Untitled
"the most heterogenous ideas are yoked by violence together..."
The bar above this reads untitled, and, perhaps for a moment, it is untitled. But like all things, eventually it will be typed, cataloged, stamped and sent merrily down into the annals of someone's history, most likely as some arbitrarily selected name that has little to do with the full value or merit of this letter. Take for example, the last letter sent to you. It was labeled, "Superfly." Or the letter before that. I'll refer to that letter most likely as "St. Augustine." So this one, this one will remain "Untitled," because that's what will make it so special... it's intrinsic lack of labeling.
"You know I have the greatest enthusiasm for this mission, Dr. Chandler."
It is a dark, early morning hour as I sit here at my computer, typing away. While I remember laughing about someone some years ago who typed all his love letters on the computer, I sit here now, writing to you.
To be sure, though, I don't really think that you would call this a love letter. Nor would you have called what went on tonight "a date". I figure that when it all comes down to the wire, you probably wouldn't label anything. While that is a fair enough proposition, I don't know what to say about it, principally because without a way of labeling and describing, I can't really talk about it: a clever way of avoiding the whole subject.
You, madame, are a genius.
Hotel la Rut... I think I am in a rut, to be honest. I feel as though everything I write--the disco episode, the dance card, grass essay # 164--has been written by me before. "I'm just trying to fill my dance card!"-2/3/92. I've written that at least ten different times in my Composition Books over the years, and still, this makes twelve.
People say that browsing through old diaries is so nostalgic, but for me it just goes to show exactly how much history repeats itself. Take for example, the concept of, oh, let's open a page here...
No. I don't want to. Everything that I come across is so painfully repetitious that I think we'll just skip on to a new subject.
Yeah, I'm in a rut alright. Even this letter, a letter complaining about this phenomenon, feels old hat. As though I write these letters every day before breakfast... What the hell?
It's 2:05, and I am babbling. On paper, mind you, so that you can scrutinize my every word. Once... once I wrote things that seemed to break away from the mold of the "tell-what-I-did-today-and-how-I-feel-about-it" type of entries. But within a month even my poems all sounded the same. "Frizzy Whispy Sideburns" and "Chief Big Chin" all ran together in a sort of poetic mish-mash that left little to the imagination.
A Continuation of the Letter upon which Sean McCormick has Mercilessly Tacked a Thousand-Odd Pieces of Writing, dated circa 25 June 1993, 12:28pm
I went to dinner and coffee with Travis tonight. Dinner was refreshing, but coffee was depressing. Denise and Cara showed up while I was in the bathroom, and when I came back they had taken my seat and taken over the conversation, where it firmly rested for the next hour and a half. I went to coffee with goals: I was determined to explain to Travis the whole scheme of things from my point of view, hoping that it wouldn't result in a disappearance. Instead, I stayed silent while Davey and Cara argued for an hour over whether Robert DeNiro or Al Pacino starred in Scent of a Woman. I am happy to report that Davey owes Cara dinner. Yeah. Wow.
So now I sit here at the old computadora planning my preliminary Convalescence. I figure it will have to be soon, as things are getting worse around here. I was tempted to just forgo the completion of this letter and go straight to Dave's so that I wouldn't have to be alone tonight, but instead decided to complete this letter and send it off to you.
It is 1:21am, and, to be completely honest, I have typed seven different endings to this letter. None of them really worked. One went on a childhood tangent, another on the reasons for my possible Seclusion, still another one babbling about how much I dislike pettiness. Blah Blah Blah. But there is a newsflash to turn this letter into a happy one! Scottie Garrison (Loggerhead) just called and asked me to come over. Scottie and I haven't talked for the past four months (ever since Spring Break) so, well, to make a long story short, I think I am going to end this letter now in hopes that I can still make it over there before two o'clock. An otherwise uneventful and depressing evening may still yet be saved!
