Letter to Laetitia:
What were we going to call this.


dear_laetitia_part_04

Her father had convinced her she should try the flight once before alerting the press; she couldn't risk a failure.

I know what we'll do Laetitia, if you can help me, two versions. One for kids one for adults. Of course the kid's one will be slightly different so the adults want to see what she is wearing, just kidding. It's a comic figure. A doll.

She played with her nipples till they got hard, put her hand between her legs and ran her finger over her moist lips, collecting her sweet lubrication juices and licking them slowly off her fingers.

"I want to get fucked, not be fucked."

Which means a masturbation scene isn't what she wants.

Licking her finger just once or twice more, she looks at the map. She was days away from civilization in any direction. Her vest bet would be to give up and hope someone finds her. But no one would know where to look for her and no one would think to look for her for days.

She finished the last of the water as she studied the map. She knew her father would think to send a search party. Someone would ask him where she was. She had a photo shoot the next day. She wanted to go on a short vacation after that.

She liked apple pie and Tuesday was her night out with the girls.
Twelve percent of her average day was sitting in front of a mirror with someone doing her makeup or hair. She thought hockey players were sexy, was a big fan of literature and dreamed a writer would fall in love with her and write her a book proclaiming his love to her. Nothing was more romantic.

But alas, decisions had to be made, first thing was to decide she wasn't going to die in the desert.

She realized she would have to move fast, her dad would send a team to find her dead. It would be a tragic story and the world would admire her father for his noble attempt to save her even though she was working against him in the press.

"Bastard!"

She kicked out the front window cutting her leg.

"You trying to kill me?"

She wondered if she was trying to kill herself opening up her leg on the broken glass. She brought her leg carefully back so she wouldn't cut it more.

"That's it!"

She let the blood drip around a bit and walked a kilometer in the direction she planned not to go. She stopped the bleeding with her bra and hurried, or should we say hobbled back to the plane, collected her map, cut up one of her blankets to make a poncho, put on her cowboy hat she always wore when testing new inventions, looked around for anything she should take.

"Don't have my charge it card."

She laughed. Looking through the first and kit.

She thought about AIDS and weather or not it was a secret service disease experiment. And the hungry in Africa. Unemployment and heard the sound of a plane.

"Did they see me."

She saw two men jump out of the plane and parachute into the desert. They looked like soldiers. She knew they were coming to find her but not to save her. It was pointless to run. She wouldn't get far and her trail would be easy to follow. She would have to face them.

The plane flew over one more time and Barbaralba stayed still under the shade of the wing.

"They can't know I'm alive. If they know I'm alive, I'm dead."

She thought it better to pack up the first aid kit so it looked like she went off in the desert injured and a head injury from the windscreen. She liked her plan so far. She cut her hand on a piece of glass as she picked up the band aids.

"That glass is bloody sharp."

Her heart jumped. She had a mad idea. She found a rather large sliver of glass and wrapped some gauze around it and a few bandages so she could hold it properly.

It wasn't much against two mercenaries from the oil cartel but she was sure she could out smart them.

We pick this up later when the two men reach the plane, see the blood trail and decide to take the rest of the day off, have a few drinks and pick up the body in the morning and radio for a helicopter to pick up the dried out body of Barbaralba who couldn't have made it far.


_bunnie stop_


Barbaralba woke up in a bed. She was happy to realize she must have had a bad dream. She couldn't imagine cutting the throats of drunken mercenaries in the dead quiet of a desert night. She wondered how she could even dream such a thing.

"I'm no killer," she said opening her eyes.

"That's good to know," someone answered.

She slowly moved her head to see who was in her room. She saw the back of a bare skinned man with long black hair hanging to his loin cloth. He was watching out his glassless window into the desert heat. He turned to look at Barbaralba.

"What are you doing here?"

"This is my home."

Barbaralba looked about at the one room hut and wondered if she was still asleep. The man was more beautiful than any of the models and stars who always wanted to get into her pants.

"Who are you."

"I am no one important."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Where are the two men?"

"The men who jumped out of planes."

Barbaralba looked at the man's eyes as they came nearer to her. She thought to tell him not to touch her but his eyes would not let her lie. He could see what se was and - bla bla bla kind of esoteric shit then finally: she was glad to have him take a damp cloth and touch her face with it.

"I was panicking for my life and killed them before they found me."

"Was it bad if they found you?"

"They were sent to kill me."

"They have sent two more."

"I buried the other two. They will think they are lost in the desert."

"They won't be thinking anything. They will come looking for the enemy of oil."

"How do you know who I am."

"You told me."

"When?"

"Last night, you don't remember. We smoked and drank the whole night with your legs wrapped around me. You were not to be held back, I thought you wanted to kill me with your legs."

"What?"

"Just kidding. I have no drink here but water."

"And the rest?"

"I found you face down in the sand a few kilometers from here.
Buzzards were tearing at your pants, trying to get at your bleeding leg."

"I'm not sure if I like the idea of you having sex with me and me not knowing it."

"We didn't have sex. You weren't moved for three days. The closet to sex we had was me cleaning blood off your, I must say, quite attractive body."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"I had a rough few days. I usually look a little better than this."

"Do me a favor and try not to look any better than you do. I haven't see a woman in 3 years."

"What?"

"My wife is the last woman I saw before I left civilization behind."

"Now you hide out in the desert and smoke pot and jerk off all day or what?"

"I do other things as well."

"You can't just leave society because of your wife."

"She was my only bond to society."

"Was she pretty."

"Like the golden sun in the clear blue sky."

"Blond bitch with blue eyes and nice tits is what you mean."

"No."

"Sorry."

"No worries babe, that was 3 years ago. She's likely scrubbing floors for her asshole husband who beats her when she comes home and rapes her because he isn't man enough to make love to her."

"You a little pissed off still."

"No, not really. I have much more spare time now."

"To do what."

"Watch the desert."

Barbaralba sat up, letting the blanket fall from her bare breast. She knew her nipples were hard as stone without looking at them or touching them. She was proud of her beauty and wanted this man who had obviously saved her life to look at them and admire her.

He glanced at her before returning to the window to watch the desert.

"Why won't you look at me?"

"Your skin is too perfect."

"That's a reason?"

"I will want to touch you."

"I want you to want to touch me you dim wit."

"I don't want to touch your skin before I touch your soul."

He walked out into the desert with a cloak the colour of the sand over his head and shoulders.

Barbaralba went to the window to watch him disappear into the sand.


_bunnie stop_


Laetitia, we take time out from the adventure of Barbaralba to tell you a bit about the man you have likely already decided you love madly.

I wasn't quite born when my parents still lived in a 16 foot trailer. I was born in Halifax, May 15, 1960. All stars, moons and planets were in line at that moment to make it so that I would be a writer of the same or even bigger caliber as William Shakespeare. I think he was missing a moon on Venus or something.

"There's no moon on Venus."

"Sure there is, you just can't see it because it isn't solid."

"Oh, it's spiritual or what?"

"Ya, I think that's it."

Okay, forget about stars and moons, I lived in 6 or 8 different houses in a suburb of Halifax. Sprighfield. The poor people's drug dealer area of town now. So I've heard. Back then there weren't many people there. I always had woods to play in.

When I was not yet seven, we lived in London Ontario.

I don't feel like details now. I'll just say English was the only subject I was consistently terrible in. Some teachers wondered if I shouldn't try to learn how to read.

I didn't want to. And if I didn't want to then I didn't. That was how it was since I could remember.

I quit school just before finishing high school so I could get a job in a paper cup factory and smoke joints on the weekend.

That didn't last long before I wanted to finish high school and do anything but have a job in a cup factory.

So quite by chance, I decided on Architecture at college.

Before college, I found out there were people like Nietzsche and the lot of them from back then and a few more resent. I read mostly about things people believed.

I read more words in the summer I was 18 than all the years before.


_bunnie stop_


Petra came for a visit. She's my wife's best friend. They don't see much of each other now that Petra is back up north.

We had a coffee and a chat then went looking for comic books. Then next Andi, then I drove her back to Betty's.

We saw my wife on the way back here. She lives around the corner with her boyfriend. And it never makes me very happy to see my wife. Mostly because it still bothers me that she doesn't know who she is. It's not my imagination. But she will have to figure it out. I'd tell her what I think but she doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want to know what I'm doing and it's okay that way. Just seems odd that you spend 6 years with someone and they can be perfect strangers. Grammar Steve.

Oh, yes. I sometimes forget grammar with tense and whatnot.

The more I think about this Barbaralba story, the more I like it.

We give it a go later though. I make brain restore now.


_bunnie stop_


This is the third day I haven't sat at a computer. It will be one of the last times I do that for the next year. Except Christmas maybe. Year
2000 Christmas. We managed the last end of the world, there were 2 that passed us by just last week. There was the solar eclipse, not too threatening except for all the asshole prediction for the time. I think the Scientologists still haven't figured out light speed so they might not be too dangerous for a few years. The Mormons seem to be taking their time, the Jehovahs aren't even taken that seriously and most of the Christians are hooked up on the media so they can be guided along. One of my close relatives is a little worried about 2,000 though. And I don't think the news that the world is at least 6,000 years old, maybe even closer to 6 billion, doesn't matter to those convinced Jesus was anything but a bit of a clever jerk. I wouldn't give him the title of a great teacher. He wasn't anymore important than I am now. Maybe less.

The world's humans are belief hungry creatures and want to believe. Some times the exact opposite of their great leaders. I can imagine Jose Wombat being blown out of proportion and his fans becoming followers. Disappearing won't help. Even if he does it now. If he isn't there, someone else is there. Hitler or Ron L. Hubbard. There are few that want to take the risk of thinking for themselves and fewer who wish to tell the world what they think. It's a little like your job. Bare yourself to the world. Your danger is that all males will love you, some of the women as well. You aren't a danger for most women.

And the danger I have is that as a writer I want toe world to love me as well. The ego learns quickly to depend on it so that one can continue to have faith in the decisions one makes. Thing is, I can almost be as wrong about a thing as any expert in the field.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Shut up. I was about to hit a cool point and you may have fucked it up."

"Go on then."

Maybe there is a danger that one starts to write what he thinks his readers want to hear. Sure it is okay to try to please the audience, but when one becomes too influential, one notices this as power. Power doesn't always corrupt, just almost always. The power I may be looking for may be the one that is the worst for my megalomaniacal condition. If everyone starts believing me, I may start believing me. That's okay some times but not as a rule. That doesn't allow for bad days and ignorance. Ignorance about most things is something no one can rid them selves of. Not even with a chip.

The other thing is, Atomic Energy will use you as advertisement if you preach against them. Ask Bob. The CIA or PPQ or BBC or MSG will get to you and tell you what to tell the people.

The mega secret service of the Free Brickers will make you become a member and help them govern the world. And maybe they can convince me they have a good plan.

Those are some of the dangers of something I hadn't intended on writing about. I was more thinking about year 2000 and the hype. I wouldn't mind just sitting in the woods somewhere. Just ignore it. I don't want to jump up and down, get drunk, puke and masturbate in a public place. It doesn't interest me. I don't see it being any different than January the 6th. A lot to do about nothing.

No offence to the Jews. No more than anyone else. Six was just the number that came into my head after 3, 7 and 4.

There are many like me but not as many who plan to party. Let ‘em party. I don't drink to get drunk and don't have fun with drunk people. I'd rather smoke a joint and sit by a fire by a lake with snow gently falling from the sky. And I wouldn't care if I didn't have a joint. Rather a nice thick blanket to sit on.

And of course a warm cottage to go to when the bones started getting cold.

I think we are entertaining ourselves to death, or at least idiocy. Which still misses the 2,000 point Laetitia. If you were here I'd definitely want a kiss and to tell you I'm madly in love with you.

I may very well then go write just for 20 minutes, then I'd be all yours, if you weren't busy, and that's assuming you want me, which may still be somewhat presumptuous. But if you are at all sensible, you love me. I know there are women who would like to be you if they know I was writing this and being serious. I can only be serious about this if I believe in myself. Which I may have to thank my father for. He was pretty easy about that sort of thing but that is millions times better than someone trying to tell you you can't do something. I can if I want. Just about anything. One must decide what that thing is and do what is needed to achieve it.

Don't let that worry you. I won't follow you around and stand outside your hotel. I don't force myself on anyone. I'm too smart for that shit.

Anyway, the point we keep avoiding is that people are already flipping out. We have a new millennium which just happens to also mark a new age. The information age is on us and it is turning everything inside out. It won't be all pretty either.

Year 2,000 will give us a small example of what might happen if we get hooked onto computers and forget some silly detail. This time it was just two digits. It may cause a few deaths, it has cost billions of dollars if not more, this forgetting of 2 digits. And I don't have to be a profit to tell you it isn't the only thing that was forgotten.

Ya, Barbaralba will try to remind us of a few things, her Indian friend as well, Jose, some of his friends and I was as well.

As best I can, working inside the computer world. I hope I don't get eaten by it and i hope the world doesn't as well. This isn't paranoia. The information age has much to give, it also has a great deal it can take.

And if I can wrap tins up to make sense, I'm luckier than I thought. How about let's forget about waiting for the end of the world, it will come soon enough for us all. We are still all mortal in as much as we are individual.

We are still part of the elements, dead or alive, and without this particular combination that we have here on this quite seldom most
fuckin' beautiful assortment of elements in a perpetual state of continuance...

"In simple English."

"Don't fuck up the planet anymore."

"How's that relate to 2,000."

"2,000 isn't a fuckin' issue, just like cigars in cunts at the white house. It doesn't fuckin' matter. 99% of everything we have is bullshit and doesn't matter."

"Should we trash it all."

"No way, I want my stereo."

"Then."

"The planet. We have to keep it or we are done."

"We know that."

"Funny, it doesn't look like it."


_bunnie stop_



by Joanne B. Washington

read on. dear_laetitia_part_05



© 2001 | the jose wombat project webmaster@josewombat.com