2001-07-09 || 11:36 a.m.

|| haunted blue suitcase and the ghost letters that fly out. ||

i have been reading like mad. feeling underwater with all those printed pages, the letters and words loosening off paper and swarming around like fish. the palace thief by ethan canin and corelli's mandolin by em that one guy and i know this much is true by wally lamb and i started one flew over the cuckoo's nest again but stopped because my boy said 'here. you should read this.' and now i am reading a heartbreaking work of staggering genius by dave eggers. i like dave eggers, although i don't think i fully appreciate him (i grab a copy of mcsweeney's and it makes me so very excited, all that lovely type in varying sizes, the secret messages, the trap doors and false bottoms, but i just kind of drool and say 'prettttttttyyyy.'), but that book is so very hard to read. content-wise. i am only on page 30 but there are dead parents and this lofty desperation and it hurts to turn each page.

i think i am being too sensitive.

but last night. we were talking about dave eggers and the boy was saying he was the editor-in-chief of might magazine and i jumped and said 'oh! i have one!' and dragged down the blue suitcase to look through zines/magazines past for this early kernel of mr. eggers. and i found it. and one) i remembered when i first bought it. in 1995. and i didn't get it. but looking over it again i was all excited because i am a grown-up and now i get it. well at least more than i had six years ago. but the boy took it and sat on my bed and read read read. and two) i went through the blue suitcase. it was like a treasure chest. old sassy magazines (the one with kurt and courtney and ohmygod somebody should blackmail that evil banshee with those pictures!! it is not the same lady. amaaazing.) and clip art and rub on transfer letters and manila envelopes full of skeletons of zines i had made and stories i had written and so many tiger beat magazines from 1971 i didn't know i had. it was so nice.

i think i had a dream about it. all these different fonts and typesizes swirling around, getting scratched by the curlicues of cursive letters, the sound of pages flapping, the smell of old newsprint that has turned yellow from being held captive inside blue suitcases.

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