Letter to Allison

Letter to a Friend, or Ramblings of a Madman

Dear Allison,

I was reading through "Poppy Seeds" tonight and honestly it seemed even more advanced than when I read it initially. How do you do it? What is the key to your magic? I know, magicians aren't supposed to give away their secrets. But honestly, what is it? Do you have an IQ of 160? Have you been working day in and day out for the last twenty years? I'd honestly like to know because I see none of the same magic in my own work. "But Dan," you'll say, "I feel the same way about my writing when I compare it to others." I understand that. Fine. But still, I am not satisfied. I have such high expectations for myself. I am certain that no one has as high expectations for myself as I do. That is my curse. I suppose it means that it is more likely that I will impress others, but only because not as much is expected of me in the first place. I am not a great poet. I am a mediocre one. That's all I'm saying. I am not smart enough to be a successful poet. Not like you. I remember you once saying that you thought I was a better poet than you were, and do you know what? I actually agreed with you. God, how blind we both were in our youths! What fools! Still, relatively, I am a fool, but you are not. Who knows, the difference might be as simple as five IQ points. But, damn it! Why couldn't I be on the winning end? Hah. How simple of me. How just plain stupid of me, to be bitter toward you. I apologize. I suppose part of me wants you to squash me like an insect with your intelligence. But I know you won't. You're either too kind or too intelligent to do that. You'll do the wise thing, which is to ignore it. If you come up with something better, that only once again proves your superior intelligence. Yes, I am a wretched bitter little fool.

Sincerely,

Daniel 

Dan,

What if this email is the beginning of a novel? Sometimes we have good writing right under our noses but don't realize it. Keep writing it--I think it captures how a lot of people feel sometimes. It certainly captures how I feel sometimes, for what it's worth. 

Allison

Dear Allison,

            Turn this into a novel? But where would it begin? And where would it end? What kind of story arc would there be? I suppose I could have the narrator meet a woman and start a romance. But that would mean I would actually have to meet someone, and we all know that isn’t going to happen anytime soon. It would have to be a very long novel, I suppose. And to be honest I’m not sure I could fill that much space, my intellect being what it is. What was it someone once wrote? “Talent writes a hundred pages. Genius writes a thousand.” Well, anyway, I will think on it...

            I think I understand why you want me to write a novel. It is so that I can feel somehow different when compared with you. More confident, more singular, as you yourself are not a novelist (at least not yet). You want me writing in a different field so I won’t have to compare myself to you anymore. But let’s face it. I’m not any more likely to succeed at writing a novel than I am writing a collection of poems. Probably less likely, as I have spent less time writing fiction than poetry.

It is ten o’clock at night and I can already tell this is going to be a long letter. It is cold here in Boston, and the heat is barely working in the group home I am currently staying at. I think it’s about time I moved into a place of my own. I suppose you might ask me if I am really ready for that. Probably not, but I might be forced to do so if I can’t find a way to fill my required twenty hours of structured time. I do ESL tutoring a couple days out of the week. That’s all the structured activity I have besides therapy, which is once a week, generally. This week I didn’t have therapy for whatever reason. My therapist must have gone on vacation, or something of that sort. She is habitually late, and she frequently looks at the clock during our meetings. She is a woman in her mid sixties, I believe. Somewhat attractive for an older woman. Jewish, with a nasally voice. She caught me looking at her thighs once, and seemed rather pleased by this. I would imagine a psychologist would be good at sensing when one of their clients is sexually attracted to them. Though, unless the patient is a sociopath or something of that sort, that attraction bears hardly any weight in the relationship—not with that overwhelming platonic weight we keep passing back and forth between us. I suppose at this point, the only way to really shake up my therapy sessions would be to make a pass at her. And who knows, maybe I will...

I suppose it is possible that I am ready to live on my own. I am not the same person you knew from back in Cincinnati. You remember, don’t you? That guy who was constantly ranting and raving at the stars, drinking wine at parties, constantly morose and isolative? You were already an established poet then. I was just too blind to see it. Oh, if only I had devoted my energy to learning as you did! If only I had devoted myself to studying everything with a fresh and eager mind, kept away from drugs and alcohol, it all might have turned out different!

           

            I can see that this letter will take me all night to write. At least I have the sound of my roommate’s quiet snoring to keep me company. He really is a poor sort. Granted, he is very old, but my guess is he always has been old. He is very self-contained and serious, socially-awkward to the point of excruciation. I think he has asperger’s. All in all he is a good man, very gentle, even if he does like things his own way. The room itself is cold, as the heat is barely working. I am writing at my desk. Beside me, my bed is unmade. I would get up and make it but I feel its disheveledness suits the tone of this letter, and even perhaps helps me write it. My desk is covered in books and papers—letters I haven’t sent, poems I haven’t finished, forms for different agencies that I have yet to fill out. It really is a very cramped room. The walls are painted a deep shade of blue, and there is only one lamp—in the corner—and its lazy light adds to the overall oppressive feeling of the room. There is one window, that overlooks the street, and I can see it when I turn my head. Yes, this is the perfect place for me to write this, I feel. Just the right amount of dreariness and overall claustrophobia. I am taking you up on your idea, turning over a new leaf, so to speak. This will be a novel with no real beginning and no real end. Maybe we could make it a series of letters. The wannabe poet writes to the master. Or not. It’s up to you. At least I am trying something different. That’s always a good sign, even if it does include the reintroduction of a habit like smoking. (I have started again.) It’s scary, though, trying to break new ground, especially when you have a sub-genius IQ like mine. OK, I’ll just be dead honest with you. My IQ is 135. At least it was in my early twenties. If anything, it’s dropped off in my later years, as I have become less of an avid reader, more concerned with celebrity gossip than the themes of Tolstoy. What can I say? I have returned to my roots. Because, really, I was raised on trash. One can only read so much high literature on a foundation of trash before it falls away into the sea. That’s really what I should be doing—writing trash. I guess that is what I am doing, though I am not getting paid for it. Maybe I should apply for a position at some rag magazine. I’d probably thrive.

            But of course that’s not what I want. I want to write high literature. I feel like after what I’ve been through—all the mental anguish (self-inflicted, perhaps) and disappointments—I deserve to be a writer of high literature. But then again, don’t I really deserve to be happy? Maybe I do, which is why this whole venture is foolish.

            The secret of this venture, I think, is not to delve into the minutia of my life. To keep my life as separate from this as possible. Because, honestly, my life is rather boring. Of course I know that it doesn’t have to be. I simply choose to make it boring because I want all of the life to be in my writing. But if I could merge the two, perhaps—make my writing my life and my life my writing—then I think I’d really be on to something. Well, what of my life? I’m thirty-one. I live in a group home. I have no job, no girlfriend. I’ve been in and out of the psych ward since I was eighteen. I am still very close to my parents, to the point of childishness. You know, sometimes when I am speaking over the phone with my mother I even forget that she is my mother and not my lover. I have to keep reminding myself. My relationship with my father is just as complex. As you know, he is a psychiatrist, and probably a genius, or at least a great man. Part of me wonders if he wants to see me fail completely. But no, he is a good man. He wants only what’s best for me, which, for all I know, might be a life of continuous failure.

Someone recently told me I was an “old soul,” and that all of those things that occupy the time and energy of most of my peers are actually just child’s play to me. If that’s the truth, then Lord, give me a child’s soul for one day that I might indulge in a child’s pleasures! And when I say child’s pleasures, I mean pleasures of the flesh.

            I have had many friends tell me that there are more significant ways to receive pleasure other than through copulation. The joy of giving—of one’s time and energy and love—the pleasure of watching children grow, of experiencing true beauty. All of these things are nice, but really, what could be greater and more meaningful than erotic pleasure? At least, what could be more enticing? After all, wasn’t it God’s first commandment to “be fruitful and multiply?” Sure, you will say that that was God’s commandment when mankind was living in Eden. But then I would say, fine, let me return to Eden! To Hell with all of these lofty “rewards” of respect, honor, and brotherhood. Give me flesh! That’s the request I should be making in my prayers. And in fact, I do! Every night I pray for erotic pleasure. And what does God give me? Access to pornography and a jar of Vaseline.

            I know what you’re thinking. “Dan, you know better than that. Surely you understand that the momentary pleasures of the flesh are not enough on their own to satisfy a human being’s soul. One must have purpose, brotherhood, love.” And perhaps you are right, though I will not completely negate what this most lascivious side of myself suggests, because if I were to give up this underlying supposition that flesh is all that matters, I would cease in my desire to live at all, simply because without it, I would have to give up all of my ideals by proxy, and we all know that a man can not live without some ideals. I suppose it is that which we most desire and can never have that keeps us living, or at least striving to improve ourselves. But what about that anomaly of the man who has removed himself entirely from a life of self-improvement, who has relinquished his life in favor of constant (or as near to constant as possible) pleasure? I mean the Pushkins, the Caligulas of the world. Their lives appear tragic to us, certainly partially as a result of their behavior, but isn’t it possible that the lives that appear so tragic from a distance are actually the most fulfilling, the most joyous lives that can be lived? I won’t speak any more on that subject. It is not my place to answer this question, only to ask it as a means to suggest that pleasure, when it is experienced, is always a good thing. Certainly there may be consequences that are not good, but those consequences do not negate the pleasure.

            I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought up the issue of sex with you, a lady of genteel sensibilities. It’s just that, I really have nothing to say. I’m not Dostoevsky. Though I really do enjoy making myself sound like him now and again. You know, that insidious, masochistic tone that he always seems to take? (I like using words like that because it makes me feel intelligent. After all, why would I need to tell YOU what tone Dostoevsky takes in his writing?) Oh, but how I long to be able to write the kind of long, drawn out passages of complex thought and anxiety which Dostoevsky could create. Passages that seem to bleed like a stuck pig for hours on end. I myself am just an anemic little worm in comparison. Yes, an insect! The very insect one of his greatest characters claimed to be but could never convince the reader of because of his incredible scope and eloquence! I suppose I have some eloquence, but only to those who are stupid. To people like you, it’s just a facsimile of the greats, which I have read. Isn’t it? Please be honest. I couldn’t bear the idea of you being dishonest with me (though I probably deserve it). Do you see what I am doing? I am adopting the same tone as the nameless hero of “Notes From Underground” and lowering the intelligence by a great degree. What have I done? I have been too honest! I have painted myself into a corner and there is no escape!

            The worst part isn’t that I have painted myself into a corner. It is that no one cares if I am in the corner or not. You least of all. No, I take that back. People do care. They have me trapped. They want me so desperately to speak something sensible and profound. I have led them to believe that I have something to say of this nature. But I don’t! I only have this nonsense! So they impress upon me the rudiments of their value systems, waiting for me to spout it back to them word for word like an automaton. But the thing is, my memory is so bad I will never be able to do it, even if I tried!

            I know that this is masturbatory nonsense. I should simply just stop typing. I should go back to my pursuit of nothing, to replace this pursuit of...nothing! The only thing that stops me is you. You told me to do this. So I will push on to the very end. Whether that means death or transcendence, I don’t know, but I will get there. I promise!

            I realize your time is limited and that you might not even read this at all. You are an important person, with responsibilities abound. I myself am not. I have almost no responsibility. I spend my days in complete idleness. No one is relying on me, except maybe for the beggars. And who can possibly satisfy them? I suppose it’s what I asked for, this life of no responsibility. But I ask you, isn’t it my responsibility, since I have none to speak of, to invent one for myself? And so I have. I have created a delusion, perhaps, that I have a responsibility towards some unknown future reader who will somehow NEED my work in order to survive. That certainly isn’t a very realistic premise, but nonetheless, it is the basis for almost everything I do, almost the only real responsibility I have. Either that is a recipe for greatness, or it is a recipe for great disaster. Probably both, or at least neither.

            Tell me, my friend, is this all part of your master plan? A subterfuge of some sort to destroy my monstrous ego? Or perhaps a subterfuge to inflate your own? Perhaps you know that I will one day be considered great, and you so desperately want to be affiliated with that greatness? Hah. I have gone too far, I fear. Either way, I can only thank you, because I haven’t written like this in years. Perhaps ever. The words are flowing from me like a mighty stream. You, my friend, are the ocean! Perhaps you have saved my soul. Perhaps.

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I went for a walk today, simply because my mother told me I should get out more. Though, I don’t think she appreciates just how difficult it really is for me. I sat in a town square smoking a cigarette for a while, completely disinterested if not terrified of my surroundings. I feel I am too concerned with the immaterial world to be a secular writer. The world seems banal to me at best. It’s always the same good-looking college girls sitting at the same table discussing the same superficial topics. The same old man sitting on the same bench reading the same political shlock. And the same couples walking and eating the same cups of ice cream and laughing at the same stupid jokes. It’s a bad sign for a wannabe novelist, or for any type of artist who is trying to make it in the secular sense, to have this attitude, I know. I’ve often thought it might be wise for me to go to rabbinical school, write religious poetry, so it might one day be put into prayer books. The competition wouldn’t be nearly as daunting, probably. Maybe one day...

            Friends have told me I would make a good mystic. Maybe it’s the fact that I rarely cut my hair and I have a deep, textured voice. And indeed I’ve often thought of dressing like Oscar Wilde and sitting in hookah lounges all day reading Kabala. Perhaps I’ve been going against the grain trying to write these secular poems. Trying to fit into a world that really has nothing to offer me. But, as a wise man once wrote, religion should appeal to the hearts of the young, and that ship has sailed. Not that I’m that old. It’s just that I’m old enough to be borne about by lust. And that is a deadly sin that I am not willing to destroy in me just yet.

            Dostoevsky was right. It is lust that is the root of all sin. For wouldn’t you say that lust is essentially the closest thing to love? First there was love and only love. Somebody took that first step into lust, and from there, all other sins were created. At least that makes sense to me. But based on that premise, we’d have to believe that love existed before anything else, and then we’d have to define love, which, of course, is impossible.

            I fear that I have diverged too far from the main point and am boring you. What was the main point? Ah, yes. That I have no chance at success. Not like you. Do you know, I have been counting your successes. And each new success destroys me just a little bit more. I thought it was the end of me when you got that fellowship to Stanford. Then you got married, and, well, I was crushed. Wouldn’t it be lovely if this were success enough for me? If I had, in fact, no definition of success? Wait, perhaps I actually don’t, other than “greatness.” But greatness cannot be achieved. No, it can only be discovered. Nobody can know they are great, even if people tell them that they are. So essentially, my goal is to be discovered. But how is one discovered? Only by chance. Certainly, I can put myself out there (and to put it mildly I have searched for ways to do that). But where to put myself is obsolete if I am not producing work that fits the times. If no one wants to read my work, then how can I be discovered? I’ve had people critique my work, tell me where I can improve, books I should read, methods I should employ. Mostly, I have ignored the advice of others. Therefore, again, I am painting myself into a corner. Should I go back and take their advice? I know you would say that I should, if I feel that it might help me, and you are probably right. But it is so easy to just plow on through this wilderness that I have chosen, using whatever means I can to find some kind of higher ground. And when I say higher ground, I mean wealth, fame—you know, the same things all of us want. Maybe if I turned back, got down on my knees and wept to my superiors, begged them to teach me the way, I could achieve these things. But, going downhill has never been a strong point for me. The way is too steep, and my feet too unsure of themselves, figuratively speaking of course.

            The great fear, however, is that there is no new ground to find. Everything has been done, right? I’m sure somewhere in the past a writer has written a long letter to a friend and thought it good enough to publish. Only, you never hear about it because no one wants to read something that someone with such an inane premise for a book would write. Aren’t I right? But still here I am, insisting of my genius. The problem here is, I am a man who loves to hear the sound of his own voice, and I don’t really know if you, my audience, feels the same way. I have this...problem, you see. This...genius that must be satisfied with only itself and nothing more. I am rambling, but so what. Let me ramble, please! Perhaps that’s what this book will be called: “The Ramblings of a Madman.”

            “Oh, Dan, you are not mad. You know that.” I know that’s what you’ll say. But really, who are you to decide whether I am mad or not? You’re not a psychiatrist. The psychiatrists have told me that I have schizophrenia, that I am bipolar. These are chronic illnesses, which means, I am mad. Yes, for God’s sake! I am a madman. Do you want me to prove it? Fine. That will be the first thing I will really set out to do in this diatribe other than entertain. I will prove to you that I am a madman.

            I pray to God. Why, you ask? Because where else would I send my prayers? To you? No. God and God alone has the power to hear my most inner desires. Even I, myself, cannot really know my truest desires until I hear them being spoken to God. Let me give you a little anecdotal version of my prayer sessions.

            God. It is me, the great fool you have placed on this planet for no greater purpose than to entertain and be entertained. Yes, I know that love exists, but that’s nothing more than a result of good entertainment. Seriously, God. I have thought hard on this subject. You can’t...OK, fine, contradict me. I was put on this planet to love and be loved. But what if I don’t love? What if all my love has been shattered? No? It hasn’t been shattered? Very well. What should I do with this love of mine? Where should I put it?

            And do you know what God tells me?

            You must make a sailboat, Daniel. Out of wood that has been cut down by you with an ax you have made. You must make a sailboat and go to Israel, so you can lead the people there. For you are a great prophet, Daniel. The greatest since Moses. This is what you must do with your love.

            How am I to respond to this, my friend? Tell me how! God, the highest power that there is, wants me to be a madman. I mean, maybe if He had told me to catch a flight to Israel, or even catch a ride with some sort of cruise ship or something. But no! He wants me to build my own boat! With my own hands! So what can I do? I hide. I hide this madness in me wherever I go, from whomever I meet. Though, part of me thinks that they see it in my eye. And I play the part of a “poet.” Isn’t it only natural that no one wants to read my poetry? It doesn’t come from God. No. God wants nothing to do with my poetry. He insists that I go to Israel and be a prophet. Only, it’s utterly impossible!

            You might say that it’s not impossible, that if I really wanted to I could achieve this goal. But that’s what’s so terrifying! What if I did achieve it? No. It’s too horrible to even consider. But, as I said, I am a madman. Driven mad by the world so that God could have someone to pick on. There, I said it. How bitter of me! How horrible! But isn’t it the truth? I assure you, God loves to pick favorites, and He loves to choose certain individuals to serve as an example. And I don’t mean the Jesus Christs or the Abrahams or the Buddhas of the world, either. I mean people like me. Every day run-of-the-mill madmen with highfalutin ideas about what they’re supposed to be doing but never have the will or the gumption to do it. I’ll be a failure till the day I die!

            If that doesn’t prove I’m a madman, I’m certain that the hospital records I will have accrued by the time I die will. Do you know, even after all this time, I still don’t trust the medical professions. I still believe in demons, in good vs. evil and all of that mystical nonsense. I still sometimes feel an overwhelming sense of panic that my doctor is trying to kill me, albeit slowly, so that I won’t do what I was really meant to do on this planet. They all can see what I was meant for, but they won’t let it happen, damn them! No, they want to preserve the status quo, deceive me, distract me from my original agenda, which was to destroy!

            Wait a minute. Was my original agenda to destroy? Perhaps not. If God put me here to be a prophet, then I should be a prophet and stop whining. But really, what is a prophet anyways? Someone who speaks for God, right? Well, fine. Here. I am going to start speaking for God now.

The Prophet Speaks

Behold unto me, my children! This hour, the four winds collide here in my breast, and the winds of my voice will rock the foundations of your soul! Out of the East, a shadow, out of the West, a storm. Hear me, for my messenger will spare none. Take the money from your pockets, scatter it to the four winds. Burn your homes to the ground and eat the ashes. Regurgitate your sins! Take refuge only beneath my sky. Set free the horses, let the animals have their share. Strip naked and run wild. Go to the forest. Let hunger overtake you there. Eat your own flesh if you must, but let the fowl and fodder be. The tides are changing. Man’s hour has come! No revelations! Only death. That is my gift to thee, and the gift is good. Slaves you were born. Be free before you die! Suckle on the breast of spirit. Forsake the earthly milk. Live and die! That is what I command you. But do it such: Shut your eye to the earthly realm. Seek no promises from your fellow man. Your reward is death— no Hell, no Heaven. Lust is barren. Hunger, the last refuge of the damned. Hear the bells in the distance! They toll for the hour of no-man. Follow me unto death, if wisdom is what you crave. The path to death is clear. Be saved! If you see a staircase, hurl yourself down it! If you see a blade, grab it and slit your throat! This is God’s commandment. No place is sacred on this Earth!

And on and on it goes ad-nauseam, till the very stink of death seems to emanate from my tongue. You ask: “What is this anger? Where did it come from?” Well, certainly not from me! It’s God’s word, remember? To be perfectly honest, I had no idea what the content of that little prophecy would be. How should I know that every living human being is worthy only of death? “But it’s not true!” you cry. “Every living human being is worthy of life!” Fine then. I suppose I am a false prophet. Yes, I like that title very much. I think I will keep it. Is it so much better to be a bad poet? I’m not so sure that it is. I know what you’re thinking. How could I call myself a bad poet any more than I can call myself a false prophet? What’s bad now might be good later. Or maybe I’m just a poor assessor of my own quality. I like to believe that I am a “bad poet” or a “false prophet” because it replaces the title of “human being.” Because, God damn it, when it boils down to it, that’s what I really am. Just a human being. But wait, let me tell you why even that is so horrible...

I suppose on the surface it’s not so bad to be a human being, or even a being for that matter. (My roommate is snoring louder now. Perhaps he can sense my manic energy rising even in his sleep.) We have consciousness. We have bodies. It could be worse. For instance, nonexistence. Nobody really knows what that entails, other than the fact that it means we can’t participate in existence. Indeed, even those who are alive for just an instant get to experience the miracle of all miracles—life. So what’s all the complaining about? I will tell you. Because that thing that is alive only for an instant suffers pains that are infinitely greater than it would have had it never been alive. Look at my roommate! Completely and utterly devoid of spirit. He is nothing but a walking mass of poking nerves. Even in his sleep one can sense his anxiety! In short, pain is constant, even in moments of great “joy.” Life is essentially a long and arduous denial of that pain, which, quite frankly, is far worse than the pain itself. We deny ourselves every other right for the sole right to live; and life, I’m afraid, is superfluous in the greater scheme of things. If there is a God, He created life for His own amusement. If there isn’t, then life is an accident. Either way, we had no choice in the matter. Tomorrow the sun will rise and we will get up and go about our day as if we had a purpose. Then we sleep and dream as if anything were possible. Both are lies. There is no escaping it. We can only use reason to determine that this is the truth. But even reason breaks down if it is analyzed and scrutinized enough. So how am I to even know that life then is meaningless if my reasoning of it can be shattered by more reasoning? In other words, there is nothing at all to reason. There is nothing at all to prove or even to believe. We are wisps of smoke in the dark, slowly fading away. No consciousness, no faith, nothing.

I know now at this hour you are in bed, perhaps snuggling next to your husband, dreaming. Your smooth white skin bathed in moonlight, your raven-dark hair edged with silver. Here I am, in a fever, and the darkness weighs heavy on me. I know I won’t sleep tonight. I’ve taken to sleeping my days away and staying up nights. That and other poor habits—eating fatty foods and sugar, not getting any exercise—have left me in poor shape. Strange that, despite this, when I’m out in public, I always feel as if every beautiful woman I pass wants me. Of course, not for my body, but for my pretty eyes. It’s strange, knowing that one has pretty eyes—the eyes of a narcissist. I find that when I am looking at someone and they are looking back at me, I am projecting my awareness of my own beauty onto whoever I am looking at. And often, when I am staring out into space, I find that I am actually entranced by the remembered beauty of my eyes. I know what it is. It is desperation. The world itself most often does not have anything to offer me, so I return to my eyes, and imagine that they are two gigantic portals into the sacred realm. And when I do make eye contact with a woman, I can almost hear her thoughts. “What a cutie! What a beautiful man!” Where this narcissism comes from I do not know. Perhaps it hints at something real—perhaps even at the devastating reality that I am a beautiful man, and that I could have any woman I wanted. Why is this devastating, you ask? Because that would mean that all it would take from me would be a shred of confidence—real manly bravado—and then I could copulate with whichever woman I choose. In my little private hole I choose to deny this idea. Tell myself that I am actually highly unattractive, and that it’s all one big delusion. That, I can live with, because it means I don’t have to have courage, and I can return to my little hole and be comfortable in the dark by myself. But if there is one lesson about nature that I have been beaten over the head with, it is that desire always prevails. Then again, that leads to the question of whether I desire sex more than I desire comfort.

Of course, when I am honest with myself, I know that I desire sexual experience more than anything else. Certainly, when is someone more comfortable than when they are engaged in intercourse? It is simply the fear of rejection that causes me to be alone. I have built up this glass tower in my mind, representing my own worth. One rejection would be enough to knock it over. Or maybe that is just what I fear. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I should go out to a coffee shop and try to pick someone up right now. Ah, but the night’s darkness weighs heavy on my heart, and besides, it is unwise to leave one’s home if one is not going on a holy mission.  

I am sorry. I have gone on too long on the subject of sex. You must understand that it consumes me for the better part of my life, me being a man. You can forgive me that, can’t you, Allison? Me being a man? Maybe not. It certainly would be your right not to.

I suppose it is time to start thinking about where I am going with this, if there is a conclusion that I am driving at, and if so, what it is. Isn’t the saying, “Write with the ending in mind”? Well, for rhetoric’s sake let’s suppose that I do have a conclusion in mind, and I have simply forgotten it for the time being. By the mere act of writing, it will return to me. I just have to trust in the stream of consciousness. The subject will present itself in time, right? What if I am afraid of the subject? Just as in the case of coming onto a woman, desire will always take the upper hand, right? The subject, then, may be my desire. But what does this all mean? That is the key to all good art, right? The characters must have desire, even if the only character is the one who is writing.

Now I am going to say something that will prove my madness to you. The intention of this letter is not to expound on any form of philosophy or ideology. It is simply this: to break up your marriage with Ian and to win your love for myself. Yes indeed, that is truly mad. But it is the only logical reason I could come up with for why I am writing you, you being a smart, attractive woman, the woman I am closest to next to my mother. Perhaps since you already know me, this won’t surprise you. But I know it will at least upset you. Not that that is my intention. No. It is simply to win your love, even if it only lasts for the duration of your reading this.

I remarked earlier that we can’t truly know the definition of love. But I would like to amend that. We can know—in general, perhaps abstract, terms. Love is a feeling, combining desire for and knowledge of another person. Do I desire you? Not particularly. I can rationally explain to myself that you are attractive, but I don’t feel attraction towards you in that sense, at least not now, while you aren’t present. Do I know you? Probably not. But it is for this reason—that I neither desire you nor know you—that I am telling you that I love you. Because really, this letter is the shovel that is digging my grave. I won’t stop writing it until some part of me is dead that was living beforehand. So maybe this isn’t a love letter at all. Maybe it is a hate letter, for I feel bitterness, and bitterness can lead to hatred if one lets it.

I have one of two things to offer you: my atonement or my utter hatred. I will try to offer you both.

I know how this must seem. I can’t make up my mind how I want to proceed. I have merely concocted rhetoric to fill the void of this indecision, to make myself appear intelligent...

I am beginning to think that you gave me the idea for this project as a means to drive me insane, for I can feel the manic energy in me bubbling. Perhaps I should abandon this project altogether. I find myself gritting my teeth, my tongue moving rapidly in my mouth as if it were trying to break free, or, perhaps as if it were searching for something to say. I am straining now, searching for a new idea, but the only honest idea is staring me right in the face. I am losing my mind. If anything, whoever reads this will come away with a better understanding of what it means to lose one’s mind...

 What’s that? Wait. There was nothing. I am hearing voices again. A woman saying, in a seductive tone: “Why don’t you come out? Why don’t you join us? We’ll have fun.” It is coming from the window. It is night and I am alone.

I should have known this would happen. I have delved too deep and unleashed the furies. This whole long diatribe has been based on a delusion—namely, that my anger is justified. Now the delusion has completely taken hold, and hallucinations have come with it. I look at my hand. It is shaking, like a small delicate white leaf. Perhaps it isn’t long before it falls off. The hallucinations are bad, but it is the silence in between them that haunts me. Again, I hear a woman’s voice, laughing now, then little whispers—like children scheming. A bloody knife has appeared on my desk. It is the fates, tempting me, I know it.

I won’t stop. I can’t. Not until what needs to be said has been said. Oh, I love you, Allison! No. It’s not that. It’s something else. I hate you? No. There is something beyond love or hate that needs to be expressed.  What if this was all a trick being played on me by my muse? Yes, I like that theory. That’s the theory that will keep me going. But what if, then, this is my swan song? The idea terrifies me. The knife is still there. I reach out, touch the blade. It is cold, but the blood on it is warm. I lick my finger, taste the blood. It is so real.

I cannot but sense the irony in all this. I began this letter enthusiastically celebrating my own cleverness. Now I am headed into madness. Oh well, even in madness I will attempt to be clever. There are some men in this world who have adopted madness as their modus operande, who, because of some elusive intelligence, are able to use their madness to appear more sane than the average person. I think of the likes of Eckhart Tolle. These men live their lives with their minds circulating over the world like moons. Perhaps that is the stage that I am entering. If only I could find a common thread! A giant sun has appeared before my eyes. People are circling it with their hands connected. They are singing some kind of song. It is beautiful. These hallucinations are like dreams. The key is to not give them credence. That is when they take you over. The knife is still there. Perhaps someone snuck in while I was unconsciously writing and placed it there. Perhaps they know where I am headed...

How do I get out of this trap? Is there something you’ve said to me that I am not remembering? I remember a party we were at in college. I was telling you something about how I felt I couldn’t fit it. You reached into your purse and pulled out a finger puppet. Speaking for the puppet, you said something so enlightening. I can still see the playful glimmer in your eye. I believe you said something along the lines of, “If you feel like you don’t fit in, look at me! I am just a puppet. I don’t even have my own voice. Yet look how alive I am!” I am afraid I am becoming a puppet. My own mind is leaving me, and it is being replaced by some malicious puppet master. Who that might be I cannot say. Wait. Is it you? Are you actually speaking through me? Are you writing this? I should probably sleep...

Who am I kidding? Sleep can’t save me now. It’s been hours since I took my nighttime medicine, and still, no sleep. Lying in bed I had all sorts of hallucinations. I would tell you about them but to be honest I don’t remember. I am certain that I am experiencing some now. My fingers are typing on the keyboard. Only, they aren’t really my fingers. They are the fingers of the puppet master. And actually, the keys are all miniature versions of myself. The words that are formed on the screen are ejaculations from the miniature versions of me. I can sense that they are running out of ejaculate, but the fingers won’t stop. They will not stop till the miniature versions of myself are completely dry. Foolishness! I can sense that it is nothing but foolishness. Logically I can explain to myself that the only puppet-master is desire. But alas! I still don’t know what it is I desire.

The blade is still on my desk. I can hear its sheen like a banshee screaming. It is begging to be taken up.

But let’s suppose that the blade were even real, what would I do with it? Slit my throat? But why? What for? To prove a point? And what point would that be? That I am a man of firm conviction? Well, as we have seen, that is certainly not the case. And really, that doesn’t matter much to me. Conviction is either for people devoid of intellect, or people on the sidelines watching the drama unfold. Well here I am! With a full brain right in the dramatic muck of existence! But really, the reason I won’t commit suicide is that I am afraid. Not of death. It is the pain of dying I fear. I will put that off for as long as I can. I suppose in a sense the pain of living can be just as great. But then, one can get over the pain of living and keep on living—in relative comfort. But with death, the pain leads only to unconsciousness, oblivion, nothingness. And I know that there is one thing I will always desire, even if I forget that I do. That is, pleasure.

Let me explain a thought I’ve had on the topic of pleasure, if you don’t mind. I know I am rambling, but trust me, I have valid points worth making! Sometimes, if a person is as immured in as much pain as they must be to desire death, they must be reintroduced to the concept of pleasure in order to keep on living. This has happened to me many times. Oh, how many times has my mother cooked me a meal of toast and eggs, or shoveled spoonfuls of ice cream into my mouth to reintroduce me to pleasure? Only, now there is only one person who can reintroduce pleasure to me, and that is you. But you aren’t even here. And I won’t give you the chance because I have not yet expressed to the extent to which my massive intellect is capable of expressing just what it is I mean to express. Which is...

Again I hear the women’s voices calling from my window. They are even more salacious than before. “We can make you come,” they say. “We want to succor you, Daniel. We want to taste you.” Somehow I think that they are not serious, that they are trying to trick me, lead me on. But why? Why have they chosen me as their victim and not someone else? I know why. It’s because I have denied God. Because I was chosen by God to be a great prophet and have denied Him. So, yes. I will go mad. There is no stopping it now...

           

It is plain to see what I have done. I have alienated myself—from you and from all the world. But it is so late. There is no one to talk to, so I have to keep writing this. I have to keep some thread of sanity alive. Sleep is no longer an option. I will either say something of import or I will die trying. I remember Job. He suffered unspeakable tribulations because the adversary took everything from him. Well the adversary has given me everything, and I suffer just as much trying to give it all away. That’s what I’d like to believe, at least.

            The blade is whispering to me. It is uttering every unintelligible thing uttered by every stranger that I have ever passed in anxiety. Suicide by an imaginary blade? It sounds ridiculous.

            But no! Curse suicide! Curse everything! Curse God Himself! Curse especially God Himself. All that matters to me now is arriving at some point. And not just any point. But a point worthy of my suffering. Oh, I know what you’ll say. Referring to my prior statements you’ll ask me if anything is worth my suffering.  You’ll ask if life itself is worth my suffering. Well, I will respond that the answer is yes, but only begrudgingly, because I know it isn’t me at all that is keeping me from ending it all. It is God. And He is doing it out of spite.

            One might say that this is just the rationalization of a coward, someone too afraid of the pain it would take to end his life. And that, my friend, is the truth. I am a full-fledged coward. It’s what I’ve been telling everyone my whole life. But everyone just seems to want to negate this for whatever reason—to make me feel better, no doubt. But curse them! I stand firm to my self-imposed label. I am a coward! I will scream it from the rooftops if I have to! A coward and a fool.

            You laugh and say that no coward and no fool would have the gumption or the wisdom to call himself so, but that’s where you’re wrong. The best way for a coward to survive is by admitting himself a coward. How else would he avoid getting into dangerous situations? And I would even say that it is possible for a fool to know he is a fool. It might be his only substantial bit of knowledge, but he knows it nonetheless. But you know what else? A true coward will often have the feeling that he is in fact a bold and powerful man deep down. He will repeatedly convince himself of this, whether by shadow boxing or imagining himself gaining victory in a contest over his rival. He will go through his entire life builiding up his strength to prepare for some imaginary impending struggle in which he can show his imagined courage, while continuously and without fail backing down from any seemingly or moderately dangerous challenge, all the while maintaining the delusion that he may really be a bold and intrepid man, even if he is, essentially, a coward. This is perhaps the greatest of all the sadnesses of my existence, and I am glad to expose it to you now.

            Now, if it is permissible by you, I would like to make a generalized statement about hands. The size of a man’s (and only a man’s, not a woman’s) hands are determinant on what he is capable of achieving in his life. The larger the hands, the greater the achievement. I know what you’re thinking: “This sounds like hogwash. No one would even think to study such a ridiculous hypothesis, yet here you are proclaiming it as solid fact!” Well, fine. But I will have you know that I have been told by many a professor that I have a very intuitive and insightful mind, so who’s to say it’s not true? It very well may be. Either way, I will let it serve as a model for myself, who has, indeed, very small hands.

            You may be thinking that this is all just one long non sequitur, a platform on which to display my mediocre intellect. But I assure you, it all drives home the same point, that being, that I have a mediocre intellect and that I am mediocre in general. And I am driving at a conclusion, though I don’t know what it is. Oh, I know perfectly well what it is! I just dare not speak it, for fear of losing this wonderful tone of irony, or, even worse, ending too soon. I know that I am merely running in circles around the main point, like a dog chasing his tail. But wouldn’t you say that this activity is rather fun for the dog? Maybe the dog loves to chase his tail because the reality of his situation is so horrible that he’ll do anything to distract himself. And, in turn, couldn’t it just as well be said that people enjoy watching a dog chase its tail?

            Fine, I give up. This whole escapade, if I may call it that, has been one long struggle to prove to you and to myself that I am not mediocre. I have failed, I am afraid. Therefore I will take the steps that are necessary to mask what intellect I do have so that the better part of me might shine through.

            The blade is still on my desk. I’m picking it up and placing the blade on my neck. It seems real. Perhaps if I add just enough pressure, it won’t hurt at all...

            Wait, but now I hear the sound of the women again. I put down the blade, and go to my window. It is dark. No one is out there. It’s all in my head. But what is this? There is a little moth that is flying around outside my window—attracted by the light no doubt. As I watch it fluttering its little wings so desperately, I feel pity, both for the moth who wants to get in, as well as for me who wants to get out. I open the window. The air is cool and the moth flies in. I watch it fly about my room as if exploring the space. It rests on my nightstand. I stand watching it, communing with it the best a man can with a moth. I speak to it: “Hello there, little moth. What brings you into my room at this hour of the night?” But it doesn’t answer. My intellect goes right over its tiny head. I smile. Then the moth takes wing, flies around the room several times, and leaves back through the window. I stand at the window, looking out into the night. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of Autumn.

            I have forsaken my duties long enough. I will raise my voice (much like a prophet, but devoid of dread) and sing the song of the little moth that came to visit me, as a friend, in my time of need.

Good night, my little friend

Safe travels

Until we meet again...

Yours truly,

Dan