Dear Raùl,

It's after three in the morning. Why am I still awake? I'm sober. I had caffeine at about four this afternoon, almost twelve hours ago. I'm sensitive to caffeine, but not that sensitive.

Focus.

Ah...

Focus.



I understand why you would want to tattoo what you tattooed on your wrist on your wrist. Read that sentence again, slowly. It will make sense. Anyway, I understand. I don't think it would work for me, but if it works for you you are lucky and I am happy for you.

Sometimes it's as if my wires get crossed, or the wrong thing gets plugged into the wrong thing and vice-versa. I focus on upwelling manifestation, and scatter into purpose. The bears wear tutus and make lollipops, the hummingbirds drive the cement truck, icicles ride bicycles in the zambezi circus, and I run in circles trying to get somewhere. You know that if it works for the Red Queen through the looking glass it's got to be a thoroughly cockeyed and ineffective way to operate here on the mortal coil. (No, really, I am sober.) I'm sure the I Ching has something wise and elliptical to say about all things being in their proper places and the people living in harmony under a properly organized leader. In Polar Star, Martin Cruz Smith claims that a single slime eel can produce a whole bucketful, which for our purposes let's call two gallons, of slime in only moments. In the book the only way to deal with these things was to chop them up with axes as soon as they tumbled out of the net. Fucking grody. So: the pipes that are misplugged in the steam-works of my inner labyrinth are nameless slime eels. I can't tell them apart, I don't know what they're supposed to be plugged into, and you get the idea about convincing them to do what you want them to do. Is it time for axes?



I think of you in regards to this business because maybe you have experienced a similar state of topsy-turvy-tude. Maybe it didn't dominate you like it's dominating me, but the choice to go with permanent ink reflects a certain gravity of inner confrontation. What has it been like inside your squash, dealing with attention that seems to obey but maybe doesn't want to? I mean like on the scale of weeks and months. We can all clean our rooms and put the right shoes on the right feet and walk down the street and maintain a consistent destination, right? (Okay, that shit gets difficult on some days, but you get the point.) But how many of us can sustain coherent focus across major life distractions? Maybe it's not that hard, maybe everyone does it, but I have my doubts. People who exist in (more or less) constant awareness and purpose can't be as prevalent as one might think. I did it one time and now I can't do it any more. It's as if I used up my get-out-of-jail-free card and now the shoe and the dog and the thimble and the top hat and the wheelbarrow go swooping by every few minutes and I'm stuck here. Hoooly mother of gobstoppers it's four in the morning.

I have got. to go. to bed. What do you make of all this?