heavy stuff

::i wrote here yesterday too::

i feel i've said this before- this won't be much of a letter. tonight seeing ant tony and matt, and katie too, i rather like the paper my friends use to express themselves- themselves.

this has all been a very trying time i think, and i'm not the one who's outlook is affected, left in full control it's not me; likewise i'm burdened by someone still most unable to see that there's nothing wrong next patient please before having to see a face in the toaster waiting for burnt toast- nothing can be done all day but sit up all nights singing very silly songs, seemingly (i hate that word) not getting anywhere. something is wrong. it's like that.

i got to thinking of an author i like too (pretend i like kafka), how he wrote about going places, one room after another room, being shuffled and buffoned about, nothing making any sense, and i am sure if he had been driving with ant and me this night he would have had another novel, at the pond at the farm. it's not that i think other people can do these things easily, it's that it's too convincing that no one has to really- i won't deny that i might be off because it's just that we all are and not any of us are different in that- but if one of us were? if i was, and if you were to try and show me a leader or a way out, i am going to ask a lot of questions. and since it doesn't get to be me, i owe most of the heart of anything decent i feel like meaning to the street-walkers of america and i want to ask ten-fold those questions.

on nights like these, driving back to find sleep, thinking to hell with the world's series and bushlovers, trying not to care, i ask myself what if- what if i hit that tree- now. yet the spirit is not suicidal. i think we tend to string ourselves along just to see how many more odd turns we can maneuvur. i don't know, i expected so many times when it came down to "can i even walk across a room with success?" i expected well, more fire...and when you have it it's hot coffee in the morning. not the damn frog on the dissection table; not to be spun in the chair and shown yourself in the mirror (in fact scratch that that's fun); not the same thoughts after the same damn screwed up haircut at the barber's- $14. i guess there you have it- why i write at 2:00 a.m., dissecting things (words of wisdom- find a way to survive that does not cut too much of a hole in you or anybody else). i feel like i am making this out to be burnt apple pie but it's not. it's like the smoke curling upward that emanates from it or foaming love. i wish i could say the obvious- what that is to me- too many people are afraid to or they have to be a bit cute (excuse me i said cute) and in the shadows.

i guess it all adds up into living. no great words, nothing. but somehow good. put through to you the only voice this letter has is the one we never damn can at the moment it first finds us, for me at the pond at the farm. call me a propped-up hemingway but this could be sentimental life is tuesday afternoon in a cage.

and, you might call it innocence or you might call it non-innocence or you might call it anything, but whatever it is, it is good that he has it. things happen, "or maybe a van gets burnt down to a crisp," but hitting the tree not hitting the tree we'll be at the cemetery this tuesday morning anyways...

oh yeh, "BUSH BAD...KERRY GOOD..." ~tony eggink

--gowdy

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