abbie

3/27/2010

 
Abbie Birthday,

I am trying so hard to write good letters that my blisters have turned to diamonds.  I am going to get fired for practicing my spacing and kerning on my break instead of smoking like we’re supposed to.

The weather is still bad. All this wind from China or Wal Mart or Beyonce’s latest perfume.  It’s like living inside of a bloody yolk in a garbage can. It’s been making me cough gold dust, which pays for all this postage. The diamonds don’t cut it because of the way they are shaped. I’ve only ever gotten a few pounds of bees out of them.

Did you get the toast I neatly folded into the envelope? Eat when it’s your morning and my night. We’ll make an afternoon of it.

I know this isn’t going to work. But I went ahead and measured the distance between us anyway.  I did it with whales and covered them in cement so the tides don’t mess up my precise measurements.

You’re going to sell my letters back to the post office aren’t you? Or to Lady Foot Locker. They’ll stuff my letters into all the sad Nikes on the clearance rack.

I know what I like. I like speaking French and laying on my back in diner booths. But I feel like no one ever wants to tell me what they like. They just want someone to split the wine with.

I am putting this letter and all the ones you should’ve written in the compost pile. Let them be beets. Let them be half organic beet and half conventional parsnip. That’s probably all they wanted to be in the first place.

The worms will hold them. Worms have a thousand tiny arms and a great sense of humor.

You can’t imagine how ugly I am in person but I know you’ve tried.

Chris Anthemum
 
A--I told you I am not good at keeping in touch. I have a hard time with the imagination. So it is hard for me to keep in touch because it is so figurative, the keeping and the touching. 

Things here are okay. Everybody is making a fuss about you, which is why I remembered today to write. You are really becoming more tangible. You are becoming so many different people and different things. I haven't seen the movie, but I am sure it will disappoint me. 

I am afraid that connection is vital. It is like how I have always known that looking at veins and tangles and the way fungus grows. Getting a degree in hermitage may be the thing that ruins me. But what I don't understand is how to decide on anything. What makes life force valuable, for example? Why should I value my existence just because I'm stuck in it? I never asked to be. I couldn't have. I am a root in a mass of roots. But now that I know I am a root I can't go on. If I see myself I grow transparent. 


I can hear the singing from the mead hall even here in the cardboard mountains. I am destroying myself. It's not my fault. 


You should come back soon.


G
 
Hippomenes,

we are out of golden apples, boy, Herakles took the last batch and we saw no point in making more. times are hard, boy, materials are dear, the gold is better spent on toothpicks and letter openers. no one wants an apple that you cannot eat.

so to win a fast huntswoman, there are a few things you may do for under $10. braid her hair. whip her dogs. feed her to the giraffe at the zoo (suggested donation $4). gum will sticky up the track, but your jaws will ache from chewing it.

another thought. have you ever had an artichoke? related to the thistle. it will sting sharp through her sandles, and such a queer-looking flower! she may chase it anyway, though it is just green. $4 or 5 for $15. a real bargain. (discount miracles not guaranteed successful) but you can steam for an hour and dip in butter and scrape apart each leaf.

& some women react favorably to being compared to choke-smothered hearts.

cheers, and let us know how it goes. will make a great story for the web site if you succeed. vegetables unite worthy suitor and king's daughter in failing economy. take lots of pictures!

all the best,
the Hesperides

.echo. 10.15.09..

1/31/2010

 
Echo has red hair and skin so pale you can see her blood vessels dilate as she blushes.

Echo has black hair and sallow skin that grate like scales.

Echo has straight hair and no curves.

Echo has voluptuous hair and sinuous contours.

 

Her mother, who can’t see, complains: 


bejeezus Echy, make up your mind. I don’t give a damn what color your hair is. It’s gonna fall out someday. So’s your skin. It feels tight and supple now, wait til you get to my age. Ever heard of small pox? The Indians? You could pull their skins off like peeling boiled beets. 

Don’t like beets? I don’t care about that either. You’re gonna eat these beets.

If your urine isn’t purple tomorrow you know what’s coming.

It’s good for you. What’s good for you doesn’t have to taste good. You don't know what's good for you.


Love,
Mom

Dolores / Ophelia

10/2/2009

 
.suicide note. 9.30.09

Ophelia,

This time I want to be the one wilting in the cow pond. What fun! Was it very hard to hold your breath until they thought you dead? Let us say I am a limp stalk of celery left too long in the sun. Let us say my navel drifts slowly with the current and HE finally cannot bear to touch me. I'll roll down my socks all slovenly. You'll be waiting with the coroner and a butterfly net to fish me out. Make sure he doesn't try to sneak "Lolita" on the death certificate. Try not to giggle! Look solemn! Say your name is Sofia and you're from the Hague and we'll have the most marvelous picnic when I am done corpsing.

Love and lollipops!
Dolores.

Alice / Wolf

10/2/2009

 
.i fall down. 10.02.09.

Wolf, I told you not to leave the toilet seat up twenty times already. I also told you not to leave your socks on the floor. I tripped on your stinking socks today. I have a huge bruise on my ass, and a cut in my hand. If you're wondering why there is blood everywhere it's because you leave your socks on the floor. I'm not cooking dinner tonight unless you want bloody sandwiches. Get your own dinner.

By the way, Grendel wants his mp3 player back. What the hell are you doing taking his things? Don't think I don't notice. I've just about had it with you. This trip was a bad idea. Don't knock on the door with your furry hands. I'm going to sleep. Your blanket is on the sofa. Don't try any of that sugar tea stuff with me this time. It's not going to work. You'd done that way too many times and I'm not going to be sheep skinned ever again. 

-Alice
 
Dear Xena, Warrior Princess, 

my beets spelled out the saddest sonnet today, all 

"the grifter sighs when at the end of day he's won
so many hearts and bills of sale. he's numb."  etc etc in dirt-smelling iambic pentameter.

they always think they are so emo! just because their juice looks like blood. i smeared some on my mouth and looked like a monster.

love, 
Shirley Temple

Grendel / Alice

9/12/2009

 
Grendel is a sad little fucker with a thirst for vengeance... vengeance he's been surpressing for thousands of years. Turns out he didn't die when Beowulf ripped off his arm. He spend a while nursing his wound in the bottom of that swamp. Now he's back and taking on college, working as a gardener and house-sitter for Alice, retired looking-glass-traveler. A bit mellower, he's still dealing with self-esteem issues from the past. Here are the letters he sent while cooped up in her whirligig-infested house. Click below on "Read More" for the full text of their first exchange.

 
c.,

i’m writing this while leaning against a streetlight, 
looking like a lost cat poster.

i’ve been here a long time. there are prizes 
from the machine in my pocket.

you’re probably pissed. join the crowd waiting 
for me in the parking lot.

dirt like me has no choice but to give you everything 
should you find your roots buried.

when someone grabs a pizza, everyone picks off what they don’t want.  but no one can grab some toxin out of the ground and feed it to a dog with his fingers.

you are covered by dirt. i wouldn’t necessarily call that holding.

i am going to step back from the picture. or the water. 
and look down.

a.