Love Letter to Modest Mouse
“a tree had taken root in my uterus and grown leaves out of my eyeballs”
+++
Dear Modest Mouse,
When I was thirteen years old I heard “Talking Shit About a Pretty Sunset” for the first time and I thought I would die in that moment. It was as though a tree had taken root in my uterus and grown leaves out of my eyeballs. I had never heard music like that before. I cried for days. I cried for the painful and beautiful future. I cried until my tear ducts emptied and I was happy. Later Good News For People Who Love Bad News would perfectly define my love affair with a beautiful young man from Mississippi, and The Lonesome Crowded West would become the soundtrack to my life on a farm in Missouri.
Shortly after I learned where you lived. I regularly drank in Col. Summers Park with my friends and had heard your jam sessions. We would dance to your catchy drum beats, laugh along with your heartbreaking guitar riffs, and we would wonder what god blessed you with such infectious talent. We had no idea who you were. Once I knew I stopped dancing in the park. I would wander away from the group with my forty of beer and my cigarettes and sit outside of your house, drinking and smoking for hours. My heart took to dancing; my hands and feet took to laughing while I sat still and silent.
For years your music inspired me, tortured me, made me jealous, emptied me, and refilled me. I never saw your faces. I never stuck around long enough. I think I was afraid that if I saw you in person the magic would disappear. I would discover that you were mere humans and not the ethereal beings I imagined you to be. My visits to your sidewalk became less frequent as my life got busier, but every couple of months I would turn my phone off and sit with my then-ritualistic forty and pack of cigarettes and let my insides dance for you. I never brought anyone with me, I never told anyone that I did this, and I know I am not the only one who has done this.
When I was preparing to leave Portland, ten years after my introduction to your music, I made a promise to myself to come and occupy your sidewalk one last time. Unfortunately, due to the naturally unexpected movement of life, I didn’t ever come. For this I am very sorry. You have no idea who I am. Maybe you had caught a glimpse or two of the young punk drunk and swaying in front of your house, and maybe you never ever knew I was there. I will never know.
Tonight, as I write this letter to you, I am making a promise. A promise to myself, to you, to the tree still thriving inside of my body. When I return to Portland I will come back to you. I will buy a forty of Mickeys, buy a pack of cigarettes, and I will sit. I will sing along, I will laugh loud, I may even dance, and when it’s about time to go home I will knock on your door and thank you properly. I will thank you for showing me what music really does to a person. I will thank you for the leaves in my eyes, for the roots in my abdomen, and for the flowers growing out of my ears. Maybe I’ll even buy an extra six pack to share.
Yours in the growth of trees and the laughing of limbs,
N. R.
[Photo Credit: #portlandpolitics by Dezarae Boyd-France, view more of her photography here.]
+ + +
Nina Rockwell, the daughter of fate and worry, lives in her hometown of Portland, Oregon where she hosts Collide, a monthly showcase of local poetic talent. She has been published in the Portland Community College literary journal, The Pointed Circle. Most of her writing education has come from The Literary Kitchen, Ariel Gore’s School for Wayward Writers, and from having two eyes and a heart.
She is currently, and always, writing her story of survival.