Dear Corina, (- a winter in Los Angeles)
Firstly, congratulations! Each snow-laden bough has dripped the news of your promotion (and the snow even falls all the way through to the Basin! If only metaphorically).
Secondly, let us count this correspondence as my Christmas letter. Whirlwind the previous months: I moved to Santa Monica briefly and walked-of-shame back to Highland Park in ‘no time at all’. The tail of summer whipped loudly bed-ridden afternoons and patio nights in which I unfortunately stained that neat slab of grey with cigarette butts and mulled wine. The public library has generously loaned me two books on the treatment of outdoor concrete and I eagerly search the shops for necessary chemicals. I guess you could say I’ve created a hobby of sorts. That about catches me up. Oh, I also purchased a new pair of Levis. That about catches me up.
How was Greece? Did it inform your shift in fashions? I noticed more turquoise, for one, and table-cloth blessings that Disney-dance your Goliath sandals. David showed me pictures from your garden party. I was under the weather, as you know.
I’m writing because:
I miss you. You see, in here, they only have so many television channels. And one of them plays music videos and as I choked a crescent with soldier tap water a young Taylor Swift lamented the romantic love of a platonic friend. Of course, the memories of our discussion spiked loudly. I laughed maniacally to myself! Ha! Like a madman, robed and drooling! It was painful, but in a sweet alpine way. They let us have a tree this year.
Do you remember how you giggled a projection of these characters at University? I agree that he wove a drug-rug around bonfires consistently but I’m not sure Glasses would lie in sweat to the flickering blues of some late night Alejandro Jodorowsky hemline exploration. Ha, ha ha!
How are the children?
Tomorrow we take a field trip to the Observatory, which has been the star of my dreams these past months, surely brought along with the Santa Anas (have I told you my stardust theory of their Gloved Hands? They rip the rafter of the firmament stained with memories you only thought you once forgot and deposit them like gifts at the foot of your Hollow Tree and Distant Gaze and vows-with-him-not-me- does the gold and diamond wrapped around your finger snuggle too tightly the circulation of the once-memorized temperature of my skin? I promised myself I would not get nasty but O! lest we forget that once, wrapped in gray sheets, you bled walnut hair over my chest and begged for my own deposits to lie warmly between your legs, and, again, again, the moon, and again!)
I’m sorry if these words crack your silver bells. But you said it yourself, my fair Corina: I am the Volcano and my expulsions live in Indifference from the villages that once worshipped my dormant power.
Merry Christmas,
Wes.
post scrap: It does indeed get cold in Los Angeles this time of year. But, honestly, not nearly cold enough.
