Letter to Laetitia:
Pop Culture, The Death of a Planet.


laetitia_casta_part_02

Ha, absolutely nothing to say again. I called up Toby, with intentions to talk to Nevin but she wasn't there and she might not be coming this weekend with Toby. She is one of the few girl friends of friends I care to talk to when I have the choice. I'll talk to anyone when I don't have the choice. I'll talk to anyone when I don't have the choice. Sure we always have the choice but if someone is sitting across from you and speaking with you, it is common courtesy to exchange a few words.

With Nevin I actually call her up for a chat. Having a chat with Toby is also good but it's a treat to know if Toby's woman comes with him, she's honestly welcome and you, meaning me, have no need to fear moments when you just don't want to put up the effort to communicate with when you don't want to.

I'm a bit of an ass sometimes because I'm not willing to be too dishonest, and avoid talking to people I don't want to talk to. I can justify it by saying it doesn't do them any good to talk to me if I don't want to talk to them so actually I'm doing them a favour by saying nothing.

Well it sounded like a point where I was thinking it out. It's simple enough, I'd rather read a book than talk to someone unless I care to hear what that someone has to say. And I don't mind if people do the same with me.

I think I'll devour tonight. Devour a piece of bread with tomato sauce, hot oil and cottage cheese, a little dark chocolate, I'd watch 6 hours of TV if I had one, I'll likely masturbate and read until sunrise or I get tired.

Reading can be just as much a desire for consumption as TV but I have the illusion that reading may somehow improve my writing. I can jokingly say it is reloading and mean it a little. I can say I need a day of reading under a tree, and today that's exactly what I did.

If I'm completely reckless, I may do it again tomorrow and not go on the computer until Wednesday. How rebellious I am. But ala, that is the spirit people long to have, to be your own boss. Even if it means not making any money. Money is not as important as one of the last warm days of the summer. At least not as much as sitting on the edge of the shade of a tree and keeping your bare feet warm in the sun. Moving the blanket to always have some shade and the slow return of the sun. I mean that's what we work to have, time to do nothing. Time to read a book.

I wouldn't want to do it like that every day. I wouldn't want to miss out on the excitement of having a major internet event or two, becoming a read writer and who knows what else. That as nice as most books.


_bunnie stop…_


I think if we learn to understand why a canine allows it's tongue to be dragged over the shin of its own genitalia with no signs of concern or complaint, I think we will better understand some of our own motivations behind certain things we do that don't seem to be
according to Hoyle.


_bunnie stop:_


Laetitia Casta, I want you to love me. Perhaps that seems like a somewhat mad request for perhaps it is. I could deliberate that I could accept a worse case scenario that you found room in your heart to love such a wretched creature as me but couldn't imagine the advantage of spending any time with on such as me, but we are in 1999 now and that kind of thought went the way of the aristocrats.

I would be willing to learn your language and even say nice things about your country.

That's a bit of a joke by the way, mostly for anyone from Canada, England or France. You do come from France don't you. I have read one article in a Max magazine that I took home from a cafe I used to frequent. Well, I still do, I just don't frequent it much lately.

Anyhow, what was the point?

Oh ya, I was going to remind you once again that for ow I have a dream that I am the one you should love, not that I'm desiring of it, just in need of it and would find happiness in being in love with you. As any dumb ass would tell you, I'm likely mostly in love with an image of what I believe to be my ideal woman. I've always been a little like that, Francisca didn't like it. Now this minute I can see she was right not to like it. I still can only think that I loved her and would even believe that I still don't. Even now that I know she is not ideal in as much as there is no such thing. She was just simply beautiful and brilliant and impossible not to love. That's maybe too much to expect of a woman but I don't think I was too unrealistic in the eyes of many but that's only because I take a slightly different view of what is realistic. I know you are not perfect and beauty can fade -

Ah, let's see if we can hit at it from another side.

"Do you know what you want to say?"

"Reality is flexible enough for me to believe that the most lovely woman in the world who seems to be natural and not insulted by common day life could chose to love someone who believes he also is a beautiful creature just a little dirty and scruffy around the edges from taking on life the way he seemed to believe most fitting."

"The starving artist story?"

"No, never quite that far, just not taking an interest in having a job
more than was necessary to support himself as he learned how to play the roll of what he thought he could manage as a writer."

"So you weren't willing to live on the streets and get the harder stories, just the -

Okay, Laetitia, this wasn't so good again. I know if we were good for each other and we lived in the same town and I met you without knowing you were a media star, say on a beach where you walked to enjoy the sand in your toes and I sat on the same beach after walking a fair distance to get there to be alone to read or write, I'd smile at you if I caught your eye.

Perhaps the second time I would wonder if you would walk by again and I would wonder if I should be so bold as to say hello. I would know a woman of your beauty and grace would have enough men telling you you are beautiful so I would not want to be one of them and would maybe venture the hello, but I wouldn't ask you to stop for a chat.

After a few weeks you would feel less threatened by me. Perhaps you heard from someone in town that someone had taken a modest apartment in town and doesn't speak French and rumor was he was an English spy. He was seldom to be seen.

You might not think they meant me right away but the next morning on your walk along the beach when you saw me throwing flat rocks across the water as if it seemed quite important to me, you would remember the lady at the butcher shop and smile to yourself.

"Bon jour," I might attempt as I was just being pleased with myself because the last rock had skipped 28 times before sinking, beating the one I had as a kid, that was 27. That was easier though, the lake was perfectly flat.

"Are you the English spy?"

"What?"

"Just something I heard."

"From who?"

"No one important. I mean no one from the police."

"I don't know how anyone would suspect it. I have no phone. I haven't talked to anyone since I've been here. I always thought the French don't talk to English people, that's why I came here."

"Should I go now?"

"No. I would quite like to have a talk today."

I would be trying really hard not to be over occupied with your beauty at this point. Till then I would have thought some kind of reason why it was better that I can be a witness to your beauty in such a beautiful surrounding. I may find myself lost for words like I do now as I write it just imaging it.

Something like that isn't possible. I might just than realize that not only were you as beautiful as Laetitia Casta, you actually could be her.

"Do you write your secret service stuff out here and put it in letters to send back to England?"

"No, I come from Canada."

Then I would see in your eyes that you know I was that mad ass that wrote that letter of a few hundred pages that didn't make one bit of sense to you and your managers had even suggested police action because the case sounded serious. I would then realize that I had ruined my chances of winning your love because you would fear I was mad. My expression may not warn you that there is no one else on the beach and you might best kick me hard in the nuts and run.

The other thing that could happen is you would smile and tell me that I am such a romantic freak of nature.

Just as my heart was about to burst you would know you could only possibly love me so you would kiss me, tell me you love me and if I wanted I could tell you the same.

I would say, "Thanks."

And before I could say I love you, three men in scuba equipment would pop out of the waves pointing rather scary looking harpoons at my head, say something in French and take me away and lock me in solitary confinement. They would torture me for information and I wouldn't know if they were mad or I was mad or if I had fallen asleep in the sun and was baking on a rock and sea gulls were picking at me, thinking I was already dead.

I mean, the chances that something like that would happen are a billion to one, but like the rabbit said, a billion in one chance occurrences happen every day. Maybe he said million. But I better read the book again. It's more fun to quote than the Bible.

I hope you aren't too Catholic. A true Catholic would have trouble with me. In fact, most anyone would.


_bunnie stop_


I was just at Concord for a few things. Going there was likely one of them. I didn't buy much other than coffee, coke and a pizza. A pizza hand made in Italy and now n my oven for less than 3 marks. Pretty amazing but not worth eating likely. But when I'm like I am today, I don't give a fuck.

And I look like it today as well. I often do because I'm sick of playing some bullshit game. I am reminded how the game pisses me off then I chose the second line up. It was shorter. An extremely sexy woman was standing there with tight white pants on and I noticed how pretty her ass was. Her whole body was pretty and if she had a smile to share, she would have a beautiful face.

I gave her a little extra space and decided not ot watch her. There were other things to see and something bothered me about her. She was a foreigner and maybe that was why she seemed to demand her space more than was necessary. What pissed me off about her was her made up class status. She was well enough dressed, if not a little like a prostitute, and knew she should have to be troubled by the low life that seemed to be surrounding her. This is all made up of course but the cash out woman reminded her her wallet was still sitting there. She looked at it then at me as if the combination of the two were a problem.

I was about to say something or smile but when I caught her eye, I thought what a bitch you are and go fuck yourself. Of course I'd never say that to a stranger.

I wonder if I've been trapped somehow in this cycle of near poverty my whole life so I can watch from underneath. My state isn't impoverished and I don't ask for more and will take it if I think I want it but - whatever. I suppose women who are sexy as hell get men staring at them and saying lewd things about what they'd like to do to them as if they are a toy and I suppose if I was a sexy woman, I'd look at the world of men and think they were a bunch of fuckin' idiots.

So then, fuck you all.

Your stupid mating game and bullshit relationships with a pair of tits or a dick what you couldn't give a shit about as long as there's money and pop style. I piss on your blind ignorance.

Luckily someone is drilling under my ass and not in it but it's making a fuck of a racket and I'm on the edge of hating everything.

So I'll eat a fucking cheep pizza.


_bunnie stop_


Anything I have to say today would go better not said but fuck it. I'm in a fuck it kind of mood. Almost so that I could say fuck it to everything, go build a ht in the wild of Canada somewhere and leave society and all its nonsense behind.

I won't do it though. Perhaps because I haven't the balls or resources but maybe also because I need to not give up. I tend to give myself as many disadvantages as possible, don't know if is is because I think I need to suffer my loneliness so that I can write or I'm a religious idiot that believes I have something to bring to a point.

I sometimes try to honestly believe I want more than I have but that's an illusion. It all stinks and doesn't cut it. I don't know if I'll remember that when I'm part of a large business, co founder of a major event, but I can't imagine at my age that I will learn new ways.

I may buy a nice car but I may rather have a pickup truck.

I suppose what I need more than anything is a little love. To prevent me from becoming a sour bastard. No reproach on my mother.

If my plants were just a little more in bloom, I'd smoke a bit of one and tell myself I'm being a twat.


_bunnie stop_


I had a little story about a princess that met a peasant one time. The catch to the story is I think she left her mirrored castle before the two met. There is no way for a peasant, peasant these days is the guy from lower class society. Not poverty and a healthy life. Just no way for him to know about the princess until she looked at the sky above and wondered if it might go father than her mirrored prison, sorry, I mean castle.

But what I first wanted to go on about before wanting to see if I could justify writing over working. But I won't, I'll get strait to the point about two women.

They were very similar, this isn't a story except that I'm writing it, something like this story was reality for me. I want to tell you the ‘alias grace' story a little as well, see if you might want to read it. It might be written for women but what is a woman that a man can't read the same thing.

I don't want to hear anymore about Margaret Atwood being a feminist or even a woman. That she is a woman matters to her man and daughter a little but not to her other readers.

I could make a comment about Graeme and his life as a writer living with the most likely most famous writer in Canada but I only remember one of his books and it disturbed me and I didn't know what he was trying to do.

That's today's agenda before even getting out the door to go into the sun which is boldly, oh shit, a cloud, but this kitchen is pretty bright with the sun blasting down on my four little female plants sitting on my balcony waiting for to flower so that they can die. I have to say they are, next to trees, one of my most favorite plants. Dead of alive.

The first thing we shall deliberate here, my sweat, is these two women. One was the top of the multi level, some would say pyramid because of it's shape and how the bottom supports the top and at the very top is always one point. Excluding the company itself, she was this point. Remember this is America. The home of the dead Indian Brave and land of the free enterprise.

She was a poor girl from a farmers family and started young selling horse grease and whatnot. AS a cute little girl, I'm sure.

"Hi, my mommy said horse fat is good for your hemorrhoids, you want some?"

"I don't have hemorrhoids."

"You might want to keep them away though."

"Is it slippery?"

"Try a can."

From there she went to the skin and food product line, I mean many years later. Let's not forget she worked her way there. And there she was making don't ask me how many millions a month, but it was a scary sum. I don't begrudge it her. The product is no worse than any of it's competitors and better than many, just try it, cold pressed, air dried, turbo over drive, vacuum sealed, money back guarantee, sign up here, buy your 5 starter packs, sign up five people who sign up five people who sign up five people and so on, five levels down and as wide as you want and you can make millions as well. Better than Amway, they only go three down. You can become executive, or over chairman or any other title and guess what Laetitia, like anyone, any bone head can tell you, it looks nice on paper but without busting your balls, you should forget it.

Of course this woman at the top had all the best sellers rolling up to her. This roll up clause made the top so perfect that the woman doesn't need to work a day in her life, she buys her minimum to stay in and receives checks whatever you would wonder at.

And I saw her once, across the room, eye to eye and knew then I was in the wrong place. I wanted to believe everything was right but it wasn't, it wasn't a private club or cult, it just looked and acted like one and it wasn't mine and I couldn't preach it.

My last boss was a little like this woman except for an important point, she will never hit the top no matter how hard she builds people under her. I mean most companies doing what she wants to do with millions form European grants, would turn a profit after 6 years. Most companies would be dead if they didn't.

That isn't the point though. The point was one time when I looked into her eyes, I had the occasion to do so often, I saw she desperately was clinging to this American dream. She isn't American and has someone else's dream. I couldn't preach for her because I didn't believe her. Her goals of becoming high society pissed me off and as much as I thought I needed the job and did what I had to do, it was all wrong.

It might have been right to have the job and learn it, but not to put my heart into it. One needs the hope that his own wants and desires matter.

"What's your point?"

"Oh, sorry, something about who do we want to be slaves to or rather we bite the bullet and say fuck it, I'll have to do it my way or bust."

"Not everyone can do it their own way."

"Maybe not, but some people have to and if you can find those people to want similar things to what you want and make them work more beside instead of under, for a pyramid is a beautiful thing but you can't fuckin' move it, you will be much more successful even if your success doesn't bring you the sam cash flow."

"Some fuckin' thing bit me. They are more like monsters than I remember. We used to get a million mosquito bites and say, bad luck. Now it's as if they use chemical warfare of a new sort and one bite is hell."

"Times have changed."

"Thanks piss head."

And I know, Laetitia, that what I just wrote was trash. How do I make the jump into brilliant writing?

Or entertaining.

The house master of the place I live is a retired woman, widowed, I believe and has very hard heals on her shoes and likes to hear herself walk up and down the stairs, put a little thing in the garbage, look around to see what's up, then go back in her apartment over me and lock the door three times. There isn't much for her to do but it's good to have her making sure everything is okay. She can get you in contact with the landlady if need be and she keeps the sidewalk clean.

And she is as sweet as pie so usually you don't mind to run into her on the stairs.

And I didn't want to write about her. I had an agenda and it fell apart and never got to any points.

I wanted to make a little summary of how Grace came over to Canada from Ireland and could you imagine who you would be if you had such a life?

She seems to be beautiful like you but caught in a world of poverty and death and prison. And the thing is, it is based on a true happening. I don't know how much more true Margaret's story is than Susan Moodie's, who was there but, Margaret has likely looked into the details a little more than some of the dim wits of the early settling times of Canada. She makes me somewhat embarrassed to admit I'm Canadian. But truth be know, all countries, societies and nations are founded on, idiocy, ignorance, corruption, hate, envy, greed and the like. It's our nature. Idiocy most definitely at the top of our pyramid of wretchedness.

I mean that's okay, that's our nature, just don't be surprised if someone calls you on the "justice".

"You who?"



by Joanne B. Washington

read on. laetitia_casta_part_03



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