...I'm in one of my favorite moods. It's the kind that's extraordinarily inventive. The kind that is extraordinarily childish. That's more than normal childish, which is predictable. You see, I'm the only one home. Like you, except my home is much bigger and I'm filling all the rooms, even though the light in my room is the only one on, anywhere. I'm in the kind of mood that imagines running under the full moon. I may be the only one running under the full and very
bright, glowing moon, but if you think about it, you might see me. And do you know? That I'm reading a new book, and I refuse to tell you what it is because I am determined to be secretive, BUT it's about a boy who's nine. And I know you don't know this either, but sometimes I'm in the habit of imitating the writing that I'm reading with my eyeballs. I'm a fairly slow reader and I wish that wasn't so, because then I'd read more books, but I think I am because I so thoroughly digest the book, not literally, figuratively. You see, I get in it. I pretend too, or imagine. And I often read to "know", if you will, that I'm not alone.
Tomorrow I'm taking off dp&l to fix my brakes. That's important to you because you know that I can and you're interested in the things I do even though you tell yourself you can live without me and you're not interested in some of the things I do because they're ordinary and you have your own life and so forget that I have to do things like change my brakes tomorrow. But I bet you also don't know that when it comes to making love, almost anywhere that you can make private is acceptable, and that much more exotic. And even if someone happened to notice, you can hide and enjoy yourself that much more because it's not like people don't know that other people make love, although they might not expect it in some of the places that other people might find exotic. I intend to be very unpredictable in this way. But that's sex and brake pads.
There are other things to do, like write a book, or change your brakes, or talk about life…you know the way you do when you're sitting on a swing or driving a car, because we spend so many hours everyday driving our cars. It almost seems a waste if not for the conversation. And I'm not in love. Love happens when two people say, "Hi, hello, what are you doing today? What do you mean you don't like that song? And, “Oh I have all kinds of problems to tell you about and pretend as if I'm not living real life alongside other people with real life problems." That's when you're in love. When you can pretend you're nine at a diner drinking coffee with a perfect stranger and only talking with you eyes. That's when you know.
Too many people can't imagine love unless it makes sense. Or maybe I'm only imagining and the best love story ever told happens in my head...between earth worms. That's kind of boring. Unless I decide to tell it to someone who thinks it sounds funny and wants to name one of the earth worms Herald and pretend with me that they do have exotic sex and fall deeply in love, and I'm not sure where the babies come from.
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And I think you're probably still reading this because I know words get you and you like to write and also because I'm writing this brilliant letter/email. I should probably bring this to an end because you only have so much time to read and never time to reply, and I need to find another way to wind down and not be excited about anything. But I think you need to read my book. Blue Like Jazz and give it back to me. Because I like having the books that I like around me and right now you possess it and probably can't sit still to read it because sometimes you're consternated and stubborn. So read it before I buy another copy and pretend that you have my only copy and I want it back. Comprende? ...maybe I'll continue this email to another person as if I never left off because I think I can keep this up for a while. I'm not high and I've had zero wine. Goodnight.
jared
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