dear editor
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...in parallel to approaching, around this time, some other thirsty (for money, of course) editors, my personal comedy goes on, and on, and on...
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Bardinka - Books Editor, The Indeep
23 October 2000
Hi,
Having just re-read myself my previous letter and missing all but two punch lines, I imagine you missed them all. So my apologies for trying to create such a bad minimicropico imitation of famous Catch 22. I didn't catch anything so my apologies to myself.
What would you say if I proposed that we start a new relationship? I treat you with respect, I write a public apology explicitly denying any implicitly alleged misvirtues associated with your persona inclusive hypocrisy, short sightedness, lack of taste in food dress and women, ignorance of basic grammatical rules with the exception of past imperfect, nullity of any dramatic talents, and deep rooted hate of anything even remotely resembling a mammalian and/or ornithorian form. And in return you treat me with the deserved disrespect any author is entitled to, and you read my manuscript's every odd line (it takes half the time, and time is so precious in our business, isn't it?...), and you write an eloquent revue in the next Saturday issue of your wonderful newspaper.
I can see the headlines already, sparkling with your typical vigour, shining with your astounding rhetoric, blinding with your incredible dynamism. "...this masterpiece, this wonderful, adorable, thrilling monumental work of art...", sorry, just a few moments, my eyes filled with the tears of true happiness and with admiration for your wisdom... (merde, I just stepped into a dog's pile of smelly yellow soft material because of you, did you have to make me cry you piece of similar brown soft material...).
I lost the mood. You see, you cannot do even the simplest of things without getting me into some kind of trouble, what kind of a person are you. Are you...are you... are you an editor or something?... We were almost there and you had to blow it. Now I lost it. I hate you.
Don't call me, I'll call you.
Yossi Faybish (I hate you again).
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...really in the mood, three days later I had another letter ready.
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Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
26 October 2000
Dear God,
I was blasted late light night by a terrifying revelation - Thou art Editor. Thou changeth the water into wine, Thou walketh on the water, Thou changeth my hopes into mashed potatoeth. And how could it be pothible (sorry, I start lisping with all thith holyneth filling up my head) I did not spot it at first sight.?...
Oh, Editor, holy of holies, sacred of sacrilies, merciful of mercilies - hear my pray (I promise to stop making fun of the ugly disgusting mole at the lower left side of your nose) and take my pay (would one thousand pounds in small unmarked bills do?) and read my play (well, we know it is actually a book but I like the ring of poetry when kneeling in front of your mail box) and light my day (running out of ay's) and burn the wisdom of your say (ie your warm appraisal of my book and your hot advice for each and everyone to buy it in a family package of three, gift wrapped at only 30 extra pennies) in your tomorrow's columnay (I warned you, I just ran out of them...).
Now, before the Real One doeth (here we go again...) strike me down, which since it didn't happen by now probably won't happen before I get my chance to post this letter, now is the time for me to spite you and to tell you that I lied, and that I really don't believe that you are Thou, and that I really don't believe that the Editor is Thou, and that all said above was just a masquerade to... to insult you, and to laugh at you, and to frighten you, and to... to many many more other many things...
And when the Real One calls upon me for our daily encounter I will ask him if I may (ha, I just found another ay...) propose to ensure that next time you write something for publication you will get yourself as the editor in charge for approving it to print, and me as the speller in charge for bringing it to print. Ahhh, what a wonderful dream - you write "... and then he kissed her..." and I spell it "...and then he pissed her...", you write "...butterflies..." and I correct to "...butter flies...", you write "...the prime minister's gray haired friend..." and my finger glitches away from the r..., oh, dream of my dreams, what about it Real One, my kingdom for a dream?
Good to end on a Shakespearean note, isn't it? Imagine where would King Lear be with you as the editor in charge?...
See you in March, or any other time,
From me - the Fearless, to you - the Earless.
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...hooraaaayyy!!! I found it (or so I thought at the time...) - the break in the stone wall, or rather the crack in the stone wall, or actually more like the very small scratch in the very big stone wall. Women. My way in - women. No, no, all you with the dirty minded kinky thoughts, nothing to do with lingerie féminine. Romance! Yes, I'll hit my public via romance, and if what it takes is womens' magazines then women's magazines shall it be.
I see you all already raising an eyebrow, some even two eybrows and some even choking over their salad á la Niçoise - "...c'mon, you and romance, stop pulling my leg, ha-ha-ha..." (or woof-woof-woof, depends on who was reading these lines). Well, dearest ones, yes - me, and yes - romance. You see, I have a few pieces dripping romance from head to toes. Which I wrote "in the mood". And which I kept locked in a safe place lest I become the central mocking point of all the toughies in the neighbourhood. But which, literarily speaking, are quite some gems. I say it and who knows better?
So I took this courageous decision, looked for a suitable target (no, not Bard this time), and I decided to give it a firm try. Why not, I failed with my big book, let's go for the short story. And I sat down, composed this charming, persuasive letter that would surely have squeezed tears from a rock, and sent it to Ms. O, editor.
From a rock - probably, but not from Ms. O.
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Linda O. - The Bell
13 December 2000
Dear Ms O.,
I am a romantic soul locked into an engineer's brain. And if I don't find a suitable outlet for my literary bursts I may... burst. I chose your magazine by crossing information found in the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook with information from the ME.co.uk site (quote: Linda O. greatly appreciates good writing...) as a possible destination to my writing genius ("who the hell - pardon the expression - thinks this guy he is?..."), and I dare approach you without positive prior knowledge if this is the right way/channel/tactic/strategy... the works. But try I must, and here I am peddling around a few pieces of romantic fiction, hoping to see it in print. If your magazine doesn't carry this kind of feature, please stop right here and vertical file this paper, I don't want to spend anybody's time on my wild quest for fame (and maybe fortune). But if you do carry it - it's worth giving it a chance, it may be the beginning of a wonderful ("again?...") relationship.
Some background - I love writing, I have a small collection of short stories, different sizes, born during my "early" romantic days, and I still carry the fire ("hmmmph!...") in my fingertips. And I am looking for this magic eluding outlet to go for real. Even my business memos carry this extra colourful touch (I am now in the process of publishing a collection of these). Generally I go for the funny, soft, a bit mysterious, a bit magical, and sometimes purposefully strident sound.
Attached you'll find a few completed attempts, and because I see my writing more like poetry than like prose, I edited also the format to what I consider to be an appropriate presentation. I have no idea and probably need a bit of coaching about copyrights and copywrongs, about payments and paytorments. I entrust it all to you for this my first approach. . . . .
Sincerely,
Joseph Faybish
PS Since women magazines insist at times to have mainly female writers for romantic text, I have no problem using an appropriate (neutral) pseudonym, something like Jo Fay?
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...do you know that Godesses can be even more bitchy than Gods?... For sure, it ruined completely one of my basic beliefs, the one about complete and unquestionable equality between sexes, races and species - mosquitos excluded. "Dear Sir, as long as you are a sir..." "Dear Sir, as long as you are of the wrong sex" "Dear Sir, if at a later time you do get your period..." Does it sound crude? No, it's cruel. Look, men magazines - say, Playboy - unequivocally allow a rich contribution from the female part of the population. Why not so women magazines? Undoubtedly I miss something but I'm not sure what. I was always so proud of my womanhood, especially the man part of it...
Nevertheless, my little incursion into forbidden territory resulted in resounding failure, therefore - of course - back to our friend Bard. Forgetting even to 'Dear' him this time.
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
29 January 2001
What the devil - does one have to die to become famous? and to penetrate into your graceful thoughts? and to fall into your greedy greasy grippy fingers?
Look at me, I have this wonderful, once in a few generations magnificent masterpiece, and I keep offering it to publishing houses ranging from top best-sellers publishers to slaughterhouse internal newsletter publishers - and for the first range there not enough top selling in it, and for the last range there is not enough blood in it, and for all the intermediate ranges there is not enough pro-rata (depending on their position in the range) of each of these ingredients. So is it I (me) or is it they (them)?
Imagine, in my frustration's abyssmal depth I even approached a self-publishing option - guess what? rejected even before they read the introduction. Kind of "...so what if what you say is so well constructed, so nice literarily put, so entertaining - who the hell is going to buy it if you're still alive, and worse - if you still didn't kill anybody?...". And with the aforementioned depth drilling even lower than its previous abyssmal self I even approached a women's magazine, trying to create a surprise 'à la Trojan horse' breach in the invisible impenetrable publishing world's wall with some targeted specific spot stories for romance raving lunatics (which I am one of) - guess again? they didn't even accept my feminine pseudonyme not to mention my romantic lunacies.
Don't you really feel like crying for me? I do. I don't even hate you anymore now that I can cry on your shoulder, and wet your high class tailored tweed suit into spongy squishy stincky mush, and sink my teeth (mainly the four canines, one with a loose filling) with pain into your supportive compassionate collar bone, and suck at least two hundred thirty two milliliters of your type A- blood (a minus like you must have blood type minus) into my system, oh, goodness gracious me, look what you've done to me, Bard, I'm a cannibal... (fast, fast, now is the chance, get my manuscript, lock me in the incurable zone of the loonies asylum, publish me while the yellow newspapers are smeared with the pink of your blood [that was meant as an insult], and we both become famous, I as the crazy genius, you as the one that saw it all in the blink of an eye, even though myopic by any accepted standards...).
And it was morning and it was evening. And I woke up. And I wasn't crazy. And I wasn't even dead. And I didn't even kill anybody. And all my fame and fortune is still neither one nor the other. And a whole bunch of small miniature minuscule pseudo gods jump dance and laugh and write rejection letters to a whole bunch of big great temendous real geniuses who sit crawl and cry over the rejection letters written by a whole bunch of small miniature... you got the picture a long time ago, I just re-express it...
Dearest, just a few thousands of pages in this style and I could have competed with Tolstoy's War and Peace, or with Orwell's Nineteen Eighty Four, or with Marx's Das Kapital. Imagine - Yossi Eff responsible for abolishing the publigarchy, the free authors' revolution, the brave new world, Alice in wonderland...
Rrrriiiiing, rrrriiiiing... that was a registered courier delivery of the last warning before re-possession from the bank for the last three unpaid mortgage payments... so... forget Tolstoy, forget Orwell, forget Marx... hello Mr. Publisher, buy a box of matches from me?...
Me Again,
Here, Now
(after the courier threw several buckets of icy water over prostrate fainted me, you see, I forgot a few personal details...)
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...it was just the right time for some ups and downs in my professional life, and therefore the right time to stop picking my nose and get back to my quest, my endless pursuit of love and happiness and editors...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
08 August 2001
Doesn't time fly? It seems like it was just yesterday that I was an angry, bitter, vengeful, desperate man, sneering and screaming and spitting at you, and look, today, a new me - sneering and screaming and spitting at you... Isn't time a wonderful healer? Probably not.
Let's recapitulate our love hate relationship: love - zero percent, hate - zero percent, indifference (you) - one hundred percent, frustration (me) - one hundred percent... and they say I was good at mathematics before I met you... all the rest - the rest of the percents, and the rest of it - whatever is left. Were you wondering about my whereabouts during these long months of such blessed silence? C'mon, be a man, confess to this weakness of yours for me, let me hear you whisper (louder please, I hardly hear you) in the world's ear about your beautiful, enchanting dream, I - in the middle of the Brussels-London railway, the Brussels-London express train swooshing its trail through the splashing-all-over me, you - conducting the Brussels-London express train... isn't that a dream to die for?...
Let's change the subject, enough of this me and you. What about some you and me? Do you want to hear a beautiful story? Really, believe me you'll enjoy it, no joke. Actually this is more like a legend, listen carefully. Once upon a time there was a friendly books editor (c'mon, stop laughing, I told you it's a legend, give it a chance). This editor had no real friends, he was a real outcast from the rest-of-the-editors world, he was really trying to help downtrodden authors, he was fighting for them with his publishing house, he was really reading everything sent to him even if the author was still alive, a real real jerk. His name was James Earl Royal King (I told you already, a jerk). One day a beautiful fairy, in flimsy transparent underwear (a male one, ha-ha, got you there...) appeared to him in his dream an told him in soft, sweet, four-lettered (+/-) words that "...if you ffffing idiot do not stop ffffing around with all this high quality ssss that those ffffing ppppps send you in their search for ffffing glory I'll personally come over and cut your ppppp and stick it up your aaa..." Now, to be fair to the fairy - the language used was much more explicit than what I dare transcribe in this letter, but in my fear of HRM's censors I pre-censored the original text. If you lack the imagination, I can do an effort and try and translate it into a bit more acceptable five-lettered (+/-) words, please do write me back if you need the help. Hearing this warm plea of help could have moved a heart of stone, could have moved a 5 ton truck with three flat tires, surely it moved James Earl Royal King's softer than an over-boiled-bean heart. After crying on each other's shoulder, James bid the fairy good-bye and... woke up.
Now, and here is the crux of the story, James Earl Royal King was a man of faith. He believed that man (person? how do you say it to be politically correct?) was born to be friends, he believed in the pursuit of happiness, he believed in sacrificing himself for others. So he had to act. For the benefit of his colleagues, of his brothers, of his editors nation - he had to act. So he acted. At once. His slush pile grew to unheard of proportions, his unanswered letters filled up a 13 stories high sky-scrapper, his hands started wringing mercilessly the necks of all those downtrodden miserable author creatures - he became a hero, he became an institution, he became the father of the nation. (I'm really moved to tears by now). And this is how it really happened. And it is since those days of greatness that every editor parent gives every editor child, on his first 3rd birthday (some people have more than one, depending on local customs) - an aluminium framed picture of great unforgettable uncopyable J.E.R.K. At $3.51, VAT excluded. And this is how it happens you have this mirror on your desk. To remember the greatness, to follow the lesson, and to smash 95.3% of all aspiring authors. Ah, great story. Great legend. If only it was a legend...
That's it for now,
Joseph the human and his dog the dog (my dog insists to be part of our negotiations)
PS If you feel like adding my neck to the list, don't forget to send a SASE attached to your request, I'm fed up with paying all this stupid mail to you.
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...nothing seemed to work OK - my job, my company, only my sick inspiration kept pulling my sleeve to the paper, or rather to the keyboard.
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
22 August 2001
I'm in the mood, ain't I? Two (zwei, deux, due, twee...) letters in one single month - this should go straight into Guinness and I hope for your corroboration, or whatever the word... Strictly speaking, I have nothing to tell you. But neither did I have anything else for the many letters written lately, and it didn't prevent me from doing my best to fill in countful (surely not countless) pages addressed to your beloved mail box. So here's another one since I must somehow keep up this promise to myself to compete in size with the paper version of your local telephone directory, and the choice is simply out of my hands. It's all in your lovely lazy hands, and your lovely lazy other parts and particles of your anatomy. And until you decide to deliver me from this hell, you must suffer. A simple law of thermodynamics. Or one or another of the ics things.
So how are you? Didn't ask you this question in many months now, being afraid you'll answer "...I'm well", so here I come again after time has hopefully taken it's toll on you, so how are you today? If today you feel well, please try for yesterday, or any other day when you felt more or less the lousiest and phrase your answer in line with that wonderful (for me) period. Try to gain some points with me, why not - look how many points I try to gain with you? And don't get even half a one.
Did I tell you who I ran into last week? I believe I didn't. You just won't believe it.
On another subject, and this is a serious warning - I just tried to sell some of my stories, some short and some even shorter, to some magazines. My hand is actually trembling when I write/type/copy&paste these lines since I've reached now my fifty-ninth (read it well - FIFTY NINth) rejection. You know what it means? It means that statistically I've got so many rejections that my next try, or tries if you want, MUST statistically result in an acceptance. Oh, I'm so excited I could write a poem if I wasn't tttt(see?...)trembling so hard. So excuse me, please, do excuse me for making this letter so much shorter than what it was planned to be, but there is so much exuberance in my heart right now that I must rush out and take the elevator to the ground floor. Oh, such a great, such a momentous occasion, let me catch the elevator before somebody else picks it up.
I'm singing in the rain... (in Belgium it's always raining, so whenever you're singing it's in the rain...).
Don't worry, I'll be back.
As always,
Yossi and his two dogs (one has lost a few teeth; one is trying to tear my sock to pieces but I see no chance for him getting out of it...)
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
22 August 2001, later
He got out of it. My dog, I mean. I forgot to tie the top of the sock and he just crawled out through it. Thought you'd like to know.
Yossi, again, with only one dog this time.
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...still same day, and as you'll soon understand - I decline all responsibility to the following lines.
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Bard, The Indeep
22 August 2001, even later
Hi Bard. I'm Yossi's dog. The one that got out of his sock.
I'm writing you in this funny language some of the humans seem to possess, to tell you just how low my human has fallen during the last few months. On a scale of one to four (never learnt to count more) he is definitely a five (told you, never learnt to count). Last night it peaked unexpectedly, stuffing me in his left sock, an unwashed item stinking more than even a dog can bear, and started chewing up my biscuits. Why, even I don't eat the damn things - they taste like cat's shit. But he kept chewing, chanting African war songs, and hitting the keyboard with the mouse. The live one. Poor thing, it hardly knows how to spell 'cheese'.
Anyway, back to this Yossi human, if you don't do something really fast he's going to join a bananas republic, the one of the gone bananas guys. He kept laughing, jeering, chewing more of my biscuits, and intoning strange words like 'binomial distribution' and 'statistical divergence' and calling me cat names (lucky for him I was still stuck in his sock...).
Dear Bard, I know he's terribly fond of your family (he keeps mentioning your mother), he yearns to hug you (he keeps mentioning mainly your neck), he needs your calming presence very close to him (do the words nine millimeter mean something to you?) - please, please, help him, let's do something for him, I'll forgive him for calling me Mitzi and you'll do whatever he keeps mumbling about for the last two years. And together we'll help a human overcome his natural limitations and get back to his natural position of dog feeder.
By the way, what kind of a name is Bard, it's because you don't have a tail or something?
Woof, Woof
PS The mouse stole one of the biscuits and is back to his hole; what the hell does everybody seem to find in this lousy dog food, I for one would go for a Big Mac.
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...that damn dog, I didn't even know he knows PC's, I thought he's a pure Mac's only guy. Anyway, now I've sawn the top of the sock, let's see...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
03 september 2001
I'm depressed. So what's new you ask. Nothing, except for the fact that I'm telling you about it. Look, I work in this wonderful company, lots of money in the banks, lots of smiling faces in the corridors, lots of slogans on the walls. Glory to the Lord and Hallelujah to heaven on earth.
So why am I depressed? Because I cheated you and actually the above sentence should have been written in past tense. Kind of "Look, I worked in...". GGG¹. You see, somebody decided to depress the markets and suddenly all the wonderful things are not wonderful anymore. Suddenly slogans can be forgotten slash forbidden. Suddenly greatest assets (ie people) can become less great (ie fired). And suddenly sunny smiles - still abounding, become a health hazard - tiny widening cracks around the mouth's frozen (well, it was always frozen, but now with no money to pay for the cream oiling it into a maintainable state...) corners. So you see why? I've seen it all before and you had the opportunity to let me show to the world at large how it all looks like, how it all feels like from the inside of this change and you blew it! I lost my Pulitzer and you lost your Porsche (with open roof, bar in the back, and free fuel for seventy nine days). Shame on you!. Do you really think I am going to re-write my story again? No sir, I will just re-name the characters, re-date the memorandums, and re-send it to a REAL publisher this time, and I will get my Pulitzer (do you know how much money they give away with it by any chance??...), and you will lose your Porsche (with open roof, bar in the back, and free fuel for seventy nine days).
My revenge is complete. I am the happiest man on earth.
So why am I still depressed (I am asking now myself, not you, this question, because it should have changed after I wrote above lines)? Probably because I don't know how much money they give away with the Pulitzer, yes, it must be that. Sure. Oh, I feel so much better now. I won't even insult you at the end of this letter as I always do.
Thank you dear Bard, you've been a wonderful friend.
Yossi
¹Get it? Got it! Good!
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...do you remember the previous letter's date? Was it September? Well, what do you say to that, ain't I better than Nostradamus? Didn't I tell there my dear friend Bard this lie about "...I worked in this wonderful company...". Don't I now wish I should have bet on it, since come December 2001 it really came to happen...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor and Happiest Mammalian on Earth, The Indeep
14 April 2002
Dearest Bardy,
Too late. I'm on my way to famous oblivion, you're on your way to be remembered by the history books as the one that history forgot.
It really happened. I'm really dead. Look what happened to Van Gogh after he died, look what happened to my neighbour after he died (he was buried). So you're the one that refused to take ownership of my genius, now we're both dead. Not as Van Gogh but as my neighbour. Too late even to cut my ear off. I'm in a tough spot right now. You see - I was fired. So I have to forget about fame and all I have to remember is fortune. After all I have two dogs to feed... yes - also some other members of the family (they insist...). As a result I have to interrupt my unsuccessful career and start chasing the fortune. You, not being of any help at all, I have to dump my support of you as well, therefore sadly making you into the happpiest mammalian on earth. Doesn't matter, I decided to even stop hating you for a limited time.
Please let me describe this pathetic scene of which I am witness at this very moment. I am sitting across from a young woman with yellow hair, who is talking nonesense to a small black box which has a stick sticking out at one end, and seems to tickle her ear since she keeps giggling uncontrollably. Or maybe she is telling the box about us - I and You not I and She. Wait a second, she is looking at me, I believe she even waved - she has probably heard by now the overwhelming news about the book being sold (not thanks to you) in promising single digit quantities. And she wants part of the boodle. Well she can forget about it. I already did.
Incoherent, ain't I? Yes, I'm losing it I know. Maybe because I'm not really in the mood right now, but as some people take to eating on such occasions, I've taken to writing to you. With the cure probably worse than the sickness, but what do you care. I'm sure you sense it. You're dying to get insulted and I'm not even up to my below than normal standard. Looking for a job that keeps eluding me (I will tell you in a later letter some of the excitement which befell me in the process...), being - thanks to you - a failure as a writer, a poet, and a mortuary obituaries composer, now I am looking on the Internet under the 'One Word Poems' site, hope to find something there.
Hope you'll miss me terribly, I will not miss you at all,
Your never never friend,
PS Yes, all of you lovers and admirers of this fine poet's subtle gentle lines - don't forget, your Dear Editor leters are much awaited, I'm getting as dry as the Sahara in July (here we go, another of those deeper, existentialist poems...)
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...losing a job, finding a job, it's all in the hands of lady fate, statistical coincidence, and a few loyal friends. Of which it seems I am lucky enough to have just the right combination of. So after a resounding slap, here comes a resounding rebound. Back on my feet again and able to source out some additional inspiration based on almost true facts...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor and Saddest Mammalian on Earth, The Indeep
26 May 2002
Dearest Bardy,
I have a jo-ob, I have a jo-ob, I have a jo-ob... double o-o'ing since it should be sung in tune to some happy sing-songing. Even if it's Mozart's Requiem as long as you can keep it high and happy and add some bongo drums to it. Of course making you, Bard, the saddest mammalian on earth. You wish I moved to Mongolia, don't you? Forget it! The job over there consisted of herding goats in the tundra, and they refused to entrust this kind of responsibility to an MBA character. So this option disintegrated into thin air. However, with the help of a good friend of mine I succeeded to find something, of all places, locally. So back here I am and we're gonna have so much fun together that you're gonna cry. Promise.
I'm in such a good mood that I'm going to share a secret with you - I'm not in love. Have you ever been not in love. The spirit soaring, the blood drumming, the gouted toe swelling. I bet you never had gout. You poor sucker. Just wait and let me de-confuse my thoughts and pretty soon you'll see what I mean.
First - let's get it straight: I'm gonna share my most intimate moments with you in the vain hope that you're gonna be so impressed with my candor, style, and artistic creativity that you will move earth and skies to get me published. But you promise not to laugh at me. Or sell my secrets to The Mirror. Or The Sun. Or start writing dirty letters to my friends. Or sue me for indecent behaviour. My dear, dear friend, I know you'll do it. And you'll not do it as well. The relevant parts for each statement of course, whatever these may be.
OK, OK, I know you're impatient - here comes love scene number one, a true story bless your heart: I am working in this decrepit, old fashioned, spider webbbed company. And at the reception works this gorgeous, beautiful, natural blonde Swedish Viking wonder. Of course female, what kind of question is that? And she's the happiest soul on earth - singing every morning to everyone that dares come to work, dancing triple pirouettes every first Monday of every even numbered year, a real piece of sunshine.
She's so happy, so wonderful that one day she decides she's had enough of our bullshit and it's about time to get the hell out of our establishment and try to remove the gloom from the (other) gloomiest of places - a lawyers office. Leaving us to our own gloom gloom gloom (that's to emphasize the gloom). Which we fully deserved, didn't we. Stealing my heart and two of my pencils, one of them with a broken tip...
I missed her terribly. So I decided to tell her so, in a straightforward mature way of course. On the occasion that one of her leftover colleagues left as well, a one KK that not many could stand and many could not, I humbly wrote her a note soaked with immesurable grief, checked it for typos, removed any references to sex (many), patriotism (some), and mortgage fix interest loans (one or two), and sent it. Going as follows ...TAKE 1, click:
Hi there queen of the wild ones,
I got your ship address from one of your subjects over here and I thought like asking how are you... Do you run around in the corridors also there shouting and waving "good morning" to all things living and dead, or is stiff frozen and maccabre like any respectable good law firm should be? Nothing exciting over here either except for KK's leaving which was taken by your department's compatriots as a major national disaster (...the best... the helpfulest... the whowillbringthesoupnowiest...), crocodile tears all over the place and all I could see was crocodiles (you don't intend to quote me, do you?).
Well, short is good with no time to get boring, therefore I'll bid you here good bye and hope to hear from you from time to time,
Greetings to Thor,
End of TAKE 1, click. End of love scene number one.
So, Bard my friend, what do you say, isn't it a piece of master? A masterpiece I mean? Huh? Admit it.The emotional depth, the magnificent power of expression, I'm so happily sad and psychologically disturbed... hey, no wise cracks, ah...
Since even I know that you cannot answer before you get this letter in you hands, I'm carefully folding it now in three, slowly and gently sliding it into an envelope, lovingly licking the backside of the king... the king's stamp I mean (you do it to your queen, don't you?), and here it goes to www (wonderful wise whooppeee) you...
Of course, above sentence written in anticipation of doing all these remarkable acts of faith,
Me forever yours, and my bank account follows by registered mail,
Ooops - I was supposed to explain how the gout relates to the story. So, if you're really so hot on this info the only way for you to get it is by answering my letter. Got you, didn't I?
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...in the same mood, later...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
27 May 2002
Bardy, Bardy,
You are an equestrian family member's hole, aren't you? I'm putting in your hands a piece comparable, if not in size then at least in dramatic value, to War and Peace, and you still choose to ignore me? It? Us? Do you want me to let everyone know you hate Tolstoy, you know what this will do to your reputation as a book critique, and book worm, and just worm? I'll give you ONLY one more chance, just ONE, no more and no less. And if THIS time I get no reaction from you you're gonna get just ONE more chance from me, I warn you. Don't say I did not.
You are lucky that I am in such a good mood, imagine what I'm capable of doing when this is not the case. One more shot, just one more, to my love life... hey, come back, where are you going? This is love scene number two, when the hero tries to impress his lady should-be-friend with his knowledge, sophistication and romantic delusions/alusions/conclusions/ protrusions. At the end of the scene the lady faints and falls on her stapler, damaging it beyond repair. Real drama, beware... TAKE 2, click:
Busy? End of Quarter and all this BullShit (BS for friends)?...
I'm kind of freak this week, any chance for "Some Enchanted Evening"? I bet you probably never heard of this song, and I bet it's a no go, but I bet you did hear of "nothing ventured nothing gained"...
So, after losing my house, my dish-washer, and my unique collection of dry-out spider webs with all this wild betting, it's time I move back to the safe haven of writing my first symphonie (which I never started...)
One thing's sure,
love,
me
He rides into the sunset, his horse's mane undulating in the wind, she runnig desperately after them holding up in her hand the hoof the horse lost when he kicked her... strings music... End of TAKE 2, click. End of love scene number two.
Fine, fine - freak, free... why not frisbee you wise guy... this is not the point, did you like it, does it not resound in your head like a thousand bells? What do you mean church bells? You ignorant, you Tolstoy hater, you... you... communist...
I refuse to talk to you any more unless you apologise inside three weeks from now.
PS (this doesn't count as talking) - I still owe you an explanation about the gout matter...
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...similar mood, the third part of the 'love trilogy', maybe later getting into quadrology or more...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor and Tolstoy Hater, The Indeep
28 May 2002
Mr. Bard,
You thought I wouldn't dare - did you not? So here you are, I keep my promises - Tolstoy hater, Tolstoy hater, Tolstoy hater... la-la-la, la-la-la... What do you mean I promised also not to talk to you for 3 weeks, who are you to tell me which promise to keep and which not, you better read this third act of my love trilogy, or else I will ALWAYS talk to you...
This is love scene number three, when the hero tries to bribe the heroine (sounds bad, could it be heroiness? I really don't know this one) - let's say the she-hero, so he tries to bribe her into the calamitous state of selling her love for a 2-digits dollars value (US dollars, not Canadian, she's not that cheap) or bearer bonds of a similar value. But she disenchanted with him long ago, and decides to disregard his pitiful prayers. He's pissed off because she doesn't answer his e-mails. In addition he's
also afraid that the state police are monitoring his calls looking for spelling mistakes, he's under such pressure that you could cut the tension with a choice of knives. So, close your eyes, take your pet iguana in your lap, and allow yourself to the realm of pink daydreams... TAKE 3, click:
So when did you move to the moon?
Well, if not, then - is it a safe line?
Actually it is a daily matter that brings me heretoforth (see Dixon's...) - we are looking for an engineer and there is a prize on his head (see attached). Anybody freed recently from your glorious company? And if there is and he/she gets the job we split the blood money...
So if you are there, alloooo... anybody home?... earth calling... yooohooooooo.....
(...and the only sound he heard was the monotonic hissssssing of ssssstatic on the line... and a terrible foreboding thought crossed his subconscious... I feel like eating a salad with feta and black olives...)...aaaiiii, you don't have to smash the telephone in my ear...
They both ride into the sunset, their horses' manes undulating in the wind again like in Take 2, one into sunset east and one into sunset west. Never to meet again until they completed a full revolution of the earth. By which time they'll be 35 years older in their bodies but not in their souls (+/-45 older there). And by which time they will smile at each other, make the sign of the cross and hold up some garlic, and pass unobtrusively on. And he will always carry around his neck the horse's hoof (see previous chapter) she hung there on a steel chain and that she carries the key to very close to her heart pacemaker. Same strings music as in previous chapters with symbolically mingled tuba sounds...
The sunset fades away leaving place to pitch black darkness (just some emergency light allowing the spectators to rush away from the theater to the nearest drugstore, I wonder why they always keep doing that)... A cat howls to the invisible full moon... No frog sounds... No crickets... Just the tuba...
End of TAKE 3, click. End of love scene number three.
I'm depressed. This kind of end always depresses me. So please don't add any more to my misery by comments about geographical accuracy, remarks about gout details unfulfilled promises, et co., I've had enough for one day to last me two. Let's be positive (that's for royal 'we') and let's wait eagerly (that's for me and my dog) for your constructive criticism, especially now after putting the full trilogy together; ooof, what a relief it is for an artist, now you can appreciate it to its real magnificent value,
Yossi, the trilog master... ain't I?
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...one year later, and some additional days, I completely forgot about my love for Bard till I decided to visit my site again. It was like yesterday (and I wish I would have forgotten yesterday... lol)...
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Ms. (haha) Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
30 August 2003
Bard,
You know that Shakespeare was a bard too? I said bard not beard. No, no, not bird... BARD, B-A-R-D. Are you playing games with me, all of a sudden you don't understand my accent? Even the written one? Hey, that's a funny, Bard made a funny... Bard made a funny... Ok, let's go back and stop with this stupid childish games, you child of an unborn mother... or whatever the insult is.
Yes, he was a real bard, not like you, just a bard. He also wrote many bards and things. And I am telling you all that just to break the ice that formed itself around your island during that long period... more than a year already?... wow... and which allowed you to hope that I died or something as wonderful as that. Well, I didn't, otherwise I would have sent you an invitation, after all we are friends, aren't we? We aren't, I know.
You will probably be depressed to hear that I published the book, that's why I am telling you this. True, it was self publishing, but it even sells, what do you say to that? And someone even wrote nice things about it, what do you say to that? And I even got a first (small I know, do you have to mention that?...) check from the publisher, what do you say to that? I didn't yet organize the festivities around the event but once I do, I promise not to invite you. And I always keep my promises.
By the way, do you know that I am trying now again with another agent? I have to, I am fed up with writing to you, you are so boring an audience, why... you never even write back. I know it is because I never send you my letters, but that's a poor excuse, you know? So if my new potential agent forgets to write me back an answer I will have enough inspiration to start writing himherit (that's political correct Americanish...) letters. But you are not off the hook, you will be CC'd on all of my future correspondence. How's I as a friend? Doesn't make you throw up?
Bard, you know that adding a star in mid your name you become a bastard? Yeah, I'm great at these games. Like you are at not being there when I yearn for you (that's the poet in me).
Love and kisses... just to keep you throwing up, that's the whole idea. From my dog too.
Yobbi (changed my name out of disrespect for you).
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...not one, not two... eight years later. Where the hell have I been all this time? Now older (both of us), stupider (only he), is he still alive at all? Not that it matters to this mono dialogue, as long as I am alive...
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RIP (?:);)) Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
08 June 2011
Dear B,
I hope you’re not yet senile. I am not, but in more than ten years (is it ten years already?... MG, time passes so slowly) since my last letter to you, so much could have happened. You might have been bitten by a Rottweiler, run-over by a train London to Cardiff, shot by a pigmy with a curare dipped dart, stepped on a live tiger’s tail, and so on wonderful things.
I write in the assumption that none of the above happened, and it is my sacred duty to make your miserable life even more miserable. If possible. Did I tell you that I finally published all my poetry? Sure, self-publishing (you did not help me, you dishuman) but I am happy. Now everybody will know what a creepy bastard you are, not accepting to help me. Sure, also re-issued my Hitech/Scitex book, with spot colors, ha-ha. Do you still have any liver left? If so, wait till I tell you this: I got my first check paid out to me, four dollars and fifty-six cents - envy is killing you, doesn’t it (if the bed-bugs didn’t do it meanwhile)? And all top quality, ready for the Pulitzer or Goncourt - whichever comes first. None did yet, but I have still many (two-three) years to live and I am patient. Oh, how I pity them if they don’t discover me. Like I pity you for the same.
How are your big feet? Hurting? At your age they should, and should never stoop. How are your neighbors - divorced? Are the new tenants drug dealers? Do their children steal your mail? Great, good kids. I bet the eldest is a chain-gang escapee, and hope you are the one who informed the police about him.
I have a new site. Contrary to you I do help others. I also keep looking for agents. Most are as analphabetic as you, so I keep looking. One day I will find the lucky one to get rich on my account and buy me a new keyboard. This one keeps eating my b’s, so if by mischance you see ‘astard’ know I meant to say ‘bastard’. You astard son of a itch.
Do I sound like being in a good mood? Correct, it’s a funerary one (I keep reading the obituaries, with each passing day the chances grow bigger. What do you wait for?)
Eternity yours,
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...almost ten years of silence and then two letters inside a week... I guess I must have been subliminaly - cross that - subconsciously missing my pal. My pal? OMG, I’m getting as soft in my mind as around my waist...
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NOTRIP (hope?) Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
11 June 2011
Dear BB,
Oh, my dear BB, I apologize so sincerely for my previous letter, I bet you found it invective, vituperative, objurgative, contumelious (I use a synonyms dictionary, this last in the series is to break the ive pattern), you’ll probably never forgive me. If you are alive... oops... that is. Which now I hope you are, yes, human nature is fickle - isn’t it? Especially when this nature belongs to someone who hopes to have in time sufficient letter-material for one more book. Sure, exploiting you, my dear.
Did I tell you how many books I have published already? I didn’t, I will not, you will have to find by yourself, and once over your heart-attack you will realize the size of the opportunity we both lost. We could have been rich by now, own a yacht (one each), a lover (one each), a Ferrari (two I, one you) not to mention a few seats at the Scala di Milano. Four each, accounting for the pilot, the driver, etc.
Yeah, sure, turning the knife in the wound, ha, that’s vengeful me. Wait a moment, someone rings at the door... sorry for the interruption, they just re-possessed my car. Who cares? Soon I will buy another, I’m on my way to become a best seller already. I have a group of followers, three of them (maybe even four), in no time I will have my pockets full and then, finally, I will forget you. No, I will not wish you dead, I will wish you alive to see and envy. Yeah, generous me.
Wishing you dead (I guess I did not yet make up my mind),
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...old age starts showing, I’m getting kinda gregarious, don’t I?... Well if below the neck gets silent then above it compensates, you know. BTW, don’t believe all those bad-mouthing me and trying to persuade you that “neck” should have been “belt”. Ha, the bastards, they are probably peeping-Tom publishers. I can’t even see below my belt, how can they?...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeeper
27 June 2011
Dear Bard,
Today is an historical date for me. It is the date between my birth day and my birth recognition day. Yes, this is the day of my non-existence, or in-existence, or maybe the right wording would be de-existence? You should know, though as a recognized analphabet you should not, but as a native speaker you should. Am I clear enough? I guess (hope) not, that’s the whole purpose of me these days, to beffudle you. Whatever beffudle may mean.
Is your newspaper still alive? It would be a big surprise with you around there not paying attention at all those aspiring genii invading your desk with words beyond your comprehension level and you burying their hopes and your newspaper’s aspirations in molusk-infested earth (sounds good, no?) Oh, God, I am so happy for you. For whichever undefined reason.
You mean you don’t know about my birthday? No problem, buy my book - you will see. Hey, hey, naughty, naughty... I will not tell you which, you will have to buy them until you’ll find the right one. That’s one of the ways to become a best-selling author, I read it on the internet, the “how to become a millionaire in one minute” site. Great site, great advise. I am already 75% through with their advices and it seems to work - I’m at seventy three dollars and thirteen cents down the road already. No, don’t believe all those denigrators, these are just millionaires wishing to keep the secrets to themselves. I visited the site’s owner in jail, oh, such a great chap. He promised me THE one advise not on the site, on condition that I pay his caution of ten thousand dollars. I took a mortgage and did it, now I’ll be a millionaire in no time.
Hi Bard, I don’t have a dog now. I have a tree that is about to die.
Hi bard (sorry, my capital b doesn’t work suddenly), I am usually more coherent but you bring the worst in me, probably also in my keyBoard. Oops, the B is Back, But now I cannot get rid of it, proBaBly the curse you But on me. Damn, lost another letter, Better I stoB Before I lose all to this caBital B.
I hoBe you still don’t love me,
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...a few more months, rather years. I am at the stage (i.e. age) where women stop counting. Men too, I guess. I read in the obituaries that... hey, I will not depress you any further than I do already for many years, not that I pity you but that I worry not having who to depress later on...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeepest
07 October 2013
Dear BH,
The introduction written above applies to all my readers, sure, yet it applies to you in particular; mainly because you don’t read me. Why, the hell? Do you fear that intelligence is contagious or what? I promise you – nothing of the kind can ever contagiate you, even if such a word would exist.
Did I tell you about my becoming a retired old man of old age of old habits since recently ago? What do you mean there’s no “recently ago” combination, are you retired too? So how would you know? Yeah, you’re probably rather retarded. First reach my situation then claim knowing or not about things which we, retired old men of old age of old habits do.
I have some bad news for you – I have just published an erotic-poetry book. Yes, I know, you’re not yet my age yet you envy my libido, he he. Yes, my cholesterol level... I mean my testosterol... argh... I mean my testosteron level so incomparably higher than yours, look at you, you did not write even one erotic book, you did not yet touch a Viagra, you are a lost case. Do you know that I tried and I tried and I tried to find a suitable rhyme for Viagara and the only thing I could come up with was foie gras which is horrible and I hate and is in French and disturbs the elegance of my poetry? Ah, you do!? So you DO read my poetry, you bob (bastard of bitch). You don’t? Oh, you like foie gras... even addicted to it? Are you sure we don’t talk about Viagra you mob (master of bastards)? I am sure you have a collection, all colors and all sizes alongside all of my books which you know one day will make you a rich man when I die and you are the only one who bought them. I have news for you, dirty old man: I bought them too! Doesn’t it make you wish you had that Viagara earlier on and choked on it?
Dearest BH, I wonder who is nearing senility here. Not me – poets don’t get senile, they just lose their mind.
Love me?... Huh? Why should I ask it of you? Now, here’s a mystery...
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...less than a month?... wow, looks like I am too bored in my retiredhod. Maybe I miss you too. Maybe I gave up missing you. Maybe my name is Josephine. Yeah, maybe we can swap dentures?...
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Ms. Bard Hompkin et Co - Books Editor’s wife, The Indeeper still
26 October 2013
Dear Ms. BH,
Your husband never loved me, whatever they say in the trash magazines is utterly and completely and totally wrong. There was never anything between us except for the deepest depreciation (is this the antonym of appreciation?). It started already before I had a dog, continued during my dog life and continues after. I loved my dog more than I ever loved your hubby and this is a fact. Hope this sets your heart at ease.
Dear Ms. BH, did Mr. BH ever tell you about me, my books, my aspirations to get published, my perspirations to get same, my inspirations leading nowhere? Yeah, I know I talk nonsense, I had just a glass of fermented cucumber juice, this is what fermented cucumber juice does to people. You should know, Mr. BH likes it as well. I read his memoirs. Yes, I know, he wrote none, I read them. Yes, if I’m an idiot then what does it make you? An idiot’s non book editor’s wife correspondent. Shame on me.
Dearest, please tell your hubby I did not mean all the insults I proffered his way all those many last years. I had no better insults so I used whatever I could, not always highly literary expressions. Maybe this was the reason he never answered.
Do you love me? Don’t answer, I know, I don’t want to embarrass you.
Don’t love you.
Confused me.
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...exactly one year later, to the day. I don't cheat, promise, though I might be a tad inaccurate as to the hour, or minute, or second. You forgive me, right, you being so eager to read my next letter in my BH saga... no, not gaga, saga I said. Hmm, are you too getting hard of hearing?...
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Ms. Bard Hompkin's hubby, the one and (luckily) only, The Indeep
26 October 2014
Dear Ms. BH's hubby,
I decided to blog you. I mean I don't normally blog but you and I are so intimately related that blogging to you would not betray my otherwise introvert relationship with myself. Tell me, B, what is wrong with sex? Sex, you know, that thing when a man and (usually but not necessarily) a woman do things to each other's body no one would have dreamed of doing and, mostly, it is quite entertaining to both parties.
Oh, you don't remember, ok – trust my word, it is mostly like this. And I find it quite intriguing that some people find it quite revolting, I honestly would appreciate an honest opinion from you on this subject. No, has nothing to do with you being a bastard editor and me being a downtrodden poet, promise you I won't bitch about it for a few paragraphs.
Listen, or rather – read, I'm watching this horribly great TV series where people kill each other and rip each other to pieces and eat each other in perfectly accurate and zoomed up and slow motioned gory anatomic detail and this includes old-young-men-women-children-animals and other of God's blessed creation, yet there is not even one bare breast or one half ass to be seen in any other scenes since, so it seems, people would consider it nauseatingly indecent – ha-ha-ha-ha-ha... and some more ha's, don't you find? So absurd. Idiotic. Pointless. Dumb. Moronic. Etc. I would even call it ungodly, wouldn't you, B? Show in infinite detail the insides of a ripped open throat, yet sow nothing at all of the outsides od a bare breast. Brrr... frightening, is this what we humans have become.
Now, and here it links to our special relationship – I you, your wife, my dead dogs and so on: could THIS be the reason that my writes are so unpopular with you and the rest of humanity? The fact that I talk so decently about sex and breasts and other organs? Maybe I should start talking about the insides of ripped open throats? I can take a lot of anatomic information from the internet, you know? Could this bring me so much desired fame and the money necessary to go to the hair-dresser more than once a quarter?
Your opinion counts immensely to me. After all you are an editor, idiot but editor and I appreciate your wife's opinion so largely that I am inclined to appreciate yours as well.
Me.
PS – just halfway through another erotica poetry book. Do you think "they" will stone me?
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...finally, a Miracle...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
24 November 2014
B,
Finally, oh, praise the Lord, the miracle happened. I got today my 59th rejection letter, yippee!!! Finally some light in my life. I KNEW I was going to get my submission accepted and back came the rejection, yippee (again), if it ain't a miracle then what is it, you small minded... editor (imagine here my tongue out)? And what better befitting day than today, November 1st, the day of the dead and its appropriate celebrations.
I think a thankness sacrifice would be appropriate, don't you think? No, not a human sacrifice, you pompous idiotor, I was thinking of something more appropriate, more modern... say... hmm... a rubber doll, he, what do you say?
Oh, I'm so excited I cannot write a longer letter, I hope you understand, I am all hiccups and rash and a brand new furuncle at the tip of my... hey, some highly gratifying secrets better be left untold.
Wish me luck, please, wish me luck even if you hate me as much as I hate flat Coke, please my dear friend-enemy of forever (especially forever after). This day I love even you, even flat Coke.
I
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...finally, another Miracle, though this letter has nothing to do with miracles...
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BH
01 November 2015
BH,
You know, BH, BH is Beha in German, meaning... brassiere. So perfectly befitting your attitude towards me, or what it should have been was it but the right size and shape. The way you, Mr. BH, work in reality is like an oversized BH for an underside B or the other way around. Hmm, I wonder which one I would prefer to keep as metaphor and memory. I wonder which one your wife prefers for daily use. I bet she prefers her lover, anyway.
Aha, hit a nerve there, I see, those sparks in your eyes that are not there when you read my poetry... got them finally to explode... so you are some kind of human after all, not just another humanoid lizard. Or lizardoid human. Good to know. Good to know? I wonder.
I don't want you to feel sad. Sadness is a sentiment I cannot stand, even in you, therefore I will not tell you about my 64th rejection. Aiming for a Guinness, thus I keep all the rejection slips in a secret place and hired an armed guard for them until I get recognition. You'll be surprised what the black market is willing to pay for a rejection, and even more – what it is asking for one, ha, I would have had to mortgage my house if these wouldn't have come in so easily and numerously. Easy life for me, no? Don't tell anyone please, this is my greatest secret and I decided to share it only with you, my one and only true and sincere enemy. Thank you. For not giving me a chance and thus making me a star. Guinness is also some kind of stardom, isn't it?
Today it didn't rain.
Tomorrow it didn't rain either. Yes, makes one ponder. Over the sense of the sentence, what else?
Forever mine,
Yossi
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...blaahhh, out of intelligent words...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
25 April 2016
Bard, oh, Bard,
Oh, Oh, Bard... and the Oh, Oh stands in as a synonymous onomatopoeia for Oh Weh, Aaugh, Ouch, Ow, Uggh, Yeow, Oy Vey and other in other languages (au in Romanian, aráy in Filipino, àhhà in Hindi, aduh in Malay, bzzt in Nepali, ooauy in Urdu, jao in Croatian... and so on; this just to prove to you my multi-linguistic ignorance, haha [kar kar kar in Basque, wakakaka in Indonesian, and so on as well]). Thus – Oh, Oh, Bard, I‘ve gotten older and you’ve gotten even older still, and my back is creaking and my lips are smacking and my eyes are squinting and how are your back and lips and eyes, my dearest (dead maybe?) Bard?
So many days, years maybe, have passed since I wrote you last, that I forgot what I wrote you last. Actually I forgot even what I wrote you first as well, I mean first lines of this mail, so I keep reading them just to make sure I do not repeat myself and bore you (to death, hopefully?... hmmm, doesn’t make sense but... well…).
I am a grown up. i.e. adult already; you are as brain-dead as always, which is not necessarily a comforting thought, seeing that I hung (probably hanged would be better said) all my hopes, future and writing career on your afore mentioned brains, and this before I knew of the “dead” attribute going along with them. I will die unknown, that I know. I will suffer the insufferable qualms of the ignored, I know. I will read and re-read my words wondering where it all went wrong (I know it was with you, but I will disregard this knowledge, just to pass the time). And I will keep self-publishing since we both know that once I die, there is a chance I get rich. I... meaning whoever steals my words, since steal they will, as already happened. And whoever steals them will become the Shakespeare of the future while the real writer (yours, humbly) will never be given credit (like whoever wrote the Shakespearean texts). Sure – conspiracy theory – isn’t it beautiful?
Did I tell you that I started writing poetry in Romanian? Romanian, you know, that country with such a horrible present and such a glorious past, literary as well. I was born there, did I tell you? I was educated there, did I tell you? I drank water there from the same well (before Tschernobyl) as their biggest poet, did I tell you? Yes, I told you about Tschernobyl, I know, why don’t you listen to the rest? Aha, brain-dead, I see.
Yesterday I was thinking of you, while mowing the grass, imagining you were the grass. While cutting tree branches, imagining... you know. No, you can’t know, your imagination is zero and maybe you’re dead. Oh Well! Oh Weh!
I will end this missive. I wish it was a missile.
I don’t love you, never did, never will.
Y ^^^ (^^^ stands for XXX but inversed, my own invention; good, isn’t it?)
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...6/6/16... almost the devil’s number... gulp!...
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Mr. Bard Hompkin - Books Editor, The Indeep
06 June 2016 or 6/6/16
Dear BB...
...short for Brigitte Bardot (the one with the boobs), BlackBerry (the one with the bits), BaBy (urban slang), Bed & Breakfast (mainly bed), Beauty and the Beast (mainly beauty), Bard is to Blame (mainly bard and mainly blame), and so on... dear BB, I don’t miss you.
I know I said it already in the past and you are tired of me repeating myself, thus I will not repeat it here, until next time of course. You see, age has this advantage of short memory (goes along with no hair, lots of wrinkles and other rejoiceful things of which you are aware, you being so much more aged than I am... I think, maybe even dead?...).
Guess what? I got an offer which I rejected. I rejected it already before receiving it therefore I did not, technically speaking, receive it, but this is an irrelevant detail, right? But I have to say it so that your envy eats away at your liver (and bladder, of course). It was for a poem I intend to write once I have the inspiration, so it was very real, see? Even the birds in my courtyard cheered me up when I told them (mainly the pigeons and mainly on my car’s windshield... lucky me).
Today is Monday, maybe in Australia it’s already Tuesday, don’t know.
[Break. Had to find a corner to scratch my back. Better now.]
[Break. Had to pee.]
[Break. Had to have a break].
I know, I know, this is not the kind of letter one writes to an editor, asking to be published. But since you count as Bastard son of Bastard, not editor, this is acceptable, you’ll agree with me. Any other kind of letter didn’t work either, anyway, therefore who cares about “kind of letter”. It wouldn’t help anyway until I mass murder or similar to draw the attention of the masses (those left alive), you’ll agree with me. My poetry is damn good, it is my flat personality and flat pockets that is the issue, correct?
Let me quote one of my poems to you:
Start quote.
End quote.
Yes, that’s it, anyway you wouldn’t have read it if there was more so why go through the effort? I will send one next time I write you a love letter, maybe by then you will be institutionalized already... you know which kind of institution I mean, you are soooooooo intelligent and handsome. I would have married you if it would have gotten me a publishing contract.
I still don’t love you (repeating myself, I know).
Yossi
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