29 April 2011

Dear Elaine,

These shoes are made for walking, and that’s just what they did all the way (with the help of a streetcar) to FAT (Fashion. Art. Toronto.)’s Alternative Fashion Week last night.

When I call my killer heels killer, it’s not because people faint with envy when they see me wearing them, or because I die of pain when I wear them, because neither of those things are true. When I call my killer heels killer, it’s because when I wear them, they take over my body with strange instincts. I think that they must have belonged to a big-shot murderer (they exist) in a past life (shoes have many lives, if you didn’t know that). I find myself fighting for things that seem rightfully mine at the time. The next morning I’m not so sure, but this time, I don’t think I’ve taken more than I was expected to – and I saw others doing the same.

Fabulously yours,

Amy

Do these shoes make me look FAT?

29 January 11

Dear Elaine,

Sometimes my shifts at work are long and tedious, and other times they are so busy that they fly by like falling stacks of paper. Today, my shift was average; at times it bustled, and at times it went all too slowly. It was during one of the bustling times that I found it. It was pinned to the backsplash of the desk (if it can be called a backsplash). I froze when I saw it, but I had to keep moving with the falling stacks of paper. I wasn’t sure what to do about it, or who had put it there, but it wasn’t the first time I’d seen one.

Not a week before, I had walked up the steps to my house when I heard the sound of a dog whining. I went to look in the alley next door, but there was nothing there – not even a rodent. I shrugged off my nerves, walked back up the steps to my house, and found the first of these strange gifts. I don’t know what they mean and I don’t want to know. I took it off my doorway and brought it inside. I poured water into a vase, hoping I could revive it.

When my roommate came home later that night, she asked me why the vase was out.

“To keep the rose in?” I didn’t understand the question.

“Okay. Who bought the rose?”

“I found it.”

“Well, can I see it?”

“Can’t you?”

She couldn’t see it. As we stood there, I tried to laugh off my words as some kind of strange joke. I think it worked; I’m pretty strange a lot of the time. But though I laughed, I kept an eye on the rose the whole time. It seemed to stop wilting and rise up to laugh at me.

As soon as she left the room I smashed the vase to bits on the floor and said I’d dropped it by accident. The rose was gone on impact, but this new workplace rose remains. I have not moved it. It is still at work, pinned up on the backsplash, waiting for someone other than me to see it.

Elaine, if you can see them, stay away from the wilting roses.

Love,

Amy

25 January 11

Dear Elaine,

Sometimes I feel like we live so far away that I should tape samples of the currency of my hometown to the letters I send you. I used to do that back when we had penpals in Poland, and they used to send us some of their coins too. I would send you pennies and nickels and dimes and tell you about how if I were to save enough of them I could afford to visit you in your distant land. It would take an awful long time, though, because pennies and nickels and dimes aren’t worth very much.

Sometimes I feel like if you sent me coins from where you lived, I’d know you were safe. If you had the coins to spare, I’d know that we’d be okay. And I have this rising hope that perhaps the place you live has the same currency as mine, and then I’ll know for certain you are safe. You can’t be as far as I think you are if your money matches mine, coin for coin, bill for bill.

Sometimes I feel like I should send you coins like I did to my penpals in Poland, but for now I will only send my words. I hope that they will be enough.

Love,

Amy

17 January 11

Dear Elaine,

It is morning. I slide out of bed and look out my window into the lovely, proper January weather (-26ºC finally). I walk to the kitchen to prepare my breakfast, then turn to the living room. There I find an Egyptian creature illumined by the winter sun, lying very still on the gaming chair.

“Hello, strange creature.”

“Greetings, foolish one. Who but a fool would dare tread on this holy ground without making an offering?” She speaks with her eyes, not with her mouth.

“I’m pretty sure I live here.”

“Silence, human! Where is your offering?” Her mouth, her face, indeed her entire body remain still, but her eyes are full of answers.

“This breakfast is actually for me, so … I’m not sure I can help you with that.”

“Where is your offering? Do not anger the gods of this place.” It is as though she is made of stone.

“I’m pretty sure I’m in charge here.” Wait, is that my cat?

“If I were Greek, I’d give you a riddle to solve, and you know it.”

“Muffin? Is that you?”

The Sphinx is gone, replaced my my cat. She was woken out of a hungry stupor by the rattling of the old margarine container. Her food is kept inside it and she knows it as well as I do. The old familiar plaintive, desperate meows fill my ears and I know that the powerful creature of a moment ago is gone forever, appeased by the offering.

At least until tonight.

But until then I write to you with love,

Amy

13 January 11

Dear Elaine,

There is a ball of living flame next to me. I’m not sure how long it has been there, but I’m more than a little concerned. I only noticed it after my companion fell asleep on the table to the other side of me. How long has it floated there, watching over me angrily? What does it want me to do? Why is it here?

The questions continue to wash over me, the only things preventing the fire from burning my skin. The fireball is afraid of the river of questions and the treacherous rapids of my imagination’s answers. Is it friendly, a guardian? Or is it waiting to take control, waiting for me to make one small mistake and break its personal laws? I am afraid that if I stop working for even a second it will catch me, it will devour me. It will burn me.

But it is already gone as I write these words to you, dear friend. It has slowly sunk down beyond the window, beyond the campus, beyond even the buildings on the very edge of the skyline. It is gone, but I know it will be back again tomorrow to follow me around once more. I ought to become nocturnal; then I’d be safe, I think.

Hoping that this letter gets to you safely (if you’re reading this, the fireball hasn’t gotten me yet!),

Amy

11 January 11

Dear Elaine,

It’s strange, but I’m always nervous for this. Anything new, anything that is different, no matter how similar it may be to things I’ve done countless times. A new job, a new class, a plain white piece of paper just waiting for me to rape it with my violent, visceral vomit … it’s all the same.

It doesn’t help that I’m self-conscious about my feet. The long toes, one broken (you were there, you remember how it happened), all destroyed from years of pointe and contemporary. You were by my side and you know it all. Even my birthmark is on my foot, but I’ll be honest with you; I think it’s kind of cute. I’m okay with that part. That one tiny little part.

This one new thing is a point of complete excitement for me, though. It’s not fair that I’m twice as afraid as I am happy to go. I know that I will get there and love it and tell everyone how much they are missing out on, but secretly (and now openly) I have to admit that I’m terrified. I hate it. I hate the rush of adrenaline I feel at the thought of something new. I hate the fear that floods through my veins as I prepare to face it. And I hate the feel of the tide sliding slowly away from the shore and forcing me to join it.

But once I’m in the ocean I couldn’t be more at home. It’s time for me to go and test myself once more, to go on one more adventure and prove to myself yet again that I can do this. I can be strong. I can overcome anything and immerse myself in the ocean of freedom.

And I can totally rock this Sassy Cabaret Fusion dance class, heels and all.

See you one hour of dance-powered-self-confidence-boosting later,

Love,

Amy

10 January 11

Dear Elaine,

It was painful at first, and terrifying. I didn’t know what was happening or what it meant. The constant pain under my rib and the sporadic pain along the rest of my right side were both as baffling to me as they were painful. Sometimes the hip, sometimes the shoulder or the arm … It wasn’t until now that I realized how right I was to wonder why it was only happening on one side.

Now that it’s growing out, it’s becoming harder and harder to keep it hidden. I can’t let it be seen until the other begins to develop, even until they are both fully grown. I cannot let my wings be seen until I have flown far away from my place in the world here.

My greatest fear is that I will never grow a left wing. There have been no signs of it as of yet, but then there was no sign of the right wing before the pain began. I must grow my second wing so that I can make my escape; this world is not mine and I am done trying to make it so.

I must keep hope. I must pray that I can keep my unintentional, but very willing, rebellion hidden from those who claim to protect me. I must be invisible until I can transform and escape my cocoon and fly, fly away.

With love,

Relby Futt