Dear Whoever Finds This Post,                                                                                                          February 18th, 2012

“Fire is the origin of stone. By working the stone with heat, I am returning it to its source.” -Andy Goldsworthy

“I do not keep a diary. Never have. To write a diary every day is like returning to one’s own vomit.” -Enoch Powell

“I haven’t had the time to plan returning to the scene because I haven’t left it.” -Mick Jagger
       Congratulations! You’ve found this post. What that means exactly? Well I don’t quite know. Let’s see how this goes. Onto the quotes- I chose these three out of the results I got from typing in “quotes about returning”. I was searching for quotes about returning because well as you read in my last post, I am returning to my beloved eshysletters. Anywho, the first I found intresting just because *shrug* I found it intresting plus these will tie into my sub-letter today and I like how it’s about source and orgin. I like that because it means beginning in a way. The second quote, I chose because well I find it true and yet ironic because apparently I return to my own vomit, while not lately, I do indeed keep a journel. However the second quote has no relevence in this post other than I chose it. The third is the one that got to me. “I haven’t left it.” I haven’t left the scene yet, that’s why I haven’t planned to return it, cause I never left it. Sorry, it’s just fascinating to me because it’s important in my life that I haven’t left the scene yet. I apologize to you, readers, because my mind is foggy right now so I might repeat myself or draw slow circles around the same words.


Dear Daddy,                                    2.18.’12.

       How are you? I hope you are having the best time, you probably are. I look into the clouds sometimes and try to find you, I’ve never suceeded. I’m entering a writing competition did I tell you that? Starting on my dreams already. “I’ll make it to the moon if I have to crawl.”-Scar Tissue by R.H.C.P. That was Brother’s favorite song, ya know? I listen to it when I miss him or you. Well when I miss you I listen to Cowgirls Don’t Cry by Brooks and Dunn. My entry piece I’m entering is a bit like Alice In Wonderland. Uncles A & B are harrassing Mom and putting locks on everything. They want to sell everything and they piss me off. But what doesn’t piss me off right? Right. Sometimes I forget how much I’m like you. I walked out ya know? I walked out of the meeting with Uncles A& B, Mom and Sister. I walked out near the end. And then Uncle B had the nerve to call Mom saying he was concerned about me. I’m concerned about him, shoot. He doesn’t even seem phased by your death. At least I have a little emotion. Apparently I’m just emotional and therfore irrational, that’s what he says. How could you leave them to take care of us? I would have done a better job. They want to sell everything you had and put it in the trust. Well, I wore one of your shirts that day, and your pliers on my belt. The first thing I did after walking home was take them off and drop them at the door. Then I ran out to your shop to get away. Everything was locked so I couldn’t get in the house or the new shop. I didn’t really want to be in a building with the rage I had. I would’ve tore it apart. So instead I let the crisp chilly air bite my arms where my tanktop didn’t protect. I ended up laying on a rusted wire toolbox(or cage) playing Cowgirls Don’t Cry and crying my eyes out. I’m sure the neighbors think I’m a nut but why the hell should I care? I better keep on track though. I wasn’t going to make this letter about that day. No, instead I wanted to go back farther like a decade back almost. Back to the beginning. Well as far back as I can remember. I’m taking this back to the scene that I haven’t quite left yet, my childhood. I had a good one albeit Brother passing. But in this memory I’m four, I’ sitting on your lap and my tracing your watch. I’m holding your hands while your strong arms are around me. I feel the cuts, I poke the scabs, I ask how you got them and you told me “Daddy goes to work. They’re nothing.”  I sit there still feeling your hands as you watch tv. The next day Brother is up early with you. So are Sister, Mom, and I. Mom tells me to say goodbye I think because you two are going off to work. I run up the couch and stand on it’s spine. Now I am tall enough to look Brother in the eyes “Don’t go. You’ll get hurt.”, that’s what I last said to him. He smiles at me and says “I’ll be fine. I love you.” and he leaves, he doesn’t come back. With you, Dad, we knew it was coming. Still it doesn’t make it any easier. If anything it’s worse because I remember you. With Brother, I was too young. Now I am older and it’s more painful. I know what has happened that I didn’t know back then. I remember being small enough to step into your boots and have them go up to my hips. I remember trying to walk in them and not being able to. Flash foward a little. Remember how you’d sit in that same spot on the couch? How that was YOUR spot and nobody elses? Remember how I’d hide from Mom? I’d run on the couch and jump behind you, only to have you lean back, somethering me with your back. And Mom would say “Have you seen, eshy?” and you’d say “Nope. Have you?” I remember when you wouldn’t come in from outside until it was just about dark. And when you did I always ran in the house ahead of you and tried to hide behind the bar so I could jump out and scare you. At that time I was hardly taller than your knees. I rarely ever did scare you. I remember when you let me keep Pepper when Mom said no way. And how you always let the dogs sleep in the house.  I remember when we built your shop. Sure, a lot of people contributed, but to me, it was mostly you and I. How about when you were doing something in your shop after you picked me and Sister up from school? And you’d say for me to come out and at least keep you company. So I’d go out and sit on the stool and swing my legs, watching you work while I rambled away. Or how in the truck after school you’d always ask “How was the office?”. I miss these times, Dad. But I thank you for them. I thank you for taking me to Nevada and letting me cook every night because you knew I learned hands-on. I thank you for letting me teach myself how to cook because Mom never does anymore. We eat out all the time. And I absolutely hate it. Remember when sometimes in 5th grade, I used to get out at noon from school on Wednesdays, and you’d sometimes take me out to eat. Or when you didn’t, how we’d go home and I’d go in the house and make you a “lunch” and you’d go outside. The lunch I made always consisted of a sandwhich, something healthy, a cookie, and maybe some chips. Anywho I bet my readers are sick of me rambling about a childhood nobody could understand except me, you, Sister, Brother 2, and Mom. So I’ll go but I’ll write you again tomorrow ‘kay? I love you. Be good. Stay out of trouble.   -Love, eshy


Sorry that was so long. Most of the time I have no idea where my posts are even going until they’re written and by then I’m too emotionally attached to delete any part of it. Even if it’s mega-long like this one. Well I ought to go do something with my day besides sit with the computer. Have an awesome day, guys.                                -eshy