A hurry.

 

Untitled (doll's shoe & drupe), 2019



Dear Little Ones,

I must break my pattern to send you this right away!  You have probably noticed lo these many years, that I like to send you something every few days, maybe twice a week, with a kind of flexible reliability.  I don't want to leave you so long that you get lonely, but I also don't want to crowd or overwhelm you.

I was sent this beautiful bit of writing from a valued & treasured pal, which is what makes up so much of my substance in this venue.

I know you will love it as I do!

A better time.

Dear Ones,

I am sorry to bother you again, with another thing I think you really must read.  Yesterday I read about the selection of an engagement calendar and I thought I'd have to come over and get you up out of bed it was so good, but I figured it could wait, maybe, until a better time.

Who knows when this better time will come, and we all know that it might not come at all.  I should have given that coffee boy the cobalt blue glass mug that he admired and now I cannot.  I have no mug, I have no coffee boy, I have no status for such an exchange at all.  What, you wonder, does that have to do with coming here and waking me up now?  It's just that it's that good, and that real, and that important that you read this little thing, this very short thing, that won't take hardly any of your time.

I have given you books and instructions and admonitions for reading Tove Jansson before; because she is an absolute favorite of mine.  I cannot understand at all why she isn't a Major Literary Figure.  She ought to be on the shelves with all those damned guys that you are supposed to read:  Melville, Faulkner, Joyce, Steinbeck, and a bunch of others that I don't even bother with at all.  The good news is that you, dear friend, are here, and so you can read this wonderful bit of writing.

Permesso.

Dear End of July,

A bit of writing for you, today, if you feel like reading.  See, it's not just the topics, it's not just the facts, it's the telling and sharing of the space.  It's the hearing of it.  An artist once talked to me about 'permission.'  I didn't really have a clue what she meant by it then, but I kept it, I kept it as a question.  What could it mean?  Why would I need permission?  I didn't think I did need it.  Some days you don't. 

For the other days, you want an essay like this one from Dave Hickey.  He'll give you permission and plenty of it, and even a little salute as you go in through the out door.

 Press here to link to the Paris Review.