Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Dear Anais

Dear Anais
Out of a somewhat chosen obscurity I come to write this book-You have urged the work upon me, and now I must do it or not do it-the blinding vulgarities of reality rush in and scream a stifling "Halt!" yet a soft inner voice whispers "Go on, and do it" while echoic laughter follows, indescribable. Her voice reaches me from some great and interior beyond- "We are writing books..." The plans to bring this to fruition have long since faded, and then they died with her yet the urging has not died and I find myself with this strange necessity...
Time travel.
Snowstorm in a cornfield.
That is all.
More anon....


  1. Follow the calling, Wayne. Let doubt not be your friend. Do what your spirit is urging you to do.

    Write it.


  2. ah yes, the "they died with her" reference is of course to Marguerite above in the great beyond, so she had not moved much at all, not an inch had she moved, while she did wonder, every once in a while, why they always attempted to foist Joyce upon her? Why? Why?
    She had no great affection for Joyce, but her affection for Gertrude Stein was apparent even in the moment when she spoke her name - "...and this," she said, "this is Gertrude Stein." And Alice B. Toklas was there, of course, right beside her, for Alice had made a bargain with the priest, and thereby hangs another tale.
    Off to see Princess Tata!
    Hasta la vista!"
    Hasta lluego!

  3. Ah yes, Kumud. Your comment is really appreciated. It is a blessing in this universe when one has a correspondent who will extend the required message. I thank you for sending it.

  4. Write it! It is terrible to find oneself wishing they had written something. Then it becomes sad, like a love lost. Give it life and it may be inspiration to another somewhere, sometime.