I Wanted to Write You a Letter

I would like to begin writing letters again. Because it’s right. It’s proper. It’s a perfect use of physical and emotional energy. And spiritual energy as well, for sure. Not letters to everyone, or, for that matter, many at all. Writing letters to the very few who matter most to me. For me. Yes. I have four folks in mind.

To write letters which might become endless, which could become novellas, that would be a fine thing. But generally a few pages of typed 8 x 11 sheets, all the news fit to share or advocate or expound on or dress up like an alchemist. Stuffed in plain white envelopes. A putting of words in a pipe and smoking them. So as the letter, beyond the pleasant surprise among the bills and flyers and offers in the daily mailbox, the letter has value, even a case made to call it art. Here – I have created this and sent it along to you for, at least among possible potential fulfillments, entertainment. Like:

Dear Jamie:

            Hey there. Oh, I have been meaning to write for so long. Catch up, fill you in, ask a zillion questions, the usuals, How’s it going? How are the kids? Are you happy? And the more particular to the right here and now. How do you cope with it all? How’s survival down there in SoCal? Does it rain? Ever?

It’s raining like a mother up here in Portland, fucking endless sheets of rain, street puddles the size of Lake Winnapausaukie (which I believe is spelled wrong but I don’t think I’m close enough for even Google to figure it out). You know what I mean, well, you, Golden Girl, may not know first-hand that particular New Hampshire body of water but it’s big, look at a map of that state, the point being it seems to nearly never stop raining here.

And just think if that was the biggest concern. Like not having a host of dickheads in charge of things isn’t, well, mount Olympus bigger of a trouble, or the world, well I can’t speak for the whole world though I could take a wild guess, but this country for sure going to hell in a hand basket – is hand basket one word or two? Anyway, I’m at work on my next book, it’s titled “Collected Strays”, and I do believe it will be the best thing I’ve published in book form so far, though I do think “Astoria Strange” is very good and a couple of the poetry books. And, oh, I received in an email a pretty glowing review of my “Get in the Car” this morning, did that make me feel good or what, sometimes we writers feel like there’s no one out there actually reading what we write, which not only sucks but really sucks and may be paranoia but probably ain’t, so anyway the evidence that someone is actually reading what you took the time to write and polish up a little and paid to publish, that is nice.

Which, of course, you wrote the quote on “Revelations”, the first poetry book, I’ll always owe you for that never mind everything else, never mind just knowing you and being your friend. Oh, so many miles, man do I ever wish I lived in California, and as much as I love Oakland and San Francisco and the whole Bay area – like the Richmond Bridge which I love wildly – then anyway………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

                                                                                                Buddy

What did you do today, Buddy? Oh, I entertained an old friend. Just now, as of this early-in-the-day scribbling. I have four old friends as likely letter recipients. I may be able to find mailing addresses for three. The fourth, modern-day bedouin and spiritual extremist could, and yup, will be more difficult to pin down, as in “Where’s the mailbox with your name, Honey?” He’s a boy, but calling him “Honey” feels right. So far, those I see as my letter recipients, are three boys and one girl, four people for whom I would have both inclination and urge to share with all kinds of personal wig-outs through the mails.

Do you remember when you used to write letters? Maybe you still do, write ’em, though my suspicion is that most don’t, the internet and all that. Smart phones. Texting. Who needs a stamp? Of course, only an asshole would not realize that buying a book of stamps – and purchasing one quite often, oh you big letter writer – is way more an act of patriotism than standing for the national anthem. Or school prayer. Hmm, suddenly I feel like writing Colin Kaepernick a letter, ask him if he writes letters, suggest it would be another righteous act.

Support the Unites States Post Office, that’s what the regular purchase of those books of stamps would do. And just think how involving the United States Post Office became in “Miracle on 34th Street”. I mean Santa, and everything. Pretty darned good.

I don’t want to talk about maybe some people are perhaps too stupid to write letters. That’s not my place or my job. And I can’t count that high. No – I heed the always-there advice of my old San Francisco friend John Sledge, who was fond of saying, “Own your own.” It is really that simple. And my own is, this here morning, there are four people I would like to write letters to, become a letter writer again because I used to be a big one. Big ole gut-emptying letters. And writing letters would be good. And receiving them.

This is the gospel of hope.