The house didn’t look like this photo back then. There was no white picket fence. There was no flag. It was always full of people. And music. And good smells.
I loved the hiding spot underneath the stairs. It was like a cave- it kept going, on and on. I would crawl further into it every time, finding new nooks and crannies along the way.
If you wanted to venture in, you had to bring a flashlight. And even then, you couldn’t see very well. I usually brought a friend too.
I filled this cubby with pillows, blankets, and books. My hiding spot was cozy and exciting, a combination of qualities that’s hard to come by.
I liked having a secret place to go.
A year or so later, we were traveling the U.S. in an old V.W. van and I would squeeze myself into the tiny closet as we drove down the road. I liked the privacy. And I thought the closet window was the best for observing people in other cars. But, mostly, I liked being so compact.
A few years later, when we settled in a new place, we had a tree in the front yard. I would sit in for hours, eating its berries and reading. I named it Helen. I liked it when people would pass by and not notice me perched on a branch.
I miss having a safe hiding place. Maybe I should try to find one.
What about you? Do you remember a hiding spot from your childhood? What did you like about it? If you didn’t have any, would you have liked one? What would it have been like?
This letter was written on a Starbucks sandwich bag.
Dear Friend,
I feel guilty about silly things. For example, I enjoy the simple act of perusing urban gift shops and large craft stores like Michael’s and Joann. I like to spend lots of time meandering up and down the aisles and scanning the shelves for crafty ideas.
I don’t want to buy anything—I enter with the specific intention of not purchasing a single item.
But with each minute spent inside a feeling of indebtedness creeps up my fingertips—which make their way to my billfold—do I have enough money this 10 yards of fabric to use for I don’t know what?
This store has provided me priceless minutes of creative brainstorming. Can’t I just spend five bucks on a Helvetica stencil or purple duct tape? I mean, it’s the least I could do—right?
I wish I wouldn’t feel this way, wish I could kick this American consumerism! Because then I could spend more money on what I’d like—mochas!
Can you relate to my guilt? What is something that you feel guilty for?
There’s a familiar trope that runs through movies.There’s a prison, an inmate. Maybe wrongfully or unjustly jailed.
Maybe the inmate is remorseful for something heinous he or she’d done.They realize they might die there, alone in their stifling cell.
The time—and silence—is deafening.
The stories well up, like tears, in this person’s throat.No one listens.The inmate furiously attempts to write down his life’s work,reflecting on various minutiae, imparting meaning to events previously thought inconsequential. Assigning significance to gestures, grand and subtle.
Stories are important to us.
Were you that inmate, as the stories welled, what would you want to share?
It’s a new year, which leads to reflection on the past, and of those who died.
Bobby fischer, in January of 2008, died in Iceland of renal failure.After the US issued a warrant for his arrest for playing a game of chess in Yugoslavia—a violation of United Nations Sanctions (ordered by President H.W. Bush)—Iceland granted him citizenship.They felt that he “put Iceland on the map” after winning his World Championship Match there in 1972.
None of that really matters to me. In my head he’s the boy from the movie I watched as a kid. I sat—glued to the television— with my mother, when my dad was away, and it made me anxious. Prodigies scare me. They’re treated like space aliens or superhumans in the media, and it saddens me. Mostly, a part of me is jealous.
But from most accounts he died relatively alone, and if he wasn’t in pain, he wasn’t comfortable either. While his prodigal frame didn’t guarantee such a morose ending, in my mind the two are linked.
What do you think? Did you know anyone who died in 2008? Would you care to share a story?
It’s a new year, which leads to reflection on the past, and of those who died.
In March, Arthur C. Clarke died. He wrote “The Sentinel” which Stanley Kubrick later developed into “2001: A Space Odyssey.” When I first saw it I was blown away by the music—specifically “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” at the appearances of the monolith. Each time HAL, the supercomputer, spoke, I felt a vague sense of terror. The film thoroughly creeped me out, and I love it for that reason.
But I’ve always found the beginning scenes with the apes bizarre. Not because of the pace of the film at that point, but because I couldn’t help but imagine Charlton Heston(Astronaut Taylor from Planet of the Apes) crashing down on the “damn dirty apes.” I’ve always held that against him and have never been able to take him seriously— Even when he died in April of last year.
It was like a comic book character at the edge of a cliff—gun in hand—jumping off, and out, into another world.
Did you know anyone who died in 2008? Would you care to share a story?
I do not have the text of these letters. The content is wrapped around the stem. In both, I remember asking for people to share a hopeful quotation or saying that they consider to be true. Or one that strikes them as honest.
The other night I was craving a milkshake, but I had a soda instead. There is nothing worse than an unsatisfying shake so I decided to ask you where I could get a great one. Where should I go for my next craving?
And—how are you today?
The first election broadcast on radio was Harding’s victory over Cox and FDR—the announcers wanted to know whether people received it, so people sent postcards telling them how far away they were. This letter is a bit like that. I will not have a shake until I hear word from you.
Hello. Has the day treated you well so far?Does this kind of weather bother you?Are you comfortable in this city?What does it feel like to receive a letter from someone you have never met?This letter was designed for a person to find it, pick it up, and open it—to read it. Don’t you love it when things work out as planned?Thank you for picking up this letter.
To be validated is to feel alive. If you’re curious I’m someone who just moved here from the southwest.I still feel slightly uncomfortable when I walk down the street, I bite my fingernails when I’m nervous, and I was totally heartbroken when Mister Roger’s died.
Write me back?
Reply:
Do you get warm fuzzies? Mine are infrequent. I can’t identify what triggers them, but they come only as the result of contact with others. Animals or vegetables do not give me warm fuzzies.
Finding your letter today (you said that it was intended for me, didn’t you) gave me reason to pause long enough to reread your words several times through, until the warm glow sadly faded away...and gave way to curiosity.
Some questions;
Who would reach out in such an intimate (yet anonymous) fashion?
How much time must you have invested in creating your missive?
Did you purposely wait for a grey, dreary day?
Wasn’t it just perfect that I, among so many others, found your letter?
Some answers;
I enjoy this City more than any place I know...it will always be my home. Regardless of where I go.
Rain is indifferent to where it lands...or on whom. We each look the same when our hair and clothes are soaked through. It’s difficult to pretend in the rain.
Yes.I do love it when things work out as planned.
-- M
Post: Sorry about Fred.
My Reply:
Dear M,
I got your letters- both of them. Some things that make me happy: mountains, illy coffee, melting vanilla ice cream, and responses to the things I do. Even better, calculated responses; the more planned out, and deliberate, the better. Your response, particularly, gave me warm fuzzies because I wasn't expecting it.
I had already received a response earlier in the day from an elightened man who meditates. We e-mailed back and forth, discovered we both have spent time in Tucson, and shared our passions with each other. It felt nice--interacting with someone that I would have no way of corresponding with otherwise. You see, I only made one letter and I have yet to discover if he put the letter back, or if it was you who let someone else find it. Was it? Did you think that I made multiple letters and that people throughout the city were going to read it?
When you say that I must be invested in my missive, you are correct. I'm genuinely interested in how people would respond. And yes, I my goal is to continue making similar letters and leaving them for people to find. But if you were to assume that my aim is vain, that I want tons of people filling my inbox with messages about how creative (or stupid) my project is, you'd be on the wrong track. This was the first letter that I left, and I only intended it for one person. And no, I wasn't waiting for a rainy day. How do you think that affected your reception?
Here should be some answers to your questions:
I wanted you to pause. I wanted one person to pick up the letter and sort of turn around and make sure that someone wasn't watching them. It feels good to receive something--even better if you're the only one in the world. That feeling of momentary singularity seems endemic to this time. The problem with my project, of course, is that I'm not god; I don't know anything about you and can't single-handedly validate your existence. In that split second that you picked up the letter and became hyper-aware of yourself (and I'm guessing now), you were able to be whoever you wanted.
And afterwards, you could tell me about it. You could tell me about yourself. Or you could tell me about me; what it means to leave letters for strangers.
Well, that's the romantic generalization at least. More specifically, I like paper. I enjoy writing and books. Real, physical, actual letters (like the ones you get in the mail) excite me more than emails do. So I went with my gut and decided to see if I could momentarily alter someone's perspective (perhaps brighten it; perhaps sour or confuse it) by leaving a token of time creatively spent. I left my address/email because I thought it was the closet thing to reciprocation. How people react is important to me. And even though this could be called an "art project," possibly spoke of later (on a blog, passing conversation, etc.), I just moved to the city and need a way of corresponding with it-- and its people.
I like your description of rain. The way you describe its indifference strikes me--but even though we may look the same when soaked, each person's odor seems highlighted in this weather. Ducking between individuals on the el, you can run the gamut-- body odor soaked with wet earth smell (it feels like you could plant something in their hair) to the extra spritz of cologne on the insecure.
I hope you found this letter insightful. Do you buy ground coffee or do you grind your own? Do you drink tea? And does it matter which mode of caffeine consumption in this weather?
To you,
J.
Post. I'm sure he went quietly into the night. Or is stomach cancer something that wouldn't allow that?
M's Reply:
Did you not receive the letter that I sent to you via the USPS? You explained that you prefer “real, physical, actual letters” and I wanted to appeal to your sense of tangible pleasures.
If not, I fear that I may not have sent the letter to your proper address; I addressed the envelope from memory...I no longer have your letter.
Perhaps I should try again.
In the meantime, might I suggest the following establishments for coffee drinking scriveners who are recent arrivals to our City:
Meinl's may not satisfy your Italian espresso jones, but it's the most European of all cafes in Chicago. I believe this is one of only a few Meinl's locations outside of Vienna...and their only cafe in the US.
Sounds to me like you may have much in common with the staff of this gem of a shop...they are passionate about paper.
Paper Source | 919 W. Armitage Avenue or 232 W. Chicago Avenue
Aimed more toward those who prefer to design and assemble their own cards or invitations. There is a section upstairs at the Chicago Avenue location with a large selection of rubber stamps...not to be missed.
I had just left Metropolis, where I dropped a letter and read Frank O'Hara, and boarded a southbound redline train. I dropped another on one of the train's seats and then switched cars at the next stop.
On that car was a man preaching the joy of jesus. He was shouting on high about salvation, how jesus forgave his sins, transformed his heinous acts so that he could walk (stumble) before us speaking the word of god.
At the next stop I returned to my original car only to realize that preacher man had done the same thing. I knew that he was going to find my letter, and at first I was dismayed. "This guy will never reply," I thought. Sure enough, mid sentence, the man scoops up the box with the tag that says, "please open." While I was wondering what he might do, he keeps speaking to the passengers as he scrambles to open the box.
"What in the name of Jesus is this?" He says. "What have I found?" The train stopped and he scuttled off--and on to the next car.
I left another letter in that same spot, incessant in my desire for a reply to my question. A few seconds later, I, too, scuttled off--and on to a different train. Going a different way.
We are a small group of people who drop handmade letters at various places around the city. If you find the letter, we would love for you to reply either via email or snail mail. With most of our letters you can see the time and effort invested in creating them. The replies are what make this effort worthwhile. We believe that everyone has beautiful, true stories to tell; with this we hope to create a space for people to share them.
We will be posting photos of the letters (and the text) on this blog. If a particular letter strikes you, we'd love for you to share your reply. This can happen in several ways:
1. Craft a handmade reply and send it to: DearFriend PO Box 577347 Chicago, IL 60657 2. Email: dear.windy.city@gmail.com 3. Comment on that particular post.
If you find a letter. Or would like to reply to one.
We are a small group of people who drop handmade letters at various places around the city. If you find the letter, we would love for you to reply either via email or snail mail. With most of our letters you can see the time and effort invested in creating them. The replies are what make this effort worthwhile. We believe that everyone has beautiful, true stories to tell; with this we hope to create a space for people to share them.
We will be posting photos of the letters (and the text) on this blog. If a particular letter strikes you, we'd love for you to share your reply. This can happen in several ways:
Letters allow us to adopt personas in order to tackle issues close to our hearts. They open a limitless space in which we can dramatically confront our friends and family, acquaintances and strangers. They conjure thoughts of a figure huddled at a desk wrestling to pin down an outpouring of emotions on paper. This blog is a window into our rooms, where we sit at our desks, crafting letters. Our letters are left in coffee shops, on busses and trains, benches, kiosks, restaurants and bars. They are addressed to the person that finds them; anonymous until someone scoops it up and reads it.
Our letters share something—sometimes a story, a thought, an idea maybe—and ask the reader for a response.
