everywhere & nowhere 13
20/11/92
Dear Gayle:
Dearest G.
in Costa Rica
yer missive arriving this watershed week. me tossing my academic career down the institutional john. programme meeting from hell–shit stuff–me inserting many appendages in my mouth at once–enmity incurred from various manipulative faculty say la v. no?
yer exodus a model & inspiration: me realizing academe is the death of writing. Figure on playing this year for economic spurs–then, bam. this boyz history. o g. do this sound familiar? hunh?
Gayle i love books, love reading, but what’s up with my life’s got nothin to do w/ this.
and yer hand searching out
the pads of my fingers. yer
lips yer smiles & tongue.
Spanish? hablos? a good lingo?
& are you in-spired by the heat? me wishing to be there in the inspiration.
the blue lines on this page not yer page a banner furrows leader lines heads of them will you get this there?
o got no here (yes) at all
this negative i have of you on the floor
in a white robe in a yellow light
w/ smoke rings dancing in my
memory
memory
my friend Auggie once wrote:
“memory stinks like a good marinara sauce”
O yes it does
a crazy wor(l)d
is this
and Gayle knowing you t(here)
t(h)inking bout the same fiction
is both a bloodscore and a blowfish
pois-on-us sushi aphrodisiac
& heart symphony
sim phony
simp honey
no word game could explain this thing i want to chune on you
& how about the night-times (t)here? places to lay a body down and see a cosmology?
the stars died in toronto the day barrie nichol died–the lights in the saints’ eyes snuffed
cause cloud-hidden cried
noone to write her (here) no more
this is my martyourology. an old st. i never new explained with you –looking to cloud-town & seeing no thing on a cold autumnal t.o. eve.
outside hart house i had this revelation
holding you close a dervish
i’m in hart house now this is my here (de-stabil-ized) & collective memory
–the music for us to dance to cascading out the old brick & ghosting
there is a mythology to this place i won’t efface or face now
christ i’m babbling, sorry.
i miss your/our s(k)in & i thank you for that:
take me no wrong way how a cryptogram might take you
reed tween the line
s
love Micaleh
~~~
We are so often drawn to love stories. It’s second nature. And I’ve even got the element of sleaze for mine, I suppose: as I was writing Michael, I was planning to meet Jeff. Sure, things were complicated, but I figured “Hey, they knew about each other, so everything’s above board right?” With each word, each story told, another is somehow (impossibly) both concurrent and excluded.
