in this state... for when I think of you, I hear the memory of laughter.
This letter may not be to your liking, and you may not even understand the position that I am in, but the truth of the matter is that I miss you with my whole heart. I remember when I first wrote you, back in August and I told you why I had been holding back from displaying physical affection. Then following I queried whether that you had intended for me to have feelings or not; either way they were there and had fully developed. And Scully, they are still there.
Perhaps I am a slave to my feelings, or I have a misguided perception of ‘us’. Or lastly perhaps I have even lost touch with the mannerisms of modern romance — such as queues (i.e. body language, distance between responses or vocal tone), but as you’ve said before, "You scare me, but in the best way possible" and goddamn it, you still terrify me.
I’ve walked these streets of Ormskirk at night in hunger for distraction. I've forced myself much to look upon things that were new. One would think that my natural curiosity would have driven me to this already, but it hasn't. There are different types of trees, with sticky and pointy leafs, dressing the ground like a broken salt shaker. These vehicles speed past me in directions that I am unfamiliar with, adding a wind burst to the already howling breeze. Then there is the cobble stone, unbalanced and painted with dirt from generations older than our parents; which trips and catches each unfamiliar step I take. I take this walks with smokes in my pocket and often headphones in my ears to escape the particular asylum quality of my dorm.
As we both are, I often find my self lost on the unfamiliar faces that I pass. I see groups and clicks of friends that have bonded through trials that I have made up in my head. Lovely little stories, some of which involving elaborate tales and such. Perhaps even during these walks I believe that depression stays at home, but like a loyal dog I know he’s waiting patiently at the door. During and often at the ends of these walks, even though I’ve embarked on them to forget about you... All I can do is remember you.
As of now, if you’ve made it this far in my ramblings, I would understand the weight that you may be feeling; peering through my tedious and hand-picked mental vomit. If you wish to discontinue, I would understand. And I apologize if anything I have said thus far has been emotionally violent.
I don’t have this figured out. And I’m not asking you to figure this out either. This — meaning — the amalgam of heart and soul that I had subconsciously set aside for you. All I do know is what this sounds like and this feels like. It sounds like the playlists that I made for you. Somewhere, right in the middle was Neck Deep, screaming “I miss you like shit today”. But then softly later, being truthful of my condition was the Eels, “What I have to offer…”.
It feels like I've made a great mistake, great perhaps in the manner that I wouldn’t regret it for years. I guess at the end of this, I’ll or we’ll have to figure out what this is or was. For me over analyzing is my specialty, thus this contents of this letter. And I do deeply apologize for my over analytical framework.
I find it weird though. All of this verbal vomit that I am spilling out to you. I have skyped my family only twice, my friend Blake once, and also Robert. As for you, it has happened so far on three separate occasions, all back-to-back. I don’t know what it is about you, but I’ve not wanted to stop talking to you, sharing with you, and in the end, needing you. Scully, if nothing else this is a reflection on what kind of person you are, and what you have become. I don’t idealize you, nor do I envy you. Therefore I am not making an idol out of you, but I am more so signifying the importance of your life and the change you have on people, or perhaps mainly the impact you had on me.
I don’t know what you are going through, or how you have truly been this past month, but I know that you have not been well. What has pained me is that I have not been there to see it with my own eyes. I have not been there to ignore my own pathos and embrace you, to help you.
At the end of the day though, what I said to you on the couch, nights before I left is still true — I am yours.
Sincerely yours,
Brady
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