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Eight letters between old lovers published April
23, 2001 |
| Dear Frankie: I'm at work, so this will be brief. I think it's a privileged, selfish, comforting belief to say everything's identical. I don't know what city you live in, but turn a corner in mine, and everything's different. Sure, there's the perfect plate-glass face. But step behind, and you find fallen ceilings, walls like paste, the world without a front. Whatever you meant by saying you've never been anywhere, you should go. It isn't interchangeable. It isn't a dream. It isn't either "light" or "sex." There are actual beams you can touch. My work is to try to figure out where it connects, and why it breaks, and how history gets turned into dust. As to the intimate details of your lust- life, spare me. I'd actually rather you didn't write. Maybe that shows I still care too much, but, whether you're selling sofas or being an architect, it seems to me there's a real need to forget. So, I won't go on. Sincerely, JOHN
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