Love Letter


I recently collaborated on a project which delivered paper plates and plastic cutlery to Red China with the son of a disposed Algerian warlord-turned-dictator who died in the 16th century in a horrific wood shop accident. Then I stapled my pockets shut. Then I turned around. And around. And again. Then I vomited up a mitten I forgot I had eaten. It was all quite a delightful afternoon of activity and walloping galloping horses with mandarin oranges stuffed in the toes of mother's old runny stockings. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

I have recently decided between duodenum and jejunum I don't give a shit about either and they both can take long vacations and I would barely notice were it not for my small intestines small mind. Insisting always that all meals consist of enough substandard subsistence to see me through another Wednesday morning meal of cold porridge and hot milk with an egg cracked on top for my complexion.

I forgot to mention that Randy Travis and Randy Savage are minor variations on a theme that I can no longer remember but has something to do with Buffalo Bill Cody and Jesse James, the hot rod dude, not the outlaw. Outlaws get no respect these days.

I noticed you cut your hair.

I thought that I had chicken pox again. But they when the pox didn't pan out I thought it was the mumps. Then the measles. Then the bubonic plague. Ebola virus. AIDS. Tonsillitis. Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Transfigured colon cancer of the inner ear. Ingrown hang nail. Nail embedded in sternum from horrific tobogganing accident. Twitchy left eye. Myocarditis. Inflected duodenum. Reflected aorta. And so on and so forth, Sally Forth and whatnot until the end, the beginning, the middle, the end again.

I found out through the mail that I had a head cold.

I was granted access to archival copies (originals) of some of John A. MacDonald's love letter to D'Arcy McGee. Upon further review, the sexual appetites of the founding fathers was rather sophomoric and revolved around ramada hand jobs at First Minister conferences in bathroom stalls with toilets that didn't flush. You'd just splash a bit of warm water about and hope for the best. But it kept the early colonial economy robust and kept us all from losing our heads and finding the warm embrace of exile somewhere south of here where the forbidden love between Washington and Gwinette was buried beneath a pile of cherry tree chips, wooden teeth, and illegitimate slave babies a thousand years from freedom. But then again none of this is true. D'Arcy McGee was shot by his lover to hide their love from the Liberals. Hidden under heaps of midnight drunkly slurred advances towards pages on the night shift, shuffling papers and shoveling snow from Kingston to Kenora and places inbetwixt. Timber towns and what not.

I was told by a concerned bearer of the brunt of Stephan Brunt's bad news about Alexei Ponikarovsky that the trade winds blowing off the St. Lawrence blew less these days thanks to fewer ships making less waves near Icelandic shores and that would leave us with an oppressively long spring. I tend to disregard the weather as forecast by charlatans, cranks, quacks and engineer. But this gentleman was a friend of mine since before I had discernable taste to exclude these sorts from association, and he said it in a low and grave, serious, voice, so I am inclined to believe him. And all springs are oppressive regardless their length.

I just popped 5 Hello Kitty pills from Japan. I am not sure what they were. Uppers, downers, lefters, writers. I morsel of the last one got lodged in my windpipe and is slowly choking me to death. The others are lodged in my duodenum and are slowly choking me to death. So I shouldn't really complain. Think of all the fabulous people out there without the benefit of Hello Kitty pills smuggled from Japan in a mess of weird Ichiban noodle-esque candy. Japan might be 40 years ahead in pornography and cell phone technology, but they seriously lag in the snack food department. Kids on this side of the International Date Line have been enjoying raw, dry, disgusting noodle snacks since I was in third grade. That was a million years ago. I am a million and eight years old.

I am without a pitcher so I make iced tea from powder funneled through a herbal tea box lid shaped as a funnel into an old 2L Canada Dry bottle then shaken, not stirred. I then pour it drip by drop into a wine glass and sit here like a real mother fucker in a cardigan popping Hello Kitty pills from Japan surrounded by filth and piles of mail. My head only hurts when I use it.

Zip. Zap. Synapse. Malfunction. Dysfunction. Tambourine man.

I figured out that carrying water over great distances is made much easier if done with the assistance of a bucket. Made once again easier if that bucket happens to have a hole in it, preferably near the bottom. It is better for your back, shoulders, neck, spine, and duodenum. Not so good for your thirst but that is moot anyway, everyone knows you get water from rain clouds. Water in buckets is contaminated with all sorts of vitamin b varieties and fatty lipids which clog your chequing account and slowly choke you to death. Not that Richard Branson wouldn't invest in such a thing. The witty bugger that he is.

I searched high and low for reprieve. Didn't find it. Found dental floss. Used it. Made my gums bleed and brought back memories of long car rides in brown Ford and Chev cars that had front seat seatbelt apparati that ate children's toys of choking hazard size in the back seat leaving us with nothing to do but bitch, moan, complain, and piss on the floor mats for the rest of the hellish 19 hours to find a dandelion patch to run naked in.

I guess the only reprieve is in anticipation and respiration. Not in circulation or memory. That is where the daemons and gremlin torpedoes hide themselves. That is where I spent most of my time mind you. Not that anyone notices or cares or grieves for my grief, not even me. I am just saying, that why chew gum that can commit to taste and flavour and vim and vigour when you can chew gum that makes you look like an idiot? It might seem like a difficult choice but it hardly is. We'd all act the same way if we thought the same way. On the subway, going to subway, for the crutons, curtains.

I have been listening to the Lioness on endless repeat for a day and a half. On the bridge, as the caters waul and the lioness eats her young lover I can feel the Nile creeping up and biting me on the back of the neck before I can slap it away. Now my neck is not only burnt and red, but throbbing and bitten and bleeding and I am deliriously fondling the dusty bank for something familiar to remind me if it is the sky or the dusty bank I am fondling and all I get are mouthfuls of dust. In my malaric state I best not wander the streets after getting home late from work. Not if I ever plan of resurrecting swing music. But that is a whole other kettle of worms.

I discovered Drinking 1L of weak iced tea in 15 minutes if the equivalent of giving a hillbilly home-schooler $5 allowance on the day you go into town. It just going to be pissed away on hookers and 5 Hello Kitty pills from Japan and the like withing 15 minutes of the car stopping at the lone stop light in town.

I grew up in a town without a single stop light. The next town over didn't even have a stop light. The one after that did, but just one. I didn't see my first stop light until I was 12, which was the first time I went to the town with the one stop light two towns over. It wasn't until I joined the Air Force and served in Belize that I saw a town with more than one. I asked the man in the purple pants who was behind all this and he told me that it was the government. I nodded intently. He sold me 5 Hello Kitty pills from Japan. I choked to death slowly.

I saw a stand up comedian on amateur night who told us he was a pro and he was there to try some new material. His new material was about George Bush being an idiot. Apparently he didn't read the newspaper between November 2000 and March 2007. New material would be something about Bev Oda being the devil. He could make light of her limousine addiction and comment on her being in major's deep pocket where she'd get jostled around amongst the loose change and Chad Kroeger's lip gloss.

I heard the Junos on television from the next room last night. It left me feeling uneasy all night, and most of today. Perhaps that explains my involuntary vomiting on the stair case coming out of the Metro at Vendome. Or maybe that is just what I think of the thought of working for a living. Regardless, neither are worthwhile and both should be railed against and avoided at all possible costs. I just hope that for your sake you are stronger than I.

I went to the gym to try and become stronger. I left early because my eyes broke out in hives. I tried not to look, but I did. You will be pleased to know that the acrobats are nevertheless impressed with your latest script idea and want to pitch it at MGM next month sometime, maybe May.

I returned home post haste in time for Donahue. I got some good advice on what to do with my self. I am going fishing.

Miss you all terribly. Some more than others. Others more yet.
Much love.

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