Possible to be Weary: NORA
Nora,
How funny to learn that autumn is an Edward Gorrey illustration, the trees on my street are the bad switches that bad children get for Christmas. Only one day, trained on self-abuse, I came outside and discovered these two men carrying huge leafy green evergreens and placing them in front of the naked dendrites. The sound of one laughing, they’re filming a movie in the wrong season.
Did I ever tell you about the time I pissed on the singing tree as an inebriated freshman at UCSD? It was truly satisfying.
Sure, it doesn’t quite hold up under the staggering weight of some of your stories. Like the time you wrote that one Sylvia Plath paper two weeks in advance of the due date. I know! Please tell me again about the time you dropped acid with that one guy, what’s his name, Phil (or, as you prefer, “Philly” — in the dotty parlance of your chosen profession); tried dancing it off at a rave at Cloyne, but then decided your energy better directed toward writing those four papers “just” waiting in your inbox, back at that beautiful loft high up in the trees on Virginia Street on the north side of campus —
Once inside you’re fooled into believing that you’re staring out to the street from inside the hull of a boat. Anyway, you said something about tractors that left a few questions and this bastard of morningside heights a bit restless.
PS: Would this be the appropriate time to tell you about the time I lingered overlong under that man hole window, after leaving one of those notorious poetry tutorials? I caught your profile, thought of Disneyland, thought of wishing to be the mail man and then you sneezed/appeared momentarily disgusted with yourself. Your laughter upset me. My idea of love flies away at night.
Simon