This one's for Vaupel

Moving is exhausting and bruising. It's a self-abusive love affair with a strange place and known things. It's fun and painful, it's a new yet familiar relationship for me, yet this time it's mine. I'm covered in little black and blue kisses all over my knees and shins. I think even my pelvic bone is bruised. Tonight I tried to convert the "stink room" into an office space. This is a huge room, the one that came with the FREE 101 Dalmations border, the room where I keep the cat boxes, about 2/3 of my books, my records, my PC, and my unpaid bills. I measured for a new desk (Ikea?) and went through a million files and the last 90 % of the last 90% of the boxes. Only 2 boxes left in that room on purpose (the rest contain VHS tapes of my Woody Allen collection and there's a huge box of all my student's reels from years of teaching at WSU). I realize that I not only need a huge desk for editing and bill paying (I'm gonna do my writing in the dining room/kitchen/hallway -- on the butcher block paper I bought) but I need filing cabinets and an entirely updated filing system. Nothing's been touched since 2008. Boo.

Some of my best discoveries of moving have been the many facets of my incredible wardrobe -- the red and white polka dot chacha dress I've actually never worn in public and the many cute scarves and bracelets I own. I actually found two Pewabic tiles I thought lost since I left Detroit. Still wrapped in newspaper, they were at the bottom of the box with my taxes and Wilson's pet records.

But the best part about moving is going through the boxes of old letters. Mostly in floral print hat boxes that have withstood nearly a dozen years in my life and about half that amount in different moves in 3 different states. Un-noticed and overlooked, Purloined Letters of sorts, I dared not revisit these boxes while in the meat grinder relationship with Christian. What, I might remember I once had ambition and goals? Or that I was desired? Dare I not even look for then, during those moves, I would have crumbled. But today, I've been so fortunate, today I dare. I've even found a bunch of letters from friends and lovers tucked in photo albums and random paperbacks like Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native (found a good one in there!) What was I thinking when I placed that letter from her there? A fantastic amount of letters from Mike Field sending me back to our carefree days from ages 19 - 25 when we were amazing penpals, best friends and much, much smarter than we

are now!

The real treasure was finding the massive stack of love letters written to me by my ex-boyfriend and former fiance, Miguel. We met when I was 21 and working at Majestic Cafe. I had braces on my teeth and wore chunky heeled shoes, long black pencil shaped skirts and a lot of metal jewelry. My hair was short, choppy, multi-colored but often bleached blonde and I was in the throes of kicking a terrible stint with my nasty roommate and her always having bad influences around. I had dated a lot of the guys in who came in to the bar. What can I say? I was young, living on my own Detroit, getting my useless Film degree, making a shitload of money, and I was cute. Cute like a 12 year old.

Miguel came around towards the end of my run at this mostly negative time of my life. He also looked 12, and acted 12, but was only about 9 months younger than I. He persistenly asked me out, I consistently denied him with the adage "I'm sorry, I don't date patrons." But he was so HOT. So hot. Slim but muscular, built but wiry. Dark, short curly hair, eyes like a dragon. Piercing and powerful. After countless occasions, gifts and notes of his a

ffection left for me at the bar on my night's off, I finally gave in and called him. We went out the next night. We went out and we went all the way. All the way off and on for the next 3 years. "We knew all the answers and we shouted them like anthems!" That's how we lived.

Weeks later I quit Majestic and moved into a tiny studio in a converted house on Prentis, moving in next door to my new and forever since best friend Heather. We moved into our new places on the same day and pretty much haven't stopped talking to each other every single day since ('cept for those few nasty occasions I care not to revisit). I started waiting tables and day bartending at Cass Cafe, making 1/2 what I'd made just months before at the suckhole. No car, no telephone, shitty little hole in the wall apartment with a standup shower too small for even me, I pulled my GPA back up to 4.o and engaged in the best sex of my young and not-so- innocent life with this hot young man.

What I discovered in the treasure trove of his letters was a photograph that he took of me one day on break at the Cass Cafe. He must have surprised me while enjoying not only a

cigarette but perhaps even a plate of french fries!

So, here's the first installment of what might be many of the Letters from Miguel. Read for yourself the brilliant intent, extent and playfulness of his love for me. It matched mine. I make no excuses, I loved this idiot guy. Ten years ago, to the day, likely. Perhaps he's the root of the reason I am obsessed with love letters.