Dead Letter Department #30

(did you miss the last Dead Letter Department? read about tiny deflated balloon veins & Anne Rice here!)

weather report

There’s a drive, one of my favorites, that starts at the park in Fairhaven & winds along the coast up through the Chuckanuts, past the state park & the tumbling waterfalls, past the lookouts & the inexplicable boulders with plaques & the cliffside houses clinging to rocks. I used to drive it all the time—it’s perfect for listening to a new album, especially when you come down out of the hills into farmland & can start going a little faster again—but one of the last times I went there was a terrible accident where a motorcylist was killed on the road. I didn’t even see it, so I feel kind of weird about getting so emotional, but I was stopped by cops on the highway & eventually decided to just turn around rather than waiting for it to be cleared.

Ever since then I got kind of a block about it. I kept picturing hairpin turns & wet pavement, & instead of feeling sort of loose & wonderful to keep to the tight curves it sounded tricky & nerve rattling instead. I didn’t want to give it up, though, didn’t want to let constraint & anxiety take something else away, so I decided the other weekend to drive it anyway, and then to repeat the drive the next time I could. For me it doesn’t usually help to break a block a single time. Anxiety is powerful & weasely enough to convince me once was a fluke & it could be just as bad the second time, so why bother doing it? I have to repeat the exercise, rewrite whatever neurotic little pathways were preventing it before until they’re paved over with something new, with proof. I’ve gone twice so far this spring, & each time the leaves are standing out a little brighter against the grey.

In other driving news, I was led astray by my maps app the other day on the way back from a friend’s cabin. We’d been hanging out around the campfire all night, once we managed to get the damp wood to light, with a six pack & a bag of Combos & an assortment of dogs, & it had been gloriously normal. My friends left before I did, so I was the last one left to swing the huge metal gate closed while the peepers down in the swamp screamed pick up lines at each other. I had directions going on my phone since I’ve only been out there a couple of times & I merrily followed that robotic voice up through the pitch-black, winding hill roads for five, ten, fifteen minutes before I realized I should have hit the state route a long time ago.

It took me an unsettling amount of time out there in the dark to retrace my way. There was no moon, hardly any other cars passing at all, & I had gone past the point of recognizing the street names miles before. It was a relief to finally swing back down by Big Lake and see the glow of Mount Vernon in the distance. I spent a long time on the way back to the highway thinking about the mercy of headlights, the way they give you just one thing to grasp at a time: this little frame of dark hills & curving asphalt, and this one, and then the next. You can’t cheat, or skip ahead, or even think about something else for too long—it’s just you pushing that little square of light forward over the road, and whatever you can make out inside it as you pass.

(parenthetical weather report on the weather report section

The wind’s picked up while I’ve been writing this to you, & it’s whipping gusts of petals past the windows—the last real showers of pink from my beloved plum tree, and swirls of pink blooms from the veiled beauty in my neighbor’s yard. It looks like this phase of spring is being abruptly accelerated.)

one good thing

This arrived around Valentine’s Day—anonymously, which made me feel briefly as though I were living in a sort of thrilling romcom. It took me forever to eat them, partially just because having the box on my bookshelf was so delightful & partially because each of the truffles was a completely decadent experience that I wanted to space out so I could smear the little bit of luxury over as many days as humanly possible. They’re from this amazing sounding place in Alabama, & if you get yourself some, which you absolutely should if you can, I recommend the following procedure for eating them.

Get a paring knife, a clean dish towel, & a pleasing little ramekin. Go out into the backyard after dinner, when it’s dark & starry, & cut two of the truffles in half. If you have a companion for this experience, let them select their half. If you are dining alone, you can skip the cutting since it does tend to compromise the structural integrity. Try to shine your phone on the little paper pamphlet explaining what’s in the box, and when you fail at identifying anything decide it’s better for it to be a surprise. Eat as slowly as possible, while picking out constellations.

WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS

is the name of an extremely small side project where I make a mix of whatever I’ve been most obsessed with, type up a track list on my ancient but still game electric typewriter & send it to a tiny group of people who are into that kind of thing. I miscalculated the number of CDs to burn this time & ended up with a couple of extras, so if you have the ability to listen to a CD (perhaps while driving in the dark) & would like a Dead Letter Department-adjacent mailing, email me at departmentofdeadletters@gmail.com with your address & I’ll send you one.

If you like the newsletter, please share it with a friend. I hope to see you here at the Dead Letter Department again soon, & in the meantime may you have a full tank of gas & plenty of time to find your way back to town.