Letters of Hope...

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Citat:Mesa, Arizona, 2005
Lisbon, Portugal, circa 1930

Dear Fernando Pessoa,
I almost love you.

Lately, in fact, I've found myself having "conversations” with you. You look, in my mind’s eye, just like you did in early photographs—a dark suit, a fat cigar between the fingers of your left hand. You've got one eye looking at me; the other is over the cobbled streets where people pass by, oblivious to us. You seem depressed.

The year is 1930 and you will be dead soon. Actually, that’s not entirely true: You still have five more years to live.

You and I are sitting at a small, iron table in a tiny café in Lisbon. We are on the patio; you've just completed your journal entry for the day. I wonder if I can see it, and you slide the notebook across the table without uttering a word.

Somebody endlessly keeps our coffee cups filled. I don't know who it is. I can't see them. I can only sense them after they've come and gone. And this feeling, this contradiction, this present absence, so to speak, reminds me of something you wrote, not that long ago: "We never love anyone. We love only our idea of what someone is like. We love an idea of our own; in short, it is ourselves that we love.”

A bearded man sits at the table next to us. He is reading a thick volume of poetry while he eats his lunch. I am trying to figure out who the author is. I'm almost sure it's Whitman.

"What book is he reading?" I ask you, pushing my chin towards the bearded man. The question seems to confound you, as if I’ve suddenly made an appearance, as if this weren’t my fantasy anymore. You've materialized me. I'm not dreaming (not alone, anyway). This is truly 1930, and you’re, in fact,Fernando Pessoa, the sad poet wearing his sad suit.

And I am… Well, I am this sort of yet-to-be born presence, one of your contradictory truths, an illusion, a phantom. Still, you are only partly assured. You glance over your shoulder, bring your hovering, watchful eye into focus. Now, with both eyes upon me, the corners of your mouth loosen. I loosen too, like an ideal figment of imagination. We rejoice at how easy it is to dream.

The bearded man finishes his lunch. He gets up to leave and I can see he has an elated mind. His thoughts flicker behind his eyes like flames.
Still, not satisfied, you rub your forehead with both of your hands, fingers pressing the skin there into lines. The bearded man gathers his things, his book, his overcoat. I can now see that he walks with a cane.

When you see him leave, you too, gather your things—your notebook, your overcoat, your difficult-to-read thoughts. You continue to rub your brow, as if the ache in your head is too much to ignore. An entire universe is waiting for you along Rua dos Douradores.

In 1982, 47 years after your death, your "The Book of Disquiet” will be published. In it, there will be a fragmented gathering of many of your journal entries, which, I understand, you have been actively engaged in writing since 1912.You give credit to a semi-heteronym, Bernardo Soares, whom you claim was a simple mutilation of your own personality. You, "minus reason and affectivity.”

When I see you step out into the courtyard, the sun piling up in the trees, hat on your head to cap the pressure, I step out too. As your footsteps recede up the road back to your office, words fall over your shoulders. I pick them up, even though I can't read them in the original Portuguese.

I call out your name one more time, but you don’t look back, not to thank me, not to say goodbye.

Years will go by, and, often, when I'm "high up in that lonely night,” I will think of you, and carefully whisper cheerful words, so that just you can hear them. Wherever you are.

Timelessly,

Lisa Marie



*

Citat:Erie, Pennsylvania
January 1, 2000

Dear Alex,
Just a few minutes ago I thought I would never, ever, write you another word, let alone another full-blown letter with all the details and care such endeavor entails. Just a moment ago, I thought you were the lousiest, most remiss friend I have ever had, or, to respect the mind frame I was in, thought I did.

So volatile are my feelings, and my emotions.

All it took to change my whole perspective about you was a simple phone call. It lasted only a couple of minutes, I know, but it warmed my heart on this winter day. For a long time I wondered if you were going to remember me today.

You promised you would.

But you also promised you would call often, and send letters, and let me know how you were doing, and how much you missed me while you were in Europe. And yet, you never did. Since you left, I am the one who has done most of the writing, most of the talking.

It felt strange sometimes. But I relish sharing my feelings with you. Sometimes people just need to be listened to. No feedback, no interaction needed: Just someone to listen to our stories.
Things haven't changed much in our or, should I say, my city. I don't think you remember this place as yours anymore. You have always been so critical of this part of the world, you have always wanted more: This town has not been enough to host and entertain your dreams, wishes, and ambitions. I remember you saying you would look at this city as a turned page in your life.

Sometimes I hated you for saying that. But I have also admired that in you. The determination, the fixation on a single idea, the resolution to pursue your thoughts and dreams like a bullfighter, always intrepid, always fearless of what might come as a result of your acts.I, on the other hand, have stayed here, nurturing my own dreams with stoic defiance. And today, as I write these words to you, I realize that having been here is, in all so many ways, quite an extraordinary experience.

Maybe Paris will bring you all the inspiration to light that creative fire that has been lurking in your soul for so many years. But for me, being here, close to the lake, close to such a rich venue of our own history, puts me closer to my true soul, to my true writing.
Yes, my dear friend, I am speaking from Erie, Pennsylvania.

I am speaking to the world from the headquarters of Commodore Oliver Perry, whose ships, made right here in this town, defeated the great British navy in the Battle of Erie in 1813. The city named after the Erie people, the Native American tribe that, although decimated by the Iroquois in a gory battle in the mid-17th century, managed to outlive itself through its name.

My dreams are like Erie, my dear Alex. They don't travel far, but they manage to endure the odds of time.
I guess I have been, and will always be, like this: The one who finds beauty, pleasure and a smile in the simple things of life, in the places where people don't pay a lot of attention to, or don't even bother to look at.

It feels appropriate to think these thoughts on a day like today, when a new Millennium starts, when the whole world revels on the possibilities ahead of us, on the good that is to come, on the big things that can occur.

Yes, everyone talks about the big things.

From my TV set in Erie, I saw the fireworks at the Eiffel tower, and the crowds waltzing through the Champs Elysees. On several occasions I thought I had seen you. But my imagination, like my heart, speaks in low tones, and I decided I would write you a large, long letter to say that, like Emily Dickinson, it will be in the small, everyday things that my deep literary thoughts will always reside.
Happy New Year!

Love,

Joyce



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