…While moving slowly westward one morning I was attacked by a dog and my robe, if not my person, was torn. As I sat crosslegged (then as now) repairing the damage (as you say, my barber is my tailor) your letter was delivered, and I discovered that my robe was not all which required repairing.
In the last year, or so, the centrifuge of my mind has slowed dawn somewhat, spinning - by now - but little faster than a spider (or a stringhopper - mine), and a certain amount of sediment has been able to settle. The waters are, to be certain, clearer; but there is an ugly black sludge on the bottom which has to be hauled out and dumped. This sludge is not only ugly and black, but also sticky (though not a suitable construction material, for spiders or bakers) and gets all over everything. Sometimes it even gets into my pen, where it resembles the indigenous ink so closely that it can be used to write letters (This is the Voice of America…). You, undoubtedly, have found (upon receiving one of these) that your hands (not to mention your eyeballs) were coated with the muck. Distasteful. Scraping sidewalks. Won’t come off. There is, however, one more quality which this material has: it is not only black, ugly, and sticky: it also means no harm. It just wants out. Dredging operations continue…
Since you are naturally somewhat repelled by the sludge, I would suggest this: when dredging is not carried on so furiously (and there is time, betimes, for washing as well) we can return to spinning moving (not rigid) substances.
Your communications are important to me; but your friendship more so; patience… please… and joy.
V.
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