We live in a silent convocation of decisions.

I sent a letter to my father this morning. Yes, my violent, clinically psychotic, paranoid schizophrenic father who I can only hope is now old enough to be toothless instead of terrifying. (There’s a long shot, wow). There is always a chance the e-mail will bounce back. The address I have for him is very old, from five or six years ago. Here are the results of our last correspondance, from 2004.

Subject: Hi dad, it’s my 25th birthday this week

In truth, I don’t know why I’m sending this, given what or last communication degenerated into, but somehow I feel that 25 is one of those vaguely landmark ages, and I wanted to try to say hello again, and at least let you know I’ve made it this far.

Course, there’s always the possibility this will bounce back. This e-mail address is from a newspaper clipping from many years ago. The paper’s gone yellow and brittle, easy to tear. I’ve kept in one piece, though, not even sure how. It’s just been one of those things where every time I clean my apartment, somehow I manage not to throw it away.

I hope you do get this. It’s been a very long time. I haven’t seen you since before I was ten or spoken to you since I was twelve. I hope you are feeling better since our last letters, and have gotten some medial attention. I don’t usually recommend little coloured flakes of chemical to anyone, but there’s always new pills on the market, you know, maybe some of them will help.

At any rate, good luck in your endeavors, whatever they may be, and happy birthday to me.