Dear Ni Dearest Nige’: Friend,
Nigel, terms of endearment and such,
Who knows how to properly present salutation in letter form? I haven’t seen a proper one in a while. A letter that is. I hope this one finds you in fair nick and good fortunes follow it.
Forgive me if I ramble in my everyday but I’m not in Cairo. This is the Pandemic Age. Nothing new, really. I’m either behind the keyboard, fortifying the homestead, or scouting somewhere in the woods. Write, ride, run, reap, repeat. Routine. So if I do happen to dwell on the mundane, hopefully the insomnia will keep it interesting…
First off – Thank you for taking a look at that last piece, you critical prick. Your feedback is very much appreciated as always. I’ll take it, thanks. And of course I’ll do my best to improve it. But first we’ll let it age a bit per your recommendation. Besides—salutations and insults aside—that particular piece has since been placed on hold. My philosopher’s been hospitalized. He’s convalescent, so that’s a relief. I hadn’t heard from him in weeks which was becoming worrisome. We were working on “Phlatscreen Filosopher” quite a bit and it was just getting weird enough to be viable when he went dark. He’s strong as an ox with balls and has a voice that’ll knock you down – I’ve seen it happen – but he also has a heart that’s failed once already and that’s not guaranteed to beat tomorrow without a complement of machinery and/or meds. He makes sense and music. But maintenance ain’t his gig. He’s been saddled with apparatus that’s not up to the sass he gives it. (Actually that was one of the frayed strings we were tying up: How do you keep up maintenance if the tools are always broken? And if life is constant maintenance, are we working with broken tools, or are we broken tools?) Last time we talked it sounded like his heart had given him a few bad days. Weeks went by and I couldn’t raise him. I have questions and answers and nowhere to bounce them. I miss his lessons on the bass. Then Vicki (his technical editor) texted, which she’s not wont to do, to let me know that he’s landed in the hospital but otherwise he’s okay. She assured me it’s not the latest plague. Finally I got word from him the other day. The word, a text response to my query as to his status, was “Convalescent” followed by a smiley face. I’m relieved but worry still. He would never utilize a smiley face unless it was an accident and he doesn’t make many typos, even with his massive thumbs. We don’t waste words. It’s understood. If Vicki let it slide, then I have to assume he’s trying to tell us something. But it’s good to know he’s recovering. We’ll be back to work soon I hope, coms free. I’ll keep you posted.
I spent half of Christmas day collecting thitherstrewn pieces of the greenhouse and making stopgap repairs. (I know, “thitherstrewn” is also a stopgap, there’s a word for it in my first tongue that means something closer to “obliterated and rearranged by the red hands of Persi Herself” but I didn’t want to break stride for proper translation in the hand-written moment.) The wind’s usually on my side but lately – Sheesh, Mariana – she’s in a hurry wherever she’s going. Uncommonly windy. Suddenly cold. We’ve been getting battered. A couple of the trees are uprooted on the line out back. I think the temp dropped 17 degrees(F) in the time I was out there on the ladder. At least the rain didn’t come beating down until the end. I patched up the greenhouse with icy fingers and some choice words. But a little work in the morning makes for a great rest of the day and I’m always thankful for that. When I came in from the weather Lilly was there with the Christmas cookies and a fresh pot of tea. She says Happy New Year to everyone over there! She’s actually dusting off the turntable today. We’ve stacks of vinyl to explore. Records. Turn-ta-ble. A descendant of the Pho-no-graph…look it up.
This past year we’ve actually completed an honest year’s worth of work, which under “normal” circumstances takes at least five years, and I’m about to rip into another one. It almost seems blasphemous to describe to others what a wonderful year I had, so I don’t. Unfortunately “grim” seems to be one of those overused buzzwords in the headlines lately only this time it’s not trite, it’s heavy. It hurts.
(Before I forget, we added “21st Century Digital Boy” to the setlist at rehearsal last night. Thanks, you Limey. Perfect. Let’s be sure to tell Brett THANK YOU, from All. And Touche. That bass got some colonial bounce. We were planning to open over here with “Long Way To The Top” but Hunter didn’t want to lug the electric spiderpipes around the states any more. He said it’s a waste of air and boot-space so we’re going to open with it on your side of the divide, with Angus, Bon, Brian, Malcolm, and the guys. Do it right. Buy the ticket. We’ll bring the ride, bagpipes and all. He also told me to tell you Thanks but he’ll bring the tea this time, no tax, or something like that. By then he was mumbling a rhythm at me as I was trying my damnedest to learn, by his prescription, “Mama Kin” forward and back… On the bass… While holding his drink… No helmet. He wants to do that one with Bon. It’s going to be one of those shows. I have a feeling.)
Marleen called the other day. We spoke for hours about ink, crinkly paper, fluid thought and the lost rite of writing a letter. It reminded me that writing letters and postcards used to be a regular and much anticipated part of my week. It reminded me of cheap Merlot, hand-rolled cigarettes, and apartments without heat too. I had pen pals spread across the globe at one time. Recently, I had to explain to someone what a pen pal is. (And sorry to inform you, old chap, but I had to explain to someone not too long ago who Tolkien is. Great worlds will be forgotten among the shrunken. It’s a small world, and shrinking, after all. C’est la vie.) Anyhow, Marleen’s writing an honest-to-goodness pen, paper, and postage letter, like this one, to one of her colleagues who just published a book that’s worth a heart-felt letter of appreciation. While everyone else is brushing themselves around on social media with thumbs and hearts, she couldn’t leave it at that. It didn’t feel right. And that, I think, is because it’s permeated with something that’s not wholly genuine. It’s not wholesome. It’s not time under a window with a view of the sky, it’s not ink and blood and thought and coffee stains on paper. Tiberius chewed the corner of this page. You can’t send that kind of gratitude or hard connection in a pixel-made icon or a blurb. She said she wanted to sit down, a hot cuppa within reach and her recipient held warmly in mind (like a responsible author does for his/her never-to-be-known reader) along with her gratitude for what he has accomplished, and try to explain the effect he’s had on her sky. It’s the only way she could express it, and even then perhaps not to her complete satisfaction.
It’s about giving freely, i.e. sharing, and empathy and knowing what it’s like to bleed. Or go without sleep for days. Well, I know you know, old chap. You’ve taken shrapnel. We know what it’s like to bleed out while providing cover fire for the machineheads who planted the bombs. That’s our job. Blood. Who needs it? We’ll make more.
Sorry if my penmanship is not up to snuff but one elegant note about writing this analog version is that there is no spell-invader continually trying to hijack my subtle intent with chintzy words. I don’t have to continually backtrack to override the machines that keep eating or overwriting my input. What a joy. Next time I may go all out with a candle in lieu of a lamp.
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There’s a kitten on my printer trying to break it //Song lyrics insomnia mixed make for manky syntax //The little cat in my lap // biting // rhymes and distracts // My focus cracks.// The moon’s new // And there goes The Rat // There you go, old chap, that’s the kind of crap I’d strike out on a word processor… have at it. I must try to get some sleep for now…
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What was I saying? Sharing? I was going to say something about tightening up my penmanship, I think, but that last bit was inked over four hours ago. Oh, yes, I remember, knife fighting…
Did you know that W.H. Hudson learned to fight with a knife at the age of four? I’m unsurprised. I understand. I was going to say that we arrive here with nothin’ but love, tea, and magic, like Hudson’s Rima, but in a shrink-to-fit world that’s forgotten how to share. Instead, it trespasses. Immediately and incessantly. So we end up defending our gifts when we originally came here to share them. (Speaking of which, would you, at your laziest convenience, send a photo of the dunes? The desert? The pyramids if you’d be so kind? A black and white is fine.) I too realized at a very early age, before I learned this language, how alone I was here. I never felt safe in my own society until I knew how to protect my self from it. When I started to see what the “adults” (Ret’s always called them children) had in their heads and that they were coming to put it in mine too, I fiercely defended. I understood that I would have a lot to do here on my own, such as search for the pieces of, rejoin, and defend a splintered and thitherstrewn soul(s). In a pinch I’ve always relied on speed, agility, sarcasm, instinct, Oxford commas, and whatever is within reach that could be used as a shield or weapon in self-defense. Nine times out of ten the best and most convenient weapon is the one being pointed at you. That’s been my experience anyhow. Do unto others; if you have to and/or they asked for it specifically and signed a waiver. Well, you know, that’s why you carry a knife or three of your own just in case. What’s experience in a forgetful world? Did you say that? I forget. Sylvia prefers razor blades to a knife but I’m not quite that good yet. She never loses a one. We’re training together now. I gleaned a touch of pride in her sneer last time. But she noticed that I noticed. There was blood. Mostly mine. She made me pay. I’m healing. It hurts. “Blood is love,” she says, “Get up! …Again.”
During my soul search, rescue, and defense efforts over here I’ve only been observing this particular (d)evolution of human society for a short time and its behavior over this past year has confirmed or strengthened some of my short longest-standing theories and observations, mainly the ones about the forgetfulness, deconstruction, separation, and especially the forced restart sans responsibility. It’s as if we’re fitted with an obsolete operating system and taught to forget our original programs. It’s not difficult to lose your self. I mean, hell, I was awake but I closed my eyes for a moment with a hand over my heart in a swaying field of gold and Boom!, there I was in marketing…with a tie. Yeah, imagine that if you can. Survival with a straight face and a pre-tied noose around my neck among the coldest, most violent race this little world has yet produced. A real pusher there for a moment. You gotta grab the wheel. (Early as possible!) “Drive Like Jehu!” as Ret likes to say. I learned to drive. I learned to fight. I also learned to swim on a cold midsummer’s morn because I was pushed into a pool.
Shazbot, look how I’ve rambled. Maybe once my philosopher’s back in the game we’ll come back, perhaps in “The Art of Shrinking,” to this one: If you arrive with nothing but love and a mind that’s exponentially larger and more beautiful than the compressed, microcosmically small-thinking society you live in, then isn’t the label of “depression” a woefully inadequate term for the tools or the upgrades or the adapter (not a disease, but a tool, a translator/adapter) that we must employ in order to shrink down and jack into said small society? If we want to participate (why we should ever want to is a different chapter) we have to pretend that this society’s particular versions of ambition, success, and base systems of organized spirituality are adequate. But what if it’s not even close? If it’s grossly inadequate and you’ve outgrown it as a child of five years and you’re still growing, then you may find a place to hide and survive in the camouflage your society provides. (Didn’t Robert Lowell say something like depression is for one’s self, mania is for one’s friends? Old Pal, let’s talk about the moon sometime…) It will provide, nay, force all manner of labels, skins, colors, clothes, and names to wear. (Aren’t we always looking for cover?) Keep everyone around you comfortable with the version of you they want to see (A tie! It makes me itchy and somewhat hypoxic to think!). Ret calls it his “Outer Adult.” Vicki nailed it, she’s always called it “Satisfaction.” Words have edges and this society deals in dull, chintzy words. We don’t. Satisfaction is her adapter. Words and worlds are shrunken down here. We’re feelin’ satisfied to all hell that we don’t fit. We prefer the taste of bigger-than-spoon-sized words and transgalactically expansive worlds. We give our blood freely in the fight to take them back, wipe the spittle off the tarnished ones, and make new ones if we must. Restore meaning. Polish it up and give it all back for free with Puffy Little Shoes, and with love and some responsibility. Translate, if that is your gift to give. “Pull leaves from wind’s stream,” Ret said of the first time he heard Mari pluck on his strings.
Well I’m rambling into the new year, shirking my responsibilities in the kitchen with the sauerkraut. I’d better wrap this up and send it while I can still cover the postage. The ol’ Postal Service isn’t what it used to be. We haven’t received half of our Christmas cards/packages yet. Service has slowed tremendously which indicates an imminent price increase.
Remember, a photo of the dunes would not go amiss. There, I slipped a poem into the margins for you. Marginalia’s where it’s at. There you go old boy, is that enough to earn me one photo of the dunes? Black and white would be fine, especially if by night. I remember why I dream in black and white. Ah, it’s time to go feed Tuxedoes. The wind is much like a messenger’s cat like that & I sti11 have at least 9 fingers left. If a picture’s worth a thousand words, then by my estimation that poem throws a dozen images at least, or the equivalent of twelve thousand mortal words.
Until next time,
Here’s to razor blades and tiger bombs in puffy shoes,
Salty salutations and sign-offs,
It’s only Rock-N-Roll,
Happy New Year,
P, et al.
We're broken We're broken up and shrunken down Nations and cults and clubs and jerseys and numbers and labels and names to wear and flags to wave and Always someone's pompoms to shake I can't go anywhere I want to go I can't live in Cairo I'd only wish to see it one day Yet I don't think you can get there from here We're too far away The kings and the slaves Who built the pyramids They got away Away before we got too crazy Yet if I could stand in the rocks and the sand and hear what the wind's hands had to say They may tell me where do slaves go Remembering The sands are subject to the wind As are the kings who lived Long before Cairo.
Setlist:
Making Plans for Nigel – Primus
21st Century (Digital Boy) – Bad Religion
It’s a Long Way to the Top – AC/DC
Mama Kin – Aerosmith
Sin City – AC/DC
Die Hard the Hunter – Def Leppard
Blank Baby (demo) – The Presidents of the United States of America
On A Plain – Nirvana
Machinehead – Bush
Feeling’ Satisfied – Boston
Plainclothes Man – Heatmiser
’39 – Queen
Write Me a Letter – Aerosmith
Taking The Wheel – Tora Tora Tora
Comedown – Bush
Trouble – Rex Smith
Jailbreak – Thin Lizzy
More Than a Feeling – Boston
Nuthin’ But Love – The Presidents of the United States of America
For What It’s Worth – Buffalo Springfield
Robot Man – Scorpions
Signed, Sealed, Delivered – Stevie Wonder
Surrender – Cheap Trick
P.S. Endless, Nameless [#] – Nirvana