Letter to Francisca:
albatross_part - 4th book of a letter to Francisca.
In the air is the wind. On the wind is an albatross.
One doesn't find meaning, one makes it.
albatross_part_03
Suddenly, a monster jumps out of the seventh dimension into the one I’m in, what is it? Fourth? Length, width, depth and time. Yes, I think so, we’ll have to check the cat in the box. No wait. It might be a bad time. What about the monster suspended in that other sentence. Oh, yes. He pops into the room, fuck this bone in my hand is irritating when I write. It hurts now. In the middle of my palm, is a bone pressing against my skin. I might have to go see someone. Like a doctor, only more bone oriented. What would that be in Deutschland? Wait, the thing that popped in, it slapped me up side the head. I said, ‘What was that for?’ It just popped off again. Gone. No explanation. Just a slap up side the head. Better, I suppose as ein bullet in you mother fucking head. Which is funny I should say that on account I just felt one go in just, above my temple. But it might have just been a spear. What if my hand can’t be fixed and somehow writing becomes too painful. Well, then I won’t be causing others the pain of having to - or I’ll write with my left. I’m not bad. I’ve tried before. I fancy myself as simiambidextorous. At the paint by number place on computer, I used to work at, they wanted people to be polydexterous. Pretty weird, considering it came from a quazidexterous. Megadexterous. Let’s make some more words. My favourite: fishiedixterous. Okay. I just thought of a joke. How do you get a hundred fish into a telephone booth? I don’t know, with a pitch fork or what? No, acid head. By the way. How’s my friend Richard, not that he’s an acid head, just that I miss him a little. Is he still in the Mad House? Sorry. I keep forgetting to close my thoughts. Throw in a bucket of water. Ha Ha Ha. I hate it when people laugh at their own jokes. Some people don’t understand my humour and so if I don’t laugh then the joke becomes, what would you call it, a liability. Not likely. But let’s leave it at that.
Okay, Franny. Here’s the prophetic irony: or pathetic or profatactic or piss spastic, I’ve worked too hard, fairly, if you can justify this sort of thing, writing and all, at getting good at writing (don’t give up, ya, up yours) anyhow, so I’ve two novels that likely will never get published. Yet, here is a wild prophecy. Someone is going to say: ‘Wow, look at this shit.’ They will be referring to your letter, this being it, and they’ll think: ‘Okay, what about all those other weird pieces of shit that were big sellers, like when some prick has nothing to say but he’s really drunk and swears a lot. Ya, and what about that guy that says: ‘Isn’t every thing nice.’ What guy was that? Oh, there were a few. Here, I’ll quote a famous line: ‘I saw a leaf. That made me happy. Leaves are nice.’ Can’t say as I read that one. Well I read that one. Well maybe it ain’t word for word but it’s the genital idea. You mean general. General who? Never mind.’ So what do we call it? Letter to Franny won’t sell. How about this book has swearing in it and a thing about why women have tits? No, it’s too long for a best seller list. How about: ‘Sex and Bloody Fucking Murders’. It’s been done and it’s a little misleading. How about ‘Millions sold.’ That’s a little dodgie. Anyway. It seems no one is coming by this evening. So either they are going to go very late or they didn’t have space or they decided just to stay home or toe go out somewhere else or I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t like my bone out of place. I had a good work out at Karate by the way. I’m sure I’ll have my yellow belt soon. January or so. Fuck, my hand hurts. What if I had something brilliant about to come. I simply can’t write anymore tonight. My left hand is far to slow. If you wanted to write left handed it would seem, fuck this is slow, to be better from right to left. Don’t you think? I simply must see a doctor. If it meant I couldn’t work or something, it wouldn’t matter so much. But this left hand thing is a little tedious. I don’t like being invited somewhere then not hearing back. Maybe after a few weeks, I could get the hang of this, I’ll send a sample to my dad, see what the new character is. Oh, people. –
_bunniestop_
They did show up. We went to the university to be with a thousand people in one big room. The music, unfortunately, got worse as the night progressed. And I was thinking, what’s the chances of bumping into someone I know. Well, how about this good looking Spanish woman comes up to me and punches me in the stomach. Not so hard. But she’s training with me in Karate. She’s very young, I’d have to say. But at 3 o’clock in the morning, again I am alone to face the night. Timon, Andi, Ines and Petra came over for an hour, after we got sick of the music, so we could have a beer and a little AC DC. Tomorrow is a holiday. But that is the same for me. Except that Ines will teach me a little German tomorrow, since she ain’t working. It’s bloody cold in here. I was thinking since I had three beer, which is as much as I can drink at any one go, I could pretend I was drunk and swear a whole bunch. But then I thought about Tim’s dad. He’s dead now, as he has been for a dozen years, but I remembered him sitting at the kitchen table like he did most of the time, smoking his menthol cigarettes. Sometimes when he would go to bed, Tim and I would have grilled cheese sandwiches or bake some French fries. Tim’s dad was once sitting on the picnic table outside the back door when I come up the driveway. I didn’t say anything but he answered my inquisitive look. The doctor had told him after a stint in intensive care, that if he smoked any more, he would die. He had emphysema and lungs full of tar. He said to me, ‘Cigarettes are the only thing I enjoy in life. If I can’t smoke, I’d rather be dead.’ Sure enough, a week or two later he had not enough lungs to supply oxygen to his blood. I was a little sad for one, because I liked him but also because his life seemed so tragic. He was a bit of a scrooge when it came to Christmas and such events. My mom gave Tim a T-shirt one Christmas to lighten his day. It said ‘Tim’ on the front. I have no idea what Tim is doing now. Or his brothers and sisters. Tim should have gone to private detective school. It was definitely his calling. I’m sure he didn’t. Gary, his brother, punched the shit out of Miles one day. It was a little surprising because he usually took the shit people gave him. But Miles was relentless and Gary got fed up and gave him a proper beating. Gary was more of an outsider than I was. The outsider always has to be the scapegoat. ‘You ain’t the same as us so here comes the insults.’ It’s always the same. Not now. Kids beat the shit out of each other every day. Outsiders don’t even have to be there, though it helps. In Germany, the Turks take the rap a bit. There are many who came over when there was too much work. Now some people, the Nazis especially, would like them to go back. But it’s hard to go back if back to where you’re from is where you are. A month from now I will be in Spain. It will be pretty. I’ve learned a little about being an Auslander since I became one. It’s something I wouldn’t consider myself, but apparently it can happen to anyone who goes to another country. I do have the advantage of being white, which is the safest colour in this country. Ninety-nine percent of the people at the party tonight were white. I’m sure it wouldn’t be like that in Canadian Universities. I could be wrong though.
Petra knows a good bone doctor, so I will go see him, or her. I’d like to have my bone where it belongs. And I’d like to know what’s up with my left elbow and I can see that writing tonight has become very lame so either I catch a rave or I pack it in. No rave. I have a quick hot shower then go to bed. Thanks for being there, Francisca. Stay, or get healthy. Drop me a letter but not as long as this one. As a matter of fact, letters this long should be illegal. I have to admit, just before I sign off, that I still enjoy it when I notice young women checking me out. On account I’m in love with a woman and all, I think I’d like just to have other women talk to me and touch my shoulder or something while they talked. And I’d like a hug, especially from Kat, Trisha, Vickietoria and well there are others, including men but I shan’t make a list of names. Being liked is one of the nicest things. You do someone a great service by liking them. Well Franny, till next time I feel inclined to write, stay well.
_bunniestop_
On account it’s closer to daylight than it is to being rather late, I should be asleep. But on account I slept till one today and had a two hour nap after Karate and I started David Copperfield, which I find quite compelled to continue reading, I’m awake. Not only am I awake but I am more awake than at any time of my being awake this far today. The only trouble I have with this, is that stored close early on Saturdays in Germany and bottled water, which I have accustomed myself to since moving here, is in short supply on the premises. I may have to program my mind to wake at the 08:00 sound of the landlady above. I could go into a soliloquy about her now but the meaning of the word except for Shakespeare and rambling, eludes me and she’s fairly uneventful at her age, fast approaching 90. She’s a healthy woman but beyond that I won’t delve. The purpose, Franny, of tonight’s entry, if I haven’t forgotten with all this dribble, is the visit of the two Mormons. Before I start the ramble let me first note that I hold them in high esteem. Them and muggers, pimps, Catholic Church officials, TV advertisements and warts. Okay, warts don’t fit in this case.
Allow me the pleasure of starting a paragraph. I seldom feel the urge in this letter. In this new paragraph, I’ll set the scenario. On a previous day, two Mormons came by and I knew my parents had no desire to talk to them so I allowed them to talk at me for a time while I worked on my motorbike. (Kawi 650 by the way. - KZ650, it was an excellent bike) I want to side track here and tell you about my two motorcycle accidents but I won’t except that I wasn’t hurt in either, though I should have been in the first. The second was just recently and by rights couldn’t be classified as an accident. I hadn’t driven for a while. I started losing the feel and didn’t make a corner and slid into a soft grassy ditch. Back to Mormons. The story doesn’t seem to matter now. I must have forgotten the point I was to make. After this first visit, I agreed to have them back for another visit. They might have thought I was interested in their religion but the truth was I was interested in seeing how their brains worked. Even at that age, twenty maybe, I was becoming quite fascinated with things people could believe. I read many books, to my mother’s dismay, on various religions and beliefs. I found a common thread in all of them: deluded madness. I could go on but I’m sure I’ve touched on the subject before.
Ah another new paragraph. What’s happening to me? Anyhow. It was a beautiful summer day and Geoff had dropped by for the occasion. His belief system doesn’t hold much in regard as well then. With lions. I digress. The Mormons, the two of them, one experienced in door to door canvassing, the other not so. This is easily recognised and even if it isn’t it’s always the case. By law, they only have to canvas two years, I believe, so they are always training the new ones.
The young one was to see how well he could do on his own or so it appeared as he started talking with his regiment of belief. He had a little trouble when he asked ‘How many gods are there?’ Everyone knows what answer he needed but Geoff was eager to respond with ‘Six’. Well, you can’t do that to a beginner. It threw him for a loop. His brain buffered and he couldn’t go on. Not until his friend, who couldn’t be thrown off ‘cause he was very bright and had been around the block, as they say. In fact, he had been around many blocks. ‘I think what he means is,’ he said and explained something that Geoff certainly didn’t mean because Geoff had meant nothing outside of the peaceful harmony and somehow magical sound of the number 6. He could have easily said ‘fish’ and been as equally earnest. It went down hill fast. The young guy took it personally and was upset that we wouldn’t hurry up and become Mormons. He asked me if I thought I could have written a book like this, as he held up the book of the Mormon, which by the way can be summed up as ‘a lot of old wank’, without inspiration from God. ‘Yes,’ I said, as easily as six or fish. He was more upset. His plan to make us be amazed wasn’t working. His friend, of course, wasn’t so perturbed. He didn’t care if Geoff and I were not impressed. He was thinking of getting back to Utah with the rest of his cronies and starting a few dozen businesses. Mormons and money seem to go together. And the gist of the story was: I forget. It had something to do with the way Mr. Murdwhat’shisname and Miss. Murdwhat’shermane were destroying Mrs. Copperfield’s life with their lies. Their tyranny. And I was thinking it’s always the same. People want to manipulate your life and take whatever you have. I was trying to decide the other day if the Mafia was any better or worse than the Catholic Church. Most people will say the Mafia is the worse thing to come out of Italy but, though I don’t hold them in high esteem, it should be recognised that they don’t hide the fact that they steel, cheat, avoid taxes and murder. Though I’m sure if anyone was to read this, which is highly unlikely, due to it’s not really relating to anything, they would disagree violently with me, let me repeat violently, (ask Solemn Rushdi or what’s his name, though he was at a different religion)(have we ran into any grammatical trouble in this sentence yet?) the Catholic Church only differs in it’s methods and refuses to acknowledge the fact. This, I believe is a greater crime. As I’m sure, though I’ve only started the book, Dickens tends to show us with the two evil creatures that stole into Mrs Copperfield’s life. We are easily fooled and I don’t intend to rave about the consumer idiocy of our world, not even mention cars or perfume. What I want to get to is; that the crimes we are told about, allow me to use the word ‘fucking’ just once here for emphasis and nothing more, in the fuckin’ glamour news of TV, radio, magazine and newspaper are a distraction from the crimes that are far worse. We’re given this shit to feed our appetite. It helps keep us ignorant. We might even believe in freedom of press. If we’re stupid enough, if we’ve learned to be stupid enough.
The Mafia, like all the other organisations of crime, is not the problem but the symptom. The church is a symptom. One point two drivers per car in Germany is a symptom, the media is a symptom. The shopping malls are a symptom.
He’s getting a bit out of hand here. Shall we shut him up? Oh, he can’t do any harm. He’ll get a label of some sort and nobody will pay him any heed. But what if he puts sex and violence in his book, then people will read it. Doesn’t matter. Even if people though he had a point, no one would consider doing anything. Things are set and won’t be unset. Okay. Let him rave.
Sorry. I don’t know how those bastards got in there, Franny.
Where was I?
Something about everything is all messy or something. ‘I’ve got big balls. But she’s got the biggest balls of them all.’ Sorry, Bon. Just a slip. It’s funny to have balls in a bag, hanging there under that thing men piss out of.
Digression has stolen the momentum. What was the direction? If I could pop off a little flip conclusion, it would be easier to set my pen down and go to sleep. Fuck, am I hungry. I’ve cut my eating in half since Wiebke left. Mostly ‘cause I don’t want eating to be so dam important.
Okay. Quick, before I lose it, the conclusion is, we are a sick animal, sick like no other living animal, I don’t know about what might have come and gone, and if we don’t soon realise that and figure out what to do about it, none of it will be remembered in history on account that it will stop. Year 2106. I say that just so as I can be dead before then, but it might be any day. Could be 2006. Or 2706. But definitely a ‘6’. Maybe not. Maybe anything but a ‘6’. Quite possibly a ‘4’. And anyway. We might go on this way we are anyhow. Our sickness may be our advantage. And we seem to have gathered enough momentum. If we can hold it together, avoiding the great crash that seems inevitable these days, we may fling ourselves into space and inhabit the universe. We’d have to use machines and computers to counteract this 100 year maximum age problem but that is almost worked out already. So as usual, I sign off without much being said but using loads of words to do it. By the way, if you see anyone I know, tell them I’m still madly in love with Wiebke and, fuck is that a wart on my thumb? And drop in and visit if you’re in the Country. Or one of the neighbouring ones. Night, night.
_bunniestop_
Let me write a little with a pen given us from the SPD. I think they are like the liberals in your country. Speaking of country, I’ve just a phone call from there. Mom and Dad. It was at a most horrible time. I was napping, a little 2 or 3 hour nap in the after noon and catching up on some dreaming I didn’t have time for last night. I only had 4 or 5 hours sleep on account I was too awake most of the night. The dream I was disturbed from was about to be extremely pleasant. It was a young woman I especially liked. I’m not sure if she was someone from my conscious world or not, though she looked quite similar to Wiebke. She was a horny girl and got a fair amount of attention from her lover but he had fallen asleep. She slipped her hand under the blanket into my track pants and asked me if I could have pointless sex, meaning don’t get emotionally attached and all the bothersome things. I agreed to the conditions. She had to go to the bathroom and did I? She was naked by the time I got there. I asked if we should go into my room so we wouldn’t be disturbed. She did and I had to urinate and would follow her in a minute. Well she’s still in suspended animation as I had to slip out into consciousness to answer the phone. I’m also very hungry so I may make some food. I doubt I’ll meet her tonight when I go to sleep; it’s not something so easily arranged. Three weeks from now I’ll be with Wiebke so I can touch her in the conscious world. That’s as far as the entry goes. Till later Franny.
_bunniestop_
- Now I remember what the book was called. ‘Notes to Myself’. So as I liked the idea, though not necessarily for me, I may call this. ‘Notes to Francisca’ If you don’t mind. That’s all for today. Just that little note to Franny. I’m going back to my first book. It could be finished up with a bit of work. My second one is going to take countless hours because I rewrote the whole Goddam thing once again. I want to be done with both of them but I don’t just want to throw them away. They would come back to haunt me in my dreams. I often have a dream about not finishing my last semester drafting project. It was a four month project and usually there’s only a day or two to go and I haven’t started, can’t even find my paper or get to a drafting table. It’s horrible. And in reality, I finished the dam thing and even graduated, though I didn’t go to any graduation ceremonies. It seemed too banal. I was thinking the whole process was banal. I’ve never worked in an office pertaining to my education. Bartender doesn’t count. I’m not mad that I went to college, I learned quite a bit. But I should have done something else, if I knew then what I wanted. But here I am. And here’s where I go from. Education doesn’t stop unless you want it to. And it shouldn’t. Unless of course you want to just do whatever it is you do and keep it at that. It’s not necessarily even a bad idea. But it can lead to atrophy. The television can entertain you till you die but maybe there’s something better. Ya, like a video.
_bunniestop_
by Joanne B. Washington
read on. albatross_part_04
© 2001 | the jose wombat project