Open Letter to: The Devil Herself

Dear Father of Mother-Fucking Darkness

I can't be grateful enough for you introducing me to Mr. Robbins. Not only for the instant orgiastic gratification of complete immersion into the diamond heart of language, but for its extended consequences as well. Whether life is a line of dominoes or a pair of dice (or die i'm not sure which is the correct word but i'd rather be wrong and say dice than be right and say die) an illuminating chain of events (or clank of coincidences) has led me from one great author to another and it was your flick of the hand that thrust it in motion. A gift like this must be returned. Thinking that Tom was the pinnacle of linguistic cognition I made it my duty to spread his message to a select few friends whom I knew would appreciate his style as much as I did. Hunting for books on Amazon one day I found a small, hidden link that read DISCOVER AUTHORS LIKE TOM ROBBINS. It attracted the pointer quicker than a jar of sex juice attracts a chimp in heat. To my surprise half the authors on that list were tom himself, but there were two more 1. Chris Genoa and a book called Foop, the other (2) Tony Vigorito and his book called "Just a Couple of Days." This email concerns the later, as Genoa's work turned out to be nothing more than a Flop. Just a Couple of days became my favorite novel ("Skinny Legs and All" & "Dharma Bums" now a close second) by page 50. I knew this would happen long before I reached page 50 but had to wait until page 111 to confirm my suspicions, after all, nowadays, you can't really chase your gut as it’s not really your gut anymore. If your pocket or time is thin, (and if it's time it shouldn’t be- you should be making time, not letting time make you- after all how can you let something that doesn't exist boss you around- the same can be said of all material existence but i lack both the philosophy, language and imagination to thread that tangent around the rabbit hole)... I'll start that sentence over again without the cancerous parenthetical for the sake of clarity. If your pocket book is thin (we'll leave time out of this one, oh geez is it coming again? NO!) then a mere period away you will find a link to his website where over half the book has been generously published for public viewing free of charge. http://www.justacoupleofdays.com/home.htm?pageone.htm~mainFrame Notice the cover, doesn't it seduce? And, since i'm such a noble person and must repay my debt to you in full, you will also find a link to his amazon site two or three periods away. How many periods exactly is difficult to determine now as I don't know what I'm going to say. Hopefully by the time you reach the sample's end your pocket book will have gained a little weight and you'd be able to afford the complete publication which isn't such a raw deal considering there's a kaleidoscope climaxing on the cover. If worst comes to worst you can always buy it used or if hell really does freeze over (as is suggested in the book) then i'll really repay my debt and take a couple illusory moments of time scanning that treasure ending for your masturbatory pleasure. I guess it was five or six periods later (i'm still not counting). http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0970141947/sr=8-1/qid=1139628513/ref=pd_bbs_1/002-3798725-5877629?%5Fencoding=UTF8 84 people have somehow come to collectively agree that this novel is worth 4.5 stars. Don't cheat yourself of this experience.

The other matter which this letter concerns deals with both poetry (the subject entangled in both our meeting and any sane interpretation of life's subjective meaning); and a poet who you also happened to introduce me to, Richard Brautigan, the last of the Beets. Like I said before I haven't read much of "In Watermelon Sugar" or "Trout Fishing in America", after all I'm elbow deep in planting Baudelaire's sick flowers, but the little I have read was enough to sprout a long lost fire that i've unfortunately kept out since CRW2300 and that’s, well, poetry. Below are my two most recent attempts at kindling the craft. The first (which was written second) is called "Every Morning." It started off as part of a bigger poem that I'll call "routine" for now but grew up all on its own. "routine" was to be, and may very well still be, a poem about my daily out and abouts written in a fragmented style reminiscent of Radiohead's "Fitter Happier." Yea well, things didn't go as planned. The style was completely abandoned and I didn't even make it to breakfast before I had what was a complete self sustaining entity that just didn't want to budge from its current state of existence. It has to do with "union," I know that much and tha’ts as much as I'm going to say as I'm not a fan of spoiling a perfectly sound egg (well don't let that last statement fool you, the poem is still being weaned and may be some time before it can churn milk on its own). The second one is called "Crescent Beach." It is a non fictional place in my imagination whose spirit was birthed around the time of Ed but whose body didn't exist until Mr. Brautigan (via your recommendation) helped me carve it. You'll definitely see a similarity in style resounding in its words. It is work in progress. It is also the name of my blog, yes blog. Ask me 6 months ago and I wouldn't even be able to tell you what a blog is, ask me 4 months ago and I would damn near guarantee that i'd never be writing in one, ask me 6 days ago and i still wouldn't have been writing in one, ask me now and i yet still wouldn't be able to answer why i'm writing in one, but i am, and whether it be the invisible audience of 2 or 3 that have dropped buy and commented, or just a change from the ol' legal pad and pen (which i still haven’t abandoned, it is now in symbiosis with the technosphere) this blog has my mind jamming donkeys through pinholes i never even knew existed. Either way it’s a facet i'm more than willing to explore and maybe even share with you, my dear dark Father. I say with you because 99.9 of my friends and family don't even know it exists nor have i made a decision to care whether i want them to or not. I guess if somehow they manage to click their way through the digital maze of interspace and happen to fall upon my wedge of cybernetic cheese it wouldn't bother me at all. But for now i won’t have a bit of input in their destiny as mice. I will nudge your star path, only a little, just because the poems are published there, along with an illustration meant to enhance their meaning. I am not including that illustration in this letter. I am, however, going to include a link to the blog in case your pocket has gone bulimic and you really need something to do with phantom time. Don't place too much significance behind this, after all the blog is a mere infant and i do have a way with abandoning my endeavors, age notwithstanding. The link will appear in two periods. This i am certain of. http://jitterbugperfume.blogspot.com/ Remember, it's for your eyes only, but don't be surprised if this letter gets posted tomorrow, i enjoyed writing it and the blog (what a bloggy word, maybe its syntax is what drew me away from it in the first place) is basically a chronicle on how much i enjoy writing. For that purpose and that purpose alone it is fitting that I post this. Worry not, Father, your anonymity will be preserved.

Ah, you smell that? It's a preheated oven. It's time to end this river of rubbish and prolong my pseudo-vegetarianism by placing spinach lasagna and 3 quesadillas in a fiery hell. I was thinking of making the staple food of "Crescent Beach" a quesadilla, but it looks like chili cheeseburger with a side of beer might win. Speaking of beer. I may crack open a Corona, but two things which i will nonetheless ignore and rationalize keep this from being a certainty. First I hate Coronas. This, however, is not outweighed by my love for beer. Second, they are my roommate’s. But i will only borrow them. They'll return to him as soon as my piss seeps into the ocean, evaporates, rains, is collected as water by the Corona factory, spliced with a minute amount of alcohol, bubbled, repackaged, shipped back to malibu and end up in his thirsty shopping cart.

Godspeed my friend, Godspeed

The Mother of Father-Fucking Light