Letter to Laetitia:
Warming up Ranting.

Letter to Laetitia is not in anyway endorsed by Laetitia Casta or her business concerns.
laetitia_part_01

Book I

Laetitia:

I hope you are still waiting to fall in love as long as you haven't found out that it's me you want to love.

I suppose when you are considered the most beautiful woman,

"What? Do you intend to write Laetitia a letter?"

"I gotta."

"Why do you have to write Laetitia, a woman you've never met and the whole world wants to own?"

"She won't want to be someone's prize possession. She's going to get tired of that about the same time as she reads this letter."

"What makes you think she'll read your letter?"

"She'll be waiting for it."

"Are we talking about the same Laetitia?"

"No, you've just flipped into schizoid mode and are talking to yourself.

So quit discussing and get on to it."

Okay, Laetitia, this is what I hope: I hope you realize that the thing that really fails in your life is me. And I guess there is no way to try to prove it to you. Either you are looking for a man like me, and there is only one, or you aren't so fussy. But I believe that you want someone who has nothing to do with the greed illusion. You want someone who would rather take you on a two week canoe trip than someone who would rather take you to a fancy restaurant. I have nothing against good food, the thing is, I can only take so much bullshit.

Lately, I get the feeling glamour is our new religion. Consumerism and glamour. I think it is a big lie and a silly mistake.

But I don't want to rave on about the industry you support. If you are reading this, you have already wondered.

"Wondered what?"

"Wondered if she should get the police to tell me to fuck off and stay
out of her life."

"Like Anne Murry."

"Did Anne Murry tell you to get out of her life?"

"Never met her; she's from the same province though."

"From the province on the coast there."

"Ya; I don't know if she was from Halifax, but she was from Nova Scotia."

"What is Nova Scotia?"

Laetitia, before we get started, I should let you know how I write.
I don't want to scare you off before you get started. I've been writing fairly regularly, never big time, but over the last 20 years.
And what has happened is that it has developed into a somewhat multidirectional chaos that tends to appear to fly off on all tangents. If you watch carefully though, I bring the tangents to a point. Well, sometimes I do.

The thing is: it isn't for everyone. I bark a lot. Do I really believe that there is a chance that you will be curious enough to find out who wrote this letter to Laetitia, is he for real and I'm sure you would know what you wondered better than I can. (sentence structure disaster)

I can't explain love. I can't explain why I love you. Maybe I want to believe it so that I will have a reason to wait. Maybe I'm addicted to redefining what is possible. I'm of the opinion that there is much more possible than we think. For one thing, most don't think. Most watch what the media says and does it. I don't watch the media. I pick up a magazine in the cafe I frequent. That's where I first saw a picture of you. At the time I was married to my wife, which at this point, I still am but she lives with her boyfriend.

The point Steve.

Yes thanks.

The point is, you are unbelievably beautiful. I like beauty as much as the next guy, but I like unbelievable better. And your lips.

It's mad perhaps to think it, to believe it perhaps madder. In some ways, perhaps I am mad. In many ways, I'm too sane and don't fit in with what I consider madness.

I know I'm ready to love again. I can see the way women are watching me. I hadn't noticed actually till Richy told me.

Another funny thing to this letter is that at the start of it, still not having finished book 4 and 5 in Eva's letter. Eva is a friend from Toronto. She is also beautiful. The kind of beauty that makes you happy she loves you. She wasn't my lover. A friend.

I will finish the third book in her letter this week. I can write as long as my hand doesn't get too sore.

As you see, I haven't got to a point. Perhaps it is simply too soon.
Oh, I was going to mention that I am an unknown writer as I start this letter. And I still believe you will read this. If it has taken you too long to find it or I've taken to long to get it to you - perhaps I will put it online as I write it.

No one will believe I'm serious, it doesn't matter. Only two people need to believe I'm serious. I know what I write is   serious. Even in my mad rants of disgusting fiction, there is something serious and my intention is almost always somehow to point out that: What is is what is and what isn't is what isn't.

The rest is bullshit.



by Joanne B. Washington

read on. laetitia_part_02



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