(And this letter is left over from a very long time ago, obviously)

7:25

diaz y ocho del julio y yo soy contento y me encanta la vida, mi vida. Spanish is indeed the language of song and poetry and I’m on my way to learning it again.

Two boys in the program at the YMCA are natives of Mexico City. They return from work every night about 3 a.m. Alex usually sits up with me while Tayatzin (Tato) goes to bed for his English is not so good.

Yet things have changed since the last shift I worked b/c I told them I want to learn to speak Spanish. March of next year they are going back to Mexico City and I am going to visit shortly thereafter. Will I see your curly lock amidst the polyester-clad natives on the beach?

Hey...J. Dove...Do you recognize the print? This is the typewriter the poem was written on, the true blue companion I took with me to college. These keys have written loads of bullshit around finals week, letters to friends I never saw more than once or twice, and AND this gal saw me through the quarter of lots of bong tokes and ten times as much Bad poetry. I had loaned it to a friend of Paul’s and just go it back last week.

This is the first time I’ve talked to it and God I missed it. Where to start now...God damn I’m happy, ecstatic, jubilant, so moved I farted.

Give us a kiss, then. Tom’s sinning, or should I say singing, in the background.

I’m going to quit smoking, again. Broke down and wrote a letter to that rogue in Cork. SO, this is what’s going to happen with him: Wart case scenario: By Christmas time I’ll be in love with some starving Artistic type and he’ll head over here and, hey, maybe I’ll buy him one drink or two equal to the letters he’s written me. And if he shows me the same favor I’ll be blind by last call. Top o’ the mornin’ to ye and lick my boots you little worm. Are you smiling at me or with me? You should be you, you, you wiry romantic you.

By the way, thanks be to you for the care package. I took the pocket watch in to have a thing put on the stem so I can hook the chain to it. That watch is pure beauty, J. Dove, and how did you know? Check it out: I was in the market to buy Paul a graduation present. I thought ‘what is the most cool aesthetically perfect thing I could get him?’ And all of a sudden I thought of a pocket watch. They were a bit spendy and since things weren’t going well between us I didn’t buy him one. But I realized that I didn’t want to get it for HIM, I wanted to get it for me and then you, you, you gnarly god-lovin’ sidewinder you sent that treasure to me.

However did you know that I needed a toothbrush? Is that a hint about my breath, can you tell that I’ve had the same toothbrush for a year? Are you trying to infiltrate my every day by sending reminders of you I use everyday? Every time I check the time, time, time. You, why you’re nothing but a sneaky subversive and before you know it I’ll be quitting my job and jumping on a goddamned airoplane. Yeah, you’ve been planning this all along ever since that first day I sat next to you in class and said, "You haven’t been in class for a week." Is this revenge? If so, I must admit it’s damned sweet.

Oh, J. Dove, the gods will love you if you let them...but then, you already knew that. Show me I scream from the mountaintops. Show me the beauty so I can know the truths of love, fertility, and consumer behavior. And, geez, I’m thinking "Is J. Dove enjoying this one? If not, it’s his own damned fault."

Well, I’m off to bed. Keep the faith. Don’t work too hard. Enjoy your navel. Package on its way, hopefully soon. Do me a favor: Don’t change addresses in the next few weeks, okay?

Love Estrelica

 

8:24

Hey ho Doverino, and I sit at the Bar on a hot and lazy Wednesday afternoon laughing - to myself. Have had one hell of a time apartment hunting. The first pad was refused to us by an old bag a few bricks short of a load ‘cause our rental references are from out of town. Oh, PLEASE! SO, I found this one place, a one bedroom apt. for 240 a month. You should see this place, it’s everything I hate in life. Neo-80’s simulated wood grain trim/doors, square, two teeny-weenie windows looking onto the abandoned building next door, a nasty light fixture found in only the finest of suburban dining rooms and spackled drywall finish. Jesus Christ, I don’t even know if I could have sex in the place, but I filled out an application + I’m still considering the place. Why?? Hell if I know, but here’s a few irrational silly reasons: It’s apartment #3 + as my ol’ Theory teacher was once overheard saying: "Three, every argument has three premises - pretty sturdy stool that has three legs.

It’s also nestled among all those vintage shops and taverns. I don’t know. Today I can’t worry, all I can do is laugh + sigh + beam.

God damnit J. Dove I’m radiating - radiant effusive? Oh, well, I can’t quite find the right word but I think you get the idea. And isn’t that what life’s all about...communication(ing) getting one’s point across - no, wait, it’s more like soul transference - for example communicating correctly for the purpose of joy is like a balloon filled with paint (this is your soul) so you take the balloon + throw it as hard you can, smiling a shit-eating grin the whole while at the object of your affection.

Then you just sit, watching the paint drip, run + ooze all over + say "Yeah - that looks much better." Well, hey, back to the apartment (boy, did I digress). It would be cheap + "A Room of One’s Own." Of course, when I saw it there was a pregnant woman, her husband + all their shit in it. Well, I’m off to work. More later.