I don't remember writing this letter....

"Dear Roger: You don't need to apologize for writing a depressing letter. Depression is a normal human emotion. I love you even when you don't tell jokes. (God, how I need someone to tell me that now.)

Is loneliness an evil under the sun? If it is, then I am a very evil person. But I don't think being lonely is evil; it aches almost the same as love.

I will read 'Waiting for Godot.' When you become a famous director you may cast me as Vladimir.

Funny thing -- just yesterday I was full of joy and very happy. Now I feel awful. This too shall pass. I had been wearing my hair forward. Today I brushed it backwards. Everyone said they like it. This too shall pass. I was very popular in high school. Now I sit alone at dinner. This too shall pass. Oh God, I pray that it will . Consider yourself privileged, Roger. Rarely do I get so personal in a letter. (Perhaps that is why it is so short?)

From one brave new lonely wave,

Paula"

My friend, roger, called me yesterday. He had been cleaning out old boxes in the garage, and there was this letter from me. I had written it on the wrapping of a McDonald's Apple Pie, slapped a stamp on it, and mailed it to him. I didn't date the letter, but it was probably from 1985 when I was a student at Trinity Western University. I don't remember sitting and writing this letter specifically, but I do remember the general malaise of my youth.

Looks like I was emo before any of these young kids with their hair falling in their face were even a tear-drop in their fathers' eyes.

I remember my sister talking to me about love...

I was hanging out in my bedroom way back in, oh...1977 or '78. My oldest sister, Carol, who was home for a visit, waltzed into my bedroom and flopped onto my bed.

"Love is grand!"

I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Look at the hat he bought me at the Calgary Stampede! It was really expensive!!" He had bought her a cowboy hat. I tried it on, but at the age of 11 or 12, my head was already much bigger than Carol's, and it perched on top of my hair like a novelty hat. We laughed.

"He makes me feel so wonderful! I just want to spend all of my time with him! One day you will fall in love, too, Paula, and you will see what I am talking about." She sighed happily, then floated out of the room.

I sat down on my bed, wondering if there was someone out there who would buy me a cowboy hat one day, and would that actually make me float like Carol.

I hoped so.

I remember getting a foot massage at three in the morning.

I was living in a warehouse on the edge of Gastown, full of artists and musicians all living there illegally. It was great! My roomie and I had half of the top floor, so we could go on the roof whenever we wanted to and howl at the moon. And being six stories up, we had a great view of the North Shore.

Now, I have to tell you about....nope, can't remember his name. Hmmm....we'll call him Bob. I met Bob when I was hanging out at this artist's studio. I remember his name--Lincoln. I liked to go to Lincoln's studio and watch him paint, I found it very relaxing. Bob also hung out at Lincoln's a lot, and one day, without any effort on my part, Bob declared his undying love for me!

That came out of left field.

I told Bob right away, and in no uncertain terms, that I did not return that love, and that there was no chance of a relationship between us...and he looked like a whipped puppy, but didn't say much more about it.

I thought that would be it. Days went by, I'd see Bob, he'd look sad, but it wasn't spoken of again.

Now get this. Go back to the warehouse. I live on the top floor of a six-storey, 12-foot ceilinged warehouse. It's the middle of the night, and I am fast asleep. I am pulled out of my slumber by a tapping...tapping...where is that coming from?...tapping on the window, tapping on the WINDOW??? I sit up like a shot and look over to the window, and there is Bob, leaning over from the fire escape outside, tapping on the window at 3 or 4 in the morning.

I did not know what to do! Bob seemed tame, so I crawled out of my futon and opened the window.

"Bob, what are you doing?" (can you hear the incredulity in my voice?)

"I know you don't love me, and that you'll never love me, but could I just please come in and give you a foot rub?"

Probably I shouldn't have let him. It's about the creepiest request ever made of me. But he looked so sad and helpless and harmless, I let him in. My roommate called sleepily from behind his curtain, "What's going on?"

"Oh, nothing, Don. I'm just getting a foot rub."

(Don's sleepy voice)"Oh. OK, then."

Bob had brought foot cream and everything. He rubbed my feet without a word, and then left out the window and down the fire-escape the way he came.

I slept lighter for a few days after that, but Bob never came back. I guess the foot-rub was his way of breaking up with me.

2002-09-05 - 6:58 a.m.

I remember my bright yellow high-top sneakers. I bought them right before I went to university, and soon everyone on campus could tell who I was even from two blocks away. People would call out, "Hey, Paula!" and wave madly, and I would have no idea who they were because they were so far away, and their shoes were ordinary.


My music professor, Mr. Janz, loved my sneakers. He was fairly young, very single, and I had quite a crush on him. He would drive around campus in his little car, listening to Beethoven as loud as most people would listen to the Ramones. He often commented on my sneakers. Maybe it was a safe way to connect, pupil to professor, just leaving it at the shoes.


I wonder if he ever got married?