Another fossil dug up from the archeological site I’ve set up on my old hard disk. I like the poem at the end. That’s nice, for a change.
Mustachioed Hillbilly Buddha of My Better Angels,
This being a shoddy excuse for the typewriter, and not half so romantic, I apologize but the computer will have to do today, as I’m stuck at school, at my desk in the library like a trilobite at the bottom of the vast prehistoric sea of punditry that is Reed College. If there’s something in my tone here, blame that. There’s something about reading nothing but extended, dry works by dead critics and writing what is turning out to be an extensively annotated and dryly executed love letter to Blake that makes me write instinctively like some old-world east-coaster. A bald, bland man with an overly long scarf and overcoat, spectacles and a department chair, with a calculated tongue and dusty reference-desk brain. UGh. 6 months to graduation, 5 not counting the month off for winter break. I’m starting, finally, to feel overwhelmed on the last stretch. I have two applications to finish in the span of weeks, chapters due with a “prospectus” whatever that means and the beginnings of a cold. Fuck lit theory. It’s just not in the priorty list today. Priority list today is the letters to my better angels. I have a desk full of letters in progres: to Davy, to you, to Ava, to Blake (the masturbatory love letter one I mentioned earlier). I woke up at four AM with the intense need for immediate and extensive nasal dranage and a cough that kept me up with my head hung over the bed for gravity’s sake. I didn’t know bronchitus was transmissible by phone line. Next time hold a cloth over the reciever for fucks sake! Anyway, on to the meat:
St. Louis Armstrong, meditations, long times of thinking between doings. I have this sort of babble following me around as I think of the dearly departed(not dead, most of em anyway) that encompass the life of these letters. I’m soon to be one of them if the Japan plan goes through. Fake blood all over my pants and a runny nose. Falling asleep to the insane laughter of Swift. “You have a lot of ideas and I think we need to pull out one concrete aspect which we can focus on directly. Until then I will be of no further help to you.” Oops.
As I mentioned on the phone, I’m throwing in some writing I did for class….needs works still, and it’s a little too transparent for me, but that may make it precisely more interesting to you than to most anyone else. As far as a journal, Mara’s working on 3 of them and I think Ava’s comes first so that may not go out with this letter or maybe this letter will wait a bit, depending. Oh and also, READ THIS BOOK! It’s amazing, really I think you’d digit: Juan Rulfo – Pedro Páramo…or his short stories, El Llano en Llamas (THe burning Plain). I haven’t gotten to Kastanzakas yet, but will eventually. Here’s your rimbaud back, I’ll be getting my own copy to finish it, wouldn’t want this one to degrade any further under my care. ALSO, another guy maybe worth checking out: Greg Bottoms. I saw him read and talked with him a bit, he’s a good writer and an allaround nice guy. I like his short stories: Sentimental Heartbroken Rednecks, but I’ve read from his book too: Angelhead which seems even better but I haven’t gotten really into it yet. Now that I think about it, it might not be your “kind” of writing…at least maybe not the shorts, they might be a bit overly introspective/essayistic for your tastes, but you should look at Angelhead, its a memoir about a schizofrenic brother with some really beautiful writing…anyway I’m sure you’ve got more reading than you can do, but just a couple more for ya.
I missed MMJ with Saul Williams…fucking sold out…Iron & Wine show was awesome though, I could tell you’d really have liked it. Anyway thats about all I have to say.
yours in christ,
P.S. Check these addressals from Blake’s letters, an awesome way to start letters, I think. To William Haley: “Leader of My Angels,” to John Flaxman: “Dear Sculptor of Eternity,” To Thomas Butts: “Dear Friend of My Angles,” & “Friend of Religion and Order” &c. Hence the addressal to this letter. Sinceriously: Butterscotch.
we stand outside the glass doors,
the Addicted, fidgeting
in the cold
and I am imagining a very obtuse poem
involving the moon in the glass of the window
in which, at the end, everyone goes:
I exhale it in a long, warm
FFFFFFFffffffffffuh and watch its smoke
disperse into night.
The reflection of the moon in the window
spreads God over the nightscape like
a knife might spread so much butter.