Anyplace, Year X
A Good Place to Rot
Should you find my writing a letter strange, consider the alternative: linked by small black boxes at all times, sharing small bursts of life publicly, or perhaps in a direct transmission that that you can nonetheless swipe away, leaving nothing but a smudgy residue of distraction. So: paper, pen. Would you be interested in hearing more about subvocalization and the psychological share of inner monologues, a veritably diverse phenomenon, spread amongst the population at large? I hope your brainfolds have left space for that sort of activity; even now, perchance, this letter reminding you of our mother tongue. By which I mean it hasn’t fully occurred to us how physical presence over these last years has been of tremendous importance to the both of us over this trying period.
When you write, the critics call it Whole Cloth. Of what material is never said, but we must imagine velvet. Velvety blue whole cloth, the kind you sniff inside the mask of laughing gas. By comparison, mine would be cracked sheets of rusted aluminum, blazing down a dirt path toward Gomorrah. So it was with great happiness that I learned you had agreed to write [Pio] Piopelli’s eulogy, though StrangeWays had already commissioned me with great material promise to publish mine alongside a dusty unpublished interview we finished in his famed Zeppole store on 14th Street. I look forward to the livestream of the services and would enjoy even more simply comprehending the speech in written form, which I suppose will have to wait for the English translation.
Liberating myself further from the annoying work of making a living by writing, I’ve taken to recording videos of myself reviewing books under the influence of large quantities of liquor. Pixilated Pages. The name needs work certainly, but Watch Time plus Subs are up and you wouldn’t believe what GoPro preroll brings in these days. As I said, I’ve turned down otherwise lucrative journalistic endeavors, saving actual thought for such artistry as this, surely returning the proper nobility to the actions of my wrist.
While the gravy cooks down, I should like to recount the superb evening I passed last weekend with one Mr. Floppibienz, the counterpart I’m told of Lester Ballard in McCarthy. Old friend, we lost all control of our jaws (and bowels I must shamefully admit)! But nothing could compare to the first sight I had of the man at an asexual stripclub he runs from a stage in Ridgewood, his sidetable aclutter with Speedos and bejeweled pacifiers. He’s an absolute cokehead at all hours of the day, but let me save the full tale for when my secretary returns to record our dawn-seeking adventures. I’ll have him send the notes as gifts inside ancient cloisonné boxes Mr. Floppibienz filched from the storage room of The Brooklyn Museum, where he volunteers Sundays for their Daytime Raves series.
Where does that leave us, old friend? I’ve done my part and spilled the last of this ink, so the horse is in your carriage. Would you like to know more about how Chapo has gone to visit Grayzone again to start the same disputes under different circumstances?