The Dead Letter Department #5

(did you miss dead letter department #4? catch up here!)

where I wish I was

under a pile of moss in the woods, waiting to be dug up come springtime

between two thick fantasy books in the back corner of the fiction section of the library

swimming in a great swirl of all my brethern sting rays on a great migration

lying on my back and gently spinning on a merry go round on a night clear enough to see the milky way

sleeping above the stove

inside a hummingbird nest made of stolen spiderweb

at the back table of my once-favorite bar in an alternate timeline when it’s not owned by a bad dude & I still go there & my favorite waitress is just about to set a huge mango margarita down in front of me

inside a hyacinth, right before it blooms

where I am instead

at my desk, still. inside, still. It’s looking like I’ll be eligible for the vaccine sometime in late summer, assuming all the things that we’re assuming these days.

today’s perfume

Smolderose—say it out loud, it’s quite satisfying. I ordered a perfume sampler from The January Scent Project and the presentation is so satisfying. Each perfume comes with its own little piece of art and a full list of the notes.

Smolderose is damask rose, of course, but also smoke. On me it was like a garden of banked ashes.

Our dear Dead Letter reader Matthew sent us this extremely vivid description of his favorite perfume, pictured below:

“I have no idea what it’s called or what’s in it, or, in fact, whether I made it or not. I have no idea how got it. But I know for certain I can’t apply it within 6 hours of visiting my bee hive. Good or bad, they have a very strong opinion of it. It smells like the happiest part of a flower.”

The happiest part of a flower!!! Strong opinions from bees! What more can you ask of a perfume?

one good thing

Are you interested in strange rituals and superstitions? Do you have weird feelings about the performance of masculinity? Perhaps I can interest you in hockey, or at least a podcast about hockey by three brilliant queer weirdos: You Can’t Do That.

The sport itself is questionable in the best of times (traumatic brain injuries, profound racism, the usual disheartening chasm between men & women’s sports) but I was still kind of excited for it to come back until players started getting sick. The idea that we are somehow insisting on the utterly unnecessary pageantry of games, complete with empty stands and elaborate fining systems to deploy when men who are paid to slam up against each other are also sitting in hotel rooms with their teammates while the death rate just keeps rising—well. I watched exactly two games before it made me too sad to keep going, at least for the moment, but I still like listening to Rave & Kelly & Eva talk about it. They’re just as horrified as I am but a lot funnier about it.

houseguest

I’ve been getting up a lot earlier these days. I have a little foster dog right now and when he first arrived I wasn’t sure how much training he had so we were going outside every couple hours and keeping the nights short to make it as easy on him as possible. It turns out he’s actually completely house-trained but I’d forgotten how nice it is to wake up and immediately be presented with a wagging, delighted creature who is just so excited to start his day.

I’d also forgotten that there is an absolutely enormous bunny that seems to use my backyard as a sort of drawing room (did you know that’s actually withdrawing, as in a private room for the family? I just found that out, I always thought it was drawing like art), and I’d forgotten I can see Orion over the trash cans & Cassiopeia sailing above the back fence every night.

It’s good to have a reason to go outside: foster dog has already learned the difference between yard shoes and walking shoes, and is significantly better on a leash than I expected. It’s not really a walk, since he doesn’t exactly go swiftly from point to point, but he does love to ride around in my hoodie and then trot in circles to smell all the things and pee on half of them. I thought he might be scared to go new places since his old life was pretty circumscribed, but it turns out he’s super into it. I took him to the graveyard the other day before the frost had burned off and every leaf was still covered with sharp icy needles. Artificial flowers are only allowed from November to March and they made a bright contrast, all the reds and greens from holiday wreaths and early Valentine’s flowers against the white fields and grey stones.

reading room

Thick, by Tressie McMillan Cottom & Heavy by Kiese Laymon have been on my list for ages but my bro is in a class on them & I wanted to keep up with what they are reading so I finally got into them & they’re both incredible. Cottom’s In the Name of Beauty has really changed my thinking, & I’ll definitely be going back to it.

Also The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet by Becky Chambers, which was a holiday gift & is totally delightful so far: genuinely alien aliens, not just Next Generation style face prosthetics and cultural norms that are barely at an angle from ours.

I sorted my to-read list (formerly a note in my phone, now an actual spreadsheet) and dusted my to-read pile recently and both are absolutely unhinged, totally out of control. I’m trying to see that as a great pile of future riches to be enjoyed instead of a failure to consume culture in exactly the right way.

don’t stop

I’m back into tiktok—it was the sea shanties that did it, the wellerman came & sucked me right back in again. I’ve been thinking about this one ever since our beloved tiktok correspondent sent it to me:

https://www.tiktok.com/@beevesoftime/video/6913204633783602438

It might be the only correct response to this moment: yes bitch, me again! Still here. Still too mad at God to go home.

write back

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