As most, if not all, of my readers know, I am a major practitioner of writing to people.  Like, the old school way, with paper and pen and sending it through the mail.  I write to a good many people on a regular basis.  This correspondence often takes many forms:  from simple “keeping in touch” to pure goofiness to artistic musings.  I usually write on postcards, but I have been known to also write full-fledged letters.

I tell you all this now because the following blog entry is a letter that I just finished writing to someone, and one of my personal rules had always been that my personal correspondence and my public posting would always remain seperate, but once I got done with the letter, I realized it was more of a blog entry on paper than a letter.  Also, a few of you may have got/ may soon get an earlier version of this letter or a smaller version on a postcard, as the ideas and words were forming and coalescing into a longer-form letter.  I just wanted to write this disclaimer so that none of you who recieve this correspondence think I’m somehow cheating.  99% of the time, you are recieving completely original, one-of-a-kind writing samples from me.

For the sake of the blog, I have titled this letter “Sleepwalking”:


Dear ___________,

Sometimes I wish I sleepwalked.  It just seems to me like a good way for your body to take a long awaited break from your mind.  My mind often takes breaks from my body, but never vice-versa.

Certainly, sometimes the body is steering the mind—while enjoying a great slice of pizza, laying helpless during a blowjob, fear-stricken when you hear someone in the hallway.  But steering the mind is a far cry from taking a break from the mind—no more than steering a car is taking a walk.

I’d like to think that my body has a secret life.  A life kept secret from and seperate from my mind, with it’s own desires, it’s own needs, it’s own dreams, that are somehow never made known to me in my waking life.  Two me’s, two versions of me, quietly warring and making peace countless times without ever really knowing it, their shadow battle quietly fading into nothing with the advent of my dust.

I like to picture my body, divorced from my mind, wandering my dark apartment, picking up knick-knacks and cushions and turning them over in my calm hands.  Without the burden of memory, my precious objects will have less meaning, or more.  Feel the heft of that bookcase, run your hands over the smoothness of that table, the warmth of the apples in the basket.


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