296/ July 23, 2011 - Cause of death: unknown / Cause of life: not knowing
Dear friend, there are times I want to be mountainous or momentous but momentary (the ever meanwhile) is all I ever acquire. The fire inside me does not burn, and so I write to you for lessons on scorching. Singe me with your singing— you with the seaside view and the childhood swing set tied to intertwined trees of memory. Free from inertia, the friction of the soul. Yesterday, I read a Whitman poem that begged the question: “If my body is not the soul then what is the soul?”
This, my friend, I want you to answer with your tongue of fire, your inferno of words. Send it in an envelope made of seawater. I am writing to you on a paper boat. Love, C.
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