—SAY YOUR “SORRY’S,” “I LOVE YOU’S,” CAUSE MAN, YOU NEVER KNOW
…How was your weekend? I’m betting it was pretty good.
…I have two radio interviews today, one at 7:07 a.m. and another at noon. Hopefully I won’t mumble or stumble. Please keep your fingers crossed for me.
…When I worked at Nordstrom, I used to save a written or emailed note that I might get saying something complimentary. I don’t know if it was my idea to do this, or someone else’s (probably the latter). The notion was, when you were feeling really insecure, or wondering whether or not you were making a difference in other people’s lives, you had a cache of notes from real people, telling you, in often heart-warming and extravagant ways, that you did, indeed, make a difference.
I had both an electronic file, as well as a paper file-folder. Each was labeled “Special.” It’s a lame, corny title, but that’s how those notes made me feel--special.
I never ever looked at any of the electronic notes, but on occasion, when I was feeling blue, or “less-than,” I’d pull a handwritten note out and read it aloud. Sometimes it would make me cry. Sometimes I’d think they’d exaggerated their sentiment about me. Sometimes I’d feel emboldened. But it always made me feel better, “more-than,” like I actually mattered.
Similarly, since I’ve been writing full-time, I have an electronic file captioned “Special” where I save, or “cut-and-paste” save comments and notes. I’ve been doing this for 12 years now. I’m so lucky that it’s a very full folder, though I’m only guessing at that, since I’ve never once looked at it. But just knowing the sentiments are there, knowing I have them saved, is kind of a balm for bad days.
If you don’t do something similar, I’d highly recommend it. It’s never too late to start something new.
(Braggart Alert) Below are some recent, very kind comments I received about my last interview on the radio, my book, a story, and also about this site hitting 2.5 million pageviews that will go into the file marked “Special”…
Len, you amaze me!!!! Lovely!
Be brave… those of us who loved your story tellers voice could listen endlessly… mesmerized!!
your voice has always been comforting, supportive and inspirational - was then - nice to hear it again, so thanks for sharing -- and it is your introverted 'humanness' that keeps people coming back for more -- please stay you! just feel blessed you once crossed the path of my life
wow. you are brave, len. can't wait to listen to this! btw - your voice is terrific. do you realize how many of us folks came to listen to you speak? you captivated an audience and always left us with so much to think about. thank you. and, thanks for sharing this.
wish I could hear your words in that voice… you are amazing and I’m cheering for you!!!
Len. Your book is very powerful and moving.
Just listened to your interview, it takes a lot of courage to publicize your vulnerability. I’m indefinitely proud of you.
Hey, Len. Just saying I really enjoyed your appearance on that radio show. All of your best intentions showed through!
Congratulations. It's incredible because you are incredible in the best way.
WOW. Len, that is amazing. Bravo!
not hard to understand - your writing is like a heartbeat -
Congrats! That's quite something!
I'm floored. That's so cool. Congratulations!
Read this gorgeous, heartbreaking story by the amazing Len Kuntz, republished in "Fictive Dream"! DEEP LOVE! xoox
Hi Len, master of the micro.
You have a great eye for detail. It makes the writing so clear.
Such gorgeous writing, Len. Always such a pleasure to read your work, my friend
Your book is full of profound sincerities. I’m proud of you, if I may so. Thanks for all you’ve given us.
I am a fan.
It's just beautiful, full of a sort of tenderness that I've never seen or experienced before. I keep imagining all the details in my head.
I think it's the poet in you. When poets write stories it's different
The story stayed with me for such a long time.
—THE GREATEST THING YOU’LL EVER LEARN, IS TO LOVE AND BE LOVED IN RETURN
…I haven’t done anything like this in a lifetime, so it was a little frightening to be interviewed live on The Todd Ortloff radio show. And God I hate the sound of my voice, but here it is.
I’m at 21:24 minutes, trying to somehow articulate my newest, and most difficult book. THIS IS ME, BEING BRAVE
…And here’s the link to get the book, if you’re so inclined, and if you do, I am so very grateful:
—JUST LIKE BEFORE, IT’S YESTERDAY ONCE MORE
twins
it’s not me drinking, officer, it’s that other guy right here, the one that looks like me, my loopy twin, give him the test, he’s been riding shotgun with my soul since I was nine, the year I took my first drink and blew a forest fire, don’t believe me, ask him, then smell his breath and try not to gag on the fumes, which is what I do, each and every night, about this time
—THE BEST THINGS I HEARD OR READ LAST WEEK
Gracie Abrams -- 21
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBPu6T2Qjb0
Morgan Wallen – Don’t Think Jesus
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5ub0FEDVpY
Robert Vaughn – Candy Crushes
Mac -- La La La La
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_MMI1hEScO8
Meg Pokrass
Yellow House – Better Views
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=asdM2znz3OM
Ellen Bass
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-yAYHPTncM&t=65s
Sam and Holly –Seventeen Going Under
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LqoaB-4ftpA
Mac - Senior skip day
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7NJfuVk9hY
Haywire House – Sharon Boyle
https://fictivedream.com/2022/04/10/haywire-house/
ROLE MODEL – Can You Say The Same
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VP2EaV-nDe4
The Colour of Heart
big black car – Gregory alan Isakov
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fp5q37fUq1Q
Claire Ryann -- You Got A Friend in Me
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukD8zj6ngVY&t=2s
no sad songs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4WakhVy-RI
—SITTING ALONE, PICKING THE SOFA APART
My Therapist is in Love with Me (Again)
I knew it after the first session, seeing the way his eyes swam, bulged, floated and stuck on me like leaches, absorbing every possible bit of my sweat and blood.
He was the chair-facing-chair type, no desk or barrier, and I liked that, how it showed me his entire exoskeleton and the way his khakis tented up at the crotch after I’d said the word moist to describe my disappointment of the world at large.
I knew he’d get to it, as they all do, sooner or later, and he did. He lowered his head and bald spot, his face and skull and yellow-ghoulish eyes, and said, You might have, what in crude vernacular, is called a Daddy Complex.
I feigned ignorance. Blinked seven times in quick succession. I could hear a muffled panting while he waited for a reply. I could hear life either ending or beginning. So, instead I twirled my ponytail and blew a gum bubble the size of Jupiter, enjoying the dull pink swell of it.
Through the gauzy, sugar balloon, I studied him and decided, he would need to go, like all the others.
In crude vernacular,” I said, you know I’m fourteen, right?
—AND I DON’T WANNA CRY, ‘CAUSE NOBODY EVER CRIES, IF THEY’RE TOUGH
Love and Violence
You’re speaking English as a second language though no one’s listening and the air conditioning is up so loud not a single bird flies by unless it’s dropping dead, so instead you’re trying to explain it to yourself, how there can’t be love without violence because the letters l-o-v-e are imbedded in violence, the same way your father’s fists carved his name into your skin, time and time again.
—FUMBLING ROUND IN THE SMOKE, SPENDING TIME CHASING GHOSTS
Prayer
I’m waiting for
my resurrection
the roll-away
stone and those
few days when no
one recognizes me
I’ll go busking
at Pike Place
try my hand at
armed robbery
see if I can’t catch
a greased pig
or adopt a
gaggle of babies
you’d think its
insomnia or
hallucinations talking
but no, it’s
my regrets
screaming at me
again saying
you blew it man
look at her
you totally blew it
Sad Tooth
Today I have been thinking about how much I miss your sad tooth, how much I love that sad tooth even still, the one with all the answers and clarity, hilarity, the one that could save the world if given the chance.
If you really want to know, I’m curled fetal here, folded for a box, glamorizing your sad tooth, its spellbinding slant like a barn door with one loose hinge, also rusted.
And we got rusted, too, right? That’s why the hollow shatter. That’s why the French exit. The bull’s on parade, the quake raining down every photo we’d ever hung, even the one where your sad tooth looked perfectly perfect.
(By the way, those are rhetorical, just like your teeth.)
But that sad tooth, it was so loyal. It lay with me when I was sick or bored or unmoored. When I was high. As Neptune. Jupiter and Mars. Or as low as Pluto. When I was too adhesive and dismal. Too upright piano. Too uptight dehydrated bones. Your sad tooth told me all your secrets, even those you were too skittish to confess. I would just lean in while you slept, with its cinnamon breath and say, Don’t tell her I told you this but…
I wrote a poem (or maybe it was a letter, or a paragraph or haiku) to your sad tooth today, same as every day. I read it with breath then I read it silent, same as every day. Then I set it on the stove, turned the knob to 11, just to watch it burn.
—SMALL TALK, WHEN YOU TELL ME YOU’RE ON FIRE
half-drunk happy
after Gracie Abrams
hate to picture you
half-drunk happy
those pristine teeth
stained funky-claret
laughing like a clown
that’s told its own joke
too many times
talking about the things
you talked about with me
but that’s because it’s Wednesday
Sunday Friday everyday
Christmas and Easter
double rainbow over your
vineyard lawn chair with
a stuffed basket of baguettes
and the blood-red roses
your new boyfriend bought
while I languished
in tacit purgatory
licking all my swollen
bruises of regret
—FUNNY, BUT IT SEEMS I ALWAYS WIND UP HERE WITH YOU
Bucha
there’s a choir of bones
followed by a chorus of
lament and moaning
the soil as rich as
a scorched flag
while tank wheels trundle
over another body
on its way to shell a
hospital or orphanage
the driver pausing to
check his Twitter feed
take a bite out of his
hero sandwich before
refocusing on
the task at hand
—HERE WE GO, GOING COLD IN THE SILENCE
Origami
We were askew, three of us bound in a white van, wind for miles, Cabernet and IPA, nothing to fear but a blank page or the word Goodbye, which we never said, not really, and looking back it all makes sense, the same way origami does, each of us folded into the other, sharp elbows and bruised ribs, strong as steel, made of paper, yet never flammable.
