Monday, July 30, 2018

Thank you letter to my brother Joe


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Hey Joe, thanks for the book and gift card – both will be used in time, and as appropriate. You can tell a lot about a person by the gifts they receive on their birthday, “Submission” the book, no matter how intended, finds a home in me both as a statement of rebellion and one of desire – kind of fucked up stuff in a pleasant bondage suit.

I don’t think the book is exactly like what I’ve created in my head, but it’s a rare book that ever does. I always hated the Spielberg movie, Peter Pan”, because he fucked up, severely, the movie I already had in my head. I think you know what I’m talking about, you’re my brother so maybe you do. I’ll let you know about the book – it’s a great choice with promising potential. So thank you.

I’ve come to believe that I need to submit to myself, not god. I’ve also come to believe that the trick to figuring out who I am is to figure out who everyone else is – I will be left what’s left over.  These two concepts appear to be mutually exclusive. I suppose with enough explosives I could make them fit, god knows it worked with the a-bomb.

Anyway, hope you are well. Your brother, Mike

(What follows is something I wrote a while ago coming home from work – read it or delete it, I don’t need feedback, Mike)

While driving the great road home, the way I usually do, I saw a cluster of buildings. At one time they were various banks and edge companies, now they were all painted dark gray and just there, inert, not drawing any attention to the change in shade or really moving much information at all. Why are they gray? Where are the names, the brandings? Why are they hiding their tattoos from me? Is this new ‘lack of’ just a youthful form of communication left to confuse?

As large empty broken down boxes bounced off my car like a long dead summer cat, or Frisbee dung, I swerved over to a fast line, passing the crippled and slow, and got rebalanced on the roads edge. It was the end of vacation when everything burns, and nothing is new but despair, and thought, what about hope?

 It seems like it’s always been a land of, “it could be worse” - a land of fixed asphalt ambitions canned in an open area of get used to it. It’s like one big lesson on bondage – of binding things and thoughts while hobbling anything else that moves until you can figure out the proper way to bind it. It’s a bureaucratic molasses time, it’s industrial mudville.

I would vote for anyone who would make this shit stop. We have enough laws, enough cops, enough war – just do the best with what you’ve got, and stop talking about how you need more of whatever. If you want more, spend less of what you got somewhere else. But mostly, stop talking. I really don’t care about Republican or Democrat –  I know that I won’t get anything better than Obama, and Obama could have been better, though, again, it could be worse. Just blow it up already.

I think of love in my 20’s and the sadness at the memory of the newness -- of a time when even mistakes created wonder. It’s a sad darkness that’s swells in me as i flash card through the time slices of my past, until I remember that in a few years, the memory of anything other than this writing will have become dried up words reflecting nothing but a wind that used to blow.



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