The post office keeps returning all the letters I've written and mailed to you. I just can't figure out this mystery. Every letter is stamped "undeliverable" to the point where the return address is nearly blotted out. In fact, the last letter was returned with a note scrawled on the reverse of the address side of the envelope: I wouldn't deliver this piece of mail with a ten-foot pole. It sounds like you're planning to stiff your letter carrier again this year. Haven't you heard of the holiday spirit -- of greed on earth, goodwill to me? This time I'm going to tape a ten-dollar bill to the envelope -- think that'll be enough? -- to insure delivery. Next year, though, you're on your own.
Even though it was a very brief reunion, I enjoyed the opportunity to see you and Elizabeth again. Your gray hairs were quite noticeable. I hope you plan to do something about them. I know a certain individual -- think he goes by the name of Ronnie, some airhead who's the latest rage in Washington -- who could probably give you a few pointers.
Seriously now, what are your plans for the Cambridge store? Personally, I'd like to see you become involved in a less tension-producing pursuit. Since I plan to be around for awhile, I'd like to have certain good friends of mine do likewise. No matter that the reunions are becoming too infrequent.
During the past month, I've started to look at my surroundings much differently. I haven't been able to pinpoint the source of this transformation. Perhaps it's just a logical and natural personal development. Oshkosh has been very good to me. I have a job that I enjoy and am excelling at and I've formed some very close friendships. When I study the situation more thoroughly, though, I realize that I don't want to be just a librarian for the rest of my life.
I also see that the activities my best friends and I are involved in are leading us nowhere as far as any intellectual gratification or fulfillment is concerned. We drink a lot of beer, we smoke a lot of dope, we party a lot -- mindlessly, as if we're stumped about how else to spend the time -- and we play a lot of cards -- sheepshead, mostly. It's good for a lot of laughs, but I'm finding myself becoming rather bored. I look at the people I hang around with -- mostly couples, interestingly enough -- and see very few signs of ambition or adventure. It's getting to be the same old shit. Too predictable.
Lately, I've attempted to make myself somewhat scarce without arousing any suspicion. ("What's the matter, he's too good for us all of a sudden?") I've started to tackle some more ambitious writing projects, outside of the usual journal entries and correspondence. Yesterday I mailed a 900-word essay to the Chicago Tribune using the recent publication of The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty as a jumping-off point. It's not a book review. More like musings on the state of the short story in American literature. The Tribune prints a weekly column on its editorial page for which it solicits essays form its readers. What have I got to lose, I figured. At this point in time, I really needed a small project for which I could discipline myself.
Less than a week ago, I began writing a short story, somewhat autobiographical and based on a recent incident in my life that helped to lead me to this present re-evaluation. I foresee problems with the ending, but so far I'm quite pleased with what I have written.
Enclosed are a few prints from some slides you might enjoy. Keep them. I had extra copies made. The wide-angle lens makes a bit of a difference in normal picture-taking. Hello Elizabeth, Kathy, and, ah...what's the status on the new arrival?
No comments:
Post a Comment