Dear Harttz

Sometimes the highway sounds like a stadium full of fans all cheering for me.
But it will never compare to how you used to say my name.

Leave the first comment


I think I would be better without it. I’ve tried so hard to let this go, and yet the smallest things open me completely; I am a mess simply waiting to be swept away.

Melanie Martinez – Carousel (Lyrics)

Was there a reason for this?  Do I even deserve it, to have to -to want to- feel this way?

Just give me an inch and I’ll make up the miles… many the miles.

Leave the first comment

The new economy is not an eye for an eye.
It is a hug for a hand,
a kiss for a care,
and a friend for any foe you might make.

Leave the first comment


I wish you weren’t afraid,
but I know it’s all my fault.
Forgiving you – the reasons -
for pushing us apart.

Saving for tomorrow
when that was yesterday.
How to say I miss you
without giving up the gray.

Leave the first comment

Some quotes

If you can, then you do. Do not be concerned with the origin of your ability, focus on its execution.

Standing still is not the same as standing your ground.

Leave the first comment

Dear Harttz

Dear Harttz,


Recently, I’ve been using a new chat and I notice you there – so close its as if I could touch you. But I know I can’t. Rather, I know I won’t.

Someone reminded me this week how you used to ask me, “Why are you so patient with me?” If you could see through my cloud of anger, you would see that something in me is in love with something everything in you.

Do you remember when I said I adore you? I do, perhaps more than either of us will even experience. I looked at my buddy list, and you were gone, but I remember you there, back when you were working on your degree. Randomly since then, I remember you being online at night and being awakened to those memories (or surrendered to those dreams).

It seems to me that you worked so hard to keep me out, but time and again I stumbled in like a drunk fool seeking a place to sleep out the stupor. Is that really how it was? You must know that I had no intent with you when I broke these things.

I would give anything…
– to be close to you
– tell you how I love you
– for you to listen and let it all in

Dear Harttz, if you’re out there, if you read this… if anything… give me some sign that I’m not alone in this feeling. I told you I was going to do something, and I am still going to do that. It will be soon.

Avec amour,

Leave the first comment

Dear Harttz…

We all start off as an elaborate stack of dreams, layer upon layer, like the most magnificent wedding cake. But they’re not layers of light fluffy cake, really; dreams are these beautiful glass towers which reflect our skies and our highest sights.

Standing outside of the building, there might be a door or two, but rarely is the exit marked. In the windows you see a labyrinth of other dreams but turning around you can only find a few, sparse islands of luminescence. One might be directly ahead, but the other figments haven’t been built yet.

How does a dream break? I guess it starts off as a gentle earthquake. It could be from nature, but more often it begins with some kind of human tremor. Perhaps you were working on a different dream and didn’t notice the tractors rumbling by, shaking the frames. Maybe you do notice it, but how do you stop the cracks from spidering, bottom to top? How do you catch so many bullets of glass speeding toward the ground?

It’s not cake. The mess you find is not soft bread and frosting. There’s no creme or fondant. Metal and glass lay in a dangerously disfigured heap. But long before that – before the splintering, before the moment of impact, before shattering… at the moment of separation – so many other, smaller, characteristic dreams evaporate without even a wisp.

In the song Almost Lover (A Fine Frenzy), the singer laments about “images” time and again. Much worse than the broken dream itself, I think she is mourning all of the immaterial dreams she lost. From the ground, you can’t see every reflection. Some windows are so high, you lack the vantage to see them clearly.

But dreams can be rebuilt. The dream is the same but the manifestation is wholly new. It’s clean, maybe stronger, the hard edges smoothed, and the weak points fortified. And while the dust is still settling, the images you lost return to their homes in the windows. Faintly at first, but brighter as the sky warms from (to) the new spire. You notice them, welcome them, like old friends with whom you used to laugh.

Then, you frame each one. You trace the glass figures onto hard paper, or canvas, color them in, add weight and depth, and hang it where the light revives. This time you won’t forget, the star won’t fall. The metal won’t bend and the glass won’t crack.

2 comments so far, add yours

Dear Harttz…

I had a horrible dream last night – it’s really hard for me to interpret the feelings dreams give you, regardless of the events.

For some reason I was moving, and overwhelmed by the task of packing, I was moving from room to room trying to organize things. The house was starting to empty and among the others in the house, you were there. You kept moving from person to person, talking to them about the trip – funny, I didn’t remember that until just now.

But you didn’t talk to me, and you seemed so unaffected by it all, and I just felt so alone. Now that I’m telling this story, it reminds me of when I went to college. I remember sometime in August, heading east on Superior near 70th and calling you. You were working, and everything seemed normal until I told you that I was driving to college. I don’t remember what you said, but I think I heard something deeper than your words. It sounded like something cried out, briefly, and then it was over.

You went back to work, and I went to college.

Anyway, when I woke up, felt the need to say “hi”, so I did. Have a nice day.

Leave the first comment

as we are

“I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh; — it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal, — as we are.”

- Jane Eyre

Leave the first comment

Dear Harttz…

Mood: Dubious
Artist: Brightwood
Song: Wake

(You remember that from LJ?)

I think that between your e-mail and a friend’s song I am breaking again.  Yes, I know, there was no feeling or meaning to the message, but all of the things buried inside of me come rushing to the surface.

I cannot feel the way I used to.  I will not be made happy.  It is impossible for my heart to believe the things you shared were untrue, and even as I begged to know that it was, you could not convince me, or save me, or bury me where I belong.

Imagine me digging a hole.  Imagine the dirt under my nails.  It has to fit something about my size, but I am worried that that thing won’t fit.  Imagine the sun going down on a summer day, and I should be home, but I am here, digging.

I am sorry I didn’t fit into your life as much as I wanted you in mine.  You don’t want to hear how much I loved you.  You might revel in my empty hate.  But you must be ware of the turmoil boiling beneath me.  I will fuck up a lot of people before I am over this.

“I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

PS – I pray that he will take you dancing and wake you up with hot cocoa to watch the Leonids.

Leave the first comment