12 November 2008

Letter 4.18

Greetings from the rabbit hole of the March (or so) hare. Perhaps with no way to go out of, I have either simply gone a long way and come a long way, or complexly come a long way and gone a long way. Or vice versa. A recent newspaper clipping (recent to me, that is; the newspaper itself was last year's model) has given me just the right phrase to describe what I am doing in Sri Lanka again: I'm here to restore a new order. How paradoxical! How ironical! How religious. Well, parody and irony are very well as a religion, provided you know to hūm you are praying and on whom you are not preying. Paradoxically, such a religion is not at all ironical. Ironically, it is not paradoxical. For some reason it reminds me of dancing with my shit. Dat take a long way.

Glad DAMAGED IN TRANSFER (or is it TRANSPERRHD DAMAGE?) arrived safely damaged (General Delivery's doing, no doubt -- you don't get busted to General for nothing): our latest bicentric biographic bigolly co-creation, unpublishable if anything ever was. Though totally unreadable, it's actually quite brilliant, provided it remains unread. But WB VI (or is it VII?) -- sounds like a Leon Uris title -- is just as well out of the hands of grimy publishers, who are only interested in it (if at all) in the same way that sex-starved drilling crews are interested in oil rigs. If you could glue two pages together with a paste of Krakir's Crapper[1] that would give them a rise. But otherwise we should remember it as a toy we both played with (and may play with again) -- AND NOBODY EISE! Nemmind its flaws. It starts off like a metronome -- ticking away furiously, lots of energy and juice but not characterization, then runs down gradually from presto to lentissimo, then -- your entry again -- suddenly gets plugged into a wall socket and -- not being wired -- fizzles and jumps all over the place in an orgy of mixed tiempos until it's simply all gone. But nemmind it floss. Itl's a nice toy. Quite unmarketable, and tinkering will only make it (if possible) more so, but a nice toy. Unmarketable? There's one remote long-shot chance. If you could devise a board representing Samadhi[2], and added dice, markers, and 'chance' cards, you might be able to sell the package to Parker Brothers. Then everyone could play with it, in groups of 2-5, ages 10 to 100. But as a book? Who reads books?

My mother died in January -- I'm not sure exactly when (rather like Mersault, though I hope not to end up like him) -- after a long painful and losing decade battle with mainly, Parkinson's. The last couple of years were, apparently, pure ordeal, spent mostly in a sort of semi-delirium. I heard of it too late to return with any good purpose to the States. My father and sister are, it seems, handling all matters as well as can be expected. For which I'm thankful -- and about as aggrieved as relieved. Something irreplacable lost -- the mother who loved one; yet, as long as one draws breath, not gone -- the love that mothered one. And -- womb in tomb -- it's not so easy not to see where one's going... The most moving remark, a year or so ago, was my father's, who said that sometimes my mother would emerge from her semi-delirium into a sense of reality, and then begin to cry.

I'm settled into my own hillside, a squatter like you, save that I didn't build the house (except the one wherein I squat), and now have no plans to leave here unless/until I'm told to go (which, I'm told, will happen when the owner's son has saved enough money to build a house -- and tear down this cottage). However, there's always the bright side: I may die before that happens. So good cheer.


[1] In Worthy Bones, Sri Krakir is a shadowy Hindu scientist who's concocted a microbe -- Krakirls Crapper -- that eats -- and shits harmlessly -- oil slicks. -- Hūm.

[2] Worthy Bones transpires on Samadhi (Sk. meditation), an island in the mouth of the Red Sea. -- Hūm.

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