Friday, May 06, 2005

with stones in my pocket

today i told k that i am the poster child for low morale. we discussed how our jobs are like screaming into the infinite abyss--the glacial pace of systemic change and isolation of the office bureaucracy. i had to fill out this "position profile," and as usual became rather smartass and punchy. under "tools required," i wrote in "tea, scarves, and candles," stopping just short of "broomsticks and tarot cards." under occupational health hazards, i added "computer radiation, the stress of systemic advocacy and burden of saving the world."

speaking of not feeling heard, francesca just told me about a new mcsweeney's project, publishing letters to the president. i started to write in, but once again felt an insurmountable rage paralyze my carpal tunnel-prone fingers. in the meantime, i'll plagiarize some of my favourites below. i will contemplate what to write over the weekend, and if you compose something please share. speaking of, a shout out to zeth and the wandering hermit with your vast theological insight....i guess someone in the universe is listening, after all.

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Dear Mr. President,

You can be walking down the street and suddenly bump your head into someone else's thought. Sex thoughts are the biggest. They come in the shape of toast, or falling leaves.

I used to skip along on a beautiful song called dirt. Once some big boys beat me up and kicked the song in my face.

Our tree house was the closest point to the moon.

Sincerely,
Eric Morgan

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Dear Mr. President,

I am eating yet another chocolate chip cookie as I write this. I have been eating quite a lot of cookies lately, thus my need to ramp up my workout schedule. Luckily, the baby likes his baby jogger so I can run with him around.

There are some beautiful photographs of Iraq in the paper today. I have decided that I may start keeping a scrapbook of photos because many of them are astounding. But then I'm not sure. I don't think I could bear to look at some of them again: like the photo of the medic holding the child whose mother had just been shot. I see my son in the place of all these children.

I'm sure you know that Virginia Woolf put stones in her pocket to drown herself. Can you imagine that sort of determination?

Sincerely,
Jennifer Calkins

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Dear Mr. President,

Nine days ago I thought I was in love with a boy, because that was an easy and clean feeling. Today I realized that I'm in love with the world, and it isn't you, it's me, and it's messy, messy.

Yesterday I read a travel guide and it made me cry.

Sincerely,
Katherine J. Lee

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Dear Mr. President,

I forgive you.

Sincerely,
Edward Urmston

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