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Richard Brautigan: a Journey |
1.
he gave me this pen.
it was still raining when I went to put his letter in the mail. It was
early and everyone was asleep. I can't say I didn't like not sleeping
because the rain smelled like summer and you can only notice this in
the most pleasant way when you haven't smelled it for a long time. The
taste of licking the envelope was still on my tongue. I had forgiven
him for being so tired and I was not upset anymore. Me walking fast in
my slippers in the rain.
my blankets and sheets were all in the wrong place by now. There had
been so many misunderstandings today that when I sat down to read a
book I started from the ending. I was reading Richard Brautigan. It was
a collection of short stories so reading backwards was all right. I
read in short sentences.
I can still remember what I did before I went to bed last night. It
rained for a little bit and then when the sun was already rising I went
to bed. My body hurt. I didn't expect any of this. I was going to write
to him that it had rained for a little bit, but instead I kept it to
myself. I was writing a very misunderstood letter. He should be
expecting a very misunderstood letter.
a butterfly flew by and I wondered why I hadn't seen many butterflies
this summer. It was very warm and hot outside. I thought about going
home and writing this down.
i don't feel very well at all today. I keep my notebook under the
covers. When someone doesn't feel very well they can keep their
notebook under anything. If it makes them feel better. Which is a
popular line to say. But nobody really knows what will make them feel
better. They can be lying in bed and writing about how they don't feel
very well, and they still won't know.
the window was still open and the music was off and the day was still
the same where I was not glad to be myself. I wrote because it made me
hopeful that tomorrow I will wake up and read it and nobody will be in
my way. Of course there will be no privacy to invade. But I'll go watch
television for something.
i imagine you worried. You like music a lot. You worry and you stop on
the road for dead turtles. You don't care if anyone sees you worrying.
I am writing to you and about you. I promise to make it easier on us
all.
I imagine you calling to find out if my letter finally came and I
imagine you driving past somewhere over there and opening the envelope
with your fingers after the letter finally arriving. Over there
somewhere over where I can't see and have to imagine.
i understand you don't want to be with me because I am moody and at
times don't talk. I hope you still like me even if I'm not a talker for
days. At times I am so sensitive because we're all so sensitive, that's
what I say about my friend. We read books together. We have not much to
say because we are not talkers but we like each other and I hope you
still like me for days, and I know this is just words and sentences on
paper and sometimes I don't like writing either. That is how we treat
ourselves.
brautigan was very honest with himself. He was famous but only a little
bit famous and he called himself an unknown poet. Don't you understand
you have to be honest with yourself? You don't have to be famous and
you can wake up to yourself and be famous to yourself, which is easy
considering you're an outcast. But don't be dead. I'd like you to call
me on a Friday evening and tell me you're not dead.
reading this book I remember now that one day he decided I should move
to San Francisco. I hear it's very windy, I said. Not that windy. All
right. He even had a letter for me in his book bag. To prove this to me
he said it twice so that now my desire to move to San Francisco would
increase greatly. Anyway, the book happens to mention this city and the
purple plum blossoms and suddenly it feels very nice to know somebody
once decided I should move to San Francisco so I can feel like part of
a book someday.
sometimes I go out and look into the sky while the sun is shining, and
I can't see anything but feel and I don't feel very clever. I am almost
done with the book now. I make my reading days long and slow. I am just
not ready to let go of some words, and then I would hold them in my
hand. Now that I think about it, it is very easy to write, but we get
frustrated and unclever and wonder if what we're saying is what we
really want to say and if it can be said better. Then we look into the
sky and can't see anything at all. Then the words mix with the wind and
disappear and you can't do anything about it. Well I'm done for now.
so there you have it. Me going on a journey to find my pen after
finishing a book that had a shoelace in it for a bookmark. I might as
well finish the book, I had said. I wonder what made me use a shoelace
as a bookmark. I understand using something like a pen instead but I
can't find mine now or write with any other pen because I'm not young
and confident anymore. So there you have it. That's what happens.
this one is not a happy one. I smell my hands and I wipe my lips. Someone had used me tonight and it was not a happy one. Not saying that I meant for this journey to be focused on happy things and I don't particularly want to go into details either. Or the details of what I mentioned in my third sentence. I thought if I had a set of thoughts and words prepared for each paragraph then it all would work out. Apparently words don't work out, and you keep on adding things you never planned to do before and they jump at you like falling stars. Like life, or something. So I had run out of his car after my third sentence and my not-going-into-details and I come into my house while my mother is sick in bed and I turn off the light and I wander. This journey did not do me any good. This journey did not do me much of anything. |
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