Letter to Franny:
barbaralba_part - 5th book of a letter to Franny.
In the foundation was a mule in the sub superstucture is Barbaralba.
One doesn't find Barbaralba, one waits.
barbaralba_part_04

I was thinking of something quite peculiar only a few hours ago and I can’t, as they would say, for the life of me, remember what it was. It was something that happen quite some time ago and didn’t strike me as odd until today. Terry Pratchett may have inadvertently triggered the memory. I was going to write it down straight away but stored it for later and now I forget where. I’m not sure if it had anything to do with the fabric of reality. As a matter of course, it may have popped into my head while reading a couple short chapters of Tom Jones. Though it’s likely to be anything, it might have been on the theme of how events can unfold in most unexpected ways. I also thought of a young lady by the name of Chris. She was, maybe still is, built very sexy, almost exaggeratedly. One day I met her on the street with her latest boyfriend who I knew from the bar. He was one of those ‘go getters’ who had big plans about opening a club or something. I’m sure he would be good at it. But he’s not the story here. Chris, bless her sweetness, was always happy to see me and this time told me she was going to Florida for a week. It wasn’t a holiday but she couldn’t tell me. I speculated maybe she was going to have a breast reduction. She said no but something like that. She told me to come and see her when she returned. Apparently she would be finished with, I think his name was Dave. I was a little surprised and asked if I was next on her list. I never followed up on it. I went looking for her once but she wasn’t working that night. To end this abruptly, I’ll just add that one of the things I like the most is being liked. I find that most attractive in people. It’s the one thing I miss about Toronto; there were many people who liked me. There’s people here who like me as well but I don’t know where they are. Edmundo, who I was just getting to know, up and left this side of the world and is over your side, somewhere a little south of you. Maybe Mexico city or Baha California. He better write and tell me. And I think Paris is an interesting city, especially architecturally. I didn’t have much time to explore it farther since I only had five hours on the way to Cadiz and 5 on the way back. Back in the country of rain and flooding rivers. Toby is coming to visit Nevin for a mouth so I’m sure I won’t spend every night alone. And when Nevin has time from her studies, I can visit with her. And her Turkish cooking if I’m real lucky. Shit. I keep loosing thoughts. Oh, I was going to tell of the welfare story and how I was cut off and all the letters and the court possibilities and Nevin going with me to translate at the Ampt and how I’m back on welfare and might be working next month but it doesn’t seem so important so I won’t detail it. I don’t want people thinking I’m a welfare bum anyhow. That’s no way to be. I might have had a thought about not seeing things we believe are impossible so we don’t but not now. Deliberation seems tiresome tonight. Biss Bald.

_bunnie stop_

Let’s start off today’s entry by exclaiming, Shit Piss Fuck! And strangely enough, it’s nothing that I’m mad at. The constant nothing. I don’t want to be entertained by sight or sound. And I don’t want to complain about being swallowed by nothing so if this is the last entry, I stopped partaking in life and either I’m dead or I might as well be. Let me add, I’m not sad, just empty.

_bunnie stop_

Often I have the suspicion that I only have one thing to say and I’ve yet to figure out what it is. I’ve decided, though I have little faith in decisions, for they are usually made when one is not thinking clearly because of some mad illusion of ultimate something or other, that this letter will end soon and I’ll be quenched of the need for further deliberation on whatever it is I thought I had to say. I may give a sigh at the last page and think I’ve accomplished my task. When I started, I don’t believe I had a clear idea of what my intention was. Silly to write so much and not know why. It’s silly that I think of you so often, especially when I know little about you. It’s easy to deduce that the whole charade was built upon a desperate fantasy. I felt good most of today. I went for an extra long run in the rain after I got up at 11:00. Half way through my run I considered the possibility that I could go no farther. The run was at least 50% more than I was used to and that was before 6 or 7 weeks of not leading the healthiest life style in Spain. But there’s something about running in the woods alone in the cold rain that makes it so simple to understand the goal. The goal is to get back to where the end is and run with much grace and stride with power drawn form somewhere other than just the legs. And other than because I love running in the woods, I don’t know why I want to get better at it. I suppose I could ask Mr. Cunningham why he has done it, I think, every day for 20 years, I’m not sure if it is everyday but it’s at least 20 years. It’s possible he does it to avoid death. The chances of living longer and better are increased when you don’t have a ‘mother fuckin’ bullet in you head’. As they might say. They say other things too. At the Ampt for giving money away they said to come back Friday, we see if we have a job for you. I could use the time off from unemployment. It might be pretty nice to know what to do 5 days a week. A holiday for the mind. I can just play dumb and go along. Like going to prison, you know exactly where you are and what you can and can’t do. My only worry is that I may hate whatever they make me do. It will be most likely tedious, brainless and depressing. But it’s my own fault for not getting my shit together. At my age I should have accomplished whatever it was I set out to do. If I set out to be a writer than maybe I should redirect myself to writing. For it’s fine to make sounds in ones own head but without the action it’s just, I hate to say ‘a mother fuckin’ bullet in you head’, ’cause I don’t even know where that nice phrase comes from. I’d guess somewhere in America. Many nice things come from America. Did you know the poisons, hydroclorisomething or the shit they put in freezers, they use to clean computer chips, could be easily recycled but ain’t. See ya, Mr. Ozone. You can’t stop it. Big industry is on a role. Commerce is a reality on a different plain. It’s just simply too bad that the world is dying. This plastic bay scare they give you at the supermarket is a white wash. The little things we can all do at home to help are exactly that; little things. If we work at it really hard, there will be a few less plastic bags in the dumps and maybe when our toxic planet is explored by alien civilizations, they’ll take note. ‘Hey, look, in this strata there are less plastic bags. And look in this level there are indications that there once was an atmosphere on this barren, desert rock, third stone form the sun. Well, let’s go check the next star.’ And so they might wonder about us. Maybe they are watching us now and shaking their heads. ‘Look, those ones are killing those ones.’ ‘I wonder why.’ I don’t know but they are doing it there as well, and there.’ ‘Maybe they have that strange disease where the brain atrophies and they start believing weird fantasies and making proclamations saying that -’

Sh ‘More coffee?’

S ‘Shit, I was just in the middle of slandering all unfounded, ridiculous, narrow-minded, brain cauterising beliefs that the whole dam world clings onto in mad desperation.’

Sh ‘So, no.’

S ‘No, not no, Komm hier hier.’

Sh ‘Bitte.’

S ‘Danke.’

I better go grab a little chocolate thing in case my lower back doesn’t like sitting like this.
Let’s go wild and start a new paragraph. I’m much better at paragraphs and sentence structure when I stop to make thoughts. But as I told you way back when ‘he’s got a thing made from a soft metal in his mother fuckin’ head’. Sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. As for the word ‘fuck’, I’m certain it’s over used by many of us. I may not use it in my next book. If fact, I might not use cunt, asshole, cock, shit, piss or daffodil. No homosexual references, no heterosexual exploits, no tits, no long legs, no goddesses of beauty, no sweet happy love scene. Maybe nothing at all. It will be the ultimate in, ‘What exactly is going on here’ kind of a book. In fact. They can all be hermaphrodites and reproduce by lopping off a limb and planting it in the ground. No one can have more than four off spring. Most people don’t bother with any until they are really old and sometimes it’s too late unless they are buried quickly and given plenty fertiliser. I was also thinking today as I ran through the rabid infested woods, it would be horrible to be chased by rabbit trees. Teeth gnashing at your heals. What’s a rabbit tree, not something that sprouts bunnies in spring time. This could go in the book as well; no sense letting rabbits go at it if the humans can’t. We’ll have rabbit trees, bird bushes, ant grass and I’m not sure about the fish. It’s not so easy to imagine a world void of penises, or is it peni, and vagi. Even the plants on our planet are quite sexual. What’s up with that? Maybe I won’t do what I just said, especially since I just remembered what the book is about. Sex, rape, half-breeds, devastation, greed, hate and anger, pestilence, arduous journeys to a fabled land of witches and wizards and illegal fishing in foreign parts. It’s a good thing I didn’t buy two packets of those curled up wafer things dipped in dark chocolate. Okay, Francisca, we’ve got 60 or 70 pages left in this last of five books (it will be less typed pages ‘cause this isn’t a full size book) to state our thesis and draw from our previously stated evidence and come up with a noble conclusion that keeps everyone happy. I’d like Wiebke to call in 6 minutes. Did I tell you I felt strangely good most of the day? No reason for it aside from no reason why not. I’m having extreme conflict weather or not to go to the university here and see if anyone is interested in telling me what to do with my first book, other than the obvious. And another thing is, it hardly matters what we say, no one cares, most don’t even hear. I don’t mean to sound as though I believe I’m somehow gifted (gift means poison in German, isn’t that funny?) but most people are ‘downright’ dumb. Ba Ba. Suddenly, I’m at a standstill. My intentions to say something have been diminishing rapidly over the last two minutes. I had intended to clear up my reasons for doing this. Look, I don’t want nothing. Liar. Just thought I’d drop you a line. It’s weird. I’m almost grown up. Or at least I’m getting old. And so before we bring this to a close. Watch for prefabricated sentences. Hello. Oh something about going to two movies today and then something about what I think about Franny. And I think of Brent trying to distract me the last time I talked to you. Brent’s no dummy either. Maybe he saw danger, oh, a leaf fell. I’m not sure what though, unless he knew my disease of wanting most what’s most inaccessible. I doubt it. He may have been merely bouncing about. There’s a lot less meaning in things than we tend to glue on them. I’m a little unbalanced that way sometimes. Why’s that and oh, that must mean that and maybe if this then I’ll, it’s all fantasy. More to the point, even if it’s simple, may leave much trouble undiscovered. Or uncreated. One point is that you are mostly a fantasy figure for me. Most everything I think about you is based on pure illusion. My hunger to be liked and my fondness for fair maidens from far away lands has got me a mother fuckin’ bullet in my head. This has nothing to do with it, but I wonder if, let’s say Cindy Crawford or Claudia Schiffer of Bruce Willis or Rocky Racoon or Doris Day or Ingelburt Humperdink or Ozzy Ozborne or Little Red Riding Hood or someone like Heather or Marcus or Sam or Shelly or Andrew Simple, I wonder if any of them, what was it? Something about how would someone feel if someone they hardly knew wrote them a 27 page letter or a 500 page letter and spilled out so much shit you were worried the guy was a nutter and what the hell does he intend with all this? Janie’s got a gun. So do most Americans. And that’s why I suppose I’ve got a M. F. B. in my head. We’ll stick to the abbreviated form now. I’m sure if someone wrote me 500 pages of nonsense, I’d be dam pleased. But would I read it? I don’t know. And if I did, what then? Write back a postcard saying, ‘Thanks, I’ve got a life now. Hope you get one two three four, I mean also. No offence but if I see you around, don’t be surprised if you get a MFB in you head.’ But I’m sure he’s harmless, he’s just depressed, lonely, board and is tired of his porno magazines. I think we should all be a little nicer to each other. Hell, except for a young girl that waved at me today (I think she thought I was a hot man{I don’t mean to boast but I was quite magical today}) no one in this city speaks to me. The guy next door that cuts wood sometimes says hello. Marcus, not the Squeeze man, thought he’d put a bench in front of his house and sit there and say hello to people. See if they’d talk to him. Weird to be so alienated amongst creatures of the same race(species). Oh well. It probably wasn’t that important. If you ever did get this letter and you read it, then I hope you find some pleasure in it and suddenly I have to think of Heather again. We had a two day relationship. She moved to Vancouver. I wrote her a 27 page letter, I can’t remember what about, but next time she came to Toronto, she took the time to meet with me at, where else, (I’m not here to endorse the place), and she put a MFB in my head. No, she chatted with me, I thought just today, maybe to soothe me a little. If that was the case, or something similar, I shall continue to hold her in high regard. Should our paths meet again, which certainly seems unlikely but the world is tiny with few people on it, then I’m gonna put a MFB in her - wait! Wrong answer. Hell or something along that line. But if I ever see the other Heather, just about sounding like a movie now. There wasn’t really another Heather. She was but we weren’t, could of, might of., would have liked to have known her but she was just simply to lovely and I couldn’t believe she might like me. Not if she had any sense. And whatever happen to old what’s her name? So the point is, Heather, I mean Franny, I just want you to admit you liked me for a little bit even if it was just for a day. Then I won’t bother you no more and I’ll have a better opinion of women and I’ll be kind to my children if Wiebke thinks it’s safe to have some with me. (If she’s mad.) So there, I said it. That’s the motive. I want you to tell me I’m a nice boy and you liked me and then I’ll go away. Or you can just put a MFB in my head and spare the world the dread of a 2000 page book should Wiebke kick me out and tell me she never liked me. Steve. What? Go do something constructive. Oh. Okay. That was my overseer in my head. I’ll do a half hour of German or something. My humble apologies if I sent you this and should anyone else read this, don’t worry, nothing is at all true, it’s something I’m trying to do, to see if I can develop a unique style of writing. Hope it doesn’t work.

_bunnie stop_

I hate to do it but only 5 minutes have past on this 1st of Feb. 95 and I have some useless points to add. One being, Gary told me I was the sanest person he knew, and he knew three of four persons at least and only some of them were full time inmates at the Highbury Hilton (That’s in London. People go there to become crazy.) and the other thing was about Jose Wombat but I don’t care to elaborate. The other was, Tim T. quit his candidacy for president of student council because he thought it was full of shit and I was once invited to join Lamda Sigma and declined, not having a clue what they were about (that was high school as well) and Bryan was asked to join the Free Masons, which he declined. I’m not sure what the Free Masons are up to. They like to keep it that way, but you need to be someone with money, I believe, for them to like you. Some people think the Free Masons had something to do with the independence of the United States of America. You can look at their dollar bill and wonder about the eye on a pyramid and why is it a great seal and what’s Latin got to do with cowboys. And what’s up with the Latin and the bird and so maybe 13 arrows because there were 13 states and I’d wonder if it was a piece of elm the bird has there. It might not be but if it was then does it have something to do with that elm tree that was so important until they cut it down? Does nine tail feathers mean anything? Maybe that’s pushing it but ‘Novus Ordo Seclorum’ sounds rather strong. Like New Order Selected. And I can’t find Wiebke’s Latin book which would tell me what it meant in German which I could translate to English which I’m sure is no news to anyone who thought about it before. And the biggest thing about secret societies is that they only let you know they are around so they can lead you to believe they are more important than the fellow who doesn’t belong to anything but a bridge club. And if it makes them feel better, who am I to knock it. Maybe they even serve a purpose. It can’t be any worse than the Roman Catholic Church or any of those other frauds of debauched decadent deception, so if they are running our lives, so be it. It’s inevitable. I’m sure they think they know what they are doing, it’s just a horrible little fear I have that they aren’t completely competent. I’m sure most despots and organisations and societies and religious leaders think they know what they are doing, it’s just a little disconcerting to see no evidence to support the notion. And another thing, I have nothing against lady Di but what the hell does she have to do with anything? She’s likely discovering that the world eats their gods. She’ll think twice about marrying a rich famous brat next time. And Cindy, stay away from famous thespians.

P ‘That’s not fare, Steve.’

S Sorry, Trish.

Some thespians are nice. And I’m sure Dick might be okay but it’s hard to say no to the young girls. And just because someone is famous doesn’t mean that person ain’t an ass. And what about hockey players and baseball players. Did they ever come back to be our heroes? This is a topic in someone else’s book. I’m sure it’s called ‘Our Modern Day Heroes.’ Sorry. I should have stopped when I said I’d stop and I wouldn’t have dug myself into this messy hole. I fear I may have to wear an orange suit. That’s the dress of the public workers here. I’d ask, ‘but why do we rake the leaves from under the trees?’ The soil can use them. ‘Oh, it makes it look cleaner.’ Ya, then fuck it, let’s pave the whole goddam planet and wash it every day. Steve. What? Where are you going with this? Oh. Sorry.

_bunnie stop_

Just one example of how German can be pretty: ‘Es ging ein Saemann aus, yu saen seine Samen. Luke Ch8 vs5. And one other thing that comes to mind as I read this ridiculous, refuge of riddles in the book that so many in the western world believe in and pretend to live by but seldom read more than a verse at a time and it’s a good thing or they’d wonder what they were reading, is that if you want to make a religion, make it fat fetched, inconsistent, confusing and most important, make it as impossible as possible and that way more people will believe in it and be awed and will be too embarrassed or lazy to try to discredit it’s holy inspiration. Never include tangible truths, no one likes to believe in that nonsense. Now go ahead, write one. See how many sheep will follow. Bleeded, I mean blessed are those who follow my word and the rest can, and will, go to hell. That’s your choice. What’s it gonna be, boy? Yes or No? Here’s a good one: Luke Ch. 8 Vs 52,53: ‘Weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth. And they laughed him to scorn, knowing that she was dead.’ Now there’s two points I want to make but don’t be surprised if an extra one pops out. First point is more like a question. What was so fuckin’ funny? This point might be miss placed with my ignorance of what ‘laugh to scorn’ might mean exactly. It may be a tricky translation from what? Latin? It would be written in Latin if it was Roman times, no? But this is the real point: It is quite apparent that if this New Testament thing is at all based on observed happening, which it is possible, I’ll grant, then Jesus and his gang of, I’m not sure what to call his accomplices, were quite a theatre. I’ll put it clearly so I can receive flack from the true believer. Jesus staged his miracles. Why would he do that? Well, his head was full of strange ideas about, though Marie was a virgin, being through his father, which he didn’t have, Catch 22 here, Joseph, a direct line to King David and thus to 32 generations earlier, of course, Adam. About 70 from Jesus to Adam. What’s that make it, 2,000 years at most from Adam to Christ. That’s not important. I almost forgot what it was. Oh. He, the big guy, wanted to be King. Messiah King was the way to go in those times, what with everyone being just as nutty as they are now, sometimes even a little more gullible. So he hired his assistants. Staged a big show, saw it didn’t work, so staged his crucifixion as well. I’m not sure if the Romans knew at the time that they would use him to their own advantage, but it’s pretty funny when you think about it. Jesus spends years of his life trying to be king of the Jews and the Romans scoop him up and make him and his mother whatever the fuck they are now. Pretty fuckin’ ridiculous if you take a look at it. And why do I rage at you about Bible shit? Well, I have it in English and German so I read the two languages and see what I can figure. It works a little, unfortunately it throws me for a loop and I have to puke out a few criticisms. And Henry Fielding might call me on it but I’d have a few things to say to him. Like, ‘So it helps some people to believe in this shit. But it blinds them and in case you hadn’t noticed, they are killing each other over who’s got the right religion or who’s got the right denomination of what schism. Religiphobia is a violent mind disease. And I’m not through yet and it doesn’t matter if you knock me off or any one else who speaks against belief, there will always be someone who shouts ‘The king has no clothes.’ And short of an inquisition, the Catholic Church and all it’s hateful off shoots and these other stifling religions that like to make women slaves and such things, are on the way out. See ya. Good riddance. Now about consumerism and televisions and multimediaism, well I may have a little trouble convincing anyone of the - what do you want, complete anarchy? Ah. Good point. Were do we go from here? This doesn’t quite fit but I heard someone quote someone: ‘If democracy could change anything, it wouldn’t have been aloud.’ Or lasted. Or something like that. Which means: We think voting makes a difference, and I hope it does at least a little, but most of what goes on has nothing to do with - MFB time. I’m sure the free Masons and their friends have everything under control. Maybe one of Jesus’ descendants can run for despot of Jerusalem. He can kill any Palestinian who shows his face. In fact, the Jews can keep all the foreigners out of Israel. That way we can see that History need not be recorded for it repeats it’s self so often. Of course if someone keeps records, we’ll know who has to discriminate, evict and kill who next. And it’s good to have things in order or we’d end up acting like a bunch of animals. And that would be no good, for the war industry might suffer great losses. And if you want a secret society, take a look at the war machine. That would make most anyone run straight to the nearest church, shrine, synagogue or brothel and prey that what was real wasn’t and what wasn’t was. Don’t get me wrong here. I wouldn’t suggest we don’t need war. What would we feed our kids if we had no star wars, cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, secret service, James Bond, Stellone movies. Guns, man, you gotta have ‘em. Lots of ‘em and big ones. So there you go. Everything is bullshit. That’s the final line tonight.

_bunnie stop_

Oh fuck, I can’t sleep. Unfuckinbelievable.
So here’s my stand up comedy sketch. ‘Okay, tonight were going to try something different. I’m going to make you not laugh. I’m going to make you think I’m an asshole and maybe you’ll want to throw things at me and boo me off the stage; that’s fine. First, a question. How many people here are celibate assholes. Oh, only myself, the rest of you are fuckin’ assholes. Well at least there’ll be no unwanted pregnancies. No reaction. How many people here came tonight to see a comedian? Two. Oh, the rest of you thought you’d pay 10 bucks to come in out of the cold. Are there any stupid people here tonight?
-MFB and that’s the end of that feeble attempt. I’d hate to have to entertain a crowd. Later, Franny.

_bunnie stop_

by Joanne B. Washington

read on. barbaralba_part_05



© 2001 | the jose wombat project