Dear Reader,
After much deliberation, I have decided to keep the old blogger. Unpostmarked turned out to be an experimental flow-through. I will probably (every now and again) continue to write my unsent letters here. But in the meantime, if you are looking for a post:
www.bermikoy.blogspot.com
Happy hunting and thank you.
Sincerely,
Morely me.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Athazagoraphobia
Dear blinking cursor,
In this life, not many things scare me.
If someone came to break into my house, I'd know how to shoot my gun. If I gained a little weight, and that scale inched its way to "heavy," I know I'd still be okay. If I've got no money left in my bank account, I'd learn to cope. I can kill spiders, I'm not afraid to speak in public, and I've even made my own attempts at confrontation when I needed to.
But losing my memory is definitely on the list of fears. Maybe even a phobia. I hate forgetting things. Especially the things that are so meaningful to me. There's just something about remembering that brings people back to life.
A scent of love spell can tumble you back in an instant. A faint song in the background of a music store can take you back many, many years. And sometimes, just by a reminder of a single picture, you can relive exactly what happened that day. I can still remember the first day I secretly fell in love with Spiderman.... it wasn't that long ago.
But I worry that I'll forget some things along the way. Every day that I wake up, I am a day older. Old memories are erased and long gone. I like living my life with good times to look back on. It adds depth to my happiness. What good is life if you don't have a single laugh or tear to show for it? Hands down, probably one of the more memorable years of my life had to be the bumbling years I spent in Michigan. No longer under my parents' wing, I roamed free (as much as the Adventist system would allow) and explored. Independence, responsibility (or lack thereof) and self-sufficiency were my egos.
But more than that, it was a place that I met and knew the world's greatest people. Funny how a rural Siberian-wintered place could bring people together. I don't like my memory to fail me:
The place of snowboard accidents, blacklight cafes, heartbreaks, 2 AM dunkin donuts, rock bands, weddings, car wrecks, DDRs, tea and sympathies and secret crushes with the world's potential to be your best friend. There's especially those quite obscure friendships/wishful romances that happened - or didn't happen - that becomes part of the "what ifs" and "should'ves" referenced in a joke or some part of an awkward attempt at humor.
Timing was never right - and that part hasn't changed. If only we'd said something sooner - or said something at all - perhaps things might have been different. I've been teased that I like to live in the past. Actually, I highly disagree. Highly. My past is worth remembering, for sure. How could I not?
Squeezing a leg into a-size-too-small zip up boots ("suck it in, Vimie!") is highly entertaining. There's nothing funnier than hearing your friend suffer uncomfortably after a binge of fried pickles. And what's more knee-slapping than a group of fully grown, intelligent people trying to squeeze a dead fish on the back of a sofa mattress? ( I guess you just had to be there).
Ah, these memories.
How they let me live.
How I would cease to exist without them.
Sometimes I think I should've been more of a pack rat and kept more things. Like maybe keeping a M.A.S.H. game in a memory box, for example. (How amazing would that have been to be presented by that piece of yellow paper after 50 years?).
Athazagoraphobia: it's mine and I claim it. Perhaps I should be more motivated to keep a journal - a proper one at that, not some silly Dear-Diary-Judy-Jetson moments. I just don't like my memory to fail me.
Because my history?
It's too good.
Sincerely,
The girl who bought ikea boxes for memory storage
In this life, not many things scare me.
If someone came to break into my house, I'd know how to shoot my gun. If I gained a little weight, and that scale inched its way to "heavy," I know I'd still be okay. If I've got no money left in my bank account, I'd learn to cope. I can kill spiders, I'm not afraid to speak in public, and I've even made my own attempts at confrontation when I needed to.
But losing my memory is definitely on the list of fears. Maybe even a phobia. I hate forgetting things. Especially the things that are so meaningful to me. There's just something about remembering that brings people back to life.
A scent of love spell can tumble you back in an instant. A faint song in the background of a music store can take you back many, many years. And sometimes, just by a reminder of a single picture, you can relive exactly what happened that day. I can still remember the first day I secretly fell in love with Spiderman.... it wasn't that long ago.
But I worry that I'll forget some things along the way. Every day that I wake up, I am a day older. Old memories are erased and long gone. I like living my life with good times to look back on. It adds depth to my happiness. What good is life if you don't have a single laugh or tear to show for it? Hands down, probably one of the more memorable years of my life had to be the bumbling years I spent in Michigan. No longer under my parents' wing, I roamed free (as much as the Adventist system would allow) and explored. Independence, responsibility (or lack thereof) and self-sufficiency were my egos.
But more than that, it was a place that I met and knew the world's greatest people. Funny how a rural Siberian-wintered place could bring people together. I don't like my memory to fail me:
The place of snowboard accidents, blacklight cafes, heartbreaks, 2 AM dunkin donuts, rock bands, weddings, car wrecks, DDRs, tea and sympathies and secret crushes with the world's potential to be your best friend. There's especially those quite obscure friendships/wishful romances that happened - or didn't happen - that becomes part of the "what ifs" and "should'ves" referenced in a joke or some part of an awkward attempt at humor.
Timing was never right - and that part hasn't changed. If only we'd said something sooner - or said something at all - perhaps things might have been different. I've been teased that I like to live in the past. Actually, I highly disagree. Highly. My past is worth remembering, for sure. How could I not?
Squeezing a leg into a-size-too-small zip up boots ("suck it in, Vimie!") is highly entertaining. There's nothing funnier than hearing your friend suffer uncomfortably after a binge of fried pickles. And what's more knee-slapping than a group of fully grown, intelligent people trying to squeeze a dead fish on the back of a sofa mattress? ( I guess you just had to be there).
Ah, these memories.
How they let me live.
How I would cease to exist without them.
Sometimes I think I should've been more of a pack rat and kept more things. Like maybe keeping a M.A.S.H. game in a memory box, for example. (How amazing would that have been to be presented by that piece of yellow paper after 50 years?).
Athazagoraphobia: it's mine and I claim it. Perhaps I should be more motivated to keep a journal - a proper one at that, not some silly Dear-Diary-Judy-Jetson moments. I just don't like my memory to fail me.
Because my history?
It's too good.
Sincerely,
The girl who bought ikea boxes for memory storage
Thursday, January 10, 2008
It's all in the leather.
Dear Ear Specialist,
I know that certain smells can sometimes be associated with a certain person, a memory, a place, etc…
But can sounds do that too? And especially with something you've never had? I was thinking about that today. For instance, whenever I hear the sound of my jingling belt buckle as the leather strap slides through the pants loop, I imagine that must be what a one-night stand must sound like. For this reason, and because I am so anti one-night standers, I own one standard, black leather Etienne Aigner belt that I use on such rare occasions such as holding my pants up lest I show my string thong strap to the world.
But it's not just the belt strap thing.
The sound of a picture coming out of a Polaroid camera makes me think of the early 90s.
A closing file cabinet makes me think of the principal's office. And I haven't been to the principal's office since ten years ago, getting put on social with Derek.
That beeping sound when heavy machineries are backing out of a parking spot, makes me think of severely obese people.
(That's wrong, isn't it?)
The ding of the oven timer makes me imagine that that must be the sound that moms hear right before their water breaks before giving birth.
And it's not just that.
The sound of Christmas is the sliding sheets of wrapping paper.
Payday and apple turnovers is the barcode reader beep at the grocery store.
The shut of a flip cell phone is the world's saddest breakup.
Sounds of people dry heaving is one too many black and tans.
That incessant bass in car stereos is what I imagine insanity must sound like.
So I was wondering, if maybe you could give me some kind of a medical diagnosis. And while you're at it, medicate me if need be. Cause everytime I hear the shut of a luxury car door, I think some guys in black suits and secret headseats are about to kidnap me and put me in someone's trunk.
Oh. And the belt sound. What should I do about that?
Sincerely,
Girl in need of dispensing the leather.
I know that certain smells can sometimes be associated with a certain person, a memory, a place, etc…
But can sounds do that too? And especially with something you've never had? I was thinking about that today. For instance, whenever I hear the sound of my jingling belt buckle as the leather strap slides through the pants loop, I imagine that must be what a one-night stand must sound like. For this reason, and because I am so anti one-night standers, I own one standard, black leather Etienne Aigner belt that I use on such rare occasions such as holding my pants up lest I show my string thong strap to the world.
But it's not just the belt strap thing.
The sound of a picture coming out of a Polaroid camera makes me think of the early 90s.
A closing file cabinet makes me think of the principal's office. And I haven't been to the principal's office since ten years ago, getting put on social with Derek.
That beeping sound when heavy machineries are backing out of a parking spot, makes me think of severely obese people.
(That's wrong, isn't it?)
The ding of the oven timer makes me imagine that that must be the sound that moms hear right before their water breaks before giving birth.
And it's not just that.
The sound of Christmas is the sliding sheets of wrapping paper.
Payday and apple turnovers is the barcode reader beep at the grocery store.
The shut of a flip cell phone is the world's saddest breakup.
Sounds of people dry heaving is one too many black and tans.
That incessant bass in car stereos is what I imagine insanity must sound like.
So I was wondering, if maybe you could give me some kind of a medical diagnosis. And while you're at it, medicate me if need be. Cause everytime I hear the shut of a luxury car door, I think some guys in black suits and secret headseats are about to kidnap me and put me in someone's trunk.
Oh. And the belt sound. What should I do about that?
Sincerely,
Girl in need of dispensing the leather.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
When the clock strikes twelve.
Dear New-Years-Resolutions-inventor,
I think you should put your head in an oven.
How dare you try to inspire people with new challenges and give them false hope and inspiration. People don't need the first of the year to feel compelled to lose weight. To save more. To be nice. Quit something. Pick up something. Or just.. BE anything. Why can't you just accept people for who they are and live with their downfalls? Why do you always have to try to change them?
You came to knock at my door a few days ago. I didn't answer.
I'm sure you noticed.
When you walked away, did you wonder what I would've said to you on your visit?
Well, I guess you'll never know.
You're not welcome in my house. There's no room for you in my home. You leave people depressed because once again, they've failed at trying to better themselves. Once that grandfather clock strikes 12 on January 2nd, they're back to the same old habits.
Don't you get tired of your annual visit? Aren't you the least bit humiliated by coming back every year and finding these people in the same state you left them a year before?
I would.
Shame on you.
But let's say I HAD let you in. Let's pretend for just a second... hypothetically of course, that I served you tea and cookies and we had a chat about how this year was going to be different than the year (and years) before. What do you think I would have said to you? What do you think I would have mentioned?
I haven't made up my mind yet. I know somewhere in there, I would probably include something or other about having no self-defeat. And I would have added that it's been a long and hard year for me.
But you knew this.
Over gingersnaps and sugar treats, I would admit my need to exercise more and eat better. I guess it doesn't help that my yoga and pilates instructors are getting quite lenient with my lack of attendance as of late. Oh! And eating breakfast... one of your minions came over the other day and scolded me for not doing so. Or at least eating so poorly. And irregularly. But. Really... I'm trying to give up strawberry lemonade crystal light and sky flakes at 7:30 in the morning... and opting for something better instead like a whole wheat low fat cream cheese bagel and a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice.
But let's see how long that lasts.
While sipping red and white tea, I would rant about the need to just kick back and let go, cease my neuroticism and mania for all things OCD-related and such. Trust me, I really can't help it that I clean up after people's crumbs. Or that I strive to be like that hippie down the street with an emaculate kitchen and a tidy living room. Or that I've stayed in on Saturday nights to rearrange my bedroom. You think I may need to be put on meds? ..... yeah, I thought so, too.
But I can't help it that I get turned on by a clean bedroom and an organized closet.
So that's the easy stuff. We haven't even touched the current events of the last four plus months and what I plan to do to deal with that. Perhaps everyday has been a mystery to me since then. But have you noticed? How different I am from who I used to be? I struggle to remember those days. Time is so fitting, isn't it? It still amazes me how mighty people really are. Maybe that's why you keep coming around every year? Because there's a small part of you that really do believe that people can change their ways. And are strong enough to do it. Who knows...
But you already know what I'll say to that.
Some people can't change. And they never will. They'll continue feeding that hungry side of them that keep doing the things they know they shouldn't touch.
After your short stay, I would walk you to the door, stand by the open frame, wave and watch you go. With your trench coat and leather gloves on, the last I'll see of you is just the shadows you leave behind. I'll call out and say, "see you next year!"
But you're no longer there.
I watch the cursor blink on the screen as I grapple for more words to say to you.
I guess I hate and love you. You make me want to be a better person on the next visit as the year before. But when I fail you, I hate you, cause I'm so disappointed in myself.
Maybe next year, I'll open the door when you call.
Until then, I'll keep the oven door open.
Just in case you come by.
Sincerely,
The girl enjoying red and white tea with gingersnap cookies by herself.
I think you should put your head in an oven.
How dare you try to inspire people with new challenges and give them false hope and inspiration. People don't need the first of the year to feel compelled to lose weight. To save more. To be nice. Quit something. Pick up something. Or just.. BE anything. Why can't you just accept people for who they are and live with their downfalls? Why do you always have to try to change them?
You came to knock at my door a few days ago. I didn't answer.
I'm sure you noticed.
When you walked away, did you wonder what I would've said to you on your visit?
Well, I guess you'll never know.
You're not welcome in my house. There's no room for you in my home. You leave people depressed because once again, they've failed at trying to better themselves. Once that grandfather clock strikes 12 on January 2nd, they're back to the same old habits.
Don't you get tired of your annual visit? Aren't you the least bit humiliated by coming back every year and finding these people in the same state you left them a year before?
I would.
Shame on you.
But let's say I HAD let you in. Let's pretend for just a second... hypothetically of course, that I served you tea and cookies and we had a chat about how this year was going to be different than the year (and years) before. What do you think I would have said to you? What do you think I would have mentioned?
I haven't made up my mind yet. I know somewhere in there, I would probably include something or other about having no self-defeat. And I would have added that it's been a long and hard year for me.
But you knew this.
Over gingersnaps and sugar treats, I would admit my need to exercise more and eat better. I guess it doesn't help that my yoga and pilates instructors are getting quite lenient with my lack of attendance as of late. Oh! And eating breakfast... one of your minions came over the other day and scolded me for not doing so. Or at least eating so poorly. And irregularly. But. Really... I'm trying to give up strawberry lemonade crystal light and sky flakes at 7:30 in the morning... and opting for something better instead like a whole wheat low fat cream cheese bagel and a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice.
But let's see how long that lasts.
While sipping red and white tea, I would rant about the need to just kick back and let go, cease my neuroticism and mania for all things OCD-related and such. Trust me, I really can't help it that I clean up after people's crumbs. Or that I strive to be like that hippie down the street with an emaculate kitchen and a tidy living room. Or that I've stayed in on Saturday nights to rearrange my bedroom. You think I may need to be put on meds? ..... yeah, I thought so, too.
But I can't help it that I get turned on by a clean bedroom and an organized closet.
So that's the easy stuff. We haven't even touched the current events of the last four plus months and what I plan to do to deal with that. Perhaps everyday has been a mystery to me since then. But have you noticed? How different I am from who I used to be? I struggle to remember those days. Time is so fitting, isn't it? It still amazes me how mighty people really are. Maybe that's why you keep coming around every year? Because there's a small part of you that really do believe that people can change their ways. And are strong enough to do it. Who knows...
But you already know what I'll say to that.
Some people can't change. And they never will. They'll continue feeding that hungry side of them that keep doing the things they know they shouldn't touch.
After your short stay, I would walk you to the door, stand by the open frame, wave and watch you go. With your trench coat and leather gloves on, the last I'll see of you is just the shadows you leave behind. I'll call out and say, "see you next year!"
But you're no longer there.
I watch the cursor blink on the screen as I grapple for more words to say to you.
I guess I hate and love you. You make me want to be a better person on the next visit as the year before. But when I fail you, I hate you, cause I'm so disappointed in myself.
Maybe next year, I'll open the door when you call.
Until then, I'll keep the oven door open.
Just in case you come by.
Sincerely,
The girl enjoying red and white tea with gingersnap cookies by herself.
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