#letters to lynn

[letters-to-lynn]

Dear Lynn, I still haven't started writing that letter. Why am I so hopeless at this. Maybe shooting myself on the head would be a better apology

[sweetdreamsjeff]

[agmagazinescans]

Letters From You & Credits

American Girl Magazine, September/October 1995

[Ko-Fi Donations]

[crazyw3irdo]

fig wanting to get with gertie despite being in a relationship with ayda… she really is her mother’s daughter

[artemlegere]

“In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.”

~ Khalil Gibran

Painting • Among Friends • Lynn Coldwell

[massivementalitynut]

My Birthday Couple Comm from @iwanttobeaseme

[mazojo]

Me when me me when when me when the when the when when the angel and when the the devil

[youraverageintrovert]

He didn’t know how it’d happened m, but she’d completely taken over his brain.

Every morning when he went for a run, she was what he was thinking about.

Lynn Painter, The Love Wager

[umemiyan]

Trick or Treat :D! (I'm the one with the bucket XD)

HEHE HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! here’s a little treat for your bucket ❤️

[rrrauschen]

Guy Sherwin & Lynne Loo, {1972} Newsprint

[letters-to-lynn]

Dear Lynn, and just like always, I am out of speech before you. My heart speaks a thousand words per milisecond yet I remain silent. Even though I've had this exact conversation in my head several times, hundreds of times before. To think this day would actually come. How funny. I promise though, this one last time, I will tell you. I will give you closure. Or rather its for myself really, I am not going to tell you anything you don't already know, or anything I haven't tired you out already by. I'll tell you, this time I really will. No text messages, no letter, I will say it with my voice. So please, as broken as it sounds and as many awkward pauses it might have, please hear me out one last time. Its probably simply for my own mental peace. But you deserve to know.

[karihighman]

“It’s so romantic in Paris…” // Sabrina Carpenter

[rustbeltjessie]

—salted snow turned slush on the streets of Kenosha —telephone calls from Chicago, Blue Ridge Summit; later, Istanbul, NYC —rum in the railyard, the —hats (see also: scally, fedora, pork pie) —Sinatra, Frank —Presley, Elvis —Costello, Elvis —Waits, Tom —Terricloth, Jack —marimba, bone (I am always using that phrase)

Dear You. When you reach my age, which seems impossibly far away these days (and is in truth both much farther away and much sooner than you think), you'll wonder why you're still writing these things. You thought once you could be done with it, but it is impossible because that year (this year, still, for you) is so full. So impossibly full.

—Bride of Frankenstein (see also: "I hope her bones are firm!") —boys in your bed; boys in vans and motel rooms —door number 30 —trains over bridges, tunnels through mountains, rain and rivers —diners where the fries are too salty and the coffee tastes of blood —Nighthawks (at the...) —Nighthawks (painting by Edward Hopper)

Dear You. By god it's too much. You once thought you could be done with this year but at other times you're afraid that by writing it so often, it will disappear. Like each memory is a coin and by putting it down on paper, you are spending it. But each coin returns to your pocket, eventually. Maybe a little dull, a little tarnished, but still valid currency. And then the coins, the memories, that you'd forgotten! So many, like they're newly minted.

—a half-stolen switchblade —a hostel on Bank Street —M. riding shotgun, rolling cigarettes, while that road marimba... —Baltimore's rats and broken roses —Cincinnati cicadas —Ohio fireflies —"In Ohio On Some Steps" (the trumpet vines, the heat and heartache) —Milwaukee girls —a red dress

Dear You. You will think, sometimes, that part of you is trapped in that year. Like the year is a late-night diner with no visible exit, and you are one of the lonesome souls sitting under the yellow globes of light, staring into your coffee, and all now-you can do is stand on the street outside, looking in, hoping for some way to enter just like past-you wishes they could exit (though they're not making much of an attempt). And maybe that's partly true. (For this was the year of learning that so much impossible stuff was at least partly true.) But the you-outside will have to go on, spending these ever-replenishing memory coins. Writing these never-ending lists. They are the currency, and the index, of your becoming.

—Jessie Lynn McMains (from an unfinished essay-poem hybrid thing inspired by a prompt that suggested to write your own 'letters to a young poet,' so I started writing one to my younger self circa 2004, because everything I write is about that year; written summer 2023)

[rainswept]

yo

hello !! how r u doing today/tonight

[artemlegere]

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. it's that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frighten us, We ask 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be?"

~ Marianne Williamson

Mixed Media Art • Fabulousness • Lynn Coldwell

[silikola]

*laughs* You're right to be hesitant, madam, but the worst you have to fear from the likes of us is invasive comments and the occasional offers of hot sauce.

*a pause*

Well, that and those who would ask about reproduction...

"Even for our reproduction..? " Silivan is weirded out.

"What's a reproduction?"

"I'll tell you that later, Skier."