The letter to Simon

Oslo, Aug 10, 2005
Dear Simon,
There have been a few incidents recently which have made me feel like like I am part of a mystery novel, or perhaps rather, writing a mystery novel. It’s kind of exciting, but at the same time I am left clueless to what’s going on. You’ve read the blog on the site I sent you, I hope (if not please do, and you’ll see what I mean). Anyway, here I am, writing to you.

Oh, I forgot to write an introduction, didn’t I? I know — you always used to criticise my openings (did you like the blog intro? Did it make you want to keep reading?). I’d present my stories to you, real proud of my nightly panic-writing, and you’d break my typed-up heart immediately by saying: Where is the introduction? Where did this story begin? Did you forget to print the first four pages? Or did you forget to write them?
And even now, after spending an entire year re-writing, expanding, throwing out paper in the bin downstairs (a bit like shedding old skin), I realise I haven’t learnt a thing. Even my letter to you has no beginning. So let’s start again. Here goes:

Oslo, Aug 11, 2005
Dear Simon,
I hope this yellow page finds you well, and that you have apple cheeks and soft-boiled eyes. I imagine you and Anne in a big house with a big garden in the mountains, writing and reading each other’s drafts, while you secretly still take sheet music notes when she isn’t looking, and she secretly eats too many plums in the night, when she knows you’re up taking your notes.

There, introduction.
By now, you’re probably even more confused with the whole thing anyway — receiving an internet address in the mail, on a sheet of paper without any explanation, and then a letter that re-writes itself, as if I want to include all my drafts in the finished, stamped envelope. Well, let’s get to the point, then, I’ll skip the point where I say I’m fine and living in a studio with an elderly couple underneath on the top of the Eastern hills of Oslo, with my books and my grandmother’s green chair, and that everyone we both know are fine and doing ping and pong. On to the incidents, the mystery novel incidents. I’ll take it for granted you’ve read the blog, not skimmed through, but read it thoroughly, and thought of me while reading it, thinking: she hasn’t learnt a thing.

About a month ago, I received the first postcard from Ira in the mail. Since then I have received another postcard from her friend Philip, and two emails from Ira in the Russian village near the Volga. I almost wrote “received” once more there, and I apologise for repeating words, as you always used to point out to me. You have no vocabulary. It’s like you’re singing, la la la la. Where is your tongue? Does it know how to move? What about your brain?

I guess I have little more to say, Simonella, except: did you ever know a person called Ira back in the days? Did you ever date a girl called Ira before Anne? Did you ever...
Well, you know what the next question is, but I find it very hard to express. You know I was the only one in the end who could follow what was happening in you and to you. Could Ira be something like that, I ask. Without a question mark, because it’s up to you how to respond. I won’t get angry if you don’t write. If you’ve let it go and moved on, done what you came there for. Forgive me if I bring you back to somewhere you don’t want to exist in your past, an erased time. I might be a scratched-out memory, too.
But if you still. Could there be a connection. Even a slight one. Think about it...a postcard from 1987 taking 18 years to reach me from the Soviet Union. I was seven years old when it was printed. Now, it’s possible that someone has found it elsewhere, recently, and written it as a prank, but the thought of it travelling from another time is wonderful. Since it would have been sent, it would have passed through several countries, sometimes without crossing borders, just time. Imagine.
Please tell me of your thoughts if you and your health allows it. Or call me a fried banana and throw this yellow-papered letter in the bin (paper recycling). Then, you too shed my skin. That thought is wonderful, too.

Now I have to get back to work. I have a story on seashells (i know, still doing it) that I need to finish.

All the best,
Jennella