Dear F,
I must inform you that attempting to fall asleep while facing a typewriter is a notion with the inevitable end of failure. My fingers begin to flex, and they wake up my brain, which, as you have so often witnessed, has a tendency to dance around at inopportune moments. And once the Olympia has nudged me away from sleep, everything else begins to pull at my attention as well, not least the adjacent posters of Carlos Gardel and Cora Madou. This new life, with its new furnishings, although elected, is proving an unexpected challenge to my sense of my own adaptability. Perhaps you were just in taking a skeptical tone in your last letter.
The poetry was no good, I'm afraid. Don't waste your time with it. You're better with prose. Your prose (as I have pointed out before, to your (noted) embarrassment) is spectacularly rhythmic and turns pages into orators. You're far more prosaic in verse. (Pardon the pitiful pun. And the awful alliteration. Consider it retribution for your performance at the park last month. When I visit next, I do hope you will find it in yourself to restrain your partiality toward pig Latin.)
While you are at your own disposal, please ingest something other than coffee, toast, and the odd cucumber. There are about fifteen varieties of apple at your local market. I counted. Plus, Mary's offered feed you whenever you want. She says she's got a place for you at the table and it's gathering dust. Please go make use of it. The offer, I mean. You consume enough dust as it is.
Love &c,
L
I must inform you that attempting to fall asleep while facing a typewriter is a notion with the inevitable end of failure. My fingers begin to flex, and they wake up my brain, which, as you have so often witnessed, has a tendency to dance around at inopportune moments. And once the Olympia has nudged me away from sleep, everything else begins to pull at my attention as well, not least the adjacent posters of Carlos Gardel and Cora Madou. This new life, with its new furnishings, although elected, is proving an unexpected challenge to my sense of my own adaptability. Perhaps you were just in taking a skeptical tone in your last letter.
The poetry was no good, I'm afraid. Don't waste your time with it. You're better with prose. Your prose (as I have pointed out before, to your (noted) embarrassment) is spectacularly rhythmic and turns pages into orators. You're far more prosaic in verse. (Pardon the pitiful pun. And the awful alliteration. Consider it retribution for your performance at the park last month. When I visit next, I do hope you will find it in yourself to restrain your partiality toward pig Latin.)
While you are at your own disposal, please ingest something other than coffee, toast, and the odd cucumber. There are about fifteen varieties of apple at your local market. I counted. Plus, Mary's offered feed you whenever you want. She says she's got a place for you at the table and it's gathering dust. Please go make use of it. The offer, I mean. You consume enough dust as it is.
Love &c,
L
1 comment:
sometimes I pretend this letter is addressed to me.
Post a Comment