Letter to Krissy:
wombat_part - third book of a letter to Krissy.
Fishing to find the write wombat to right.
Wombat words of wisdom.
wombat_part_04_01

Let’s see if I can’t think of something. It’s cold and raining after a week or two of warmth and sun. Do you want me to tell you about my day, how I got out of bed and drove to Kirkel to get my paintings back, then came home and rode my bike down to the doctor to get my fifth intervenes this week to counteract my lack of blood flow somewhere inside my left ear that doesn’t seem to want to get better and then I bought a few things at Hela and came home and nothing much since then, maybe I’ll have a drink. No I won’t bore you with my day but I may say a word about - I was thinking the neighbour had his radio awful loud and realized it was my clock radio on account I had set it for five in case I fell asleep but never did ‘cause I’s too restless. It’s not easy for me to write because my write hand which is my right hand is a little crippled. The doctor assures me, or he did way back then, that it would get steadily worse till I’d need an operation. So that shows you how dedicated I am to writing ‘cause I still do thought it is constant pain. Just crippling. It is a disease, not a disease sickness thing, just an imperfection, which I’ve noticed seem to accumulate over the years, that many descendants of Jesus tend to get, especially the descendants of the children from his second marriage, after the staging of his crucifixion and his exile to the Peerinees.

But I was thinking today. And it was about whether or not I’ll include a little more history to my third novel, not yet written by the way. It would go something like this: Once upon a time there was a land far away from the known land of today. There lived many people. They did things like grow grain and kill each other. Then comes this guy who reads a book and thinks he could be king of his people. The only trouble is that his people are too rapped up studying their large set of rules for living, that they have no time for new philosophies. There was the other trouble that his land was occupied by Colmens. Or was it Molmen. Ya, I think so. And they say, look man, this king things is going to be old fashion soon, if you want you can get in on our triumvirate idea of a new twist on some of our old belief systems. Well, to drag a long story on, he said, ya, sure, why not. His family backed his decision with moral and financial support. They were fuckin’ wealthy on account they were descendants of a long line of thieving and lying kings. They, these Mohmen, again to stay on topic a bit before wandering compassless through the mist. Mist in German means shit. Dung, so to say. Funny, how words are. What happened, they made a martyr out of him, pretended to kill him and made him walk around a bit in a few days, then told him to piss off.

Well he did. He pissed off and married one of the riches bitches on the next island. They fucked and had babies.

Anyhow, years later, after several generations lived and died, this part of the world was a hell hole of pestilence, drought, disease and over taxing. Anyone that could, made ships anyway they could and set out on the great sea to search for unknown lands.

This one family, that I forgot to mention was famous for having a Messiah in a triumvirate god system, landed on the new world. New to them. It was inhabited by many creatures, including ones like themselves only a different shade, a strange language and the desire to work instead of being beaten or killed. Then comes the start of Castle City. Which if you don’t already know about, it’s ‘cause I never told you. My hand needs a break. Rest. Last thing it needs is to be broken. Or second last thing to being chew off by rats. So till next time. Stay wet.

_bunnie stop_

I just want to be pissed off here a second. It’s my own fault, I turned on the fuckin’ TV. Braindrain machine. A news show showing a man who eats dog meat. So the fuck what, I ask. These TV fuckers with their hamburger in their hand want to tell me eating dogs ain’t nice, can fuck off. It’s no more less nice than eating any meat, so don’t go filming cheep reactionary topics like dog meat, you feeble idiots who call yourselves journalist on the Blitz show on Sat 1.

_bunnie stop_

Quick, 60,000 dollar question: Who’s the world’s most famous Jew? Fuck, I don’t know, Jesus Christ. Right. You win. Baptize and sodomize just don’t poke out my eyes. Funny. I feel like drinking coffee, eating a little dark chocolate, smoking a cigarette, having a whiskey and cream, followed by a game of cards with a beer. Maybe I’ll call the boys.

_bunnie stop_

I noticed I watch a little more TV when I’m alone. I learn good things though. I improve my German listening comprehension and as an extra bonus at no extra cost, I learn things like if you have a glass of Bailey’s the women hunger for you. There’s another one where if you are at all smart you get drunk with Red Label every day ‘cause maybe you’ll be dead tomorrow. Something else I’ve noticed is you see many more tits in this country than the one I come from. Aber was sollst.

Other than that, I guess I’ve nothing to say. I’s gonna say something about something or other to do about what I thought about something but it seems to have left me in the course of getting to this book. So till later.

_bunnie stop_

I’m sure what I was wondering earlier is what is it I’m going to decide to do about the end of my first novel. Did you know, by the way, writing these letters to you and Franny are about as much fun as I’ve had at writing, I think I even like the outcome. Okay, it may lack in elegance and plot and purpose and who knows what all, but it has a certain just ne say qua. As the French say, in slightly different ausdruck and with the use of a different spelling. By the way, I’m boycotting learning French just because with so many different cultures in Canada, who’s to say what second language you should have. I pick German. I’d not be upset to know how to speak French, most French people I’ve met seem to be in order, I just don’t like how they make, the political fellows especially, such a big deal about boycotting English. Fact is, English is the western world language.

But I don’t want to go into it. I’m one of the few people I know here that doesn’t know some French. Truth is, I’m one of the few people I know.

Well fuck me and call me dusty. Or how ever it goes. I’ve not got to topic. That being, what the fuck do I do with Bill? He got lucky and was not written into jail or a concentration camp for mutants. Wiebke wants me to make him try find his way in life, get a job, be a little not accepted ‘cause he’s an Auslander and leave it at it’s hard for an outsider to get by. Well, it’s hard for us all and I guess I should try to make the reader see a little Bill in themselves and strangers the they don’t know on account they don’t wanna.

But I ask, how do I do it? Let’s show how if I try to do something in that line I can’t get into it.

Bill stepped off the ship in Hamburg harbour in the early morning. And was shot in the head by a Nazi who didn’t like mutants. It doesn’t work. How ‘bout. He finds a car that is being loaded on a flat-bed to be driven to Saarbrücken. He hides in the back seat and falls asleep. In Saarbrücken he jumps off the truck at a stop light and gets shot by a KKK who is there on holiday from America. See that is no good either. If he doesn’t get shot and finds a WG, which means Wohngemeinshaft, which translates to - why the fuck does this pen not write properly on this paper and where is my black one? Let’s try this one. That seems better already. I hate pens that don’t write. It’s about as useful as a condom with an opening at both ends. So he lives in an apartment with five roommates. One’s a doctor and likes to smoke a pack of cigarettes and drink beer and listen to the same tape on the cassette deck every time he washes the dishes. But why bother. I think the story is done and I don’t know if I can write more for Bill. I sometimes see him giving English lessons to a few different people to make enough to pay his rent. He watches out his window. He tries to avoid seeing blood drip from his penis. See. It doesn’t go. Fuck me if I figure it out. Maybe I won’t worry about it anymore, I’ll send the book out as it is, without a conclusion and if someone likes it, I’ll deal with it then. Till then, I’ll do something else. Such as babble to you or continue my porno or get on with the Castle City novel which I’m still afraid of. I may not care to write if I’m not published. I wanted to write some things but maybe it’s already enough. I’ll go to sleep now and see what I think tomorrow. I’ll maybe send the thing to a publisher. Maybe I’ll let Wiebke write the end. It was her idea not to have him in jail or insected or dissected or whatever people do with strange things they don’t know about. Till then.



by Joanne B. Washington

read on. wombat_part_05



© 2001 | the jose wombat project