RE: Letter to My Future Husband & The Woman I Wanna Look Like/Be OR, In the Pocket of My Blue Jeans10/25/2023         NOTE: This post originated independent of any contemporaneous outside influences, regardless of genre. However, this spirit doesn't altogether dismiss the possibility of 'independent' artistic endeavors arising, unbeknownst to 'individuals,' from collective wells of wonder, the depths of which are far too unfathomable to contain within the confines of language, a sorry substitute for truth that has always already escaped the ability of but a few to consider the realm of artistic enterprise any other way than the way we perceive of it with the materials for manifesting it in our human hands. This artist, in other words, is not opposed to entertaining the possibility that one's art could also be the result of spirits simultaneously commingling within the same channel, knowingly or not, until the static is quiet enough to not overwhelm the sound of their voices, and until the stars moons of their wherevers shine brightly enough and they see each other and don't feel enough fear to not want to pretend otherwise. But, yeah. This (whatever you want to call it) is about what's in (interpret as you will) a pocket I cut from the one pair of Levi's 501 jeans I held onto from my past life. I've carried the pocket in each move I've made since I cut it out (I don't remember when). My motivation to purge my collection of 501s must've been insurmountable--after all, it took years and dozens of trips to thrift stores, and, later, in graduate school, being sent to collections for over $300 for a bad check written years before for such a purchase at Value Village. That cache has no future now, save for on the hips of whoever wears the jeans now (I want to be upset with them, but it's not their fault--plus, the jeans are probably in a landfill, let's face it), and for the future of what's inside this lone pocket you see. You see? Quality clothing. Should you ask anyone who knew me back then if I'd been a Barbie what my outfit would've been, it would've included 501s and a bandana. My accessories: a can of loose tobacco, a notebook, and a pen. I don't know what my Barbie name would've been. 501 Barbie doesn't seem right. I'll have to think on that.  Random: I often wonder if the women and men named in songs are real. I mean, I know some are real, and I know some love songs are, in fact, written to/for real people, even if such is discovered, say, posthumously. But is Jolene real. Hmmm. Look it up, you say? What a great idea. Why didn't I think of that? Well, because I'm way behind the times. Reporting back, I didn't try that hard once I found an article that talks about him being sick of the song. This made me laugh because, honestly, I am, too, but I couldn't resist for obvious reasons. Just don't listen to it. You don't have to push play.   1998 TIME CAPSULE FILES/DEFIES CATEGORIES FILES, Back Right Pocket of Levi's 501 Jeans, 33x32, A Little Loose On the Hips, Circa 1997-2007 "BABY GOT BACK" : HEREBY, IT HAS BEEN RECOGNIZED AND SUBSEQUENTLY RELEASED FROM SPIRIT, MIND, AND BODY THAT GUYS CHANTED THE AFOREMENTIONED TRACK TO ME ABOUT MY BUTT HERE, THERE, AND EVERYWHERE FROM ROUGHLY 1996-1999, AND MAYBE FEWER AND FARTHER BETWEEN AFTERWARD, IF ONLY IN JEST.   But(t) (get it?), when I used to be a ballerina (when I was that age, I mean), choosing 'my favorite' when there were multiples of the same object of desire or source of fascination--especially if the latter was a girl or woman I wanted to look like, or a semblance of such--my mind reveled in debating my favorite. I established criteria (not knowing the term or concept), and there I went. I continue the secret (not anymore) guilty pleasure today, though my choice is based more or less on the 'object's' worth to my dispiritedness as a timely or serendipitous metaphor, symbol, allusion, or manifestation of an archetype or myth, or synchronistic event that resonates on a spiritual plane. My favorite "derrière" ballet positions (besides, you can't see those ballerinas' butts, anyway) in the image above are the ones looking over their shoulders. That's right. Reasons.     My mom used to make fun of the things Mrs. Patterson said, too: She called me "Son-yer." I don't know how to do the things on the vowels that show you how to pronounce them, and I'm too lazy to look it up, so I'll just say that it was like this: "Sawn-yer." To keep the beat, sometimes she'd say, "Tah, Tah, tee, tee, tah." Sorry if that gets in your head.   1998 TIME CAPSULE FILES/DEFIES CATEGORIES FILES/FB POST FILES, RE: Having Saved Back Right Pocket of Levi's 501 Jeans, 33x32, A Little Loose On the Hips, August 19th, 2003 (Too Sentimental) 
The results are in!!! In no particular order:
RIGHT BACK POCKET CONTENTS OF(TIME-TRAVELING) LEVI'S 501 JEANS (seen, sort of, briefly, through the lens of the sacred/profane)
Should one have further interest regarding this writer's impetus to save the above featured pocket from the above mentioned pair of Levi's 501 jeans, please note that her love of the pant has a long history and has been thoroughly vetted as her personal fashion choice, independent of outside influence, similar to bandanas. Occasionally, jeans were taken from the closet and carefully organized and counted to keep track of inventory--as seen in the list accompanying this text--as well as to feel a sense of pleasure about the hard work that had gone into assembling the collection of distressed denim. It's come back to me that I disliked being referred to as though I wasn't there when I was there. Or as though my name was unknown. When someone loved me, it was, however, OK to laugh about such discontent. Because TRUST. I'd inevitably disappear again.
Trust again. 
MARRIAGE ENCOUNTER FILES, Excerpt from Letters Between a Couple Who Shall Remain Unnamed, October, 10/2/1982, CWU Campus, Spiral Notebook (Hers)
MARRIAGE ENCOUNTER FILES, Excerpt from Letters Between a Couple Who Shall Remain Unnamed, October, 10/2/1982, CWU Campus, Spiral Notebook (Hers)
1998 TIME CAPSULE FILE, Collection of 75 Small Notes Passed in Class, Circa 1997-1998
LETTERS NEVER SENT FILES, Letter to Future Husband, Folded Note Unfolded, Letter Side, January 5th, 1997
1998 TIME CAPSULE FILES, The Woman I Wanna Look Like/Be, May 27th, 1997 No. 1
1998 TIME CAPSULE FILES/CERTIFICATES AND IDs FILES, Sonya Dunning's MMS ASB Cards 1995-1996 and 1996-1997
1996-1998 is the one being channeled here.
Other artifacts offer a snapshot of the state of mind of the subject in question, as she was, within the aforementioned timeframe.
1998 TIME CAPSULE FILES/ILLUSTRATION FILES, Survey and Collage for MMS Time Capsule
In the right-center of the collage at the bottom of the survey above (now far above) is a spiral of three photographs of the subject (she's the one with her eyes closed, and the one above, and the one above that one).
1998 TIME CAPSULE FILES/ILLUSTRATION FILES, Survey and Collage for MMS Time Capsule, Close Up of 1997 Sonya Dunning
I'm sharing my most embarrassing parts of my past, so here you go: each boyfriend I had from middle school through high school had a code name based on a brand of tea.
Despite having a series of arrows drawn in the direction of Leo's 'junk' on the front of the notebook featured above, RE: my 'teas,' there was once a time that I was, nonetheless, so innocent (and apparently quite determined to put on a front to convince whomever otherwise, though, admittedly, while 'innocent,' also 'aware') that it didn't even occur to me to think of 'steam' at all, let alone 'steamy' in the literal sense.
It therefore shouldn't surprise you that 'Steamy' as in 'STEAMY' (opportunity to allude to Grey's Anatomy) didn't occur to me, either, though I must say that, in retrospect, I find the theme clever, if also she's-the-one-with-a-phone-she-pretends-works-in-her-locker eccentric, as well as far too cryptic of a code to crack (in my defense, they thought it worked--I called pranks 'social experiments'). I would've chosen the tea theme if 'STEAMY' had occurred to me.
I guess this tangent is moot. Lipton, Celestial Seasonings, Twinnings... 
To follow up on the "Derrière" and 'STEAMY' business, for perspective, that content is arguably no more X-rated than the messages guys wrote about my body in my yearbooks from MIDDLE SCHOOL.
NOTEBOOKS FILES/STRANGE BEHAVIORS FILES, Small 3-Ringed Pink Notebook, Circa 1996-1997, Last Page (NOTE: Date is the Same as the Date on the Sticky Note on The Woman I Wanna Look Like/Be)
In fact, the very thought of rejection--
the humiliation--makes her want to die. She dreams it were otherwise, of being a beautiful woman who belongs, EASY DAYS, EASY NIGHTS, silk skirt with belt, $200 CASUAL NOIR.
Meanwhile, nowhereman replaces God.
Love is lost, found, dangerous. 
From "Sonya's Bullshit Cont'd," 1998
1998 TIME CAPSULE FILES, Sone AKA "the B*tch" and "Celestial Seasonings," AKA Soon-to-Be Ex-BF, Wearing Oversized Gray Sweatshirt, Expression of Young Love, Soon-to-Be Dashed, Circa April, 1997
NOTEBOOK FILES, Coca Cola and DiCaprio--Includes Fairy Dust and 501 Jeans Pocket (Circa 1996-1997), May 28th, 1997 Entry, Page 1 (NOTE: Day After Tearing The Woman I Wanna Look Like/Be from a Magazine
In time, I would run out of tea codes. Late night (wanna) make out rides, said fate, would inevitably intervene.
When you're hot, you get hot (as in 'hot and heavy') and you haven't gotten hot until you've been seen hot, and if you're going to be seen hot, you don't need a code. Everybody knows--you want everybody to know. You're wanted. It feels safe to be seen again. 
It should be noted with great emphasis that my date to this dance was a gentleman. He, in fact, tried to look out for me when his dirt bag friend led me through the living room of a house party, past the cool kids on the counts into the labyrinth of my loss.
I'd already taken off my shirt. I can't remember whether this is the case or not, so don't quote me, but if I remember correctly, we were instructed by the photographer (or maybe it was one of the other girls' ideas) to pull up our dresses and show our front-most leg. You can see how enthusiastic I was about doing that. Other girls' dresses, meanwhile, did the job for them. Convenient clothing. On the night of "MOONLIT SUNRISE TOLO," 12/6/97, my 'prom' dress stayed on, even after my date and I went "off," to where I can't remember now. I didn't want to wear nylons or those ugly silver shoes. I had to warm up to the dress, but it was all my mom could afford. The sequins poked my armpits. I didn't even truly want to go to that damn dance, but I wanted to want to go, and it wasn't like I wasn't going to 'yes' when I was asked, and it wasn't like if I wasn't asked I wasn't going to pretend like the dance wasn't happening, so I played the part, and I did well enough. Mainly, I didn't want to go because expectation had vibrated between my date and me since he'd asked me to go with him. I was sweaty in the synthetic threads and around my hairline, and my whole face quivered when I smiled, and there were times I didn't want to smile but did anyway. You'd have to pay off my student loans (trust me, you don't want to agree to doing so) to convince me to 'grind' to "Da Dip" today, or even if you would've asked me a few shots in on at a bar with a dance floor while I was in college. Have you ever met a person who truly sees, hears, and understands you, and, despite what they see, what nonsense or "high faulting mumbo jumbo" they rant about from day-to-day or minute-to-minute, you want only to hear more because you wish more than anything to be able to not just see their exterior but to gain access somehow into their mind and spirit, too, where their very essence shines brightest? In the end, I think that's what 'steaminess' or 'passion' is--true passion, anyway, with a legit foundation of unconditional love. Otherwise, it's like grinding to "Da Dip" at MOONLIT SUNRISE TOLO, which, by the way doesn't quite make sense, does it? I mean, I guess the sunrise can be 'lit' by the moon, but saying the light of the moon is lighting the sunrise seems contradictory (not to mention linguistically cumbersome). More so, considering it reads as though the sunrise in this case is subordinate to the light of the moon (or the, presumably--if the sun is rising, anyway), which, to me, intimates the death of night. The point is, whether he was a gentleman or not, I wasn't necessarily concerned about 'grinding. Based on notes guys left in my yearbooks in middle school it shouldn't be a surprise that the chaperones at school dances had historically been fairly negligent when it came to ensuring chicks and guys weren't dry humping and making out, which is to say it wasn't my first time I'd 'dipped' into the world of that part of the cafeteria, where, at lunch, I never felt like I belonged (I flitted around, though not a 'social' butterfly in the traditional sense, at lunch, never sure where to sit), but that didn't mean I'd know what to do once I got into my date's truck and was alone with him and the vibration had no outside forces to lower its frequency. I don't know what was more embarrassing, not knowing what to do with my hand, or when he took it off of him and gave it back to me. He was a cereal, not a tea. Lucky Charms. Something about 8:42 PM. Have you ever seen a certain time on the clock over and over and over again? Do you consider why? I have. I do. Not 8:42 PM. AM & PM. Separate instances--each significant--in my life, the ambiguity unimaginable, 'unimaginable' also, as it were, ambiguous. 
I'm devastated far too many years later to have lost the green sweater I wore for what seems like weeks but was likely two or three days in a row while mourning my breakup. It was such a sorrowful sea of loneliness that I didn't want to take off because I didn't want to lose the last of the feeling that came before I fell into said sea. I don't know why I want to remember that feeling, and that it was summertime, which makes the funeral attire even more indicative of my sorrow, keeping in mind the extensive effort necessary to maintain the sort of golden tone guys like the one who'd just broken my heart wanted to put their hands all over.
The sweater above is a decent likeness. I keep an eye out--always the wrong fibers, color, weave, shape, size, length. Did I mention I listened to "With or Without You" on repeat while lying on the floor? Tossed back again, replaceable/replaced. 
NOTEBOOK FILES, Coca Cola and DiCaprio--Includes Fairy Dust and 501 Jeans Pocket (Circa 1996-1997), May 28th, 1997 Entry, Page Location TBD
1998 TIME CAPSULE FILES, Sone on the Phone, Wearing Camo-Print Button-Up Flannel, With Natural Face and Fingernails, Circa 1997-1999, Bedding Familiar, Location TBD, Expression of Authentic Contentment, But Never Say I Could "Light Up a Room"
In my childhood home, we had a turntable in the room with no name between the living room and the kitchen.
My mom's dad died before I was born, but I sometimes convince myself that I remember my mom receiving the call in that in-between. She's on the stool leaning into the peek-a-boo between the no-name room the kitchen. I'm against her legs, playing with the coils of the phone cord as "Turn, Turn, Turn" plays, accompanied by a satisfying scratch. She's crying, and the bird inside our coo-coo clock springs forth from its hiding place, its mouth wide, wings spread. Since then, whenever I hear "Turn, turn, turn," that scene comes back to me with a force I can feel where the broken parts of me continue to accumulate. Other times, I wonder if I've conflated distinct causes of my mom's tears, though not in a way that would preclude (quite to the contrary, as it were) residual grief for her Purple Heart hero--I wonder, in other words, if the memory isn't impossible (doesn't require a past life or time-travel--if it was news of her dad's death she'd received on the other line, but, instead, that she'd received 'good' news and her tears were tears of relief. Maybe it's harder for a mom to stop crying when she's crying for her children, too, like the china doll in the VHS home video that my mom tells me will break if I take her out of the box. Her tears felt warm on my cheeks. I sometimes wished I could cry more than I did, and, when I did cry, I wanted everyone to know--because then, I thought, they'd see me. Otherwise, it seemed no one did. This would become a lifelong infliction. My poor teacher. What does a teacher say to a 3rd grader who feels like "nothing?" In my case, well, nothing. Nothing begets nothing. Take your crying to the Crying Room at St. Andrews church where the moms take their babies so the congregation doesn't have to hear them wailing. 
Once my mom graduated with her B.A. after having returned to college, for work, she helped adults who couldn't help themselves--took them to appointments, to the doctor, to the store. She lifted them out of wheelchairs and put them back in, and she helped them use the bathroom, and to get dressed. She even helped one woman paint greeting cards.
She used to dance, too. Her back is broken now, and it's difficult for her to walk long distances. My grief and confusion was worth her protection. She would've rather seen me cry about something she'd done by choice and about which she had some sense of what was to come, rather than about something she'd chosen not to do and about which, while merely contemplating her decision about decisions, she didn't even know how many possible outcomes there could be but suspected none of them would be particularly favorable. Though it might've taken a while, suffice it to say, without saying a whole lot more, that my mom has since become my hero, and, true, "Things aren't always what they seem." Sometimes, we have to turn what we see round and round and round to figure out which way is up and down. You deserve to be happy. Turn that one round and round and round. 
NOTEBOOK FILES, Coca Cola and DiCaprio--Includes Fairy Dust and 501 Jeans Pocket (Circa 1996-1997), May 28th, 1997 Entry, Page Location TBD
***File Designation in Progress***
Temporary Title: Sonya Dunning, 8th Grade Honors Camp-- May, 1997, Moments Before Initially Injuring My Right Knee at a Sock Hop (Haven't Smiled Like that Since). See that Knee Twenty-Six Years Later in the X-Ray Below
Let's be very clear that when my mom named me after her (or, rather, not 'after,' but because that's why she knew of the name), she didn't know that Sonja Henie had ever given the Nazi salute to Hitler, let alone that Sonja had received an autographed photo of him. But from what I gather, Sonja herself wasn't the brightest bulb when it came to politics and claimed to not even know the significance of a Nazi, let alone, maybe, even the word. My mom liked figure skating and old movies. Besides, Henie doesn't even spell her name the way that makes the most sense.
I like to think Sonja--also a ballerina--and Sonya aren't alike in many of the other ways I've seen Sonja described: the Queen of Ice (hooray, more ambiguity). We'll see what others have said. She certainly didn't have much luck with men. Dancing and skating couldn't hold her, couldn't hold her up, either, when the ice cracked. Not unlike the character Vicky Page played by Moira Shearer in the movie the Red Shoes, it seems that for Sonja, there might have been a bit of conflict between her love of skating and performing on the screen (and, eventually, of fame and fortune, if only to compensate for loss) and, especially after the death of her dad, her desire to find a partner who would love her forevermore. My mom introduced me to old movies like the Red Shoes, Dangerous When Wet (it's an Esther Williams movie about swimming the English Channel to save the family farm--get your head out of the gutter), My Fair Lady, Breakfast at Tiffany's. She also loved figure skating, and, along with events like diving, it's one of few events that draw me to the games. However, I can't say I don't struggle watching the partner events. What's that documentary about the young figure skater, maybe from Russia, who comes to America, I think, when she's really young, to partner with a guy she's never even met. Can you imagine? Blind trust. This guy who ran a gas station in a forgettable town near mine and who was a big drinker--'big' being pretty literal, as well as the fact that he drank a lot--and who was also kindhearted with a youthful spirit used to play Johnny to my Baby when we got drunk. Doing THE LIFT had been a dream of mine for as long as I could remember. Having been a latchkey with a single mom who went to college and worked full-time without getting regular child support, I watched a lot of TV and movies, many of which were far beyond my years--not that it truly mattered (I mean, I always wondered why Penny was so sick--and the scene when Dr. Houseman examines her after she has the abortion churns my stomach to this day, and so on, but I didn't really "get it") because all I cared about was wanting to be Baby and dancing on the log and doing the lift. This guy and I never succeeded, but, damn. He didn't even want to be with me, and he didn't hesitate to gift me a chance to make that dancer dream come true, falling to the grass, laughing all the way. Remember 'toe pick' from The Cutting Edge? That was flirting. The romantic relationships that start with 'sparring.' But a movie is a movie. The only movie I've ever been in, besides a music video once, is a movie made at home, whether by my mom or dad, or, later, when I made my own VHS movies as a teenager and beyond. Even in my own movies, no ending satisfies me. I can't say it isn't on my bucket list to go to Lake Lure in Rutherford County, North Carolina and get as close to the actual experience as humanly possible. I'd take the sweater Baby wears when she goes on the date that she doesn't want to go on with Neil if it were an option instead of that green one I wore after that the guy who'd later take my virginity when I was drunk broke up with me. It's a lonely-looking one. I forgot my point. I think it was about this word that means you 'become' the meaning of your name or something like that. I could be wrong, but from what I gather, 'Sonya' is derived (so 'derivative,' I am, aren't I) of Sophia, which means 'wisdom.' Think 'philosophy.' Love of wisdom. That's how I've remembered it since I first heard it as a child. Sonja's fate wasn't so great, however much of a superstar she became. She tried to fill her emptiness with wealth. She did become her occupation, after all: Queen of Ice. Initially, the meaning of my name (regardless of the derivative element) secretly boosted my self-esteem, but not so much because I believed I was wise, but because I figured I'd inevitably become wise. I can't answer to that. Listen, though. Listen closely. I'm not an ice skater. I used to be a ballerina. I move furniture out of the way in the kitchen when a worthy song comes on, and you can bet your sweet ass I'm going to do that until, like my mom, or Mrs. Patterson (God, I'd love to see her get down in my kitchen)--until, like them, I can't anymore. 
PUBLICATIONS FILES, "Listen," San Pedro River Review, Spring 2016, pages 20-21
NOTEBOOK FILES, Current Notebook, October 26th, 2023, Covers & Spine
PUBLICATIONS FILES, "Listen," San Pedro River Review, Spring 2016, pages 22-23
   FOR THE SAKE OF LEVITY: 'Mastodon' is relative. No, I'd never heard of this band prior to Googling 'mastodon.' No, I haven't listened. Would you like to soon?    
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S.J. DunningWriter, editor, SAHM of three, infertility advocate, pregnancy loss advocate, ex-ballerina, nostalgic, record-keeper, documentarian Archives
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