Bill Callahan’s Letters to Emma Bowlcut arrived today. A great surprise for a breezy summer day. The first thing I did when it arrived was smell the pages. I do that all the time with books.
I thought eventually upon completion of the whole thing that I’d get around to reviewing it all but certain things you can’t contain. And certain things you want to share as they’re happening, as they’re fresh in your mind and reeling on your senses.
…I got blitzed last night and wept like I was being whipped. Robin asked me to never call her again. The ceiling and floor are so thin I was half hoping that one of the annoying women from above or below would hear me and come up or down from their beds into mine. They never came, but I could hear one of them creaking the bedsprings with her lifted neck and I took it as an act of commiseration.
I’m empty from bawling. Feel like I need to take a wife. And my hands smell like gunpowder. Happy birthday,by the way.
Work teeters. I keep the instruments in good order through disuse. Silver discs in boxes with mother-of-pearl inlay and velvet lining.
I think it’s a good idea not to give a fuck. I find myself suddenly not giving one. And I’m well aware that you can reshelve the books in flawless alphabetical order while still not giving a fuck. My good gracious lady, my light behind the rabbit’s ears I fall at your feet and kiss your mansome shoe. Please ignore the flask exposed in the process.
It’s slowly unraveling and unveiling itself.
♫ ♥ ditte