STRAWBERRY LETTER 20
Hello My Love:
Just because you get shit on doesn't mean you'll have a bad day. Today, running at the frozen beach, I came upon a sea of gulls standing on the snow. I regarded them pleasantly. But, then, I felt a gentle slap on my cheek. I actually heard a wet "slap" noise in my left ear. I reached up and wiped my cheek and found green and white goo in my glove. I had not merely been shat upon. I was slapped with shit. What epiphany came from the moment?
I am definitely not a simple man. My life is filled with suffering and anguish and confusion and addiction and illness and poverty and death. It is also filled with great joy and great love that flows from concern for others, flows from concern about the state of affairs, flows from my deep and abiding connection to you. Extensions of this complexity are my attention to (seemingly inconsequential) details, my zeal for literature and art and film and music, and my general "live by example/go with the flow" attitude. I am also constantly aware that my health is a primary concern, and that my current "thinner/fitter/happier" kick is a good thing that should be encouraged. I am, in a nutshell, a man with too much on his mind..or, more accurately, in his mind. I am not a Rennaisance Man, seeking enlightenment through the humanities. I am a post-Post Modern man who knows too much already, and hunts for understanding and meaning in order to stay sane.
Now, post-Post Modern men are many things, but they'd still rather drool at SuicideGirls than read Ulysses. And isn't Ulysses really about drooling at SuicideGirls, anyways? There's a moment in Network, where Faye Dunaway says, "the American people are turning sullen. They've been clobbered on all sides by Vietnam, Watergate, the inflation, the depression, they've turned off, shot up and they've fucked themselves limp, and nothing helps. So, this concept analysis report concludes: the American people want somebody to articulate their rage for them." And so the patron saint of post-Post Modern Man was born. A prophet and a martyr.
There is little argument on whether things are worse now than then. So what would Howard Beale say today, had Tim Robbins not assasinated him? Perhaps he'd post his eloquent rants on a respectably smutty web site. He'd exorcise his mind in a more deliberate fashion. I'd like to do that, too.
At any rate, I conclude by revealing that, although I, too, am sullen, I have not yet fucked myself limp.
Sincerely,
Shuggie's Ghost
Ambassador, Prague of America, USA
Hello My Love:
Just because you get shit on doesn't mean you'll have a bad day. Today, running at the frozen beach, I came upon a sea of gulls standing on the snow. I regarded them pleasantly. But, then, I felt a gentle slap on my cheek. I actually heard a wet "slap" noise in my left ear. I reached up and wiped my cheek and found green and white goo in my glove. I had not merely been shat upon. I was slapped with shit. What epiphany came from the moment?
I am definitely not a simple man. My life is filled with suffering and anguish and confusion and addiction and illness and poverty and death. It is also filled with great joy and great love that flows from concern for others, flows from concern about the state of affairs, flows from my deep and abiding connection to you. Extensions of this complexity are my attention to (seemingly inconsequential) details, my zeal for literature and art and film and music, and my general "live by example/go with the flow" attitude. I am also constantly aware that my health is a primary concern, and that my current "thinner/fitter/happier" kick is a good thing that should be encouraged. I am, in a nutshell, a man with too much on his mind..or, more accurately, in his mind. I am not a Rennaisance Man, seeking enlightenment through the humanities. I am a post-Post Modern man who knows too much already, and hunts for understanding and meaning in order to stay sane.
Now, post-Post Modern men are many things, but they'd still rather drool at SuicideGirls than read Ulysses. And isn't Ulysses really about drooling at SuicideGirls, anyways? There's a moment in Network, where Faye Dunaway says, "the American people are turning sullen. They've been clobbered on all sides by Vietnam, Watergate, the inflation, the depression, they've turned off, shot up and they've fucked themselves limp, and nothing helps. So, this concept analysis report concludes: the American people want somebody to articulate their rage for them." And so the patron saint of post-Post Modern Man was born. A prophet and a martyr.
There is little argument on whether things are worse now than then. So what would Howard Beale say today, had Tim Robbins not assasinated him? Perhaps he'd post his eloquent rants on a respectably smutty web site. He'd exorcise his mind in a more deliberate fashion. I'd like to do that, too.
At any rate, I conclude by revealing that, although I, too, am sullen, I have not yet fucked myself limp.
Sincerely,
Shuggie's Ghost
Ambassador, Prague of America, USA