Thought today

Dear Friend,

In the future these generalized correspondences will be hand-typed out on my beautiful blue Smith Corona Galaxie Twelve. She does not have a name yet, but I suppose that's because I haven't taken her on too many dates. She can get a little excited when we start talking, and before we know it we're causing quite a ruckus. (Truth be told, she's a bit heavy, too...)
Anyway today I do it electronically. I'm making dinner arrangements that were meant to be made days ago and playing, of all things, an album of moody Christmas music. Perhaps I look too far ahead to the looming difference between here and that place I came here from (namely, the happening of winter, winter weather, winter clothing, winter runny noses, etc.), but to be honest, it's the place where nearly all of my hope resides. As my "four to six months" of rest are nearly passed, and income as a consideration toward my well-being slowly accumulates on my beard, we'll soon find out whether that Hope has a cozy fire built near the couch, or if it ends up freezing its poor (ha), skinny ass off on the uncluttered porch.
But at least there's another 405 grams of tea in the back of some USPS semi-trailer heading west from Connecticut toward Jackson Ave., so I'll be sure to have a good half hour, rich or poor, fed or not, every morning (jasmine oolong, chun mee green, and a sample each of sencha and lotus, Not that briefly-named 'tea' that ann arbor is better known for).
And what happened during those four to six months. Well. I'm figuring that out. (Thus, the letter.) All that time of ickiness, I think, makes me now wonder if I've lost the things I was before the ickiness. I don't feel as forgiving, most of the time, now. Or perhaps just as passive. Or quiet. Definitely quiet. That may be why so much of the rest period went by with so little writing getting done... I'm having to reassure myself that sitting is valid. I'm scared that everyone will let me down. It would do me some good to stop listening to the news every morning.
I'm seeing details and feeling informed but missing texture and not feeling those little miracles of decay and rebirth.
Yesterday, though, I sent the fall leaves Erin asked for off to the Antarctic ice. And realized the ones lined up along the curbs are, for their trust in decay as investment in creative potential, all individual romantics. All in love with that whole dust to dust thing.
Alright, a bit sap. But no deleting. The Galaxie Twelve will not have it, nor will I. (And besides, it works for me, and who did you think this letter was for, anyway? I don't think it'd be healthy for me to enable any more of your whimsical illusions: they haven't named any flowers after me yet, but I do spend an awful lot of my spare time concerned with the reflection - just not the eyebrow-plucking one) First thought, best thought. Ah! I think it's official; I've forgotten the three rules (out of twenty-six, I think)I used to have emblazoned in my writer's brain from Kerouac's list. I'm no longer a Beat! Well, beat lover. BLeat no more! I'm pretty sure that started in Kentucky and is *not* a result of losing my mind on sadness in Inty and NC... the sensuality revolution of listening to the smallest of accents envelope itself in personal history. And Ammons, yes indeed. Small poetry. No need to overwhelm, just softly lay that feather down in the pond and let us all marvel at whether it's actually touching the water at all or floating above it.
Small poetry. Long ass letters. I'm going to go on feeling comfortable doing so with the reasoning that, it's a letter, we're just talking, no need to create some grand scheme by which to tell the tale of my Tuesday, but you and the other part of me can both secretly suspect that really it's about not creating a grand scheme by which to hope you get the point while simultaneously *not* getting that thing we just talked about: that young boy falling into the river. You'll be right.
Perhaps that's next letter's topic; besides the jug or two of Independent Study Carlo Rossi I spent on the idea, I've yet to just let go on the whole writing-as-excrement deal. Maybe because the only conclusion I can come to is to stop writing. Maybe not. Don't worry, I'll keep it in terms that are dinner-appropriate. Mostly.

Dinner tonight with Slate's mom. Oh, to be that smooth-talking track star again.

Stay warm,

T