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Eight letters between old lovers published May
21, 2001 |
| It's late, Frankie. And I'm drunk. And the theory of this and that goes wet with wanting. Do your legs still rise in two swept spires and join? If you really want to talk about this --about us--then let's talk about the times we came together: met and fused and disappeared. How, at the very center, we'd pass through and forget who was female, who male, where the kiss left off and the lips began. One long, sweet spin and no sign of a designer. "Someone who gets paid in the coin of the realm to make his mistakes in public." That's the definition of an architect. Did I ever tell you about Frank Lloyd Wright? How he built this hotel in Tokyo that gave in the wind: actually swayed? He called it a "natural building," and people made fun, but when the earthquake came and the city collapsed (the rest was designed to resist, unyielding), his accepted. His was saved. It wasn't just ink on paper; it was touch. I've already told you, Frankie, that I care too much. But am I seeing anybody? Absolutely. Every night. I see people who'll never have what they need because some fuck with a t-square cut their neighborhood in half. I see rooms whose dimensions are decided by greed. I see all that we should change and can't (or think we can't) and, so, goes on and on. Here's my dark question this drunk night: Will you write? Will you forget what I said and write? Will you, Frankie, forgive me? JOHN
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