October 30, 2014

Ruminations on living multigenerational families (Portland, OR)

[Note: This is an unsent letter to P. I ended up reciting it to her near-verbatim several weeks later at a bar in Idaho.]

And you're lucky. I live in a generational vacuum. I have no children and my grandparents are all long dead. So it's just me and my folks, and when they're gone it'll be just me.

It makes you lose interest in the world, or in the world's well-being in the long run (or something). I don't have any special vested interest in this rotating ball other than than myself. When I die, it can burn to an ashheap for all I care. I'll no longer have a stake. It's sad.

You, on the other hand, have a beautiful little girl who needs you to take care of the world for her while she's growing. So you have motivation. And that can get you out of bed when nothing else will.

There's just money, and booze, and girls for me. It's tedium. It's UTTER tedium. Someday there will be something, but it ain't here yet. I can't PERCEIVE it.

So anyway, I think you're lucky. Four generations alive together. I gotta communicate with my grandparents with a ouija board. You can get advice from 'em and shit. It's cool, I'm sure.

Epistle à P. (Portland, OR)

[Note: I wrote this drunk in bed and may or may not have sent it. I deleted all records of my conversations with P. in a drunken fit on Christmas night, 2014, along with various other conversations with women.]

I want to smell and taste you. I want to leave handprints in the flesh of your thighs and on your shoulderblades. I want to find your stray hairs on my pillow in the morning and tangled in the teeth of my switchblade comb.

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