Re: Salinger's Letters To Be Auctioned
Thor Cameron (my_colours@hotmail.com)
Sat, 15 May 1999 02:33:56 -0700 (PDT)
Jake:
My God, what the hell IS this stuff? I found myself reading it aloud to an
old lover at 3 AM. She chalked it up to my old, familiar weirdness. She'll
think differently tomorrow when she's awake.
Thor
>Make Me An Offer.
>
>Part One: Steeple Chase
>“I don’t recommend any of the processional wives. I wouldn’t take a dollar
>from a dead, dying man. I tried to last without exploding into a million
>star pieces but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Couldn’t keep my eyes open.
>Couldn’t mistake one for the other. This for that. Could not exhaust all of
>my options. Couldn’t swear at the steeple. Couldn’t see the forest for the
>trees. Couldn’t speak to droves of people. No, I don’t recommend the
>processional wives.”
>
>Part Two: Cancer in April
>“I wouldn’t bother with any of the children. It wouldn’t be fair and they
>are far too needy. Tomorrow has a bellyache that can’t be driven out. And
>that bitch still sleeps on my couch.”
>
>Part Three: Silly Myths
>“You needn’t look at the husbands. They are far too macho with grief. Never
>knew what bit them and now they spend time avoiding their dreams and
>settling for something less. I am a fellow who gives a good goddamn about
>what is right and true and lean. I will throw down for you in a fight.. But
>there are other men I have met who linger in dismal denial. For a dollar or
>two I can have them beaten. Pay me in pennies because I like Lincoln. From
>here on in you are on your own. No one is going to accept a note from your
>mother. Fuck you. I’d like to have tome for the sick and the poor but hey
>man, I am one of the sick and fired and I need a better saddle for this
>trip. My poncho was left out in the sun too long and I think it’s starting
>to rain. Not a damn thing you can do about it. Not anything at all. You
>can’
>t hop on a train and get off at Utopia Stop. I just doesn’t exist. God
>knows
>I have tried it all. I always think it will work out good, but to hell with
>that. She is leaving or has already left. Happiness is a silly myth and I
>have grown bored of playing with it. So I’m going to be so drunk and stoned
>I’m sober. I’ll be there in the spring. I will grow my hair out and discard
>my hat so that I’ll look different than when I left.”
>
>Part Four: Decisions, Decisions
>“But goddamnit. I just want it all to be the way it was before. Even if I
>was miserable half the time. It’s better than being miserable all of the
>time. I think that I could have made good if I hadn’t blown my cover so
>quickly. No one has to know me somewhere. I am almost ready for a small
>town
>startover. A small place is the best to be. I’ve got a pile of laundry
>quarters and a pile of porno tokens in the other. Which one do you want?
>You
>can’t have both. Which one will it be? Or would you rather have me instead?
>(I know better than that.) I will stand on a freeway with my eyes to the
>sky
>if you want. I’ll trade pomes for peppers and red beans and rice and make
>you a Mexican stew. I’ll abandon all hope of recovery from this one and
>accept whatever comes, hanging by my thumbs. I’ll fight for you to the
>death. I’ll paint you paintings and leave you notes and conquer Philistines
>and submit to common laws. I’ll buy you tinsel and kite string and
>construction paper and we’ll make paper lanterns when it rains. And we can
>dance to Etta James and John Coltrane when we make love. We will drink fine
>bourbons and ride own damn show ponies and sell out crowds of one hundred
>and eight. We will dine on bagels with cream cheese and macaroni. We will
>laugh until our bellies hurt and we’ll struggle when we are apart. I’ll be
>sick. I promise. I’ll give you whatever I’ve got and we’ll negotiate for
>more. And hey, you aren’t getting a bargain here. You’ll have plenty of
>trouble whipping me into shape. You may have to learn things just so you
>can
>teach them to me and then I’ll claim them as my own and condescend to you
>because I am better at Jeopardy. I am in trouble with a capital “T” and
>that
>stands for trivia, baby. And that’s what sucks about the whole goddamn
>thing. And “suck” is quite a deterrent, believe you me.”
>
>Part Five: Make Me a Star, Baby
>“A retrospective is not a wake. Or is it alright to want a signed, limited
>edition of your work before you are even published? But we should start out
>there, shouldn’t we? And hey, motherfucker, who asked you? Why isn’t my
>face
>on the box of Wheaties and the cover of Rolling Stone in the same week? Why
>can’t I be the darling of the press? Why can’t I be a star? And I don’t
>even
>want to be a star right now. I just want to be in need of nothing as much
>as
>I am in need of something right now. I like talking in code so don’t ask me
>to change the tires, change this twenty, change the topic, the channel, the
>alarm clock to read a quarter past five and change your mind.”
>
>Part Six: Expensive Glowing Women
>“But don’t think for a minute that I don’t have a plan B. I am the phoenix
>rising from the ashes always in times like this and here is where I come to
>life. My face is glowing as I experiment with my facial hair. (Mustache or
>no?) The women all look at me and I can smell their thoughts. Could snatch
>them all up if I had a good couple of minutes alone with them, provided I
>had the inclination to do so in the first place. But I have grown weary of
>seducing these kittens in the name of Anais Nin. (My name isn’t even Henry,
>silly rabbit.) This whole thing is tiresome and my taste is far too fucking
>expensive. You can’t afford a guy like me, baby. Don’t even try it. I am
>the
>Gingerbread Man. Catch me if you can.”
>
>Part Seven: Molding Clay
>“I am the wisest of fools and I can tell you exactly what you want to hear.
>I will tickle those cute little ears of yours until kingdom come or God has
>a bad day. And when the laughter and the tears have passed me by, you will
>be the one left open. An outpouring of anger? Indeed. But please don’t act
>like it matters to you. I blame myself for it all. Really I do. It all
>comes
>back to this unattainable mold that I created for you in the first place.
>Do
>you still fit?”
>
>Part Eight: Truck Stop Love
>“I want a Heavenly Her. Not a Luck Charms marshmallow trinket. I want a
>love
>that feels like a toy Stomper 4x4 monster truck with brand new spanking
>batteries inside. Fully charged, kiddo. And climbing full-force over
>mountains of Lincoln Logs and crayons and other pieces I have left behind.
>Headlights glaring bright. And this is where I want to be. Raise your hand
>if you want to come along. There are a lot of you out there. I am 20 pounds
>leaner and feeling fine. I will hold your hand forever if you let me. The
>one that holds my cup will dance on her tippy toes for a long, long time.
>And let God be called I liar if that’s not true. I would even let you beat
>me in a game of chess every once in a while. That is how much I love you. I
>will stand on a street corner with a cardboard sign saying, “Will Work For
>Love.”
>
>Part Nine: Habits Galore
>“If only the mother of my children won’t pick a fine time to leave me with
>crops in the field. That bitch, Lucille. Where does she get off? And double
>entendre runs amok everywhere. And you look in the mirror and see wrinkles
>and graying temples and thinning hair and you brush your teeth and drink
>from the shower head and swallow and wash an older body and holy mother of
>God where does it all stop? How did I get here from there? And I will fall
>in love with a woman’s neck before I can even make it to her neighboring
>barstool. I am an endangered species. Heterosexual renaissance man. I can
>even cook. And I am here on display. And I will give $100 and a blowjob to
>anyone that kills Rikki Lake, Judge Judy, Jenny Jones, Maury, (What in
>God’s
>name was Connie Chung thinking?), and Susan Powter. Stop the insanity, my
>ass. Just stop her before she kills again.”
>
>Part Ten: Raging Bull
>“But more and more I feel like I’ll end up like poor old Dante. His
>Beatrice
>ended up dead and was gone for good before they ever really had a chance.
>And I am really trying to hash it all out here. And I am fighting my heart
>on a daily basis. An hourly basis. And my brain is delivering what should
>be
>knockout blows to my heart but to no real avail. A giant slap to the head
>and Milan Kundera is no real help at all. Sure, sure. All women dig
>Kundera.
>But I am just reading his books for material. Just to show that little
>hotty
>over there just exactly how sensitive as hell I really am. “Care for an
>iced
>cappuccino?” “You like Kundera? I just adore Kundera?” But I really only do
>this thinking that if I can keep this little sham going for a week or so
>more I just might stand a chance at kissing the corner of her mouth. I just
>might be able to hold her hand and smell her hair when I kiss her goodbye.
>And that nervous butterflies feeling is where it’s all at for me. Up in my
>chest and down in my belly is the thing I love best. And I will have a
>crush
>on you at the drop of a hat. And later, when we are alone and I let her
>read
>some of my silly pomes and dig on my art and my feelings on God and
>literature and all that business, I will move in for the kill. So there you
>have it. I let you in on my best part. Her cool company and me with
>eternally shy darting eyes laying it on thick. Real thick. “And I can only
>tell you this because you make me feel so comfortable.” “I really relate to
>you.” “Only you can understand the real me.”
>
>Part Eleven: The Best One Yet
>“But here’s the deal. (And I’m not asking a lot here, mind you.) I am a
>simple high-cultured low brow. A dungarees and crew neck T-shirt taste. And
>my end of the deal is more than fair. A hug from behind as we sleep and
>hold
>hands. And I get to jump on you and wake you up at three o’clock in the
>morning when I can’t bring myself to sleep. And I get kiss your belly and
>smell your breath and look you square in your tired puffy eyes and swear on
>God and man that you are mine.”
>
>-Jake
>
>
>
>
_______________________________________________________________
Get Free Email and Do More On The Web. Visit http://www.msn.com