we don’t write letters anymore…searching for Lou
We don’t write letters anymore…Letters used to be a place to confess one’s deepest emotions, seduce our lovers, cement friendships, express ideas and open the path to new thought. But we do not take the time to write them out anymore. This is sad to me – for so many reasons…
I have been reading about Lou Andreas-Salome and Ranier Maria Rilke (as I mentioned before). The book that I have been reading is very intriguing, but it has left me cold in some ways. I want to know Lou, not just the clinical details of her life. I want to know her heart. I want to find her, and step inside. Finding her in this book is not an easy task, I can tell that she is hiding somewhere between the words, like a secret. But I’m not sure which words.
How can one woman have enticed so many of the greatest thinkers. What did they find when they looked in Lou’s eyes? Did they see themselves reflected back, only kinder, more fierce, more intelligent? What was the magic of Lou? Nietzsche stated that she was the most evil among women, but that sounds suspiciously like the sour grapes of a spurned lover to me. I imagine that Lou’s heart could swell and overflow with compassion – that she had a keen knack for limbic resonance. That her great understanding made her more valuable than anything else in their world. “Mirror, mirror on the wall… ”
So now I am in search of her own words, of which, most luckily, there are many. Letters upon letters that she wrote back and forth with the likes of Rilke, Nietzsche, Freud. Books of letters. Little pieces of Lou to put together into a portrait. Many different Lou’s to ponder, to adore, to fear, to know.
I am so glad that there are letters to read. What will future generations know about our great artists? Our songsmiths, our painters, our poets? Will they be left with the transience of leftover text messages, cybercodes to translate. What exactly did she mean when she texted ODTAA BTWITIAILWY BWDIK? Was she sincere?
And what a rare pleasure, a box of letters. The texture of paper carefully selected. Perhaps they still smell of the writer – a hint of grapefruit or musk. The indulgence of holding them close to your face to see if you can find the scent. Holding the paper by the edges. Carefully folding and tucking them back away, for another time, when the embrace of a dear friend is needed, but far away…
As a little girl I would play in my grandmother’s bedroom, and would quietly, with great reverence pull the box of letters from the dormer closet. There were hundreds of letters, still in their carefully opened envelopes, filed neatly by date. I never read them. They were private, and even a small child can sense the importance of this. But they were beautiful to me. I would take them out one by one and run my fingers over the envelopes, trace the stamps and seals, and then just as carefully return them to their spot. Hundreds of letters my grandfather wrote to her during the war. I don’t know what happened to the box. I asked my mother about it once, but the answer was evasive. I suspect they were thrown out…I wish I had them still. I wish I could touch them and feel my grandparents nestled between the pages.
I was thinking about Lou while I was soaking in the bath last night. The water smelled like papayas, and it made me nostalgic. I felt a poem brewing, felt it stirring deep in my belly the way these thing do when they are getting ready to be born. I can’t let them come before I am ready, or thy fly away like so many sparks into the night sky, never to be captured again. So I got out of the tub earlier than I wanted – my back was in knots and I had wanted to soak… got dressed and listened to the words. Anyways, what resulted was a letter of sorts to Lou.
we don’t write letters anymore
by K.
Lou, I have been searching
for you all night, and cannot find you
I must confess I have come to this -
turning stones in the hayfield
holding my breath for clues
but have only turned up the
fragile bones of salamanders, the
scurrying of insects rushing
from the light.
It is dark, Lou, and
I am alone out here. Only
the cows are talking in their low
languid tongue, and I do not
understand them. I’m
afraid that what they say about you
is true.
Lou, it’s late now
and I’m cold. The lamplight that
surrounds me like a fiery cocoon
will run out of fuel. Sooner,
rather than later,
I’m afraid.
I hope that it does.
I hope that it does.
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