Scarlet, my dearest, it seems that I have fallen madly in love. Again. I know this timing is dreadful, but is not it always when it comes to such things? When it comes to such things.
You can’t possibly imagine how difficult it has become for me to rise from bed these mornings. The gelid sting of it all whips me into a composed dissolution, and so I lie bricked under heavy covers in wonder-less antipathy towards daylight and other mediocre tchotchkes in the clutter of being alive. On some days merely crossing the street seems like a Herculean labor. (You would say, “Heracles.” I know.) On yet others I am confined to this dour room in a state of nervous apathy spelled by quaking bouts of ferocious want. Please do not disown my kind just yet. We are all, after all, merely a bunch of sorry suckers stuck in these bodies. What can one do?
Scarlet, my lovely. Can you not still sing for me with that voice you own? The most wonderful pipe set in the known world, it is. If my druthers were but mine alone, that voice would ring out beyond the hills of my sadness for all the grape-green world to hear. Alas, this purporting gets one nowhere. I grow stale and shiver, dreaming of hot water and mischievous handmaids.
The crowds have come for me. I cannot shake them, or this emotive tug on my willpower. Laundry is war; nothing is fair.
Scarlet, my Chattanooga baby. Lest we fail to take into account the charity-case of my disappearance from broader circumstances-- us, who should be so fortunate, fortunately not to bevel our lives with such circumstantial stuff-- there, in the coddled bowsprit of a Tennessee blush, like face cards never held or folded, well-not-to-do or be, we are.
To what merrymaking does sturdy the functionality of rise-and-shine readiness to face another day of whimpers and high ceilings? To where? And who faces this reflection daily, too? Who? Well, let me not disregard the alarm from this disaster. And I would definitely enjoy to extrapolate on the condition of the sober pansies of the world in these meager and cushy times we find ourselves in the midst of; but that is but a work order for one more substantial and hardy than I. You do not nor ever have or could understand such matters, correct? If I were but only wrong. Another if. Yes. And we, as always, are just these fluttering, flimsy and fragile organisms who run on bacteria and sunlight; who shave and take in the paper and feed themselves and mope about their surroundings. Leading on that there might be more to us, we developed this ability to craft language, to sucker those around us into believing it too-- as if any of us who live only in a drop of eternity’s split second could matter at all. “Just passing through,” as you used to say, just like only you could.
Deepest Scarlet, all the colors of me are runny and blurred. Madly in love? Perhaps that is just a substitute for this dissolution I’m behaving through. My intrepidity has swam away in a riptide of fashion. To fall, to grandly just go, to reach a “there” in love’s throes and echoes. It is all madness. You must understand this etiolation brought on by the constant shift from fasting to gorging. Perhaps I will trademark it. Set up shop on the 14th floor of a decaying sandstone office building and sell my wares low and high, and lower and higher all the time. But, alack, I am not a carpenter either, and you are not my lady. Madness? I am shifty with it.
Scarlet. I am boring.
Through the window’s blinds I see slits of outside. I am wound loose, sashed, disposed to lugubrious tries. The shutters can’t keep me. The curtains are for other more heavyset dahlias-of-fancy to contemplate. Turn me in. I am not pleading. Through the opaque glass I am lost, eyeless in a thousand Gazas. Do not let on to the help. Disguises suit and betray what condolences I have left. Another thing’s coming. I am certain of it.
To train oneself in the business of disaster, corrosively or not, to a matte finish, and then, again, the imponderable chore of rising from bed each morning evolves into one long evasive morass. “What next?” I ask myself in the long shadows of another drizzly ominous afternoon. I lie there and inspect the ceiling, its cracks and peels ribbing out in absurd faces of bulbous eyes and racehorse brows. Cartoon bubbles of lurking skulls and guillotined smiles. Scarlet? You know me. I can never lie low enough.
Love’s mad vilipending intercedes, and I know my conscience cannot take what is proffered; but, again, I take and take without regard to sense’s hark or thrift’s lump-of-coal sadness. Scarlet, my Scarlet, lie low with me-- or lower still. We could roll and rock away all of this, together, in the company of each other’s arms. Do not envy the dash of what this moon-mad music portends. Just one more together, and then…splat goes the moth’s dreams against the wall.
Again. There it all goes. Society hushing all genius except those whose genius is making money. It gives the finger to the temperamental genius of the artist, for it produces no taxable income. Again. There I go too. With it to be mostly not with it. Without it, and, at last, to be without you too, my lurid Scarlet. Yes. I am broken. But were not I always?
As my feet grow colder I have taken to placing my socks on the heater. Pulling on those toasty cotton foot-covers is now my only pleasure. But it is a great one at that. And I do not think I would be still here yapping away about these things if it were not for it.
So. Blather, blather, blather. Scarlet, this was not done for you, or only for you. Not at all. I am not what I think. Blather. Blather.
I am not so true,