March 27 2018

I got your letter yesterday. It had been chewed, but most of it was legible.

Yes, I heard about that scene. Apparently, this character also keeps a purple-assed baboon on a lead, sometimes whipping the animal through a crowded café. [1]

So now you know why it went from a white to a red house. Some economists are saying it will cost a trillion dollars. Until they’re blue in the face “there is no problem”, they say. Have you tried stealing a bear’s honey? They can crush a skull easier than you can crush a gobstopper. These new weapons are everywhere and everyone has access to one. No-one knows who’s responsible anymore.

It’ll be arousing if the button does get pressed. Imagine how suddenly alive you’ll feel knowing the world is about to end. What will you do? I guess the baboon will be okay. They’ll probably fire a dart into the beast’s neck. For humane reasons, I suppose.

Can we only watch the show unfold?

A.

 

[1] The Letters of William S. Burroughs 1945 – 1959, Ed. Oliver Harris. Picador, London. 1993. p. 273

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Jesus Fucking Christ

I saw the cross raised above the horizon.

Rags of thoughtless bones slumped against the mounds were easily remembered and drawn by thoughtless drones.

Christ; every day, every fucking way and every fucking way the thieves seek salvation.

And the Bishops stare with greedy recognition of expectation.

Doomed; the feasting viewers unknown to their fate amongst thieves and rags and the corpse on the mound.

World War I – Coward

I heard the news.

Like most people I felt sick with worry.

How could this be happening? I mean, really happening? Is everyone mad?

Like most people I wondered what it meant.

Like most people I felt regret.

 

Wait, one second. Does this mean…

I’m not sure about this,

I’m not sure I want to say how I think and feel about this.

I’m not sure,

This is a good idea,

A good decision, a good solution, and a good way of resolving things I can’t, maybe, control.

Or can I?

Maybe…

Maybe: I don’t want to face the guns. Maybe: I don’t feel “brave”. Maybe: I’m surviving. Maybe: I’m thinking of my children, or those I may father. Maybe: I think this wrong and I don’t want a part of it. Maybe: I don’t want to contribute…to this.

Some newspapers publicly hounded us. Those who dared to think different; questioning the meaning of what was printed and the purpose of willing sacrifice. We were publicly ridiculed as “cowards”.

Of course, there was always a journalist available to write about such cowardice.

Sadly some of my closest friends turned against me. They thought exactly what they felt based on a sensational view of the world written by someone who would never experience their position. They were provided for and “safe”.

They also died.

I wore a White Feather with pride because I asked questions that could not reasonably be answered with any logic suitable for humanity to progress.

Apparently, I was a coward.