August 16, 2011

Dear Nancy,

I wanted to pass along some of the things you left in that white canvas duffle inside my garage: Forty-six postcards glued inside the pages of a spiral notebook. They seem to be from Judah? (I won’t comment on the inscriptions, but I would love a hint as to who Darci is. Also, why the references to some particular wheat field in Calgary? I am assuming the Sinéad referred to is not the bald one who incidentally, I think, became a nun.) One very worn men’s t-shirt from the Big Sur Lodge. Holes at the neck. Twelve pairs of platform shoes. (The orange ones really defy explanation—they are nearly four inches high. Jeez. Your knees must creak and pop like mad? I’d imagine that makes it hard for someone who spends a lot of time—oh, I am not going to finish that. It was lewd, and really, the pot shouldn’t go after the kettle, as they say.) A red velvet bag that houses a blue velvet bag that houses a gold mesh bag that holds maybe eight or nine gold chains, cleverly separated by twisty-ties. There is also a crystal champagne bottle box that was transformed into a jewelry box and holds seventeen pairs of hoop earrings, 11 rings, 23 bracelets, and some leather strap things that might be necklaces, or bracelets, or a fancy version of what you use to tie a turkey before you put it in the oven. A small photo album of the boys. More pictures of Silas than Shane.
I’m just saying.

A leather bag, brown, with silver and black braided-fringy things hanging off. It is filled with some items I will pretend I never saw, but I am sure you know the one I refer to. A giant Costco-size bag of Red Vines. A box of drinking straws, opened. About half-full. Various rare jazz LPs. Keely Smith featured heavily. A sort of crushed vintage champagne box holding seven thimbles that are definitely antique, some vintage buttons (fairly beautiful ones), and some of those things… What are they called? Bobbins.

I hope you are doing better than the last time I saw you. I can’t imagine you have changed much despite incarceration, fetching little recidivist that you are. You know I mean that with love. Certainly you are not evolved in any substantial way? Stay out there in the dark with only that parchment halo as some kind of tricky GPS. Your moral compass will always give you a fake speed limit. Use it. Drink up that narcissism juice and burn rubber, baby. Don’t ever change. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if you grew a conscience, but what’s more, I have grown to love you. We have only two or three things in common despite sharing a body, but that doesn’t seem to matter. I don’t feel like quitting you just yet. Anyways, I am keeping your stuff safe. Send news.



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