the Goliard
March, 2003

Home

the Goliard
Current Issue
Prior Issues
Policies
Contact Us
Features
Writing a %#$*! Letter
Adventures of Tar-man
Movie Man
Our Man
Original Writings
Books and Book Lists
Culinary Reviews
A Correspondence
To No Avail Slaps the Tail
Millennium Mélange
Search


A Correspondence

[Communiqué Sequence]

Epistle Six - Letter from James to Pedro

Pedro,

Hola, amigo. I didn't hear back from you so I figured I'd write again. Three giant ducks are moving away from the canal fifty feet in front of me. Two are black, one white. They walk purposefully, far more upright than I thought possible for a duck, and from here they appear to be fully competent to use tools. It becomes harder and harder to keep my thoughts away from fantasies of the Apocalypse.

Standard roadkill in these parts is not ducks, but alligators. I have not seen one to-date on this journey, but my last time here they were everywhere, so I suspect that they still are. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if one climbed out of the canal as I write and consumed a duck or a small child. Et voila! No, just a shadow blown by the wind.

What I have seen are giant iguanas sunning on the concrete embankments of the estuaries, infant-size lizards with fans behind their heads running on two legs across parking lots, a possum the size of a microwave, geckos which are not geckos, one of which crosses the screen porch as I write and at least one more of which does not, long-tailed black winged creatures with a cry like the death of the industrial age, and many more beings which ought to be extinct or not yet evolved.

A small boy, perhaps eight, just ran across my view away from the canal. What was it that scared him? It could have been anything. He made it, this time.

An old woman leads a huge loping black shepherd on a leash. Non-geckos head in that direction. His coat is much too heavy for him in these temperatures. The slow but inexorable pressure of the earth tries to squeeze him into a mineral.

You might remember our old friend O' Dowd who drove down from the Blue Ridge on Monday to see the show and do some drinking. Eight hundred miles into the heart of hell and paradise. He was filled with stories of West Virginia police brutality and the methamphetamine haze of previous decades. Sitting on the beach drinking beer we managed to conceive a half-dozen contingency plans to be resorted to if the primary goal of not having to make a living in any recognizable way fails. A few are also available just to alleviate the painful boredom of non-productivity.

We met a girl who O'Dowd believes has involved herself with heroin. No tracks were visible, so if it's true it must be going in some other way. But what a human she was. A little disturbing to be able and allowed to see that far into a person's eyes. She could be seeing the world as so many beating hearts of varying sizes, so many greedy or generous hands, so many voices willing to tell the truth or unaware what it would even be if it could be told.

Many drinks later we found ourselves on the screen porch playing music, near-geckos crawling in and out of the guitars to try to find the ideal vibration. By 5 in the morning our fingers were bleeding and the lizards were asleep, so we called it quits.

By the time of the show on Wednesday I found some parts of the script had been erased from my neurons, one or two words at a time, but I skipped them without much compunction. I'll carve them back in for the next performance. It isn't one or two words that conveys the story anyway, or even all of the words, but the faith with which we approach each retelling. Sometimes the words are as much in the way as they are the vehicle of communication. I think a great thing to do would be to perform English plays for non-English speaking audiences. I experienced the opposite thing in Sao Paolo at an international theater festival almost a decade ago. I couldn't understand a word much of the time, but some of the pieces worked anyway. Before long I'll be back in New York. I need to fly back for a day right before the show down here ends, to take an audition for a couple of upcoming tours. A big London-based producer has evidently rejected the idea of working with the U.S. actor's union, so two of his shows are touring as non-union productions, much to everyone's surprise. I wonder what that might mean about the climate for labor unions in general in the next few years. I for one am going to try to make a list of the corporations that might have a vested interest in abolishing Actor's Equity who could be working behind the scenes to make these non-union tours happen. Try to make sure that "Corporate Conspiracy" is one of the search topics that leads directly to The Goliard. That should attract a new breed of frustrated reader.

In the meantime, I will search the Burroughs letters for information about heroin addiction, specifically re: alternative means of ingestion.

And speaking again of Mr. B., it was on this date 47 years ago that he wrote Allen Ginsberg from Tangier and included this parenthetical comment: "(When I was a child I thought you saw with your mouth. I remember distinctly my brother telling me no, with the eyes, and I closed my eyes and found out it was true and my theory was wrong.)"

Adios por favor,

James

<<PREVIOUS LETTER

NEXT LETTER>>

 

 

Copyright 2003. All Rights Reserved.