Found this writing on an old blog and I wanted to share it. It's funny what four years can do for the spirit... Enjoy.
I was thinking back on this weekend and had this moment of realization: I haven’t narrated my life through a blog in a very long time. I don’t think I’ve done it once since I’ve been back! Sure, my blog is incredibly autobiographical—borderline too revealing—but I don’t think I’ve really used it as this summarizing diary or journal since my return to the United States. When I was in the UK, I spent so much time reflecting on the day to day and just writing down what happened from point A to point B. I guess I feel like life in Minnesota is just a little too mundane to write in the same way? So what is that a reflection of then? Is it my own unhappiness or boredom or busyness or laziness? Maybe it’s none of these things(?)
Maybe the lack of narrative stems from the inability to write about my life. I like to think I’m, at the very least, an interesting, rounded person that has a whole load of experiences to share and converse about. I open dialogues and create moments, but, on the whole, I think that Josh Plattner’s life—in this present moment—is just a little storyless. I think my existence is lacking character, lacking plot, lacking intrigue and passion and flow.
It never feels like that in the moment though…
It always feels like something grander is happening, like the world is just so lucid and unimaginably present. I sometimes feel like I’m walking through frosting, like the air is made up of a tasty film of experience. But when I sit down to think about what’s happened, what’s made everything so incredibly awesome over the last three months, last three weeks, last three days: I am at a loss. I am bummed out; I am overworked and undermotivated.
Still, I have this idea. I have this crazy, strange notion that if I experience everything like it is in the present, I will somehow recount how important every fiber of my life has been lately. So I’d like to do this exercise that I’ve created. Bare with me people, it’s a bit of a stretch. I am going to write letters to friends, to professors, to acquaintances as if what’s being discussed in the letter is happening in the present. The following letters are all about events that have recently taken place, but by writing about them as if it’s a present conversation, maybe I can find some of that life that so eludes me in personal reflection.
I might use names. For that, I am sorry. I don’t think it’s really fair to write public letters to people, and I will try my hardest to avoid over personalizing out of respect for anyone who does not wish to be mentioned in this most beautiful space. Still, no promises, shit happens.
Sometimes: shit happens to you. *Big Grin*
Please stop talking about my receding hairline. I’m sensitive and I worry, now that my beautiful curly locks are all chopped and gone, I am going to realize just how much I relied on my hair for any amount of confidence. Seriously, stop talking about it. I am going shit my pants in fear. There’s this mole I have on the left side of my forehead that is barely—and I mean barely—hidden by my fauxhawk curls. Every once and a while, it peeks out and all I can think is: tell your parents you think it’s potentially cancerous and get that thing removed. But then I realize that I would lose the hair in that area to get rid of it. I think I would rather keep it hidden than face the idea of losing all of my buffer zone. Oh, there’s another mole that is actually on the plane of my forehead, but I am slowly realizing that it’s not as ugly as I tend to think. Still, stop. When I ask you: DO I REALLY HAVE A RECEDING HAIRLINE?!, answer “no.” Lie to me. Tell me the falsehood. Treat me with the respect of a white lie. Just do it for my sanity. You’ve already called me a mess four times tonight (ignoring your own drunkenness…) and I certainly don’t need to compound my lack of mental stability.
Also: child-of-mercy, you have brought me to tears four times tonight and I am done with the crying game. You’ve awakened my spirit and spilt its guts onto this pillowcase. And, shit(!), the pillow isn’t even mine. I will ask you to remind me it needs to be washed—teardrops stain, right?—but you will shoot that idea down because you’ve been wearing the same underwear for four days and the notion of doing one’s laundry is about as foreign as it gets when you’re on spring break
The tears have been worth every pitiful moment though. What I’ve realized tonight is this: I fell out of love because there was nothing left to fix. And that was a moment of Aristotelian discovery, the best of all possible revelations. It’s funny that you opened my eyes up without actually trying. You said: at the end of the day, we’re here for you. We’re here for you to do you and to show you that you are worth it. And you are. You are worth every goddamn cent.
So, dear friend, I will stop fixing what’s not broken, because that is no way to find what one is looking for. I will stop patching the perfectly mended. I will do me, because, at the end of the day, I’m only guaranteed this moment, this perfect second.
With all the love I can possibly offer,
Josh “Three-Dollar-Bill” Plattner
I think this is actually working! I feel like the moment is happening all over again, like the day is frozen over in this spectacular moment of “I am alive.”
I bought these P-Ball tickets an hour and a half before I got the text saying—more or less—“you’re too late.” They sat in my lap for an hour until my legs fell asleep and my feet fell off beneath my desk. I am not afraid to admit that I was angry and sad and cried like a small child because sometimes you feel utterly helpless in situations that you feel like you really screwed up. But I want you to know that I don’t think that I screwed up by buying the tickets. Really, I screwed up by not telling you right then and there that you were making the wrong decision, that you would be let down because there is no way that he could have ever been as fun as I am, or would have been. Even now, when you’re showing off those dance moves in my room—if you can call them that—I cannot help but think, why didn’t I speak up? But that’s neither here nor there because I took the path of least resistance; I sat back and let my tickets burn a hole in the denim of my back pocket.
You should know that I bought those tickets because I thought (think) that there’s always room for possibility, for a smile, for Magic. I would have toasted the night to new friendships and relationships, to a chance at getting rid of the fear of happiness.
I would have shown up.
I wish I knew the difference between St Paul and Minneapolis.
You were delightful tonight. You were happy and full of energy. You were the person I see all the time when I see you strutting around campus like you own the place—which you don’t, by the way! But you were so smiley and it was nice to see because I sometimes forget that I am quite enjoyable to be around. So thank you for awakening that it me this evening, for convincing me that I can be the person I am, even when he’s somewhat stifled by uncertainty.
You may not have had a great weekend, but Sunday’s been pretty great, yea?
Here’s to 3-0ing next time too,
Freedom is my favorite thing about writing. You can type whatever you want, to whoever you want, whenever you want. It’s just so non-demanding!
Dear Little Girl,
I don’t like it when you cry because you still look pretty and that, to me, is infuriating. If only there were some part of you that lacked the charm and charisma that oozes from you all the time, maybe there’d be some redemption to those big, sad eyes that still shine so bright. Alas, there is not. You just don’t ever look poorly!
And fuck him, baby. He’s a damn drunk fool and everything is going to work out for the best because it always has. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, and that you can barely see straight enough to put the vacuum away in the right spot, but you’ll move on and get the hell out of here and find so much success. It’s inevitable. It’s a promise from this world to a deserving citizen.
I love you like a crazy person loves their hallucinations,
And for one last time, in a very quick, very personal letter:
My sentiments exactly.
Thank you for the utterly beautiful freedom I feel beneath these wings of mine.
Joshua Leo Plattner
I Love You.
Sometimes, it’s just that simple.